Mariners of Gor

bustled. I thought that Demetrion would be much pleased. Seldom did a trove of such magnitude, on a single ship, as opposed to a convoy, come to Brundisium. In a couple of places on a platform, there was a harbor praetor, now indoors, in the warehouse, on his curule chair, as opposed to on the docks themselves, their usual station, who might clarify the Merchant Law, interpret it, adjudicate disputes, and make rulings. There were many caste colors in the crowd, but clearly predominating were the yellow and white, or white and gold, familiar to the Merchants. I saw two in the yellow of the Builders, and several in the blue of the Scribes, some assisting Merchants; the guardsmen, as they were on duty, were in red. I saw two Initiates in their snowy white, with their golden pans held out, to receive offerings. Commonly they do nothing for coin received, but, occasionally, they agree to bless the giver, and commend him to Priest-Kings. Among their many services, for a sufficient fee, they assure success in business, politics, and love, which successes are unfailing, it is said, unless they not be in accord with the will of the Priest- Kings. On the docks, also for a sufficient fee, they sometimes sell fair winds and clear skies, which also never fail, it is said, save when not in accord with the will of the Priest-Kings. The Pani, discovering that the Initiates were not marketing their golden pans but expected to receive something for nothing, as it were, or nothing tangible, asked them to step aside, as they were impeding the way of honest tradesmen. Many fellows, of course, do not wear their caste robes about, except when on caste business, and some don them only on formal occasions or holidays. Many free women, for example, and some men, concerned with respect to their appearance, do not care to limit their wardrobes as narrowly as their castes might seem to recommend. Several in the warehouse were in nondescript garb. I did note, however, the brown and black of the Bakers, the black and gray of the Metal Worker, the brown of the Peasants, and several others. I saw nothing which suggested the Physicians, but that, of course, did not rule out the presence in the room of those of the green caste.

“I would like, if possible,” said the captain, “to sail with the morning tide.”

“So soon?” I said.

“It would be my preference,” said the captain.

“I am pleased,” said the stranger, “to have had conveyed to me the greetings of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry.”

“Both wish you well,” said the captain. “Lord Nishida expresses his appreciation for your work at the gate, at the time of the attempted desertion, and both he and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, salute you, in the matter of the ship.”

“The matter of the ship?”

“Surely,” said the captain, “you understand that without your concern, and your initiative, without the actions which you set in motion, in particular having Lord Nishida contact Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, in the mountains, the ship would have perished. As it was, it barely escaped the torches of Lords Temmu and Okimoto. Both Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, were fond of the ship. It served them well. Neither wished to see it destroyed, wise though might have been its destruction to deter desertion, to convince armsmen that flight was impossible, and that they must now reconcile themselves and their fortunes to our cause.”

“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?”