by John Norman
“Now she understands,” said Lord Yamada.
Sumomo turned toward her father, sobbing, crying out for mercy.
Lord Yamada, with a gesture, indicated that she was to be taken to the height of the platform of execution.
“She is not proud and strong,” said a man.
“She is a woman,” said another.
“A girl,” said another.
“I have seen warriors, on scrutinizing the pool, collapse, sob, and cry out for mercy,” said another.
“She has fainted,” said a man.
“She is weak,” said Lord Yamada. “I had thought she would be strong. It is little wonder she failed me.”
“She is a dutiful daughter,” I said. “She did her best to serve you.”
“She failed,” said Lord Yamada.
“Perhaps a sudden blow, while she is unconscious, the stroke of a glaive,” I said.
“The crowd has come to see the feeding of the eels,” said Lord Yamada.
“You are shogun,” I said. “Stop this!”
“The crowd is eager,” he said.
“Stop it!” I said.
“It would be dangerous,” he said. “There are limits even to the power of the shogun.”
“You could stop it,” I said.
“And appear a fool?” he said.
“Stop it!” I said.
“I do not wish to do so,” he said.
“She is your daughter,” I said.
“I have others,” he said, “many others.”
“I cannot understand you,” I said.
“I am shogun,” he said.
“Yes,” I said, “you are shogun.”
“You will be expected at the feast tonight,” said Lord Yamada.
The height of the platform was quite high. It was reached by broad and winding steps. Sumomo’s bound, unconscious body was held between the two Ashigaru, these abreast, ascending the steps, each with a bound arm in his keeping.
They ascended slowly.
I was sure it would take better than two Ehn, perhaps three, to reach the height of the platform.
The sky, as noted earlier, was a bright blue. The day was neither too warm nor too cold. A slight breeze ruffled the banners set at the height of the stands. They could be seen from a great distance.
Haruki, as I understood it, some days ago, had been apprehended in, or in the vicinity of, the cot where attendants of Lord Yamada housed his small, swift-flighted, messengers. I did not doubt but what some might have come from as far away as the holding of Lord Temmu.
Haruki, I gathered, had attempted to reach the cot, where he would attempt to attach my tiny message, in English, to the leg of one of the vulos captured by Yamada’s men from the surprised and seized secret cot, remote from the palace, which vulos would doubtless, for identificatory purposes, be independently caged. He was then to release the bird, and trust that it would home to the message cot of the holding of Temmu. Lord Temmu would then attempt to find an informant capable of understanding the message. And I could conceive of only two, to my knowledge, who would be able to do so, Tajima and Pertinax.
But Haruki had failed.
I should have gone myself, watched or not, and fought to enter the cot and put the bird on its way.
The two Ashigaru, bearing the bound, unconscious Sumomo between them, were nearly to the summit of the platform.
“She will have to be revived,” said Lord Akio, concerned, looking up, toward the platform.
“She will be,” said Lord Yamada, “abruptly, rudely, the astringent vial held to her nostrils. It is most unpleasant. She will then be held to look down to the pool, far below, while the denizens of the pool, with a stimulatory feeding are aroused and stirred.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Akio.
“It will then be time to affix the blindfold and place the board,” said Lord Yamada.
“It is like the joke at sea, common amongst marauders and corsairs,” said one of the officers to another, “where one amusingly disposes of unwanted prisoners.”
I had heard of this, on more than one world, and in more than one region of more than one world.
Following the coming onto Port Kar of a Home Stone, the Council of Captains had forbade this practice to its captains. There were, of course, other ports, even outlaw ports harboring the “sleen of the sea,” renegade captains, “free corsairs,” independent marauders, and such. Much of Thassa lay outside the laws of Brundisium, the range of the mercantile ports, the waters of Port Kar.
The Ashigaru had now reached the summit of the platform, and had placed the inert body of Sumomo on its surface.
“No,” said Lord Yamada, “please remain.”
I returned to my seat.
I had heard that Haruki, with several others, was to wear the straw jacket. I knew that an unpleasant death of some sort was connected with this practice, but only now, recalling some casual remarks heard earlier, having to do with festivity and illumination, and recalling a glimpse of unusual objects, like cylindrical bundles, lining both sides of the avenue to the main gate of the palace, did the full import of the matter strike me. I was familiar, of course, with the bulky, coarse raincoats of straw commonly worn by the peasants in inclement weather. Surely I had seen dozens of them. I now understood these allusions. From time to time, in one region or another, I supposed hundreds might have shared this fate. Peace and order are often purchased by the torch and glaive.
“Sumomo is revived,” said Lord Akio.
I could see that Sumomo, supported by the two Ashigaru, had been brought to the forward edge of the platform, where she might look down to the pool below. At the same time, an attendant, below, as earlier, cast some scraps of tarsk into the water. The crowd reacted, as the water seemed to bubble and explode with a frenzy of activity. Ashigaru near the low, circular retaining wall of the pool drew back, to escape sheets of water, smote about by the violent thrashing of long serpentine bodies.
“The blindfold is being affixed,” said a fellow nearby.
“It seems inappropriate to blindfold free women,” I said. Slaves, on the other hand, were often blindfolded, hooded, gagged, bound, chained, and such, for they are slaves. Such things make clear to the slave her helplessness, her vulnerability, her unimportance and meaninglessness, her utter dependence on the free. Let her know she is nothing, let her know she is owned.
“It is part of the game, of the amusement,” said Lord Yamada. “The criminal is uncertain as to the length of the board, perhaps even its width. Bound, he is urged ahead, even prodded with glaives should he be reluctant. Hort by hort he moves. He tries to feel his way. Will there be a next, uncertain, fearful step, or has the board ended? Perhaps his balance is in jeopardy, and he might not even prolong his life to the end of that narrow, wooden, fateful path, might not even reach the end of the board, and how long is the board, he does not know, and how many steps remain, he does not know, and so on.”
“It is torture,” I said.
“Exquisitely so,” said Lord Akio.
Sumomo stood, unsteadily, at the height of the platform. She was now blindfolded. She wore a gown of simple white, which fell to her ankles. I surmised it was her single garment. At least it guaranteed her modesty. She was not stripped, as might be a slave. She was barefoot, however, as might have been a slave. Doubtless she had never been barefoot in public before. Her hair was unbound. Her wrists were fastened behind her. She was a beautiful female, the sort which, disrobed and displayed, is imminently suitable for the perusal of men, men intent upon acquiring a source of inordinate pleasure.
“Please remain where you are,” said Lord Yamada.
There were two of the masked Ashigaru on the platform with Sumomo. The other ten, who had advanced in two lines of five each, from the courtyard gate, were near the bottom of the high, winding stairwell leading to the height of the platform. All attention seemed focused on the platform, even that of the attendant who had served to agitate the restless denizens of the po
ol. Indeed, the waters of the pool still stirred, and more than once I saw the glistening back of an eel break the surface, and then snap away with a spattering of water.
The banners of Yamada fluttered at the height of the small stadium.
Haruki had failed.
Tonight there was to be festival.
The crowd was very quiet, eyes on the platform.
The two Ashigaru on the platform began to move a long board out, away from the platform, extending it over the pool. The board was long. It was narrow. They moved it out a bit, then drew it back, and then moved it further out, and did this a number of times. So still was the crowd, and so splendid were the acoustics within this cuplike enclosure, that one could, even below, where we waited, mark the scraping of the board on the platform. I then understood why the board had not been directly emplaced. It had been moved in such a way that the criminal, blindfolded, would be unclear as to how much of the board extended over the pool. It might be as little as six or so feet, perhaps eight feet, perhaps as much as ten. As I had expected, however, it was well extended from the platform. In this way, I supposed it would take longer for the criminal to reach its terminus, and this, presumably, would increase the suspense and the entertainment of the crowd. Only the criminal himself, in his uncertainty, would be unaware of the length of the narrow, unstable, precarious, bending, wavering trail allotted for his journey.
At least, I thought, it would not take long. Also, it was not necessary that I watch.
“She begins to traverse the board,” said a fellow near us.
It seemed I could not help but watch.
I heard an intake of breath in the crowd.
Sumomo had moved a bit out, onto the board. The two Ashigaru spoke to her, abruptly, derisively. How dared they do this? She was not a slave, who must endure whatever abuse free persons choose to visit upon her. Did they not know that she was a free woman, even the daughter of the shogun? They snarled and urged her forward, and brandished their glaives, impatiently, which movements could not be seen by the criminal, but were doubtless sensed. Then a blade prodded her in the back, sharply, rudely, and she half stumbled ahead, helpless, and blind within the folds of the cloth thrice encircling her eyes.
“She is falling!” said a man.
“No!” said another.
“She will not reach the end of the board,” said a fellow.
“She does not even know where the end is,” laughed another.
Sumomo wavered on the board. She struggled to retain her balance.
“Walk! Move!” called a man from the crowd.
“Hurry! Do not dally!” called another.
“Get on with it!” cried a man.
“Strike her from the board!” cried a fellow up to the Ashigaru on the platform.
“No, no!” cried a fellow. “She must walk! She must walk!”
“Instruct her!” cried a fellow to the Ashigaru on the platform.
Sumomo cried out, piteously, as a glaive thrust at her back, and she staggered another foot or two out on the board, her head turning, looking wildly, blindly, about. I did not doubt but what her garment, in the back, had been rent. The prodding had not been gentle.
She was not a slave! Let her be accorded the dignity due to a free woman! Might a fellow not be slain for such an impertinence on the continent?
“Proceed,” ordered one of the Ashigaru on the platform.
“Move, move!” called the other.
Frightened, uncertainly, Sumomo moved a bit further on the board. She had traversed only some third of the board’s length, but, for all she knew, her next step could be her last. Surely she must sense that she was already over the pool, its surface so far below, now rippling, stirred by the agitation of twisting, hungry bodies.
“Walk! Continue!” called a fellow up from the crowd.
I heard bets being taken, as to whether or not the end of the board would be reached.
I suspected the eels well anticipated, by now, perhaps from the past, perhaps from a variety of cues, sounds, movements, and reflections, if not from the two token feedings earlier administered, designed to do little more than sharpen the ravenous blades of hunger, that food was in the offing. I suspected they had been starved for days, to ready them for this moment. Similarly, it is not unusual for trainers and keepers in Ar and Turia to withhold food from arena animals, that the torments of hunger might be sorely exacerbated, so cruelly heightened that the released animal will forgo the caution and probity of its ways in the wild to indiscriminately rush upon and attack, and attempt to feed upon, whatever falls within its desperate ken.
Sumomo moved but half a step further on the board, which now bent slightly under her.
She teetered in place, too terrified to move.
“Mercy!” she cried. “Mercy!”
“It seems she is frightened,” said Lord Akio to the shogun.
“I fear so,” said the shogun.
“But it is well known she is delicate, and sensitive, as a flower,” said Lord Akio, possibly attempting to mitigate his former observation, lest the shogun be displeased.
“She is weak,” said the shogun.
“Clearly,” agreed Lord Akio.
“She risked her life in your service, in the citadel of your hereditary enemy,” I said.
“She thought herself secure,” he said. “She thought it no more than an amusing adventure.”
“She did not anticipate her discovery,” I said.
“Sometimes things do not turn out as one expects,” said the shogun.
“Spare her,” I said.
“My plans were jeopardized,” said the shogun.
“Pity her,” I said.
“I am shogun,” he said.
“Did you not think she was haughty, and arrogant?” asked Lord Akio of me.
“That can be taken from a woman,” I said.
“How?” asked Lord Akio.
“By the collar, and the whip,” I said.
“Do not leave,” said the shogun.
“Proceed,” said one of the two Ashigaru on the platform to the distraught criminal on the narrow wooden path, “lest the shogun become impatient.”
Sumomo was then twice jabbed in the back, to urge her forward.
“Will you live one Ihn or several?” inquired one of the Ashigaru on the platform. “Dally, and you will be struck from the board.”
“No!” cried more than one man in the crowd. I suspected they had wagered on the matter, that the end of the board would be reached.
The other Ashigaru was looking down, toward us, presumably waiting to see if a small movement by the shogun, a nod, a lifted hand, a dismissive gesture, would signal that the criminal would be dislodged, to plunge to the pool below. To be sure, it was unlikely the shogun would do this, as it might too soon bring the business to its conclusion, prematurely terminating the tension, anticipation, and suspense which, one gathers, add much to the pleasures of the spectacle. In any event, the shogun remained attentive, but quiescent.
The second Ashigaru then, glaive in hand, returned his attention to the plight of the criminal.
“Move,” he told her.
Sumomo, half bent over, with great care, bound, blindfolded, barefoot, hort by hort, feeling ahead of her with each step, bit by bit, moved toward the end of the board. I supposed the board was rough to her bare feet. Those feet, I supposed, soft, smooth, and delicate, prior to her journey to the stadium, had encountered no surface harsher or more rugged than the floor of a bath or the polished, lacquered boards of a lady’s chamber. As she was moving, so carefully, so tentatively, so slowly, I was sure she would be able to detect the end of the board, when reached, wherever it might be. Then, as the crowd cried out, one foot was half off the width of the board. The board bent. Her body was unsteady. I feared she would tumble to the side, falling to the pool. “Fall!” cried a fellow. It was not difficult to suppose the nature of the wager he had made. Then, as the crowd cried out, she righted herself. “No,” said th
e fellow, dismally, he who had called out. Yet, surely, his wager was not yet lost. I could almost sense Sumomo trembling, and trying to breathe, teetering on the narrow, unstable support which held her from the pool far below, that bending, narrow, unsteady bridge lacking a farther shore. She wavered. She had no clear sense of where she was. She had apparently moved too close to the edge of the board. I supposed, assuming she had been psychologically capable of registering such things, even in a state of presumed terror and stress, she would have had a sense of the board’s width before her blindfolding. Similarly, she might be reasonably assured that the Ashigaru on the platform would have made certain that her precarious journey would be well begun. On the other hand, it is extremely unlikely that one, bound, and blindfolded, in traversing such a board, foot by foot, could keep to an undeviating, centered, linear path.
“Move!” ordered the first Ashigaru on the platform.
She moved a hort forward.
“Straighten your body!” he said.
“Move,” said the second Ashigaru.
“How long is the board?” asked the first. “Are you near its end? Perhaps, perhaps not. Are there two steps remaining, are there five? Move. Do not fear. You will know when you reach the end of the board. It is easy to tell. You will step into nothing! Then you will fall, and, after a time, bathe with your friends below. Have no fear! They will welcome you! Let us not keep them waiting. Move! Move!”
Sumomo was now at the end of the board.
I decided not to watch.
“Move!” said the first Ashigaru.
“Now!” said the second.
I looked away, up, at the blue sky, the white clouds. On the high walls, encircling the stands, fluttered the narrow, rectangular banners of Lord Yamada, marked with the strange script, vertically aligned, of the Pani syllabary in which, though I could not read the script, were transcribed the phonemes of intelligible Gorean. The same phonemes, obviously, can be transcribed by means of an indefinite number of scripts. I recalled the flowing, lovely script of the Tahari, in which the phonemes of Gorean were also meticulously transcribed. The banners were a brave sight.
I supposed the day was pleasant enough, as Lord Akio had suggested; it was neither too warm nor too cold, and the sky was a bright, an unblemished, cloudless blue. Too, as noted, there was a slight, refreshing breeze.