by John Norman
I looked at the liquid in the paga goblet. It was high, of a quite generous level, but not a drop had been spilled. One would think it had been delivered by a girl, concerned not to be lashed. I could see the light of the nearby tharlarion-oil lamp reflected in the surface of the fluid, the reflection uneasy, from the goblet’s recent placement. Then the reflection, after some moments, was still.
“Tal,” said the thick-legged, coarsely featured fellow who had followed the attendant.
“Tal,” I replied.
The newcomer, with a subtle gesture of his head, motioned that Ctesippus might withdraw.
This conversation, I gathered, was to be private.
“May I join you?” asked the newcomer, settling himself, cross-legged, beside me.
“Please do so,” I said.
“I am Glaukos,” he said, “master of The Living Island.”
I had thought it might be he. I recalled that Archelaos, governor of Thera, had spoken highly of him.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“My name is unimportant,” I said. “I am a stranger here, a humble visitor, a lowly oarsman.”
“I do not think you are such a stranger as you suppose,” said Glaukos, “as you are familiar with the well-known Village of Flowing Gold.”
“It does not exist,” I said. It is interesting, I thought, how the truth may be told in such a way that it will be taken as a lie.
“Do not concern yourself,” said Glaukos. “Hundreds have been there. I myself was once there.”
“Oh,” I said.
“You may speak freely before me,” he said.
“I should be at ease?” I said.
“Certainly,” said Glaukos.
“I have had too much to drink,” I said, reaching groggily for the paga vessel.
Glaukos’ hand rested on my wrist. “Later,” he said.
I stared at the paga goblet.
“Your accent,” he said, “is not of the Farther Islands, nor, I think, of Cos or Tyros.”
I was silent.
“I would guess,” he said, “of Torcadino, or of Ti, of the Salerian Confederation.”
“How did you know?” I asked, feigning dismay.
“Ti?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. I frankly had little sense of my own accent. One seldom does. It is always others who have an accent. My native language was English. My Gorean had been subject to several influences. My first Gorean had been learned in Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning, in the western, northern latitudes of the vast Gorean continent.
“Ti,” he said, “is not a likely origin for an oarsman.”
“I left Ti,” I said. “And one must make a living.”
“You are far from your Home Stone,” he said. “What were the circumstances of your departure from Ti?”
“They are not important,” I said.
“How is it,” he asked, “that you, from far Ti, know of The Village of Flowing Gold?”
“Idle talk,” I said, “heard in some tavern.”
Once again my hand, seemingly nervously, appeared to confirm that some object, perhaps one of interest, might lie within my robe.
“You obviously conceal something within your robe,” he said.
“No,” I said, pressing my garment closer to my body.
“A parchment,” said Glaukos.
“No!” I said.
“It is a map,” said Glaukos. “You stole it. That is why you are far from your Home Stone. You are a thief. You fled from Ti.”
I made as though I was struggling to rise. “It is late,” I said. “I must go. I fear I have drunk too much.”
“There is no hurry,” said Glaukos. “You are in the tavern of The Living Island. You are amongst friends.”
“Let me go,” I said.
“You have not yet drunk your paga,” he said.
“I am not sure I want it,” I said.
“Have no fear,” he said. “I shall not inform guardsmen. How does it concern us, here in Sybaris, what once was done in Ti?”
“I may trust you?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said.
“You are my friend?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. “What is your name?”
“Eiron,” I said, uncertainly.
“No,” he said, “your real name.”
“Fenlon,” I said.
“A splendid, noble name,” he said, “one of a sort of which a large, fine fellow like yourself could well be proud.”
“All here are my friends?” I asked.
“Each and every one,” he said.
I stood up, unsteadily. “I am generous to my friends,” I said, solemnly.
“Of course you are,” said Glaukos.
I reached into my pouch and, wavering, began to cast forth its contents.
“What are you doing?” said Glaukos. “Sit down! Sit down!”
“There is more from where this came from, much more,” I assured him, casting handfuls of the tiny glittering disks about.
Men looked about, startled, curious, as the bits of metal began to rattle on the floor.
“He is mad!” said one fellow, a few feet away, at one of the low tables.
“Pay no attention,” cried Glaukos. “He is drunk, drunk!”
“This is gold!” cried a man, suddenly, who had reached to the side, scooping up one of the disks.
“Gold?” asked another fellow, retrieving a disk.
“Yes, gold!” cried another man, scrambling on his knees to gather in disks.
Chaos then ensued, as patrons, grunting and crying out, rushed to seize up the disks.
“They are gone now!” cried Glaukos to the swarming patrons. “Gone! The pouch is empty! Return to your tables!”
“Gratitude to our benefactor!” cried a man.
“Yes,” cried others.
Two fellows were tussling, to the side, presumably disputing the rightful possession of one of the disks.
“Yes,” cried Glaukos, “all gratitude to our noble benefactor, my dear friend, Fenlon, come from far Ti, who has so generously manifested his approbation of The Living Island, finest of the taverns in Sybaris, and its noble patrons.”
This remark was greeted with some acclaim and a pounding of the palms on the left shoulder.
Men then returned to the tables.
“Now you may drink,” said Glaukos.
I then sat again at the table. I shook my head, as though to clear it. I stared at the paga goblet, as if uncertain which one I should reach for.
“Drink,” said Glaukos, reassuringly.
I knew the paga had been tampered with. Surely it had not been removed from the general paga vat. I was sure the drink would not be lethal. They could not know, for certain, that the parchment within my garment was a map, nor, if it was, that it could be easily read. Certain information might be missing, or even coded. If they knew what they were doing, they would want to keep me alive, in case they might need my help in one particular way or another. Too, as several patrons of the tavern had marked me well, and gratefully, in connection with my calculated distribution of the tiny gold disks, Glaukos might be wary of having me inexplicably disappear from his premises. It would be better for him to have me found unconscious somewhere, presumably sleeping off the effects of a night of prodigious carousing. Presumably I would not be likely to prosecute a vigorous inquiry as to an alleged map that might be missing, particularly as it might be stolen property. If I did prosecute such an inquiry, Glaukos could merely deny knowledge of the map, and even affect a concern that it might be missing. Should our words be set against one another, I recalled that Glaukos was apparently a confidant of Archelaos, the governor of Thera, and, I suspected, thus, a partner, as well, in his possible machinations.
; I carefully clutched the goblet in two hands, and lifted it to my lips. I tasted it. As far as I could tell, it was paga, though of an unusually fine character. It reminded me of that of the brewery of Temos.
“This is good,” I said.
“It is from my personal, private stock,” he said.
Presumably it contained tassa powder, or some similar substance, which would be tasteless. Tassa powder is sometimes used in the abduction of women for the markets. Depending on the strength, its effects can last from one to several Ahn. In the case of women, it is commonly mixed with a ka-la-na wine. The woman, fully clothed, in the robes of concealment, perhaps lifting the glass to her lips, beneath her veil, eyes seductively lustrous over the veil, imbibes the beverage. Later she recovers consciousness, perhaps lying on a stone floor, to find herself stripped and chained, a heated brazier glowing to the side, from which emerges the handle of an iron. If she cries out, though she is still free, she may be cuffed to silence, that she may understand that the kind of woman she is now to be may not speak without permission. The iron then is put to her thigh, high, below the left hip, and a metal collar rudely snapped about her neck. Sometime the slaver or captor, in examining his unconscious catch, realizes that his conjectures as to the value of the catch were overly optimistic. In such a case the woman, her clothing removed and destroyed, is left to regain consciousness in some public place. Not lightly is the brand and collar bestowed. Awakening so, nude, she senses herself a slave, but a failed slave. Often then, unworthy to be so poor a woman, so pathetic and inadequate a female, she will strive, if only secretly, by exercise and diet, by attitude and sensibility, to become worthy of the attention of strong, commanding, lustful, possessive men.
“Laios, Ctesippus,” said Glaukos, summoning the two fellows, large, burly fellows, whom I had met earlier, those who had approached the table when it had not been clear that I had the means to pay for paga.
I felt the hand of Glaukos reaching inside the collar of my robe.
Somehow I seemed hardly aware of this.
I decided the drink, after all, had not been drugged. I found this of mild, detached interest.
Then I lost consciousness.
Chapter Twelve
I Obtain News of the Raiders
“This is a lonely area,” said Thurnock, looking about, down the long, gently curved beach.
“I chose it so,” I said. “There are no known villages within three hundred pasangs.”
“Aktis approaches,” said Clitus.
“So soon?” I said. “Good. The raiders have acted more expeditiously than I had expected.”
We had been camped four days in this spot, some pasangs from the likely landing point of the raiders. In drawing up the false map, which I had arranged to have stolen in The Living Island, I had located the spurious Village of Flowing Gold on Daphna, the least populated of the Farther Islands, in a desolate area, where the raiders might be most easily isolated and discomfited, no civilized enclaves at hand from which to obtain support or succor. Though there are some silver mines on Thera, presumably contributing to the wealth of Sybaris, the Farther Islands were not noted for their mineral resources. Certainly they were not noted for their streams glittering with nuggets or mountains and caves bright with veins of gold. To be sure, who knew what undiscovered riches might occur in remote regions? My seemingly reckless, unguarded distribution of the tiny gold disks in the tavern of The Living Island was intended to overcome any possible doubts as to the reality of The Village of Flowing Gold. Also, of course, the gold need not have been mined or panned. It might have been seized by peasants from shipwrecked vessels, or even cached inland by pirates, possibly generations ago.
“They have landed,” said Aktis, hailing us, calling out, his arm lifted, as he trudged through the sand toward us.
A moment later he was before us.
“Hold, catch your breath,” I said.
His body was shaking.
Thurnock gave him water from a bota, slung over his shoulder.
“Six ships, many men, as at Nicosia,” gasped Aktis.
“Excellent,” I said. “I think they will lose little time in being about their business.”
“Shall we march?” asked Thurnock.
“No,” I said. “Not now. There is time. Let them be well on their way.”
On the false map, drawn with care, I had located the mythical Village of Flowing Gold twenty pasangs inland.
That seemed a suitable distance for what I had in mind.
Two days ago, Aktis, who served as our lookout and scout, had followed my instructions, making his way to the supposed location of The Village of Flowing Gold, leaving a communication, to be discovered by the raiders.
“What do we do now, Captain?” asked Thurnock.
“We shall dine,” I said.
Chapter Thirteen
We do Business, on a Lonely Beach on Daphna
The fellow’s eyes suddenly widened, and he made to spring up, from the shadow of the beached hull, against which he had been reclining.
“Reach for no weapon,” I warned him, “or you die.”
On the other side of the beached vessel, I heard a cry of alarm.
“Run, run!” cried someone from somewhere.
I heard the quick, heavy impact of an arrow off to my right, presumably into a body, but no cry of pain. I assumed it had been fired by Thurnock, whose aim could seldom be faulted.
As we had reconnoitered, no more than twenty men had been left to guard the ships, so confident of their power and the remoteness of the area were they.
“On your belly,” I told the fellow before me, “arms and legs spread.” I put the point of my sword to the back of his neck. “Move, and die,” I said. I removed the knife from his belt and cast it into the water offshore.
I saw a burst of vulos rising from somewhere, ascending, fluttering, into the air. These small, strong-winged birds are not native to the wilds of the Farther Islands.
Clitus came about the bow of the beached ship. The raiders, so assured of themselves, had not even turned their vessels’ bows to the water, from which position the ship can most quickly be brought into action. Clitus’ trident was dark with blood. “Four resisted, and are dead,” he said.
I heard another cry from somewhere. “Five,” said Clitus.
I looked away from the ship, up the beach toward the rimming brush and scrub. I saw three bodies. Several of the raiders had fled, presumably seeking to follow the route which had been taken by the raiders’ main force, but they had encountered several of my men. We had drawn the net well. Four of the raiders, disarmed, were now being returned disconsolately, apprehensively, down the beach by several men led by Tab, my cohort, of the Council of Captains of Port Kar. Three of the raiders had attempted to swim away from our attack, but had been unsuccessful. Their bodies had now been washed back on shore. Aktis, with his bow, had accounted for two of these. “For Nicosia!” he had cried, as the bodies, penetrated, had rolled lifeless in the water.
I did not think it would be wise to let Aktis handle prisoners. Peasants do their own slaughtering and think little of the spilling of blood. Too, they do not lightly regard insults to, or threats to, their Home Stones.
“Did any of the raiders escape?” I asked Clitus.
“I do not think so,” he said.
“Bring the survivors here,” I said.
“That they be bound and slain, each before the other, until the last is done?”
“We shall see,” I said.
“Be merciful!” pleaded the prostrate raider, prone on the sand, arms and legs outstretched.
“As you were at Nicosia, and other villages?” I asked.
He groaned.
“You were fools,” I said to him, “not to leave more men with the ships, not to mount guards.”
“We fea
red nothing,” he said. “What was there to fear?”
“The Friends of Nicosia,” I said.
“I do not know of such a band,” he said.
“Consider yourself informed,” I said.
“Spare us,” he said. “There are more than five hundred of us, and they will soon return to the ships. Spare us, and flee while you can.”
“This is a desolate area, in which there is little fresh water,” I said.
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Vulos ascended,” I said to Clitus.
“They were released, in a group,” said Clitus. “Do not concern yourself. Our attack was swift, and unexpected. There was no time to affix messages to the birds. Their release was a wild, desperate act, the last act of one of the raiders. My trident, cast, saw to it.”
“I regret only that I could not affix certain messages to the small, swift carriers,” I said.
“When they reach their destination little will be known save that something is terribly amiss,” said Clitus.
“Excellent,” I said.
Clitus then turned away to gather the survivors amongst the raiders.
“What are you going to do with us?” asked my prisoner, prone, stretched, in the sand.
“What I please,” I said. “Perhaps you should be more interested in what you are going to do for us.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
A bit later Clitus returned with six raiders, their hands bound behind their backs.
“Kneel them there,” I said, indicating a place on the sand. I then turned to my prone prisoner. “Join them, on your knees,” I said to my prisoner.
The seven were then before us, knelt.
They were surrounded by several of my men.
“Behold, and know this,” I said I to them, “we are the avengers, the retaliators, the free men of the Farther Islands, the Friends of Nicosia, and other decimated and razed villages. No longer can you burn, loot, and kill with impunity.”
“We will do so no longer,” cried one of the prisoners.
“We are changed,” cried another.
“What mercy should be shown to you?” I asked. “You are the worthless, lying minions of the nefarious Bosk of hated Port Kar, scourge of gleaming Thassa!”