by John Norman
Seremides instantly rushed at me and I saw the flash of the blade descending but heard a ringing of steel and saw a flash of sparks and another blade had been interposed, that of the tarnsman. Seremides backed away, warily, his weapon poised, the point moving like the head of an excited, coiled ost.
“Many men here,” said Lord Nishida, quietly, “are known elsewhere by other names. The guard of Lord Okimoto, as he wills, is Rutilius of Ar amongst us. That is acceptable to us, and is not to be questioned. If you know another name, or another time, or another place, do not speak it. This ship, and our mission, is now our world. What matters elsewhere does not matter here. What matters here does not matter elsewhere.”
“I see,” I said.
“So,” said Lord Nishida, “what is his name?”
I looked at Seremides. “His name,” I said, “is Rutilius of Ar.”
Seremides smiled.
Could it be, I asked myself, that it does not truly matter to them that Seremides of Ar might be amongst them? But then I thought, perhaps it does not matter, not here. Who would act upon such intelligence? To whom would one remand Seremides of Ar? How would one petition for, or collect, the bounty? Who is there to pay, or act in this matter? Information which might mean wealth and power on the continent, information which might put armies on the march, which might launch ships, which might flight tarn cavalries, would here be without practical consequences. Indeed, here, some might not even know of Seremides of Ar, and of those who knew some might see their fortunes as best linked to his, particularly if, through his agency, Talena might be found. Who would be more likely to know the Ubara, her habits, her hiding places, than Seremides of Ar, from whom she had been stolen on the height of the Central Cylinder months ago? I wondered how he came to be on this ship, and for what reason. I knew the secret of Seremides, but here that knowledge was of little consequence, other than to place my life in jeopardy. Seremides had little to fear from me now. But I had much to fear from him, or from those who might be enleagued with him. Perhaps, I thought, his identity was known to Lord Okimoto, even to Lord Nishida. I did not know. I would be silent. Presumably Seremides knew that the former Lady Flavia of Ar was on board. I recalled that he had asked that she be given to him. I suspected that she did not know he was on board. As a slave, she might have been kept much in ignorance. That is not unusual with slaves. They are slaves. Thus, she might not know that he, unbeknownst to herself, might have seen her, might have looked upon her now-bared face, a face now slave-bare, a face now denied the dignity and modesty of veiling, a face which must now be as exposed to public view as that of any other animal, a face recalled by him from her vanity in Ar. How terrified she might be if she, now as any other slave, a purchasable object, a mere article of property, might be given to him.
“This Cosian sleen,” said Seremides to Lord Nishida, while not taking his eyes off me, “is an enemy, to be put to death, one who wished us harm, not to be tolerated amongst us.”
“Do you speak on behalf of Lord Okimoto?” inquired Lord Nishida.
“I bespeak on behalf of all,” said Seremides.
“Not on my behalf,” said Tarl Cabot, quietly.
I was pleased to see that several of the fellows about seemed to take this seriously. The words of the tarnsman, I gathered, were words to which several present might attend.
I would learn later he was a commander amongst them.
“Did you not say, yesterday,” asked Seremides, “that today this Cosian sleen was to die?”
“That he was to live, or die,” said Lord Nishida.
“That may be easily determined,” said Seremides.
“I am unarmed,” I said.
“Then kneel down, and lower your head, to be swiftly slain, unarmed. I shall be quick. Or, if unarmed, run, until there is nowhere else to run, and then die. Or seek Thassa. Perhaps you can swim to Cos!”
I recalled the thought of the cage of sleen. Where, within the bars, might a small sleen flee?
“Permit me to perform the execution,” said Seremides.
“Execution?” inquired Lord Nishida.
“To put to death this enemy,” said Seremides.
“There will be no execution,” said Lord Nishida.
“Very well,” said Seremides, and turned to me. “Challenge!” he said.
“I am unarmed,” I said.
“Arm him!” said Seremides.
“I know your blade,” I said. “I am no match for it.”
“Arm him!” said Seremides.
“No,” I said.
“Challenge! Challenge!” cried Seremides.
“I do not accept your challenge,” I said.
The men about reacted to this, looking about, startled. Amongst them, this response was incomprehensible.
Seremides himself seemed startled.
“Cosian,” sneered a fellow.
“They are all alike,” said another.
“No,” said another fellow who, I supposed, was Cosian. Under his reproachful gaze I suffered.
“No place here for such as he,” said a man.
“True!” said the fellow I took to be Cosian.
“Craven urt,” said another.
“Over the rail with him,” said a fellow.
“Kill him,” said another, “and be done with it.”
I clenched my fists.
“Not at our table will he eat,” said a man.
“Let him fear to go on deck after dark,” said another.
“Perhaps,” said Tarl Cabot, quietly, “you would accept a champion?”
“No!” cried several men, in gray.
Seremides stepped back a pace. Had a sudden flicker of disquiet crossed his features? In any event, for whatever reason, it seemed clear he did not welcome this intrusion. Yet I knew well the former captain of the Taurentians. What had he to fear? City champions had reeled from his blade.
“No,” I said, “I will not have another fight for me.” The tarnsman, Tarl Cabot, I gathered, did not know the skills of Seremides. I would not have another die for me. Even were he, somehow, a match for the former Taurentian’s skills, it would be wrong of me to accept his intervention. A Merchant, a laborer, a free woman might accept it, but I could not, not in honor. I had served Cos.
“A challenge has been issued,” said Seremides. “I do not accept its rejection. That is my right.”
“An Assassin’s right,” I said.
“Prepare to die,” said Seremides, “armed or unarmed.”
“Hold,” said Lord Nishida, lifting his hand, the sleeve falling back about his wrist, as he did so. “Good Callias,” said Lord Nishida, “I do not think you are a coward. Why, then, do you refuse to accept the challenge?”
“It is a challenge without honor,” I said. “The animosity borne to me by your Rutilius of Ar has nothing to do with Cos and Ar, with politics or war, with defense or security, nor with justice or law. It is personal, and from the past. I know of things of which I gather I am not to speak, and it is because of this that your Rutilius of Ar seeks my blood, that he may have nothing more to fear from me. He knows I am no match for him. Thus, he would conceal a murder beneath a veil of equitable arbitration, of fair contest, mask a murder under the mantle of a duel. If he would kill me let him do so now, publicly, in cold blood, dishonorably cutting down an unarmed man, one who holds him in contempt. So let my death soil him, and cling to him in the eyes of men, marking him, proclaiming him for what he is in fact, a wretch, a dissembler, a fugitive, a criminal, a coward, a butcher.”
“I do not know this Cosian,” said Seremides. “Nor do I understand him. It seems he has me confused with another. That is neither here nor there. But, if he will not fight, if he is so craven and cowardly, so much a frightened urt, so enamored of his worthless existence, so unwilling to risk it in fair, open combat, that is his choice. Certainly I cannot, in cold blood, slay an unarmed man. Doubtless he understands that, and thus tries to purchase his worthless life, counting on my honor. Such a k
illing, however in order, he doubtless realizes would not be permitted by my honor, an honor which I hold sacred, and have never betrayed. Too, it would be embarrassing for me to allow the blood of such a piteously craven urt to stain, however briefly, an honorable blade, that of Rutilius of Ar.”
Some of the men about smote their left shoulders, in approval.
“Yes, yes,” said others.
“Do not go on deck after dark,” said a fellow to me.
“But,” said Seremides, “if he is to crawl amongst us, as the slithering ost, unnoticed but deadly, tiny and poisonous, must he not in some way purchase his passage?”
“Yes,” said more than one man.
“That was my intention,” said Lord Nishida.
“I have no money,” I said.
“One purchases one’s passage with steel,” said Seremides. “I earned my berth by slaying six men.”
“True,” said a fellow, “six.”
“Passage is dear on this vessel,” said a fellow, “not free.”
“The Cosian has proved he is afraid to fight,” said another.
“At the ringing of steel, the laughter of blades, he would hide,” said another.
“Over the rail with him,” said another.
“Berths are limited, Cosian,” said Seremides. “They are to be earned, and in such a way that the best occupy them. Let the slow and clumsy perish, let the swift and skillful live. Let the weak die, let the strong survive. It is the way of nature, that of the tarn, of the sleen and larl. If one is added, let one be subtracted.”
I shrugged. “Give me a blade,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Lord Nishida. “It is as I and Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, intended.”
I had thought the tarnsman bore me no ill will. Now I was to be matched, to the death.
A blade was brought, nicely balanced. It was a not unfamiliar sensation, having such an instrument of war again in my grasp. Surely I preferred it to the oar. I touched the blade to my sleeve, and saw the threads part. I looked about. One or two men looked uneasy. One stepped back. I smiled. I was now, again, a man among men.
The tarnsman smiled.
“Bring the thief and wretch, Philoctetes, from his cell,” said Lord Nishida. “He has fed enough.”
The cloaks of some of the men moved in the wind. The yards above, carrying their large square sails, creaked, turning, as the sails took the rising wind, moving from a gray north.
In a few moments the prisoner was on deck, and given a weapon, rather as mine. We stood a few feet from one another. He was in a ragged blue tunic. He stood unsteadily.
“My dear Callias,” said Lord Nishida, “you behold before you a trustless rogue, Philoctetes, a miscreant and felon, a liar, a cheater at stones, one who robs men at night, who steals food, obtaining extra rations for himself, a villain who would cut a throat for a copper tarsk.”
“I trust that he is skilled,” I said.
“Enough,” said Lord Nishida. “He may not have the skills of one who stood first spear, but we deem his skills adequate for our purposes, that of adjudicating a war right to a berth. I advise you not to take him casually. A lucky stroke might fetch him freedom.”
I moved the blade about.
It had been long since I had held such a weapon.
Lord Nishida, the tarnsman, and others, moved back, further enlarging the space at our disposal. The boards of the deck were white, and closely fitted, stone cleaned.
Philoctetes seemed unsteady.
“Has he been fed,” I asked.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.
I faced Philoctetes. “Are you ready?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“You wear the blue of Cos,” I said.
“It is my right,” he said.
“You are Cosian?” I said.
He shrugged.
“My Home Stone,” I said, “is that of Jad.”
He regarded me. “That, too,” he said, “is mine.”
“You must,” said Lord Nishida, addressing me, “be prepared to forswear your Home Stone.”
“One of us is to die?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Lord Nishida.
“Have you forsworn the Home Stone?” I asked Philoctetes.
“No,” he said.
“Then,” said I, “stand at my back and we will die together.”
“You are serious?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, turning my back to him, facing those about, my sword ready. I saw several of the men about look at one another, and then draw their weapons.
“You are Callias?” asked Philoctetes.
“Yes,” I said, puzzled. I could not see him behind me. I did not sense him at my back.
It occurred to me, suddenly, that the back of my neck was open to his blade.
“Hail, Callias!” I heard, from Philoctetes. “Hail, Callias!” cried men about, and the swords which had been drawn were lifted, in salute. I spun about and saw that Philoctetes did not now seem as he had before. He stood straight, and powerful, solid on his feet. He had wiped something from his face, a pale salve or such, and it seemed ruddier now. The blade he had returned to a fellow behind him. “Hail Cos,” he said, and we embraced.
“Excellent,” said Lord Nishida. “It came about as I had expected.”
“I could not kill one whose Home Stone I shared,” I said.
“We thought not,” said Lord Nishida.
“I did not forswear my Home Stone,” I said.
“From yesterday,” said Lord Nishida, “we did not think you would, but we did not know.”
“Philoctetes played his role well,” observed Tarl Cabot.
“What if I had forsworn my Home Stone?” I asked.
“That would have been a great disappointment,” said Lord Nishida. “Our journey is long and dangerous, and we will have need of men who will not forswear their Home Stones.”
“What if I had fought?” I asked.
“You would not have fought,” said Lord Nishida, touching the unusual, curved hilt of one of the swords in his sash, “for I would have cut off your head, before the blades could touch.”
“Welcome,” said Tarl Cabot, “to the ship’s company.”
I looked about, but Seremides had left the deck.
I heard the snapping of canvas overhead.
The men about had sheathed their weapons, and were going their ways when, turning about, a cry of wonder escaped them. I looked forward, to the stem castle, to discern the reason for their awe. There, on the stem castle, behind its aft rail, a small figure, bent and twisted, stood, in cloak and mariner’s cap, looking to windward, to the north.
“Tersites!” cried men.
“He is dead!” exclaimed others.
“We witnessed his burning,” said another.
“I was at the pyre,” said another.
“I have heard of him,” I said. This was true. Legends of the mad, half-blind shipwright, Tersites, I did not doubt, had reached even the farther islands. Until now I did not realize he was a real person. From the outcry I gathered that many had not realized he was aboard.
“I saw him burned,” whispered a man.
“No,” said Tarl Cabot.
“You knew he was alive?” said Lord Nishida.
“I examined bones, found amongst the ashes of the pyre,” said Tarl Cabot. “They were the bones of a tarsk.”
“It was better,” said Lord Nishida, “that he be thought dead, that such a word be carried south, that the apprehension of enemies be assuaged, that none might seek his secrets, that his plans would be thought lost forever, that no ship such as this could be built, or, if built, duplicated.”
“Yet,” said Cabot, “we were attacked, at the mouth of the Alexandra.”
“The concealment of the northern forests proved insufficient,” said Lord Nishida.
“Surely you will explain to me one day the nature of our enterprise,” said Tarl Cabot.
“It has to do with Priest-Kings and Others
,” said Lord Nishida. “It is, I take it, a wager of sorts.”
“And what hangs upon the outcome of this wager?” asked Tarl Cabot.
“I think,” said Lord Nishida, “the fate of two worlds.”
“Callias,” said Philoctetes, “a storm is near. Come below. Leave the taking in of sail, the governance of the ship, to mariners.”
“It is too late in the season to be abroad on Thassa,” I said.
“I agree,” said Philoctetes.
“I trust that oil was poured into the sea, and wine, and salt,” I said.
“No,” said Philoctetes. “They were not. Come below. A storm is upon us.”
I fetched my cloak, and accompanied Philoctetes below.
Chapter Six
The Farther Islands Fall Astern
“There,” said Tarl Cabot, “do you see them, the three of them, the farther islands, Chios, Daphna, Thera?”
They were dim, in the distance, in the snow, but one could make them out. I had never been this far west of Cos and Tyros, but the merchantry of the major island Ubarates, including Cos, of course, traded here, and rogue ships, from Port Kar and Brundisium, did as well. Indeed, the major reason for the western patrols, as that of the Metioche, was to police these routes, limiting them to licensed traffic.
It was the second week past the eighth passage hand.
“Yes,” I said. “I see them.”
In an Ahn, they would be astern.
At Cabot’s thigh knelt a slave, well-bundled.
She did not seem agitated. Did she not understand we would soon be west of the farther islands?
When she had heeled her master to the rail, where he had joined me, I had examined her, as men will a slave, insofar as was possible, given her furs. She had lowered her eyes, that they not meet without permission those of a free man. Then she had knelt. I supposed she would be excellent, stripped to her neck-encirclement. Certainly her features were exquisite, and the furs, as they were cunningly wrapped and fastened, the clever she-sleen, suggested, as much as concealed, the delights at the disposal of her master. Slaves often garb and present themselves in such a way that others may envy their master for their possession.