by John Norman
“You know much,” I said.
“Ctesippus and Laios, as you doubtless know, are involved with the corsairs,” he said. “That became clear with the evacuation of the corsairs from their debacle on Daphna, that of The Village of Flowing Gold.”
“Many would not have noted the connection,” I said.
“I did,” he said.
“Interesting,” I said.
“Perhaps you should not have taken me aboard,” he said.
“If I were unwilling for you to know certain things,” I said, “you would not be with us. I feared to explain all at first as I was not sure of you, of you and paga.”
“You are not the corsairs,” he said, “nor are you enleagued with them.”
“True,” I said.
“You would foil them and destroy them,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Thus I thought you would be interested to learn of the presence of Ctesippus and Laios at the fair,” he said.
“I am interested,” I said.
“I have learned more of interest,” he said.
“Speak,” I said.
“Seven ships, warships, each a fifty-oared ship, have come to the harbor of Mytilene,” he said.
“Vessels of the Fleet of the Farther Islands?” I said.
“No,” he said. “Ships out of Telnus on Cos.”
This was dire news indeed. I had no doubt these were replacement vessels for the corsair ships I had burned on Daphna. The destroyed corsair fleet had possessed four ships of fifty-oars and two of thirty-oars. Now there were seven enemy ships, each of fifty-oars, a far more formidable fleet than the one we had managed to destroy by trickery. Moreover, if the ships were out of Telnus, the greatest of the harbors on Cos, it seemed clear that Lurius of Jad himself, the Ubar of Cos, had invested resources in replacing the corsair fleet. It seemed incredible that he would attend to such seemingly trivial matters as abetting corsairs afflicting the Farther Islands. There must be a great deal more in this, I supposed, than was apparent, at least to me. Why would Lurius interest himself in such unimportant, distant matters? The winnings of the corsair fleet, with its plundering of small villages, and the sacking and sinking of an occasional merchantman, could bring no more than tarsk-bits, so to speak, into the treasury of Cos.
“I fear,” I said, “the corsair fleet, and a more formidable one this time, is now at Mytilene.”
“I think so,” said Sakim, “and I think it may soon weigh anchor.”
“How is that,” I asked.
“I, hooded and reeling, followed Ctesippus and Laios to the paga tent of The Drunken Sleen,” he said. “There they met with seven captains.”
“What transpired?” I asked.
“They spoke softly,” said Sakim. “I could not risk approaching more closely, particularly as Ctesippus and Laios might recognize me from Sybaris.”
“Leaving the fair,” I said, “the corsairs will seek prey at sea. But in the harbor at Mytilene there are more than two hundred ships, and most will not raise their sails and depart until the closing of the fair. And, from such a rich, departing swarm, pirates could intercept few more than one or two ships.”
Indeed, that was why a common departure was to take place.
“But,” said Sakim, “what if three ships, round ships of Brundisium, splendid ships with rich cargos, leave the harbor unexpectedly early, to elude pirates. Indeed, they might travel together for protection.”
“Three round ships, together or not, would be easy prey for seven knife ships,” I said.
“I heard about the three ships independently, earlier,” said Sakim. “Drunken mariners talk, and are proud of their cleverness, how by an early departure they can outwit pirates.”
“Perhaps Ctesippus, Laios, and their confreres were discussing just that small fleet,” I said.
“It is possible,” said Sakim, “but I do not know. There will be many ships, and rich cargos, after the fair.”
“What if,” I said, “one could seize the early departures, and return in time to cast a new net?”
“There may be other early departures,” said Sakim, “motivated by similar considerations.”
“Surely,” I said. “Have you heard other news of possible interest?”
“There was a meeting of peasants outside the fairgrounds,” said Sakim, “which was disrupted and ended by guardsmen.”
“That is true, in a way,” I said.
“And our Aktis, one of our oarsmen, is the subject of a search by guardsmen,” said Sakim, “that having to do with the possession of a forbidden weapon.”
“They will not find Aktis at the fair,” I said. “We are keeping him here, at the camp. He is in hiding.”
“Good,” said Sakim.
“Later we are to join the Dorna, near Nicosia,” I said. “Peasants who seek some word from Aktis, or wish to obtain samples of the great bow, are to contact him there.”
“I gather that it would not to do to carry such bows about at the fair,” smiled Sakim.
“I think not,” I said. “You have done well. Is there any other news you might wish to impart?”
“There are always strange things, puzzles, anomalies, little things to wonder about,” said Sakim, “but I think there is nothing else of much interest.”
“Strange things have causes,” I said, “much like familiar things.”
“You have heard of The Gambling Tent of the Golden Urt?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “it is connected with The House of the Golden Urt in Sybaris.”
“Managed by the Three Ubaras,” said Sakim.
“They are not Ubaras,” I said.
“They claim to be exiled Ubaras, from three cities,” he said.
“Perhaps some will believe that,” I said.
“It is merely an advertising image, a merchandising persona,” he said.
“I care little for such frauds,” I said, “even when obvious and droll.”
“You know the reputation of The House of the Golden Urt in Sybaris?” said Sakim.
“Its reputation is unsavory,” I said. “There is much suspicion, of tampering, of chicanery, of dishonest gaming.”
“It is even worse here, in The Gambling Tent of the Golden Urt,” said Sakim.
“Crowds at the fair are often happy and gullible,” I said. “And thousands here are of the Peasants, many of whom are new to colored placards, cupped dice, and whirling wheels, let alone marked placards, weighted dice, and manipulable whirling wheels.”
“Trickery, even when palpable, even when the scent is strong,” said Sakim, “is difficult to prove.”
“Why do you mention these things?” I asked.
“The ‘Three Ubaras’ are here at the fair,” he said.
I recalled the three closed palanquins, with their bearers and guards, noted some days ago, when Lais, kneeling beside us, had been so alarmed. Kajirae much fear free women.
“Oh?” I said.
“In The Gambling Tent of the Golden Urt,” said Sakim, “business flourished for them, pouches and wallets of coins were lavished on the games.”
“It is one way to become rich,” I said.
“But yesterday,” he said, “the tent was closed, despite cascades of copper tarsks.”
“And why would our ‘Three Ubaras’ seal their tent, turning their presumably lovely backs on such a rain of wealth?”
“I do not know,” said Sakim.
“Silver is to be preferred to copper, and gold to silver,” I said.
“I do not understand,” said Sakim.
“Where now,” I asked, “are our ‘Three Ubaras’?”
“No one knows,” he said.
“They will need a day’s start,” I said.
“Captain?” asked Sakim.
&nb
sp; “It is nothing you would know about,” I said. “But tomorrow, I wager, a valuable cargo will leave the fair early, perhaps that of the three ships bound for Brundisium of which you spoke earlier.”
“I do not know when they will leave,” said Sakim.
“Someone will know,” I said. “And then, the next day, seven knife ships will depart the harbor.”
“They would overtake the merchantmen at sea,” said Sakim.
“Easily,” I said, “unless delayed.”
“How could they be delayed?” asked Sakim.
“First,” I said, “I must encourage the merchantmen not to respond to signals of distress, not to be solicitous of stranded survivors, the pathetic victims of a casualty at sea.”
“I do not understand this,” said Sakim.
“You have just succeeded in saving several lives, three ships, and three holds filled with goods,” I said.
“I do not understand,” said Sakim.
“Do you know what you must do now?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“Burn your clothing and wash your body,” I said. “Gleaming Thassa awaits.”
I was not discontent.
There are few things which may not be purchased somewhere in that city of tents which constituted the vast, transitory metropolis of a Fair of the Farther Islands.
Chapter Twenty-Three
We Entertain a Visitor, Near the Ruins of Nicosia
“Few have come here to the ashes and cinders of Nicosia,” said Clitus.
“We have done what we could,” said Aktis, fletching an arrow with the feathers of the sea kite.
“Cos lulls the villages into a false sense of security,” said Thurnock.
“In the towns,” said Clitus, “more is known from refugees than in the isolated villages themselves. Two have been sacked and burned since the closing of the fair at Mytilene.”
We had posted agents, in guises such as that of peddlers and itinerant workers, in several of the larger towns of the Farther Islands. In this way, though news traveled slowly to us, we were probably better informed, on the whole, than any single town in the Islands, including Sybaris, or Sybaris not counting the precincts of The Living Island.
“At least,” said Sakim, “we have managed to discomfit and annoy the enemy.”
“Largely thanks to you,” I said.
“I did little,” he said.
“You did much,” I said.
“I wished I could have seen our ‘Three Ubaras’, in their contrived gowns, carefully soiled and rent, their ankles in water, apparently piteous and needful, waiting to be rescued, and not being rescued, their signals ignored,” said Clitus. “They must have been adrift, alone, for three or four days.”
“A little frustration will be good for them,” I said.
“Besides being hungry and thirsty,” said Clitus, “they must eventually have been dismayed and frightened, fearing that something was askew, that they might have been overlooked, ignored, forgotten, or abandoned. Doubtless they feared they might have been, inadvertently or not, left to die on the decoy platform.”
“The delay,” said Thurnock, “gave the merchantmen an unrecoverable lead, one which not even the swiftest knife ship could overcome.”
I will briefly explain the nature of the “delay.” Gorean mariners, as is often the case with mariners, have a very special sense of their ships. The landsman may think of a ship as an object or artifact, little different, in essence, save in size and purpose, from a cabinet or chair, a wall or flight of stairs. The mariner, on the other hand, who entrusts his life to his ship, commonly views it differently, more deeply and closely, more personally. It braves storms; it protects him from the terrors of the deep. It carries him from port to port. It shelters him and he cares for it. From its decks he sees vast skies and the glory of the sea. Sometimes, small and wondering, he can become for a moment an aspect of immensity. As the ship becomes one with the sea, so he becomes one with the ship. He knows a world the landsman knows not. But beyond such things the Gorean mariner, like many of the mariners of the ancient world of Earth, has a deeper, odder, more mystical view of a ship. It is, for him, in its way, alive. The horseman has his horse, the tarnsman his tarn, the mariner his ship. It is common with Gorean ships to have eyes painted on each side of the bow. Most mariners will not serve on a ship without eyes. How could it see its way? Indeed, the last thing the shipwright does, whether in the arsenal at Port Kar or in a hundred shipyards elsewhere, is to paint eyes on the ship. It is then that it can see. It is then that it comes alive.
On the morning the corsair fleet, with its seven ships, was to depart the harbor at Mytilene in pursuit of the three Brundisium merchantmen, superstitious terror gripped savage crews. Consternation reigned. Who would risk their lives on a blind ship? Who would be so foolish as to take such a ship to sea? The eyes of the seven ships were blackened over with paint, presumably administered from small boats in the night, possibly by means of paint-soaked rags or sponges fastened to poles. In any event, however this may have happened, the seven ships would remain in port while paint must be scraped away, wood sanded, smoothed, sealed, and refinished, and new eyes carefully painted.
“Someone comes,” said Clitus, rising, trident in hand, loosening the strands of his net.
“He wears peasant brown,” said Sakim.
“Anyone may do so,” said Aktis.
Thurnock turned to me. “Do you know him?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
He strung his bow.
The stranger, approaching, climbing the trail, raised his right hand, palm facing the body, in Gorean greeting.
I returned the gesture.
“He seems unarmed,” said Clitus.
“He is a fool,” said Thurnock.
“Perhaps,” I said, “he wishes to make it clear that he comes in peace.”
The stranger was a tall, blond-haired, young man.
“Tal,” he said.
“Tal,” I responded.
“I seek one called Aktis,” he said, “who, I understand, spoke of unsettling matters at the Fair of the Farther Islands.”
“I am Aktis,” said Aktis, rising.
“I would speak with you,” said the stranger.
“You are welcome here,” I said to the stranger. “But speak before all, and freely.”
“I am Xanthos,” he said, “the son of Seleukos, headman of the village of Seleukos, on Thera.”
“We have heard of the village, and your father,” I said.
We had heard of such things, and others, while on the living island, the Isle of Seleukos.
“It is a village well known on Thera,” he said.
“We have also heard of the Isle of Seleukos,” I said, “the living island.”
“That is far less known,” he said.
“You appear dusty and weary,” I said. “Perhaps you are hungry. May we offer you food?”
“I hunger,” said the stranger, “but not for food.”
“I take it,” said Aktis “that you were at the fair at Mytilene.”
“No,” said Xanthos.
“How is it then that you have heard of Aktis?” asked Aktis.
“From those who would not listen to him,” said Xanthos, “from those who mocked and scorned him.”
“Then from some who had heard him at the fair,” I said.
“Yes,” said Xanthos.
“Thera is far,” I said. “But you are come to Nicosia on Chios.”
“I have a small, fine boat,” said Xanthos. “It can make such a journey.”
“Why have you come here?” I asked.
“Before the Fair of the Farther Islands,” said Xanthos, “the village of Seleukos was amongst the richest villages on Thera.”
“But not now?” said Thurnock
.
“It was burned and looted,” said Xanthos, “presumably by the minions of Bosk of Port Kar. Such, in any event, was to be gathered from the signs left behind by the bandits.”
“It is unusual, as I understand it,” said Clitus, “for attacks to take place on Thera.”
“Possibly,” I said, “the bandits, at that time, lacked ships.”
“A child, herding verr,” said Xanthos, “noted the approach of the bandits, in their long lines, and alerted the village. We took to our fishing boats and fled to the Isle of Seleukos, the living island of which you seem to know, with little more than the clothing on our backs.”
“And thus a small shepherd became a great man,” said Thurnock.
I thought I saw now what it was for which our young friend was hungry.
“What can we do for you?” I asked.
“Teach me the bow,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Four
The Vote of Two Urns
“We had best leave Nicosia,” I said. “There has been enough time to arm and train hundreds but only four gave answer to the call of Aktis at the fair. It has already been a week since young Xanthos, of the village of Seleukos, departed with a dozen bows.”
“It is hard to move Peasants,” said Clitus. “They are inert and unstirring, like mountains.”
“But should a mountain choose to move,” said Thurnock, “who will stand against it?”
“Of what value are a dozen bows?” asked Clitus.
“A dozen bows may turn into a thousand,” said Thurnock.
“What shall we do, Captain?” asked Aktis. “Where shall we go?”
“The Peasantry will not rise,” said Clitus. “The corsairs have a more formidable fleet than ever. They may now have fifteen hundred men, mariners and brigands. We have but two hundred and fifty.”
