Mariners of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I would like, if possible,” said the captain, “to sail with the morning tide.”

  “So soon?” I said.

  “It would be my preference,” said the captain.

  “I am pleased,” said the stranger, “to have had conveyed to me the greetings of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry.”

  “Both wish you well,” said the captain. “Lord Nishida expresses his appreciation for your work at the gate, at the time of the attempted desertion, and both he and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, salute you, in the matter of the ship.”

  “The matter of the ship?”

  “Surely,” said the captain, “you understand that without your concern, and your initiative, without the actions which you set in motion, in particular having Lord Nishida contact Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, in the mountains, the ship would have perished. As it was, it barely escaped the torches of Lords Temmu and Okimoto. Both Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, were fond of the ship. It served them well. Neither wished to see it destroyed, wise though might have been its destruction to deter desertion, to convince armsmen that flight was impossible, and that they must now reconcile themselves and their fortunes to our cause.”

  “But why would they have had the ship destroyed?” I asked. “Why were they not willing to merely send it away? Let it depart. Escaped, it can berth no deserters.”

  “Finality, assurance, definitude, putting an end to things, the assertion of authority, the clarification of command,” said the captain.

  “Still,” I protested.

  “What if it should return?” said the captain.

  “I see,” I said.

  “As long as it existed somewhere,” said the captain, “might there not be hope of its return? Might the men not be uncertain, might they not wait, might they not keep watch, might they not be divided, might they not be unwilling to commit themselves wholeheartedly to the war?”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “And, if it returned,” said the stranger, “would it not again face the torches of the castle?”

  “Of course,” said the captain.

  That seemed obvious.

  “A ship destroyed,” said the captain, “is a ship no longer to be feared.”

  “True,” said the stranger.

  “There would be the danger, as well,” said the captain, “that the ship might fall prize to the fleet of Lord Yamada.”

  “Yes,” said the stranger. “That would be a danger.”

  “I trust you now understand the motivation for its destruction, the rationality of doing away with it.”

  “Of course,” said the stranger. “That is clear.”

  “Very clear,” said the captain.

  “What would you have done?” asked the stranger.

  “I?”

  “Yes.”

  “I would have saved the ship, of course,” he said.

  “I see,” said the stranger.

  “One is of the ship,” said the captain.

  “Yes,” said the stranger. “One is of the ship.”

  “Friends,” I said. “I see one in the robes of the Merchants, but muchly hooded, who has entered, who looks about, but who does not seem concerned with the tables.”

  “I have seen him,” said the stranger.

  “You have just now noticed him?” inquired the captain of me.

  “A bit ago,” I said. “I have watched him.”

  “We have been waiting for him,” said Captain Nakamura.

  “We put out word in the city,” said the stranger, “here and there, that Callias, of Cos, would frequent these premises sometime today.”

  “This is the reason we have been summoned from my quarters?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the captain. “Forgive the precipitancy, but we have waited four days now, in our attempt to locate Cineas, and protect Callias, and time is short.”

  “I am pleased,” said the stranger. “I would have it done with.”

  “It is a ruse to draw Cineas forth?” I said.

  “Assuming,” said the captain, “that he is still intent upon his dark mission.”

  “If that is he,” I said, “it seems he is so intent.”

  Captain Nakamura drew his longer blade from his sash. His feet were slightly spread; two hands were on the hilt of the weapon.

  “No, my friend,” said the stranger. “I shall greet him.”

  As I watched, uneasily, the stranger began to thread his way amongst the tables. He had scarcely moved, when the hooded figure, he in the robes of the Merchants, saw him, and stiffened, reacting as might a hunter, catching sight of a sleen in the shrubbery, a larl amongst rocks of the Voltai, not yet expected, yards away, just noticed. The stranger had removed his sheath and belt from across his body, and held these in his left hand. The sword, the gladius, given to him on the River Dragon, was in his right hand. I trembled, for I had seen that simplicity, that ease of grip before, neither clenched nor tight, neither loose nor careless, in a guardsman’s blade, moving toward a fellow backed against a wall. No words had been exchanged, nor needed there have been. The stranger’s blade was like an extension of his arm, seemingly as natural, and as thoughtless, as uncalculating, as the now-exposed claws on the paw of a stalking larl. The buyers and sellers, and lookers-on, the dealers, the idlers, the porters, the curious, the men in the warehouse, I think, noticed nothing of what was passing amongst them, no more than trees, or rushes bending in the wind, might have noticed the passage amongst them of some silent, patient, sinuous, stealthy form, almost invisible, certainly unnoticed, intent on its own business, which had nothing to do with theirs.

  “I take it that is Cineas,” said Captain Nakamura.

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “Do you not think he would have been wiser to move differently amongst the tables, to feign interest, here and there, approaching ever more closely?”

  “I would suppose so,” I said.

  “Too,” said the captain, “I suspect he would have done well to hood himself less closely. It would have been simpler merely to keep his face averted.”

  “Until he would strike?”

  “Certainly.”

  “Were I he,” I said, “I would have fled the city.”

  “That he has not done so,” said Captain Nakamura, “is significant.”

  “How so?” I asked.

  “He knows he could not reach the gate,” said the captain.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Note two who have entered,” said Captain Nakamura, “just within the door, in shabby garb, each with his forehead obscured, by the talmit.”

  Such bands are usually signs of authority, worn by foremen, leaders of work gangs, first slaves, and such, though they may serve, too, simply to keep hair back, in place, away from the eyes, protect the eyes from the running of sweat, and so on. They might, too, of course, serve to conceal any mark or sign which might be placed on the forehead. It would be rare, given the common meaning of the talmit, that of authority, to see two together, both in the talmit. To be sure, ranks can be signified by color, markings, and such.

  The stranger paused some four paces from the figure in the white and gold.

  The figure then threw back the hood.

  “Tal, Cineas,” said the stranger. “You may withdraw. I shall not follow you. Let all be forgotten. Seek a gate. We have been of the ship.”

  Cineas discarded the white and gold he had donned.

  Seeing this, men suddenly began to withdraw from the vicinity. The trees, the rushes, so to speak, had suddenly become aware of what might be amongst them.

  The blade which had been concealed beneath the robes of white and gold was now in evidence.

  “Let all be forgotten,” said the stranger. “Go, leave the warehouse, leave the city. Seek a gate.”

  “Noble Callias,” smiled Cineas, “there is no time to reach a gate.”

  Cineas then lifted his sword to the stranger, in a salute, which sal
ute was returned by the stranger.

  Men backed further away.

  I saw the two fellows, in the talmits, approaching.

  Cineas, then, with a wild cry, rushed toward the stranger.

  What happened then happened very quickly. Whereas I had gathered from the tale of the stranger that he did not much credit his skills with the blade, I now realized that they were far from indifferent. In that quick moment I understood how it was that he had held the rank of First Spear, and had been assigned duties, long ago, in the Central Cylinder of Ar itself.

  He stepped away from the body.

  The two fellows in shabby garments had now approached, the talmits no longer bound about their foreheads. I saw on each forehead the simple mark, the sign of the black dagger. One of them rolled the body over, and then looked to the stranger.

  “You have killed him,” said the man, straightening up.

  The stranger shrugged.

  “Therefore,” said the man, “the killing is yours.”

  Each of the men then, from their purse, removed a silver tarsk, and placed it in the hand of the stranger.

  “I want no money for his blood,” said the stranger. “I would rather he had found the gate, and fled the city.”

  “Still,” said one of the fellows, “the killing is yours.”

  “Consider it yours,” said the stranger, “as you hurried him onto my sword.”

  The two members of the Black Court of Brundisium regarded one another.

  “Suppose,” said the stranger, “one in fear of you, dreading discovery each day, unwilling to accept such misery longer, or to frustrate you, put himself upon his own sword, or, in fleeing, drowned, or fell from some cliff, would the killing not be yours?”

  “It would,” said one of the fellows, “and the fee might be kept.”

  “Keep it then,” said the stranger, and returned the two coins, first one, and then the other.

  Each returned the coin to his own purse, and then wiped from his forehead the dagger.

  More than one man breathed then more easily, for those of the Black Court no longer wore the dagger.

  I saw now the four Pani who had originally left the ship, the man, Tatsu, amongst them.

  “We followed the fee killers, Captain,” said Tatsu, to Captain Nakamura. “We knew not the city. They did. We gave them hire. They found the quarry. Had they failed to earn their fee, our swords would have spoken.”

  The long, curved blade of Captain Nakamura was still free, held in two hands.

  “I think it safe, now, to sell your sword,” said Captain Nakamura to the stranger.

  “I think, nonetheless,” said the stranger, “I shall keep it.”

  “Good,” said Captain Nakamura. “He who surrenders the means to defend himself delivers himself into the hands of his enemies.”

  “I regret the death,” said the stranger.

  “Do not do so,” said Captain Nakamura. “It is unwise to leave a living enemy behind one.”

  “Prepare the body,” said Captain Nakamura, to Tatsu.

  “What are you going to do?” asked the stranger.

  “You do not want the head, do you?” asked Captain Nakamura.

  “No,” said the stranger.

  It took a single, measured stroke, delivered at the base of the neck.

  Men cried out, in dismay.

  Captain Nakamura straightened up, holding the head in his left hand, by the hair. “The women,” he said, “will not perfume this head, nor comb its hair, nor paint its teeth black, for beauty, nor add it to the collections. This head, rather, is for Tyrtaios. It will be mounted on the wall of the castle of Lord Temmu, for ten days, and it will then be cast amongst the soldiers below, of the forces of Lord Yamada, with instructions that it be delivered to their man, Tyrtaios. He is entitled to learn the fate of his emissary, and thus we, too, will have our small joke.”

  “What is going on here?” inquired Demetrion, harbor master of the port of Brundisium, followed by two guardsmen.

  “An accident,” said the stranger. “This fellow fell upon my sword.”

  “He was attacked,” said a man. “He but defended himself.”

  “His neck fell upon your sword, as well?” said Demetrion.

  “My sword,” said Captain Nakamura, “fell upon his neck.”

  “You took his head,” said Demetrion.

  “That is true,” said Captain Nakamura.

  “Why?” said Demetrion.

  “He no longer had any use for it,” said Captain Nakamura.

  “Assassins are involved in this,” said a man. “We saw the daggers.”

  “Aii,” whispered Demetrion, softly.

  “Fee was taken,” said a man. “We saw the coins.”

  The two guardsmen looked at one another.

  The two of the Assassins were no longer in evidence. They had withdrawn from the warehouse.

  “If there is a concern here,” said a man, “it is to be taken up as a matter between you and the Black Court.”

  I saw that this did not much please Demetrion. The business of the Black Court was not one in which men lightly dabbled. In many cases one was not even sure who was, and who was not, a member of the black caste. I recalled, from the tale of the stranger, that some evidence had suggested that Tyrtaios, who may have had much to do with the attempted desertion, and who had disappeared from the castle of Lord Temmu, might be of the Assassins.

  The two guardsmen now withdrew.

  “It is over now, is it not?” said Demetrion.

  “Yes,” said Captain Nakamura. “But, if you wish, we will conclude all trading, return to the ship, and take to the sea, and then perhaps this ship, and none like it, will ever again come to the piers of great Brundisium.”

  “No, no,” said Demetrion, hastily, and then, raising his voice, he called out, “It is over! It is done, all done. Return to business! To business! The house remains open late this night!”

  This announcement was met with pleasure.

  “I will have the body delivered to the pool, by garbage slaves,” said Demetrion.

  Supposing this allusion might be obscure to the stranger and Captain Nakamura, I explained it to them. For any who might come upon this manuscript and are not familiar with Brundisium, the pool, when the grating is raised, is accessible from the sea, and may be entered by sharks, and grunt. It serves several purposes. It tends to draw predatory fish away from the piers, and it provides a convenient way of disposing of large forms of garbage, the bodies, say, of dead animals. It is also used as a place of execution, in particular, for minor offenses, such as theft. The grating is raised, which is a signal to fish in the vicinity that a feeding is at hand. If the victim is alive, a limb is severed, which distributes blood in the water, and then the limb and the victim are cast into the pool.

  The head which had been removed from the body, with the apparent intention of bringing it eventually to the attention of Tyrtaios, was given into the keeping of the Pani, Tatsu, who accepted it, and, holding it by the hair, bowed, and then withdrew, with his three fellows, presumably to the ship.

  “I will have warm water and dry cloths brought,” said Demetrion, “that you may wash and dry your swords.”

  “My thanks,” said the stranger.

  The captain bowed, slightly, acknowledging the courtesy.

  One seldom sheaths an unclean sword, and, one supposes, one would be reluctant to return such a blade to a clean sash, as well. In the field, leaves, and grass, may be used. Some use the hair and clothing of the fallen. Others carry a soft cloth for such a purpose. When the blade is clean and dry, it is often given a thin coating of oil, which protects against rust, and, some believe, facilitates the flight from the scabbard.

  The body of Cineas, headless, was removed by two garbage slaves, short brawny men, kept by the harbor office.