Smugglers of Gor (28 page)

“True,” said another.

“They will kill us then!” cried a girl, and jerked wildly at her chain.

“Men do not kill kajirae,” said Relia, “no more than they would kill pretty birds or kaiila.”

“What then?” asked a girl.

“Is it not obvious?” said Relia.

There were cries of misery, and consternation, in the kennel. We were all familiar with the great ship. We had seen it, often enough. It was looming, awesome, and mysterious. It was unlike other ships. It was almost a floating city. For what had it been built? For what waters had so mighty a keel been laid? What storms had it been framed to withstand? What broad, trackless, landless wildernesses might it hazard? What strange harbors might so monstrous a vessel seek, by what unfamiliar, far ports of call might it be lured?

“No, no!” cried several of the girls.

The rain continued to beat heavily on the roof. The wind began to howl. Thunder sounded again, and again.

We drew our blankets more closely about us.

“You have been to the dock, all of you,” said Relia. “You have seen the loading of cargoes, the great casks, the bags of sa-tarna and suls, crates of bitter tospits, paga and ka-la-na packed in straw, medicines, salves and unguents, endless streams of supplies.”

“And the objects of war,” said another, “timbers, hurling stones, cordage, jars of pitch, finned darts, spears, glaives, javelins, varieties of blades, masses of shields, bucklers, wrappings in which are bound a thousand arrows.”

“But, too,” said Relia, “coffers which might contain pearls, gems, jewelries, golden wire, weighty coins.”

“Vessels of rare metal, black-and red-figured potteries, candles and lamps, perfumes and silks,” said Janina.

“I saw siriks, shackles, slave harnessing,” said a slave, uneasily.

“What,” asked Relia, “do you think the likely object of the projected voyage?”

“War,” said a slave.

“Trade,” averred another. “Consider the cargos, rep-cloth, wool of the hurt, candles, mirrors, lamps, such things.”

“War with whom, trade with whom?” asked Relia.

We were silent.

“What do men prize most,” asked Relia, “after gold, after victory in war, after fine kaiila, and loyal sleen?”

“Beautiful, fearful, obedient, docile slaves,” said another.

“How many of you have been sold?” asked Relia.

“Everyone in the kennel has been sold,” said a slave, “and some of us many times.”

“What are you then?” inquired Relia.

“Slaves,” said a girl.

“Articles of commerce, objects for vending, stock, properties, wares, commodities, goods, merchandise,” said Relia.

“I do not understand,” said a girl.

“Our role in this is clear,” said Relia. “We need not fear being left behind. Dismiss such thoughts. We are cargo, as much as suls or paga, as much as would be nose-ringed kaiila, penned tarsks, or tethered verr.”

“No, no!” cried a slave.

“They will take us with them,” said Relia, “if not for the common purposes of slaves, the services and delights derivable from our ownership, then as goods, objects for sale, for barter, and trade.”

“No!” cried another slave.

“We are cargo,” said Relia, “the one cargo you wish to overlook.”

“I am afraid,” cried a slave.

“We all are,” said Relia.

“I have heard a mariner whisper in terror,” said a slave, “for he fears Tersites, the shipwright, is mad, and would do war against Thassa, would contemplate a journey to where the world is no more, where the seas, like a waterfall a thousand pasangs in width, plunge over the cliff of the world, to fall a thousand pasangs to the rocks of fire, from whence, as boiling steam, they arise until, chilled by the moons, they form clouds and fall again to the earth, as rain.”

“It is true,” whispered a girl.

“It is raining even now,” said a slave, frightened, as the precipitation, turning like a whip in the hand of the wind, struck at the roof and then at the sides of the kennel, one side and then the other, and then, more steadily, fell again upon the roof.

“I do not want to be taken to the World’s End!” cried a girl.

“Then slip your shackle,” said Relia.

There was then another great crash of thunder.

“In the morning, or soon,” said a girl, “when we are loose, let us all run away.”

“There is nowhere to run,” said a slave.

“The masters would be displeased,” said another. “What would be done with us?”

“We cannot escape,” said another. “We are collared. There is no escape for us. We are kajirae!”

“Relia,” I said.

She turned toward me.

“The rains will wipe out scent trails, will they not?”

“For a time, yes, I think so,” said Relia.

“Good,” I said.

“Do not do anything foolish,” said Relia.

“Stay away from the wands,” said Janina.

“Perhaps,” I said. I then rolled myself in the blanket, and lay down.

I listened for a time to the rain, and then fell asleep. I was awakened, from time to time, by bursts of thunder, but, each time, I went back to sleep. In the morning the day’s roster would be posted, and Relia, as was customary, would read it, aloud. I was not the only one in the kennel, incidentally, who was unable to read. It is not that unusual to find individuals, particularly in what are spoken of as the “lower castes,” who cannot, or do not, read. Indeed, some Goreans are too proud to read, even some of the “higher castes.” Many men at arms, for example, pride themselves on their illiteracy, regarding reading as a pursuit more appropriate to merchants and scribes than to those of the “scarlet caste.” Rich men, too, may hire a reader, or one to write letters for them, and such. Some of the lower scribes set up awnings, or set up shop under a trellis, near a market, or in an inn or tavern, or such places, at given times, and make themselves available to read letters, write them, and so on. Many mariners, too, incidentally, do not read, despite the fact that many are of fine mind, and are the masters of much lore and remarkable skills. It is enough, they say, when one can read the currents, the clouds, the winds, the skies, and the stars. The barks to which they trust their lives, the skies, even Thassa herself, they note, do not read.

“Ai!” I cried, “What things are these!”

There were two of them. Almost as one, those two large, shaggy heads had turned, so swiftly that it seemed there had been no turning. They had been intent on the live animal bound on the spit. Then, almost as though there had been no movement, we were regarded.

“No!” said Tyrtaios to me. “Do not!” His hand stayed mine. So the bright serpent of steel remained in its housing, tense. “No,” said Tyrtaios, again.

I had not seen such eyes in beasts. They were large, rounded eyes, and they suddenly flashed like burnished copper, reflecting the firelight.

They were crouched down. The legs seemed short for the body, but the body was long, and the arms were very long. There was something odd about the hands, or paws, but it did not then register with me what it might be.

We had come on two beasts, in the woods. But there was a fire. Surely beasts do not build fires.

But they were beasts.

Why had a fire been built?

A small beast squirmed, bound on a stick, or spit.

Many shadows were about. The clearing was small. Branches and trees were about. The moons were obscured. The beasts, regarding us, were deeply furred, so much so I was not immediately sure of the size or form of the actual body. Too, for an instant, only an instant, it seemed the fur had been erected, frighteningly, and then it subsided.

Tyrtaios removed his hand from mine.

“Had you drawn,” said Tyrtaios, “you would now be dead, and perhaps myself as well.”

“They are only beasts,” I said.

“I first saw such things only days ago,” said Tyrtaios.

“Beasts,” I said.

“Sometimes they are the last things one sees,” said Tyrtaios. “They do not always care to be looked upon by men.”

“Let us circumvent this place,” I said, “for I fear peril here, and continue on, to keep the rendezvous with your friends.”

“These,” said Tyrtaios, “are the friends.”

“Beasts?” I said.

“Look more closely,” said Tyrtaios.

“I see the leather bands which bind them,” I said. The firelight shone on the broad straps.

“They are not bound,” said Tyrtaios. “That is harnessing. Do you not observe accouterments? See, too, the metal rings on the left wrists.”

“Its master has put large, golden rings in the ears of one,” I said.

“It has a lord,” said Tyrtaios, “somewhere, probably not here, but no master.”

“They must be dull of sense,” I said, “for such beasts, for they did not know of our presence until a moment ago.”

“No,” said Tyrtaios, “they were well aware of our presence. Their seeming unawareness, almost somnolence, was to put us at our ease.”

“To lure us in?” I said.

“I think not this time,” he said.

“They turned their heads quickly, only when we were almost upon them,” I said.

“I doubt they could have helped that,” he said. “I think it was reflexive, when a certain critical distance was reached. The beast can only control itself so far. That must be remembered. They can control themselves only so far. They are dangerous, even to friends, and allies. The ears went back against the head, at the same time. Did you notice?”

“No,” I said. It was dark. Much had happened quickly. I wondered if Tyrtaios had really noticed that, about the ears, or had just realized, afterwards, that it had taken place. The ears were lifted now, and turned toward us, like large eyes which could hear sound.

“We did not come on them unawares,” said Tyrtaios. “They can detect the tread of a field urt through grass at a dozen paces.”

“You speak of them as though they were men,” I said.

“They are similar to men, but different, very different.”

“I was startled,” I said. “It was fortunate I did not fall on them with my sword.”

“You would have been unsuccessful,” he said.

“How so?” I said. “They are not armed.” The strike of the double-edged
gladius
would be first to the left, and then, with the backstroke, to the right, both strokes to the throat, both like a whisper, scarcely heard, but deep enough. The blade must not be impeded, no more than necessary. He who uses the
gladius
like a butcher, is not likely to use it long, and perhaps but once.

“The one behind you is,” said Tyrtaios.

I turned about, slowly.

Behind us, a mighty ax grasped in its hands, or paws, was a third beast, larger than the others. I had not heard it behind us. For so large an animal it had moved with great stealth. To be sure, so, too, when hunting, do the sleen and larl. Had it been hunting, and what then might it have been hunting? I then had the sense that it might have been behind us, lost in the shadows, almost invisible, for some time. I would later come to understand, too, that the path toward the fire had been cleared of dried leaves, and twigs. A forester might have noted such things, the lack of sound. I had not. Apparently it had been intended, from the positioning of brush and branches, and forest debris, that we would approach the two beasts by the fire by means of this readied avenue. I suspect Tyrtaios had been aware of this, and had found it acceptable. Perhaps he felt there was no alternative.

I regarded the beast behind me. It was crouched over, grasping the enormous ax. A man would have found it difficult to have lifted, let alone wield, that mighty tool, or weapon. In its grasp it seemed little more than a stick. One blow from that huge, long-handled, broad-bladed, double-bladed device might have felled a small tree. I did not doubt it could cut a man in two. In the beast there was no sign of agitation, but, rather, of attention, of vigilance. What storm of force, I wondered, might be unleashed in such a mighty frame? Surely it was there, beneath that surface. Could lightning, waiting, conceal itself within a pelt, lie in ambush; it might seem so. I had the sense of a crossbow with its bolt loaded, the slight pressure of a finger on the trigger, that of a mountain containing fire, a seething, churning lake of molten stone, easily agitated, which might erupt. I regarded the beast. I could not well sense its mien. I could read no expression, nor intent, on its face, or muzzle; there was no wrinkled snout, no bared fangs. There was no sound, no snarl, no growl. The nostrils were slightly distended. The ears were back, against the side of the head.

“Make no sudden moves,” said Tyrtaios.

I had no intention of doing so.

Tyrtaios lifted his hand to the two beasts by the fire, palm inward. “Tal,” he said.

One of the beasts by the fire lifted a small metal box, which almost disappeared within its grasp. It was then I noted, uneasily, that its large hands had multiply jointed digits, or fingers, which were rather like tentacles. Moreover, there were six of these digits on each hand.

“Can they speak?” I asked.

“Gorean?” he asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“Some,” he said, “after a fashion. Most not.”

“How any?” I asked. “They are beasts.”

“Can you speak their tongue?” he asked.

“They have a tongue?” I said.

A tissue of noises which were far from human, but might rather have been the unintelligible emanations of a beast of prey, of a larl, or sleen, emerged from the throat of the beast who held the tiny box, or that which seemed tiny in its grasp.

Simultaneously the large beast behind us withdrew into the forest, perhaps to watch the path.

The beast with the box pressed a part of its surface, on the side, and, on its upper surface, rotated what seemed to be a tiny dial, rather like that by means of which one might set a chronometer.

From my time on the world Earth, and from the voyages I had made, I was no stranger to a variety of interesting devices seldom found on Gor, devices of communication, and record keeping, and such, devices the nature of which was unknown to most Goreans, even to those who had attained to the Second Knowledge.

The beast with the box regarded Tyrtaios.