John Norman - Mariners of Gor

“But why would they have had the ship destroyed?” I asked. “Why were they not willing to merely send it away? Let it depart. Escaped, it can berth no deserters.”

“Finality, assurance, definitude, putting an end to things, the assertion of authority, the clarification of command,” said the captain.

“Still,” I protested.

“What if it should return?” said the captain.

“I see,” I said.

“As long as it existed somewhere,” said the captain, “might there not be hope of its return? Might the men not be uncertain, might they not wait, might they not keep watch, might they not be divided, might they not be unwilling to commit themselves wholeheartedly to the war?”

“I understand,” I said.

“And, if it returned,” said the stranger, “would it not again face the torches of the castle?”

“Of course,” said the captain.

That seemed obvious.

“A ship destroyed,” said the captain, “is a ship no longer to be feared.”

“True,” said the stranger.

“There would be the danger, as well,” said the captain, “that the ship might fall prize to the fleet of Lord Yamada.”

“Yes,” said the stranger. “That would be a danger.”

“I trust you now understand the motivation for its destruction, the rationality of doing away with it.”

“Of course,” said the stranger. “That is clear.”

“Very clear,” said the captain.

“What would you have done?” asked the stranger.

“I?”

“Yes.”

“I would have saved the ship, of course,” he said.

“I see,” said the stranger.

“One is of the ship,” said the captain.

“Yes,” said the stranger. “One is of the ship.”

“Friends,” I said. “I see one in the robes of the Merchants, but muchly hooded, who has entered, who looks about, but who does not seem concerned with the tables.”

“I have seen him,” said the stranger.

“You have just now noticed him?” inquired the captain of me.

“A bit ago,” I said. “I have watched him.”

“We have been waiting for him,” said Captain Nakamura.

“We put out word in the city,” said the stranger, “here and there, that Callias, of Cos, would frequent these premises sometime today.”

“This is the reason we have been summoned from my quarters?” I asked.

“Yes,” said the captain. “Forgive the precipitancy, but we have waited four days now, in our attempt to locate Cineas, and protect Callias, and time is short.”

“I am pleased,” said the stranger. “I would have it done with.”

“It is a ruse to draw Cineas forth?” I said.

“Assuming,” said the captain, “that he is still intent upon his dark mission.”

“If that is he,” I said, “it seems he is so intent.”

Captain Nakamura drew his longer blade from his sash. His feet were slightly spread; two hands were on the hilt of the weapon.

“No, my friend,” said the stranger. “I shall greet him.”

As I watched, uneasily, the stranger began to thread his way amongst the tables. He had scarcely moved, when the hooded figure, he in the robes of the Merchants, saw him, and stiffened, reacting as might a hunter, catching sight of a sleen in the shrubbery, a larl amongst rocks of the Voltai, not yet expected, yards away, just noticed. The stranger had removed his sheath and belt from across his body, and held these in his left hand. The sword, the gladius , given to him on the River Dragon , was in his right hand. I trembled, for I had seen that simplicity, that ease of grip before, neither clenched nor tight, neither loose nor careless, in a guardsman’s blade, moving toward a fellow backed against a wall. No words had been exchanged, nor needed there have been. The stranger’s blade was like an extension of his arm, seemingly as natural, and as thoughtless, as uncalculating, as the now-exposed claws on the paw of a stalking larl. The buyers and sellers, and lookers-on, the dealers, the idlers, the porters, the curious, the men in the warehouse, I think, noticed nothing of what was passing amongst them, no more than trees, or rushes bending in the wind, might have noticed the passage amongst them of some silent, patient, sinuous, stealthy form, almost invisible, certainly unnoticed, intent on its own business, which had nothing to do with theirs.

“I take it that is Cineas,” said Captain Nakamura.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Do you not think he would have been wiser to move differently amongst the tables, to feign interest, here and there, approaching ever more closely?”

“I would suppose so,” I said.

“Too,” said the captain, “I suspect he would have done well to hood himself less closely. It would have been simpler merely to keep his face averted.”

“Until he would strike?”

“Certainly.”

“Were I he,” I said, “I would have fled the city.”

“That he has not done so,” said Captain Nakamura, “is significant.”

“How so?” I asked.

“He knows he could not reach the gate,” said the captain.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Note two who have entered,” said Captain Nakamura, “just within the door, in shabby garb, each with his forehead obscured, by the talmit.”

Such bands are usually signs of authority, worn by foremen, leaders of work gangs, first slaves, and such, though they may serve, too, simply to keep hair back, in place, away from the eyes, protect the eyes from the running of sweat, and so on. They might, too, of course, serve to conceal any mark or sign which might be placed on the forehead. It would be rare, given the common meaning of the talmit, that of authority, to see two together, both in the talmit. To be sure, ranks can be signified by color, markings, and such.

The stranger paused some four paces from the figure in the white and gold.

The figure then threw back the hood.

“Tal, Cineas,” said the stranger. “You may withdraw. I shall not follow you. Let all be forgotten. Seek a gate. We have been of the ship.”

Cineas discarded the white and gold he had donned.

Seeing this, men suddenly began to withdraw from the vicinity. The trees, the rushes, so to speak, had suddenly become aware of what might be amongst them.

The blade which had been concealed beneath the robes of white and gold was now in evidence.

“Let all be forgotten,” said the stranger. “Go, leave the warehouse, leave the city. Seek a gate.”

“Noble Callias,” smiled Cineas, “there is no time to reach a gate.”

Cineas then lifted his sword to the stranger, in a salute, which salute was returned by the stranger.

Men backed further away.

I saw the two fellows, in the talmits, approaching.

Cineas, then, with a wild cry, rushed toward the stranger.

What happened then happened very quickly. Whereas I had gathered from the tale of the stranger that he did not much credit his skills with the blade, I now realized that they were far from indifferent. In that quick moment I understood how it was that he had held the rank of First Spear, and had been assigned duties, long ago, in the Central Cylinder of Ar itself.

He stepped away from the body.

The two fellows in shabby garments had now approached, the talmits no longer bound about their foreheads. I saw on each forehead the simple mark, the sign of the black dagger. One of them rolled the body over, and then looked to the stranger.

“You have killed him,” said the man, straightening up.

The stranger shrugged.

“Therefore,” said the man, “the killing is yours.”

Each of the men then, from their purse, removed a silver tarsk, and placed it in the hand of the stranger.

“I want no money for his blood,” said the stranger. “I would rather he had found the gate, and fled the city.”