Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Fourteen



The ax bit the wood.

“Good stroke,” said Tyrtaios. “Many would take three to go that deep.”

“These logs,” I said, “are not being dressed.”

“Sawyers are elsewhere,” said Tyrtaios. “They will see to the shaping and fitting, the beams and planking.”

The heavy hauling was done in sturdy wagons, which left Tarncamp, and moved east by means of a narrow path through the forest. These wagons were drawn by draft tharlarion.

“At Shipcamp,” I said. I had not been there.

“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.

“Some,” I said, “say these are for a fort of wood.”

“In a way,” he said.

“We are far from the sea,” I said.

“Some days,” he said.

I struck the trunk, again. The shock moves through one’s whole body. After a time one’s body aches. One longs for the night. I had not come north for the service of a woodsman. Nor had many others, if any. Why, I wondered, had I come north? Yes, I thought, two golden staters, adventure, and what else was to be done? Surely there could be no other reason. There was much discontent in the camp. The wood of the Tur tree is closely grained. It is much easier to fell Needle Trees. Tharlarion, by means of tackle, would draw the logs to a clearing, where, by arranged hoists and pulleys, by hooks and counterweights, they would be lifted to the wagon beds. When it rained it took double teams of tharlarion to draw the wagons, which were often mired, sunk to the axles. I had occasionally been a member of work parties, put to the east road, to repair it for passage. But they had not let us too far down the road. Perhaps work parties came from another direction, to repair the more eastern stretches of the road. As far as I knew, they were not permitted far enough west to reach Tarncamp.

“I think you know more than you say,” I said.

“One must consider carefully those in whom one confides,” he said.

“True,” I said.

“There is a river,” I said.

“The Alexandra,” he said.

“You are building a fort at its head waters, for trading inland?” I asked. “There is a company? You will then barge furs down river to Thassa?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

Again I struck the trunk.

Some yards away four fellows, two on each handle, were working with a large, two-handled, iron toothed saw. It is a heavy device. One saw the sawdust scatter with each clear motion of the blade. Sometimes the blade would be arrested in the wood.

I glanced at them. Then I said to Tyrtaios. “They cannot hear us,” I said.

“I suppose not,” he said.

“I am sure you have been to the other camp, Shipcamp,” I said. “It is said you have been even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”

“Who said that?” he asked.

“One hears things,” I said.

“One pays one’s respects,” he said.

Lord Okimoto was a lord, or daimyo, of the Pani, whose headquarters were at Shipcamp. At Tarncamp, the lord, or daimyo, was a Lord Nishida. I had seen Lord Nishida about, commonly on tours of inspection. He was usually accompanied by Pani warriors, in their short robes, with the two swords, their hair pulled back and knotted behind the head. In his retinue, as well, were some fellows of the sort who had been recruited in Brundisium. It was by means of some of these that he usually communicated with the common mercenaries. There seemed to be formalities involved here with which I was unfamiliar, and even amongst the Pani themselves. I knew little or nothing of the other daimyo, Lord Okimoto. I had gathered that he had some sort of precedence and that Lord Nishida was expected to defer to him. Tyrtaios, at least, it seemed, had been as far as Shipcamp. Beyond the training area, Pani guards regulated traffic on the east road.

“I do not see why armsmen, or so many, were brought here for this work,” I said. “It is not work for armsmen, and you have far more than would be required to garrison a trade fort and police traffic on a river.”

“It would seem so,” said Tyrtaios.

“A great deal of timber has been moved eastward,” I said, “perhaps more than would be needed for a local trade fort, or the construction of barges.”

“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.

“One does not enlist a small army without purpose,” I said.

“Perhaps there is a purpose,” he said.

“I know of no cities in the vicinity,” I said, “no walls to raze, no palaces to pillage, no gold to seize, no trade routes to command, no women to collar.”

“Perhaps elsewhere,” he said.

“This is a wilderness,” I said.

“That is why we are here,” he said.

“Some venture, some project, is concealed here,” I said.

“Obviously,” he said.

I struck the trunk angrily, fiercely, three more times. Then I turned to face him. “What venture, what project?” I asked.

“I know little more than you,” he said.

“But more,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You stand high,” I said. “It is said you have been admitted even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”

He shrugged.

“You were known in Brundisium,” I said. “You were deeply involved in the recruiting. Seemingly you were feared. You gave me fee.”

“Two golden staters,” he said.

“High wages for a woodsman,” I said.

“I trust,” he said, “the staters will not prove to have been poorly invested.”

“I have received nothing more,” I said.

“Nor have the others,” he said, “as yet.”

“And where is the wealth, the silver, the jewels, the women, the gold?” I asked.

“Not here,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Elsewhere,” he said.

“Stand clear,” I said.

He moved to the side.

“Beware,” I called, to any about.

Four more strokes, and there was a gross splintering, a breakage of wood, and the tree fell crashing to the earth, half obscured by a rising cloud of dust and leaping, shimmering leaves.

“You recruited me,” I said to Tyrtaios.

“I think you may prove useful,” he said.

“How so, more than another?” I asked.

“You have skills,” he said.

“Many could best me in the songs of steel,” I said.

“I do not think so many,” he said. “I could, Tarl Cabot, the commander of the tarn cavalry could, and doubtless several others, but not so many.”

I knew little of the tarn cavalry, though it had been formed, and was still being trained, in the vicinity. It did not seem to me that a large number of tarns would be necessary in patrolling a river, certainly not a cavalry of such.

“Two staters of gold,” I said, “is a high price for one sword.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Therefore,” I said, “more is involved.”

“Of course,” he said.

“This is the first time here,” I said, “that you have seen fit to seek me out.”

“I had not forgotten you,” he said.

“What is my fee intended to purchase?” I asked.

“A quick eye, a swift hand, of course,” he said.

“But more,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“My caste has something to do with these matters,” I said.

“Yours, and perhaps some others,” he said.

“I am a mere Merchant,” I said.

“A Slaver,” he said.

“A Merchant,” I said.

“I suppose,” said he, “it is merely a matter of the goods, of one sort or another, with which one deals.”

“Surely,” I said.

“But,” said he, “I would suppose the acquisition of some goods is more perilous than the acquisition of others, and that some goods are more pleasant, once acquired, to handle, enjoy, manage, process, and sell, than others.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“One supposes,” he said, “one might expect courage from one of such a caste, perhaps a willingness, under certain conditions, to accept risks, perhaps serious risks, if the end in view might justify such an acceptance. One supposes one of such a caste must be able to plan, to follow through with plans, or, if it seemed wise, to depart from a plan, even suddenly, to change or alter plans, even to withdraw, and plan anew, that one such must be not only bold, but subtle and shrewd, that one such must understand the value of deception, of surprise, of patience, of discretion, of secrecy.”

“Perhaps you would care to speak to me,” I said.

“I may be here for such a purpose,” he said.

“So, speak,” I said.

“We expect loyalty,” he said.

“‘We’?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I have taken fee,” I said.

“And is not gold the best guarantor of fidelity?”

“Commonly,” I said.

“And of much else,” he said.

“Often,” I said.

“It is our expectation,” he said, “that you can guard a confidence, and might well discharge tasks to which you might be assigned.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And without demur,” said he, “without requesting, or demanding, reasons.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“A Merchant,” said he, “is one concerned with profit.”

“Commonly,” I said.

“And there may be much profit,” he said.

“Excellent,” I said.

“I trust, of course,” he said, “that you are not a fool, one who harkens to myths and lies.”

“Myths and lies?” I said.

“For example,” he said, “those of honor.”

“It is my hope,” I said, “that I am not a fool.”

“You are familiar with the wands,” he said, “those about the perimeter of the camp.”

“Of course,” I said. “Their purpose was made clear to us, on the beach, and, later, in the camp.”

These were slender wands, a yard or so in height, planted in the soil, with a bit of cloth tied upon them. They occurred every several yards, or so. One was not permitted, without authorization, and accompaniment, to venture beyond the wands. The perimeter was patrolled by larls, usually released at night, which were trained to track, seek out, and fall upon any who might be so foolish or unwary as to have left the camp without authorization or accompaniment. The beasts responded to certain signals associated with food, which signals were changed from time to time. One was reasonably safe if one knew the signals. The beasts were occasionally brought in, even at night, their normal release time, if lanes were to be opened, for one reason or another. To be sure, few knew when the larls were to be released, whether during the day or at night, though, as suggested, the night release was more common, probably because desertions took place most frequently under the cover of darkness. Whereas I had heard them in the forest, on our column’s march to Tarncamp, I had not seen them. In any event, as far as I knew, our column had not been threatened. To be sure, we had kept to a particular trail, one, I had gathered, of several, and had been approaching, not attempting to exit, Tarncamp.

“My superior,” he said, “is troubled by one matter.”

“Who is your superior?” I asked.

“It is not necessary that you know,” he said.

“Lord Okimoto?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps not.”

“You came to speak,” I said.

“My superior,” he said, “has had you watched.”

“And perhaps others are watched, as well?” I said.

“Doubtless,” he said.

“And you amongst them?” I ventured.

“I would suppose so,” he said.

Many are the strands of intrigue, and a tremor in one strand, as in the web of the urt spider, is often registered in several others. Not unoften he who presumes himself a spy, secure in station and privileged in access, reporting upon others, is himself under suspicion. Is it not often the case that the first is concerned with the second, and the second with the third, and the third with the first, and in the center of all this, attending to the strands, rather like the urt spider itself, there is something which observes and waits. But here the web is invisible, and what observes and waits is unseen.

“Should I be flattered,” I asked, “that I might be watched?”

“That you are watched more than others?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. I knew the camp was tense. The men brought here were mostly mercenaries, strong, rough men, many of whom were fugitives from the forces which had garrisoned and exploited Ar. They expected, and were hungry for, the prizes of war. Among them, too, were thieves, brigands, and cutthroats, some of whose names and descriptions adorned the public boards in more than one city. Some of the higher sort had been collaborators in Ar, who had fled the city to avoid impalement. Several had mocked and forsworn Home Stones. Such men were dangerous. They had not come to the wilderness to weary themselves with prolonged, arduous tasks. In almost every case, it had been supposed that the silver stater which had brought them north was the harbinger of others to follow. But none had followed. There was much discontent in the camp. A weapon unsheathed by silver, when the silver is gone, remains unsheathed, and dangerous. Squabbles were frequent, over gambling, and slaves. Some had attacked Pani warriors, and had fared badly. I had heard of several desertions. Perhaps some were successful, but the remains of bodies had been frequently dragged to the camp. The jaws of more than one larl, returning to its housing in the morning, had been stained, dark with matted, dried blood. Some days ago there had been a failed attempt on the life of Lord Nishida, which attempt had been shortly followed by a presumably coordinated, large-scale attack on the camp, one beaten away, on the ground, by Pani and mercenaries, and in the air, by Lord Nishida’s tarn cavalry, commanded by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. I knew him only by reputation. His relationship to the Pani seemed obscure. It was said his sword was quick and his temper short. I supposed him an able officer. It was said some men would risk their life to serve under him. This made little sense to me. He was, of course, a tarnsman. Few men are such. Few dare the tarn, and, of those, many but once. It had become clear, after the attack, that this wilderness was not only a remote, miserable, dangerous venue in which we, far from civilization, were for most practical purposes incarcerated, and, under discipline, were put to manual tasks befitting the lower castes, but was, in addition, somehow involved in a project of such a nature that serious, determined forces were aligned against us, forces willing to destroy us and our work altogether. We not only did not like where we were and what we were doing, but we were at risk, as well, for no reason we understood, from the hostility of apparently numerous, formidable, skilled foes. We were in jeopardy, and knew not why. We knew not even what we were about. Two fellows had attempted to incite mutiny. They had been crucified. I had not fought in the attack on the camp, as I, with several others, in a work party, had been better than four pasangs from the camp, improving the east road, that allegedly leading to “Shipcamp,” presumably named for the barges being constructed there to descend the Alexandra to the coast.

“You have scouted the wands too frequently,” he said. “Perhaps you contemplate desertion.”

“No,” I said.

“Why do you remain?” he asked.

“Where there are two golden staters,” I said, “perhaps there are more.”

“Not for having taken fee, then, not for honor?” he asked.

“I fear there is little honor in this camp,” I said, “little here but the hope of gain, and the fear of the forest, and of death.”

“Things will change,” he said, “before ice closes the Alexandra.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Much begins here,” he said.

“But is not to end here,” I said.

“Why do you frequent the wands?” he asked.

“Perhaps to prevent the escape of others,” I said.

“The Pani will attend to that,” he said, “and the beasts.”

“Might I not be rewarded,” I asked, “if I brought back, say, a fugitive slave?”

“The slaves are not stupid,” he said. “If they were, they would not have been collared.”

“Perhaps one,” I said, “even one of intelligence, might not realize the impossibility of escape.”

“Only a barbarian might be so naive,” he said.

“A barbarian, then,” I said.

“Female, marked, collared, half-naked, clad kajir?” he said.

“A possibility,” I said.

“More likely she would be stolen,” he said.

I supposed that so. There was, in effect, no escape for a female slave. Female slaves, recaptured, are commonly, as a matter of civility, returned to their masters for discipline. Some are doubtless picked up by others, to be sold or subjected to an even harsher slavery, as they were apprehended fugitives. There is, in effect, given the culture, nowhere to escape. It would be much the same with a strayed kaiila. The alternatives are not bondage or freedom, but what collar will be worn. Some slaves are tracked by sleen. This can be very unpleasant, particularly if she cannot reach the waiting cage in time.

“To be sure,” said Tyrtaios, “such a one might manage to pass the wands.”

“True,” I said. And then, one supposes, they would fall to the larls, or forest panthers, or forest sleen. They might even intrude inadvertently into the territory of a shaggy forest bosk, and be trampled or gored. Perhaps some might be apprehended by Panther Girls, and exposed on the coast, bound provocatively to stakes, to be sold to the crews of passing ships. But many, too, I supposed, might perish in the forest, due to the severity of elements, the scarcity of food.

“My superior,” he said, “would not consider seriously that your frequenting of the perimeters might be so generously and eccentrically motivated.”

“I like to be alone,” I said, “away from the camp.”

“Who would you expect to meet at the wands?” he asked.

“No one,” I said.

“If you were another,” he said, “you would have been killed by now.”

“But I have been spared,” I said.

I myself was not fully clear why I spent the time I did, not that it was that much, in the vicinity of the wands. It was good to know the land, and good to be alone, sometimes, and good, sometimes, to have time to think. And surely no one, even a barbarian, would be foolish enough to approach, let alone linger by, the wands. Certainly, in such a place, she would be in great jeopardy. Too, the camp was large, and the perimeter considerable in extent. The chances of encountering a single slave at a given time at a given point would be minimal, at best. But I had searched the camp, insofar as it was practical, and found no trace of a particular, attractive beast, even chained on her mat in one of the slave houses, not that I was interested in her, for she was no more than another course, or serving, of collar meat, though perhaps a rather nice morsel of such. I did frequent the slave houses, from time to time, however, as the mat slaves were often changed, not, of course, to look for her, which would have been absurd, but as a matter of idle curiosity. Who knew what might be found there? Might the offerings not be refreshed occasionally? Too, a slave was not infrequently bought off her chain. And then she would be replaced with another. Who knew what new morsel might be found chained there, illuminated in the light of the candle, lifted in its holder? Perhaps something interesting. Who knew? When I would venture to the slave house I would leave Asperiche behind in the hut, bound hand and foot. Such things are good for a woman, as it reminds them that they are women, that they are the properties of men, and that it will be done with them precisely as men please. In passing, one might mention that the offerings in the slave house were often flavored with former free women of Ar, often once of high caste, importance, power, and wealth. These were frequently fugitives from Ar, traitors, profiteers, collaborators, and such, many escaped from the proscription lists. Many had fallen slave following their flight from the city, females alone and defenseless in the fields, and many had purchased their conduct from the city from escaping mercenaries, at the cost of the collar itself, mercenaries unwilling to be burdened by free women. Accordingly, now, in Tarncamp, many a lowly fellow, who might have never laid eyes on one of these jewels of glorious Ar, who knew her only by reputation, who might have been beaten for lingering in the vicinity of a particular tower in which she resided, who might have been blinded for daring to part the curtains of her closed palanquin, could now find several such women on the end of a chain in the slave house, as naked and accessible as a common paga slut. Too, they learned their collars quickly, not that they were given much choice in the matter. There was soon no difference between them, and other women, at least those in collars. I supposed it was pleasant for some fellows to put such women to use, hitherto so far above them, to have her gasping, moaning, thrashing, and begging, and, as he saw fit to leave, to have her plead with him to linger, if but for a moment. Such women had now learned there was more to life than raiment and jewels; there was also the collar and the touch of a master. Some men, and I muchly disapprove of this, would occasionally bring such a helpless slave to the brink of ecstasy, and then leave, denying her the pathetically beseeched release for which every nerve in her body begged. This, I think, is cruel. Could they not forget the past, and realize that the lovely, aroused, tethered beast at their disposal is now only another slave? And one supposes, as well, that many of these women, escaped from proscription lists, and perhaps wanted in Ar, were grateful for the opportunity to slip unnoticed into the obscurity of bondage, of becoming only another negligible, vendible object. And, of course, as their masters would see to it, they would eventually become, as other slaves, the helpless prisoners of slave fires.

“It is not only the matter of the wands,” he said. “You scout about too much in the camp.”

“Oh?” I said.

“You ask few questions,” he said, “but you look about a great deal. I think there are few who know these premises as well. Pani notice such things.”

“Apparently not only Pani,” I said.

“It is supposed,” he said, “that you are mapping the camp, the training area, the east road, perhaps to convey a sense to others of defenses, armories, supplies, the rounds of guards, and such.”

“I had not thought of such things,” I said.

“Matters to be confided to others, say, at the wands,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“So,” said he, “you understand the concern of my superior.”

“So,” I asked, “why have I not been killed?”

“I think you have some other concern,” he said.

“What could that be?” I asked.

“I do not think, now,” he said, “that your prime motivation was pay, that you came north for gold, or gold alone.”

“Oh?” I said.

“Your behavior suggests,” he said, “that you are searching for something, something which, to your frustration, you have not found.”

“That is an interesting thought,” I said.

“Someone has come north,” he said, “perhaps to escape you, a debtor, perhaps, or perhaps an enemy, or someone who has information you much desire.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“But perhaps he is not here.”

“Perhaps it is a she,” I suggested.

“There are no free women in camp,” he said.

“Some,” I said, “are with the Pani, Pani women.”

He smiled.

“They are sedately clothed,” I said. Their robes were colorful and narrow. They moved with short, delicate steps. “One can scarcely detect their slippers.”

“They have been sold,” he said, “usually as children, rather with papers, deeds, or contracts. They do not contract themselves. They serve who owns their contracts.”

“I see,” I said.

“And contracts may be exchanged, bought and sold, such things.”

“I see,” I said.

“You may think of them as free, or not,” he said.

“I would suppose them not free,” I said.

“And I, as well,” he said. “But they hold themselves a thousand times above our slaves, who are branded and collared, and publicly exhibited as the helpless, lovely animals they are.”

“Too,” I said, “they are clearly Pani.”

“As I said,” he said, “there are no free women in camp. Free women are a nuisance, an inconvenience, a bother. They crave attention, they speak when they wish, they make demands. They stand even in the presence of free men. One cannot just point to the ground and have them on their belly before you, their lips and tongue ministering to your feet.”

“They are not yet mastered,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“Perhaps, then,” I said, “I am seeking a slave.”

“Do not trifle with me,” he said. “Do not jest, or be foolish. Slaves are cheap. They are meaningless. They are worthless. They can be bought in a thousand places.”

“True,” I said.

“Perhaps,” said he, “you are seeking a fellow who has information important to you, or others.”

I did not respond.

“Perhaps,” he said, regarding me narrowly, “you are an assassin, seeking your flighted quarry.”

“I am not of the dark caste,” I said.

“For that,” he said, “I suspect your skills would be insufficient.”

“Perhaps yours would not be,” I said.

“Perhaps not,” he said.

“It grows late,” I said. The sun was muchly blocked by the trees. The fellows who had handled the two-handled saw had withdrawn. None were now about, save myself and Tyrtaios.

“You may not realize how late,” he said.

He wore his scabbard on the left hip. The draw would be across the body. He was right-handed. I had determined that as long ago as Brundisium. This is particularly important if one is concerned with a short weapon, such as a sleeve dagger, a tunic knife, a hook knife, such things.

“Put aside the ax,” said Tyrtaios.

I laid it by.

“I meant only,” he said, “that it is later than many in Tarncamp realize.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“The season advances,” he said. “Ice will soon form in the Alexandra. Tarncamp will be abandoned.”

“Our work here is finished?” I asked.

“Largely,” he said.

“What then?” I asked.

He looked about himself.

“We are alone,” I said. I had determined that earlier.

“Much is afoot,” he said, “more than I fully understand. You have heard of Priest-Kings, and Kurii?”

“All have heard of Priest-Kings,” I said. “How else would there be a world, a universe?”

“Perhaps,” he said, “Priest-Kings are the children of the world, of the universe.”

“They are gods,” I said.

“And might not gods,” he said, “be the children of the world, or universe, as much as sleen or kaiila?”

“I know little of such things,” I said. “I am not an Initiate.”

“Initiates,” said he, “are frauds and hypocrites, living off the superstition of the lower castes.”

“Beware,” I said, looking about.

“Do you believe in Priest-Kings?” he asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Do you think they concern themselves with us?” he asked.

“Of what interest might we, or urts or sleen, be to such remote and powerful beings?” I asked.

“But you believe in them?” he said.

“Certainly,” I said. “There is the Flame Death. There are well-authenticated cases.”

“Then they occasionally concern themselves with us,” he said.

“It seems so,” I said.

“What are they afraid of?” he asked.

“They are without fear,” I said.

“Why, then,” he asked, “the weapon and technology laws?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“Their enforcement, too,” he said, “appears imperfect.”

“Doubtless they enforce them when, and as, they please,” I said.

“Or, perhaps,” he said, “they do not always detect lapses or violations.”

“They would then have to be, to some extent, finite, and limited,” I said.

“Precisely,” he said.

“You hint at heresy,” I said.

“Or truth,” he said. “Suppose that Priest-Kings, wise and powerful, or cruel and powerful, or arrogant and powerful, or exotic and powerful, were in their way mortal, and vulnerable, and concerned to protect their kind and world.”

“From what?” I asked.

“Others,” he said.

“‘Others’?” I asked.

“Kurii,” he said.

“You said that word before,” I said. “I do not understand the word. What are Kurii?”

“I do not know,” he said, looking about. “But I think they are foes of Priest-Kings.”

“Then they are foolish, indeed,” I said. “Who would be so foolish as to challenge gods?”

“Gods,” he said. “Other gods.”

“Children of the world?” I said.

“I have not seen one,” he said. “But I have heard they are large, and terrible.”

“Then some have seen them,” I said.

“Some, I think,” he said. “But they fear to speak of them. Perhaps they are warned not to do so.”

“I do not think they exist,” I said.

“I found a fellow, in a marsh beside the Cartius,” he said, “bitten at the shoulder, ribs and intestines torn from his body, who cried out the words, ‘Kur, Kur,’ and died.”

“He was delirious,” I said. “A larl commonly attacks in such a way, fastening on the neck or shoulder, and clawing out the belly, and organs.”

“Larls are rare in the locale of the Cartius,” he said.

“But you saw no sign of an unusual beast,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Have you ever seen a Priest-King?”

“No,” I said.

“What do you think they are like?” he asked.

“Like tall, large, and handsome men,” I said. “Unseen like the wind, mighty like the sea, wise as the stars, swift like the flash of lightning.”

“Like men?” he said.

“Surely,” I said. “Did they not create us in their image?”

“How imperfect then must they be,” he mused.

“Lower your voice,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said, “the ost, the sleen, the hith, the panther, the river shark, the larl, was created in their image.”

“Such words might have you impaled,” I said.

“Only where Ubars fear the white caste,” he said.

“Priest-Kings and Kurii,” I said, “have something to do with Tarncamp?”

“I do not know,” he said. “It is conjecture.”

“Much here is mysterious,” I said.

“Consider a kaissa board,” he said. “The pieces do not know they are on the board; they do not know they are pieces; they do not know there is a game; and certainly they do not know who plays the game.”

“No,” I said.

“Suppose now,” he said, “the players are closely matched, and the board is balanced. The game is frozen, arrested, and a draw is unwelcome.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Might not the players,” he asked, “seek to resolve the game, in one way or another?”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“Might not even a spearman, least of the pieces, influence the outcome?”

“But the game is balanced, arrested,” I said.

“But might not the players,” he suggested, “free the pieces?”

“That would be to abandon the game,” I said, “to forsake it, to substitute for its beauty, for its stately majesty, a sport of gambling stones, an extraction of ostraka from the urn, a casting of dice.”

“Perhaps,” said he, “it is another way of continuing the game, a darker, more fearful kaissa.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Suppose something were at issue,” he said.

“A world?” I asked.

“Or parts of a world, a division of a world,” he said.

“I understand nothing of this,” I said.

“Suppose something simple was at issue,” he said, “say, a slave. If the game seemed arrested, prolonged, or wearying, might not the issue of her possession be resolved easily, simply, by drawing a card or casting a die?”

“And the slut would go to the winner.”

“Of course,” he said, “just as anything else for which one might gamble.”

“There are many men here,” I said.

“And in Shipcamp,” he said.

“A war is involved?” I asked.

“It seems so,” he said.

“But there is no war here,” I said. “Ar is free, the island ubarates are quiescent, there are, as far as I know, only the usual raids and skirmishes amongst the cities.”

“A war elsewhere,” he suggested.

“You have been to Shipcamp,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“A fort is being built there?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“What then?” I asked. Enormous amounts of timber, and other stores I did not recognize, many in sealed containers, had traversed the eastern road. Haulage had been taking place for weeks, almost daily.

“Something else,” he said.

“What?” I asked.

“Perhaps a ship,” he said.

“A ship?” I asked.

“A great ship,” he said.

“Not a fort, not a hundred barges,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“The outcome of a war is somehow involved in this?” I asked.

“I think so,” he said.

“And where is this war to be fought?” I asked.

“Not here,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.

“Beyond Cos and Tyros,” he said, “beyond the farther islands, at the World’s End.”

“There is nothing at the World’s End,” I said, “only the currents, the storms, and the great cliff, over which ships will be swept, to plunge forever.”

“Such things are said,” he said, “but you do not believe them.”

I was silent.

“You are apprised, I would suppose, of the Second Knowledge,” he said.

“I do know,” I said, “that ships do not return from beyond the farther islands.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said. “Thassa guards her secrets.”

“Some,” he said, “are curious to inquire into those secrets which Thassa guards.”

“Who would be so foolish?” I asked.

“Some,” he said. “Have you heard of Tersites, of Port Kar?”

“I have heard of him,” I said. “He disappeared, years ago. He was a shipwright, eccentric and unreliable, driven from Port Kar. It is said he is lame, half-blind, and mad. It is said he is at war with Thassa, and would challenge her.”

“It is his ship,” said Tyrtaios, “and it is being built for, and outfitted for, a voyage to the World’s End.”

“From whence are the Pani?” I asked.

“I think,” said he, “from the World’s End.”

“How came they here?” I asked.

“It is said,” he said, “on the wings of Priest-Kings.”

“Or Kurii?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Let them return similarly,” I said.

“Apparently,” he said, “that is not part of the game.”

“The ship,” I said, “may never reach the World’s End.”

“That, too, I think,” said Tyrtaios, “is part of the game.”

“How am I involved in this?” I asked.

“I think,” said Tyrtaios, “that one player, and perhaps neither, is content to resign himself in these matters to the role of a passive, uninvolved spectator.”

“One or neither then would be content, despite possible asseverations, pledges, and such,” I ventured, “to leave the matter to chance.”

“I think too much is involved,” said Tyrtaios.

“Priest-Kings and Kurii are involved,” I said.

“I think so,” said Tyrtaios.

“I have seen neither,” I said.

“Nor have I,” he said.

“Gods battle with gods,” I said.

“And we,” said he, “small men, have our own projects, and interests, and wars. I am sure that the Pani suspect little of what is going on. They presumably see little beyond their own conflicts, their own foes.”

“What of Lord Okimoto?” I asked.

“I think he suspects more,” said Tyrtaios, “and intends to intertwine his own ambitions and prospects with these larger matters. Surely wars can be exploited for one’s own ends, even a war of gods.”

“And you?” I asked.

“Let each further his own projects as he may,” he said.

“And what is my role here?” I asked.

“A marking of cards, the weighting of a die, the control of ostraka deposited in the urn, such things,” he said.

“I trust,” I said, “you will soon be more explicit.”

“At Shipcamp,” he said.

“It is growing cold,” I said.

“Let us return to the shelters,” he said.