“Perhaps there is no meaning,” I said.
“Are you serious?” he asked.
“Perhaps the cards are a diversion, a false trail, a distraction of sorts, something to consume time, while the actual messages are conveyed in some other way, as by the kaissa concealments.”
“That seems unlikely,” he said, “for, as far as we know, the conspirators feel themselves unidentified and secure at present. Into whose hands would they wish such a thing to fall, and for what purpose, at present?”
“Perhaps into your hands,” I said, “and that of your principal.”
“If we were suspected,” he said, “I do not think we would find ourselves at liberty.”
“Perhaps,” I said, “it is not that the cards are meaningful, but that they are not yet meaningful, that they might become meaningful.”
“They must now be meaningful,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because we have the list,” he said, tapping that small sheet of paper on the table.
“I thought poorly,” I said.
“No, no,” he said. “Any thought is welcome.”
“Why am I here?” I asked.
“You served in a house of chance,” he said. “I thought you might be helpful.”
“The door is bolted,” I said. “Was there no other reason?”
“No,” he said.
I put my cheek on his knee. “I am uncomfortable,” I said. “My body whispers to me.”
“Do not tell me that the little barbarian’s slave fires have begun to burn,” he said.
“Men have done things to me,” I said.
“The cards,” he said, “the deck, the order. Think, think!”
“My presence here has been unavailing,” I said.
“Tell me about the tables, the play, everything,” he said.
“I know nothing,” I sobbed. “They invite men to the tables, some seek them by themselves, games are suggested, drinks are brought, decks are produced, and opened, men divide the decks, disarrange the cards, distribute them to the players in certain fashions, depending on the game. Other cards may be drawn, such things.”
“Of course!” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“That is it!” he said. “You have it!
“What?” I asked.
“It is so simple, so deceptively simple!”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“We were looking for the wrong things in the wrong places!” he said. “We were too sophisticated, too devious, too clever, too stupid! It was there before us, all the time!”
“What?” I asked.
“The list is the preparation for a message, not the message,” he said. “You were right. It is not that the cards are meaningful, but that they might become meaningful, and easily so.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Remind me to give you a sweet,” he said.
“For what?” I asked.
“You have solved our problem,” he said.
“How?” I asked.
“‘How’?” he asked.
“Yes, how?” I asked.
“I thought you were intelligent, Allison,” he said.
“It seems not, Master,” I said.
“Nonetheless,” he said, “you remain of slave interest.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
He rose and went to the door, unbolted it, and held it open.
“Return to the slave quarters,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I paused in the threshold. “Master finds Allison of slave interest?” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Allison is pleased,” I said.
“And run!” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, hurrying through the portal. If one runs quickly enough, it is unlikely that one will be caught, and one’s thigh marked. It is easy to mark a thigh, of course, when one is in a camisk. Sometimes one’s leg is held. The writing is then boldly visible, for all to see. In this way it is clear to everyone that the girl has been reserved for that evening, and also clear who has reserved her.
Chapter Thirty-Six
“You know the master named Desmond, do you not?” asked Nora. She sounded frightened.
“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “I was even in his keeping, on the journey to the Crag of Kleinias.”
Nora clutched a small package in her hands. “I have been instructed by him to deliver this to Master Kleomenes,” she said.
“That is understandable enough,” I said, “as you are frequently called to the slave ring of Master Kleomenes.”
“This Desmond of Harfax,” she said, “knows you. Why would he not have you deliver it to Master Kleomenes?”
“I do not know,” I said, though I could easily speculate as to a possible motivation.
“It is clear the matter is sensitive,” said Nora. “If you were to deliver it, it might be noted. Curiosity might be aroused.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I am afraid,” she said.
“I would not disobey a master,” I said.
“I do not want my tongue slit, or removed,” she said.
“No,” I said. I recalled such threats were made once to her by Desmond of Harfax. Since then she had lived in fear of him. It pleased me, somehow, that Nora, so proud, severe, and magisterial with us, so imperious and exacting a first girl, was no more than a cringing slave before Desmond of Harfax. I recalled her in the small slave cage into which he had forced her, kneeling, naked, clutching the bars, looking up at him in fear.
“What is in the package?” she asked.
“It is loosely wrapped,” I said. “There seems no secret about it. Why not look, and see?”
We turned back the wrapper.
“It is a deck of cards,” she said.
“You see,” I said, “there is nothing to worry about.”
She almost fainted with relief.
“May I see it?” I asked.
I took the deck of cards in my hand, and moved the cards about a little. I detected no slips of paper hidden amongst the cards, nor anything on the cards that was foreign to the expected designs and markings. As far as I could tell, it was a normal deck of cards. Perhaps, I thought, there is nothing more here than what appears to be here. Might this not be innocent? Perhaps Kleomenes had expressed an interest in play, which interest had come to the attention of Desmond of Harfax, who had somehow located and supplied a suitable means for exploring this interest? Certainly they knew one another from the time of the caravan. Kleomenes had been twice at a camp of
