by John Norman
“I do not understand,” said Ctesippus.
“I now accord you the opportunity to lower your weapons and leave,” I said.
“You are mad!” said Ctesippus.
“You decline,” I said. “I grant you but a moment more to accept.”
“Kill them!” cried Ctesippus. “Attack! Kill them!”
I do not think the first man realized the throat thrust when it happened, perhaps not until he turned about, as though puzzled, and then, gasping, coughing blood, fell into the water. Where he fell, the water churned, erupting in a frenzy of tiny bodies. The second man had intended to coordinate his attack with that of the first, but he failed to reach me, the front of his skull broken in by a thrust of Thurnock’s mighty staff. Almost at the same time, Clitus’ net flashed over our heads and fell gracefully over the two fellows with tridents. Before they could free themselves of the net’s toils, Clitus drew them from their feet and punched twice with the butt of his trident, the first blow to the temple of one of his foes, the second splintering ribs into the lungs of the other. They rolled, tangled in the net. A second pair of foes advanced on Thurnock and myself, but then, seeing our guard, drew back, not certain of themselves.
“Attack, attack!” screamed Ctesippus.
“Kill!” cried Laios.
In this lacuna of battle, Clitus drew his net about and emptied it into the water. One man had already died, he struck in the temple. The other man tried to seize a paling of the dock but was pulled away from it, and disappeared, screaming, in a cloud of water and blood.
“What are you waiting for?” demanded Ctesippus of the two fellows more forward.
“Attack!” urged Laios.
“For this,” said one of them, “we were not paid.”
“This is not easy game, a Merchant and some clumsy bumpkins,” said the other.
“Attack! Kill!” said Ctesippus.
“Did you not see the sword work?” asked the one. “It is the stuff of the red caste.”
“Kill!” screamed Ctesippus.
“You kill!” cried the first of the two closer fellows, backing away, not taking his eye off Thurnock and myself.
“I shall!” cried Ctesippus, striking the man across the back of the neck with his sword, following which blow the head lolled half to the side, dangling, and fell to the planks with the body.
This left the other closer man, and Ctesippus and Laios.
They looked about.
Clitus was now behind them, with net and trident.
“Perhaps you should call the harbor guard,” I said.
“You killed him,” said the minion to Ctesippus, looking at the body on the planks, the head still attached to the torso.
“Face the fisherman,” said Ctesippus to his colleague. “Guard our back.”
The minion faced Clitus, frontally, trembling.
“Three to three,” I said. “The odds are now more evenly distributed.”
“You are no Merchant,” said Ctesippus. “Who are you, really?”
“One who awaits your advance,” I said.
A few yards down the dock, Clitus moved to the edge of the dock, to my left, to his right, his net dangling from his left hand, the trident in his right hand, seemingly, oddly, unengaged in matters at hand. I trusted that he could note and deal with any sudden charge by the minion. But the minion did not move. He eyed the trident, the net. Doubtless he would have given much for a shield. Ctesippus, Laios at his side, was facing myself and Thurnock.
“I am not unskilled,” said Ctesippus.
“I did not think that the commanding officer of the corsair fleet would be,” I said.
“Let us meet,” he said, “sword to sword.”
“As you wish,” I said.
“But you are two and I am one,” he said. “Ask the lout with the large, clumsy pole to stand aside.”
“So that it will then be one against one, only one against one,” I said.
“That,” said Ctesippus.
Behind Ctesippus and Laios, and before the minion, I saw Clitus dip and sweep his net in the water.
I paid him little attention.
I made nothing of his action.
My concern was Ctesippus, and his fellow, Laios.
An Ihn can divide life and death.
“Move away,” I said to Thurnock.
“Better not,” said Thurnock. “Two will charge as one.”
“I know,” I said.
Clitus had now withdrawn his net from the water and the net seemed alive, thrashing and squirming. I caught a flash of roiling color within it, saw teeth cutting at its fibers, saw part of a body, short, serpentine, and muscular, bulging and distending cords, and saw a cord severed and a triangular head, viperish, thrust through torn mesh, followed by half a body, when Clitus cried out, “Ho!” and flung the entire net and its contents over the head of the terrified, screaming minion. At the cry of the minion, Laios and Ctesippus, startled, looked back, over their shoulders, and Laios howled in horror, the net and its half-freed contents falling about his head and chest. Laios threw down his sword, screaming, and tried to pull the net and its occupant away from his face. There was blood about his eyes and throat. The net and the spined tharlarion, torn away, were then on the planks about his ankles. Ctesippus cast me a wild look, perhaps fearing that I might attempt to exploit this confusion, and rush forward. But I was as startled as he, and, in any case, would have been unwilling to approach the half-netted death which squirmed at his feet. He did not move. I did not know if he were frozen in place, paralyzed with fear, or was merely afraid to move, unsure of where to place his feet, where or how to move, or that any movement, the thing so close, so agitated, so distraught, might trigger a blind, defensive, attack reflex. At his feet, Laios, weeping, clawing at his own face with his fingernails, was expiring. In the intensity and confusion of the moment, no one, unless Clitus, was aware of the minion. Then suddenly he was behind Ctesippus, and thrust his sword fiercely, deeply, into his back. “For my friend, Keos!” he cried. “Now, dear Keos, you are avenged.” The short, serpentine tharlarion, meanwhile, flopping on the planks of the dock, had half slipped from the severed net, and, in doing so, squirming to the side, had changed its position. The minion, sword in hand, not realizing this, spinning about, to run back, away, down the dock, stumbled over the net and its still-partially-trapped beast. He slashed down at the tharlarion but his blow was blocked by the interposition of the prongs of Clitus’ trident. The minion then, a long scratch on his leg, ran past Clitus, and fled down the dock.
“Pursue him!” cried Thurnock.
“There is no need to do so,” said Clitus. He then lifted and shook the net, and the tharlarion squirmed free. Almost at the same time he slid two of the trident’s three prongs toward the tharlarion, wedging the creature between the two prongs. He then lifted his catch up, for us to see.
“Get rid of it!” urged Thurnock.
“Few have an ally so colorful,” said Clitus.
“Or so loathsome,” said Thurnock.
“It is inoffensive,” said Clitus.
“But deadly,” said Thurnock.
“You could bathe with it,” said Clitus. “Just avoid the spines.”
“I would prefer my bathing with naked, collared slave girls,” said Thurnock.
In Sybaris, as in many Gorean cities, there were public baths which provided such amenities. Ar was famous for its baths. Its largest and most opulent was the Capacian.
“Get rid of it,” said Thurnock, shuddering.
“The tiny harbor sharks are far more dangerous,” said Clitus.
Thurnock growled.
“Very well,” said Clitus, and he lofted the spined tharlarion free of the trident and into the water.
I looked down the dock.
Not twenty yards away, the minion
was collapsed, and unmoving.
I watched Clitus walk slowly to the body, and then drag it to the side of the dock and thrust it over the side, into the water.
It would not do to leave bodies on the dock.
Presumably the harbor guard would eventually make its appearance, once their prescribed absence had elapsed.
One supposed they had been reassigned or directed elsewhere for a time, on some pretext or other. Certainly the governor would not have taken them into his confidence, thereby multiplying confederates.
Almost at our feet, Laios lay dead.
Thurnock, with his staff, rolled the body from the dock. There was a brief rage in the water. Harbor sharks, like their larger brethren, are very alert to certain anomalies in their environment, such as an unexpected splash or a thrashing in the water, or a trace of blood, a liquid streamer, sensed from afar.
I looked away.
Thurnock disposed, as well, of two minions, he whose skull he had broken with his staff and he whom Ctesippus had slain for insubordination. Then, staff in hand, he returned to my side.
“This one is still alive,” he said, looking down at Ctesippus, who lay prone on the planks.
I turned then, and also looked down at the body.
I had seen the thrust, its location and depth. The assailant knew his work.
“The wound is lethal,” I said.
Thurnock, with his staff, moved the body to its back.
Ctesippus’ eyes were open.
“Finish me,” he said.
“It will be over in a few Ihn,” I said.
“Finish me,” he said.
“I will put him into the water, alive,” said Thurnock.
“Wait,” I said.
Ctesippus looked up at me.
“You are no Merchant,” he said.
“And you, I suspect,” I said, “are no common killer.”
“I betrayed my codes,” he said.
“Once long ago,” I said, “I betrayed mine.”
He lifted his hand, weakly, to me.
“Warrior,” he said, “do not let me die by a common felon’s stroke.”
I, troubled, did not speak.
“Let it be by your blade,” he said.
“Do him no such honor,” said Thurnock.
“Sword brother?” said Ctesippus.
“Sword brother,” I said, and slid my blade into his heart.
“I do not understand,” said Thurnock.
“It has to do with codes,” I said. “And with those who have broken them.”
Thurnock looked at me, and I nodded.
He then rolled the body into the water.
We were joined by Clitus.
“The supposed Bosk of Port Kar and his corsairs have been defeated,” said Thurnock. “Thus our work is done and we may cast off for Port Kar.”
“Perhaps our work is not yet fully done,” I said.
“Glaukos, of The Living Island, Archelaos, the governor?” said Thurnock.
“Why,” I asked, “would corsairs have pretended to be raiders from Port Kar, and have alleged themselves to be captained by Bosk of Port Kar? Why not from elsewhere, a hundred possible places, and why not otherwise captained, by anyone, even dozens of anonymous marauders?”
“Bad blood has long existed between Cos and Tyros, and Port Kar,” said Clitus. “And Bosk of Port Kar is known.”
“Perhaps we should think at least of Glaukos, the taverner,” said Thurnock.
“He has failed the governor,” I said. “Let the governor deal with him.”
“I do not envy him,” said Clitus.
“I had hoped,” I said, “following our visit to Glaukos, to have been invited to the governor’s palace, that in the guise of the mysterious Kenneth Statercounter of Brundisium, he somehow troublesomely implicated in recent events.”
“Instead of heralds from the palace, bearing that invitation,” said Clitus, “steel, suborned by gold, was sent against us.”
“It is well known we are too few to rush the palace,” said Thurnock. “Let me then signal the crews and ready ourselves for departure.”
“Without bidding farewell to Archelaos?” I asked.
“How shall we manage so perilous an interview?” asked Clitus.
“By recourse to a key which will open a palace’s gates,” I said.
“And where,” asked Thurnock, “will you find such a key?”
“We already have it,” I said, “gagged, bound hand and foot, in a leather capture sack.”
“The actor?” said Clitus.
“Of course,” I said.
“Would,” said Thurnock, “that the contents of that sack were instead a comely woman who might, stripped and nicely collared, kick and moan, and serve us well on the return trip to Port Kar, and then, if we wished, further, bring us a nice handful of copper tarsks off the block.”
“Who could deny admittance, even to the governor’s palace,” I asked, “to stalwart fellows who had recaptured the escaped, notorious Bosk of Port Kar?”
“Who, indeed?” said Clitus.
“There would be rejoicing in the city,” said Thurnock.
“What if our principal demurs, what if he declines participation in this small project?” asked Clitus.
“Then we feed him to the harbor sharks,” said Thurnock.
“I think that will not be necessary,” I said. “Our friend, Bombastico, is an actor. They strive for parts. They covet parts. They hunger for them. And what actor would not be eager to reprise his greatest role?”
“And if he is reluctant to do so?” asked Clitus.
“Then,” said Thurnock, “the harbor sharks.”
Chapter Sixty-One
Bombastico
“I shall render such a performance,” said Bombastico, “as will endure through the ages, as will be so memorable and splendid that it will transform the lore of the theater, so awesomely magnificent that others, should they dare to ascend the boards, made aware of it, will be plunged into despair, and will flee the premises in tears, deeming themselves unworthy of even witnessing such a triumph!”
“Mainly,” I said, “you are to say nothing and look disconsolate.”
“Dialogue and voice are but inessential accouterments,” he said. “In saying nothing I shall speak volumes. My least expression will fill a hundred scrolls. A trembling of the lip, a blinking of an eye, a trickling tear, will speak of crumbling walls, of cities in flame, of cosmic conflagrations, of ruined, lost, and dying worlds.”
“That should do nicely,” I said.
“I am not one of those handsome, charismatic fellows who cannot act but merely portrays himself under different names,” he said.
“As you wish,” I said.
“I am an actor,” he said. “I disappear in my roles. I vanish in my parts.”
“How then,” asked Thurnock, “can you become known?”
“I emerge at the end of the play,” he said, “revealing that it was I, all the time, Bombastico.”
“The audience is then enlightened, and dazzled?” I said.
“Inevitably,” he said.
“I think I can see why the corsairs chose you to act the part of Bosk of Port Kar,” I said.
“It may be hard to believe,” he said, “but I have never actually met Bosk of Port Kar, and I know little about him. Accordingly, the role was a challenge, one which might not merely have daunted, but might have crushed, a lesser actor. I had to create a character, vivify a persona, on the basis of little or nothing. But, as you know, I managed to do so brilliantly. It was my masterpiece, to date.”
“I know something of the theaters in Ar,” I said. “I had not heard of you there.”
“Ar,” he said, “is not yet ready for me.”
“Cultures
mature,” I said. “Perhaps later.”
“I trust,” said Bombastico, “it will not be necessary this time to swathe me in chains.”
“It would add realism,” I said.
“What has realism to do with the theater?” he scoffed. “Realism is the enemy of the theater. Let not the theater be flattened into the shallowness of the prosaic. The country of the theater is the world of the mind, of the imagination, of the heart, a world far more real than realism can dream, far more real than realism can comprehend.”
“Very well,” I said. “We shall omit the chains.”
It is well known that a crowd, responding to the wisp of an idea, incited by a shout, stung by a cry, secure in its faceless anonymity, can easily and swiftly transform itself into a clumsy, mindless, many-headed monster freed of all civil and moral constraint. In a crowd it is not unusual for many a beast to discover itself untethered. When things became ugly in the triumph of Nicomachos and irate citizens saw fit to swarm the float exhibiting a prisoner, the supposed Bosk of Port Kar, to overcome his guards and tear him to pieces, Thurnock, Clitus, and I had rushed to the tumultuous scene. There was much confusion, much buffeting and trampling. Men impeded one another and struggled with one another and tore and clawed at one another. In the crush of bodies the two guards on the float were brushed aside as by a roaring surf and dozens of hands stretched out, grasping at the prisoner, whom few in the crowd, in the rush and press, even saw. Thurnock, Clitus, and myself, unlike the teeming jungle into which we thrust ourselves, striking, elbowing, and kicking, dragging at robes and tunics, shoving amongst bodies, had direction and purpose. We managed to reach the prisoner who was lost amongst bodies, strike him unconscious, cover him with my cloak, and make our way back, out of the press. “I see him!” I had cried, standing over the prone figure covered by my cloak. “There!” I had cried, pointing away. “There!” So directed, the crowd, stumbling, buffeting, tripping, trampling, hastened in the direction I had indicated. Several men were left behind, senseless, or groaning with broken limbs. “What fellow is that?” asked a man, pointing at the covered figure at my feet. “Sergius of Sybaris,” I said. “I fear for his life. Help me get him to shelter!” “Others can help,” he said, pointing to Thurnock and Clitus. “Citizens,” I addressed them, “please help me with my friend.” “Very well,” said they. The man had then hurried after the crowd.
