by John Norman
“It is a fearful, terrible weapon,” said Aktis.
“It is supposed to be,” I said.
“I love it,” he said.
“Now you see why Cos does not wish to put it in your hands,” I said.
“Clearly,” he said.
“Could you recognize, again,” I asked, “the small goods, trinkets and such, which you received in trade from the confederate of the raiders, the spy and scout of the intruders, he a merchant or in the guise of a merchant, and which were soon stolen back by the raiders?”
“Some, I suppose,” he said. “I could doubtless more easily recognize larger items, of greater value.”
“Larger items of greater value,” I said, “gold plate and silver vessels, if you had them, and women, and such, would not be disposed of locally. I doubt even that they would be sold on Cos or Tyros. The risk would be too great. But smaller items, say, a ring or buckle, regarded as negligible or paltry, might very well have been kept by, or distributed amongst, the raiders.”
“Its possessor, then,” said Aktis, “might be a raider.”
“Or one known to a raider,” I said. “Even finding such an object in a market might be important. From whom did the seller obtain the item?”
“I see,” he said.
“Perhaps you could recognize a raider,” I suggested.
“I do not think so,” he said. “The rush, the flight, the distance. Much happened quickly.”
“They were helmeted?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
I had expected that.
The common Gorean helmet, with its narrow Y-shaped opening, conceals much of the face.
“Save for the one proclaiming himself to be Bosk of Port Kar,” he said.
“Do you think you could recognize him again?” I asked.
“Not without the hair, or wig,” he said. “In a sense, I saw little more.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “one does not stop to peruse intently the features of those from whom one runs for one’s life.”
“I fear not,” he said, wryly.
I did not think the raiders would be common brigands. I suspected, from the number of ships involved, that they were not only numerous, but well equipped, well organized, and well led. Perhaps, even, they might be mercenaries, professional soldiers.
“There were no uniforms,” I said, “no flags, no pennons, no banners, no identificatory marks on helmets or shields?”
Surely the raiders would seek anonymity.
“On the contrary,” he said, “banners were flourished and emblems and signs were boldly displayed, both on helmets and shields.”
“Those of Port Kar, and of Bosk of Port Kar,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
How better could one achieve anonymity than under a false identity?
How better could one loot and slaughter with impunity than under the name of another?
“I fear I will be of little help in these matters,” he said.
“One does not know,” I said. “Perhaps you will be of great help.”
“I should return to the oar,” he said. “Thurnock has promised me an arrow for each extra shift I row, to the filling of a quiver.”
“I shall speak to Thurnock,” I said. “I do not wish you to die at the oar.”
“I do not wish to receive goods for which I have not labored,” he said, “goods which I have not earned.”
This view was typically Gorean.
On Gor existence was seldom seen as an entitlement to security, success, and good fortune.
The Peasants, in its way, might be the humblest of castes, but, in another way, it was amongst the proudest of castes.
“Even so,” I said, “I shall speak to Thurnock. I would have your quiver soon filled.”
“One does not know what one will meet at sea,” said Aktis.
“Or on land,” I said.
“I would return to the bench, if I may,” he said. “I am reluctant to have another draw the oar in my place.”
“Have you ever been in Sybaris?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “In all my life, I have never been more than a few pasangs from Nicosia.”
I nodded. This was not unusual for many Goreans. It was not simply a matter of Home Stones. Travel could be arduous and dangerous. Nicosia, being on Chios and Sybaris on Thera, it was like Sybaris was a world away from Nicosia.
“Last year,” he said, “the Fair of the Farther Islands was held in Sybaris.”
This was the first I had heard of such a fair.
“Sybaris has rich fields inland,” I said, “and a fine, busy harbor. In Sybaris there is much luxury and wealth, broad, prosperous streets, many of which are lit at night, colorful bazaars and variegated, well-stocked markets, ample inns, and hundreds of shops, restaurants, and taverns. The city is brighter and more alive at night than in the day. Even at the First Ahn, taverns thrive, and, on the streets, crowds bustle about, and gamblers gather on corners, breathlessly attentive to the rattle of cast stones, while flautists play and silken slaves dance on their leashes, coin pans at hand.”
“And when do they sleep?” asked Aktis.
“Some at night,” I said, “and some when the lamps need not be lit.”
“It is a busy place,” said Aktis.
“One crowd during the day, another at night,” I said.
“How odd that seems,” he said.
“You will find it far different from Nicosia,” I said. “You will tremble with amazement, your blood will race, your eyes will be filled with wonders.”
“There are women there?” asked Aktis.
“Yes,” I said, “free women, some of whom decline veiling.”
“They are so brazen, so shameless?” asked Aktis.
“Surely the maidens of Nicosia did not go about veiled,” I said.
“It was a village,” he said. “Everyone knew everyone. And there was much work to do, by both men and women.”
“Put aside thoughts of free women, greedy, troublesome creatures,” I said. “There are slaves, as well, some eager to please lest they be lashed, others, whose slave fires have been kindled, they then the helpless victims of their needs, begging to please, even for the slightest caress.”
“I am not to think of free women?” asked Aktis.
“No,” I said. “It is not worth the bother of pursuing them, except to get them stripped and in chains, that they may be redeemed and learn their womanhood. Think rather of slaves.”
“Are there many slaves in Sybaris?” he asked.
“It is a rich city,” I said.
“There were no slaves in Nicosia,” he said.
“So much the worse for Nicosia,” I said.
“Free women are exalted and priceless,” said Aktis.
“Precisely,” I said. “That is why they are such a bother. A free woman is priceless because she has no price, and without a price she is worthless. A woman has no value until she is a slave and her value then is what the free will pay for her. It is only then a woman learns what she is truly worth, when she is taken off the block, when she is sold. Until then let each think she would bring a thousand gold pieces.”
“We are days from Sybaris,” said Aktis.
“Yes,” I said.
“I shall look forward to Sybaris,” said Aktis, “and I shall hope I may prove to be of service to you there.”
“I shall hope so,” I said.
“May I, Captain,” said Aktis, “return now to the bench?”
“Do so,” I said.
“Ho!” cried Clitus, from the stem castle, where he stood lookout. “Land, land to port!”
“Thurnock!” I called down to the benches. “Rest oars!”
“What land is here?” I
asked Aktis, who was partly down the steps to the deck.
“I have heard of none here, Captain,” he said.
I hurried past him, down the steps, and, in my passage to the stem castle, was joined by Thurnock, who seemed as puzzled as I. In a moment we had climbed to the deck of the stem castle, and, shielding our eyes, looked across the bright, gentle water, in the direction Clitus indicated.
The Dorna rocked softly.
One could hear the water lapping against the hull.
Overhead a broad-winged sea kite wheeled in the sky.
“There can be no land here,” said Thurnock.
“None is indicated on the charts,” I said.
“It is tiny, not noted,” said Clitus. “It was overlooked.”
“This was essentially our course to Chios,” said Thurnock, “our previous course retraced. Where was it when we came from Thera?”
“It is small,” said Clitus. “Obviously it was unnoticed.”
“How could that be?” asked Thurnock.
“It is small,” said Clitus, “flat without mountains, easily missed.”
“That could easily be,” I said. “It seems no more than a skerry, a gray prominence. Consider the color, suggesting a volcanic origin.”
“It is barren,” said Thurnock.
“It seems so,” I said. “There is some clutter, some brush, debris, dried sea weed, driftwood, such things.”
“We may have missed it in poor light, even passed it at dusk, before beaching,” said Clitus.
“Perhaps it was not here before,” I said. “If it is volcanic, it might have recently risen from the sea.”
I removed the Builder’s Glass from its sheath at my belt, slid open its sections, and adjusted the focus.
“It is hard to assess its dimensions,” I said, “but it is small, ovoid in shape, perhaps with a long axis of eighty paces, a short axis of forty paces.”
“It is from a subsea volcano, erupted, magma coming to the surface, cooling and solidifying,” said Clitus.
“But there is no open center, no lagoon,” I said.
“It seems to tremble,” said Thurnock.
“It is an illusion,” said Clitus. “It is as on the Tahari, where air shimmers, rising from a heated surface.”
“The air is cool,” said Thurnock.
“Here,” said Clitus, “but perhaps not there. The surface may still be hot.”
“I do not think so,” I said, adjusting again the focus of the Glass. “Our tiny islet is inhabited.”
“Visitors, fishermen?” asked Clitus.
“I suppose so,” I said. “They have seen us, unfortunately. I would have preferred that not to be the case. They are launching small skiffs away. They are fleeing the islet.”
“Why should they flee?” asked Thurnock.
“Perhaps they do not recognize the ship,” I said. “Perhaps they have had unpleasant dealings, unwelcome interactions, with others. In any event, they are not eager to make our acquaintance, and, clearly, they are in no need of succor, rescue, water, supplies, or such.”
“How many are there?” asked Thurnock.
“Perhaps a hundred,” I said, “now emerged from the cover of the driftwood, debris, and such.”
I could see some twenty to twenty-five small craft departing from the islet.
“What would a hundred men be doing in such a barren and desolate place?” asked Thurnock.
“A hundred individuals,” I said. “They are not all men. There are women and children, as well.”
“Families?” asked Clitus.
“It may be,” I said. “I do not know.”
“How could they live there?” asked Thurnock.
“Doubtless they do not live there,” I said. “Presumably they paused there, temporarily, on their way to some further destination, say, Pylos or Naxos, even Sybaris.”
“Somehow I do not think so,” said Thurnock.
“Nor do I,” I said, “but I do not know why.”
Chapter Four
What Was Encountered Later; Three Women; I Decide Against Performing an Act of Mercy
“These should now be frequented waters,” said Thurnock, standing beside Clitus and myself on the stem deck.
We were now two days beyond the small, dark, uncharted, mysterious island whose unexpected presence had so surprised us.
“Yet we have seen no shipping,” said Clitus.
“Perhaps,” I said, “the depredations of Bosk of Port Kar are feared.”
“I should like to have the false Bosk of Port Kar within range of my bow,” said Thurnock.
“I should like to fish for him with my net and trident,” said Clitus.
“How proceeds Aktis in his lessons?” I asked Thurnock.
“Excellently, as would be expected,” said Thurnock, “since he is of the Peasants.”
“Even though of Chios?” I asked.
“It is true that he is ignorant and stubborn,” said Thurnock. “He is reluctant to overcome his primitive antecedents. He thinks a shabby village on Chios is worthy of a Home Stone, not merely that it has one, but that it is worthy to have one. Too, I struggle to correct his speech.”
“It is Cosian,” I said.
“He claims it is different,” said Thurnock.
“He is probably right,” I said. I thought it judicious to defer to the view of a native speaker on such matters. “But his lessons proceed well?”
“Brilliantly,” said Thurnock.
“I suspect,” I said, “that such things are possible only with a great teacher.”
“I suppose it is only just to acknowledge that,” said Thurnock.
“To be sure,” I said, “the greatest of teachers cannot supply the strength to draw the great bow, the eye to mark the distant target, the mind, which instantly, without thought, processes the subtleties of distance, the moisture of air, the stir of wind.”
“The student must contribute something,” said Thurnock.
“I have heard it said so,” I said.
“The Tesephone signals,” said Thurnock.
“I hear it,” I said.
Our mast and that of the Tesephone were raised. We were astern of her, and she was to port.
The sound of the drum carried across the water.
On the stem deck of the Dorna, surmounting the stem castle, we counted the beats. Commonly the same drum used by the keleustes to adjust and regularize rowing serves for signaling. There are many differences in how this is done, given the desiderata of clarity, speed, secrecy, and such. Most commonly, cyphers are involved, as opposed to signals for words or commands, such as ‘enemy sighted’, ‘prepare for battle’, ‘convene’, ‘withdraw’, ‘return to port’, and such. The cyphers, substitution cyphers naturally, are correlated, in one way or another, with letters in the Gorean alphabet, a long beat followed by two short beats, say, standing for a given letter, and so on. In some signaling, visual, utilizing flags, pennons, lanterns, torches, or such, and auditory, utilizing a drum, trumpet, or such, a different arrangement is used, which is generally thought to be easier to read, particularly by unsophisticated readers. The alphabet is divided into a limited number of groups, and each group contains its letters in sequence. Let us suppose that we take the twenty-five most common letters in the Gorean alphabet and divide them into five group of five letters each. Then, for example, sounding two beats or lifting the torch twice would indicate the second group. Then, say, there are four beats or the torch is lifted four times. That would correspond to the fourth letter in the second group, and so on. If one wishes to take the message out of the clear, then it is a simple matter to mix the groups and letters about. The particular groupings may be changed daily. Naturally both parties, the sending and the receiving party, have the same cypher schedules. Given appropriate visual conditions,
the sender may elect to indicate group by utilizing one hand, usually the right hand, and the letter within the group by utilizing the other hand, usually the left hand.
“Debris has been sighted,” said Clitus. “There may be survivors.”
“These are dangerous waters,” said Thurnock.
“Have the Tesephone heave to,” I said. “Request bearings to the sighting.”
Thurnock called these instructions back to our keleustes, whose post was close to the foot of the steps leading down from the stern deck, his drum on its stand between the two helmsmen.
Shortly thereafter, with the Builder’s glass, I could make out what had occasioned the communication from the Tesephone.
We then proceeded further on the bearings provided by the Tesephone, which now fell astern.
“I can make it out,” said Clitus. “Wreckage, listing, hull damaged, seared by fire, gouged planks, something alive, clinging to the stump of the mast.”
“Three individuals,” I said, lowering the glass, “slight figures, half veiled, in soiled robes.”
“Free women?” asked Clitus.
“Seemingly so,” I said.
“It seems that Bosk of Port Kar has struck again,” said Thurnock.
“It would seem so,” I said.
Surely we had heard in Sybaris, and elsewhere, that the sea lanes between the maritime ubarates, Cos and Tyros, and the Farther Islands, were being terrorized by the supposed Bosk of Port Kar. Yet, interestingly, the navies, and patrols, of both Cos and Tyros had failed to make contact with the six or more ships of the supposed Bosk of Port Kar. How could six or more ships, in essence a small fleet, continue to elude discovery? It seemed indeed, as though they vanished, only to reappear again, unexpectedly, with ravaging and carnage.
At this point, a narrow object, with a shrill whistle, its trail laced with smoke, ascended high into the air from the midst of the planks and timbers.
“The survivors have sighted us,” said Thurnock.
“They try to attract our attention,” said Clitus.
“They have done so,” said Thurnock.
We watched the object, trailing red and yellow smoke, from ignited powders, reach its zenith, and then it seemed to slow and pause, and then, still trailing smoke, and whistling, fell into the sea.