As the morning grew older, the vessel was made ready and prepared to shove off. By this time the docks of Mentor were ablaze with the color and movement for which the “jeweled city” was so famous. Vendors and tradesmen, beggars and kings all walked shoulder to shoulder in the avenues and quays which led to the gangways of ships. Banners thwacked in the sea breeze marking the locations of special booths and stalls; the heralds and colors of myriad royal houses competed with one another for attention and homage. The smells of roasted meats, baked nuts, and pastries rose up and commingled with the dockside smells of freshly netted fish, now cooking in iron brazier pots.
Out of the choreographed confusion, which was the docks of Mentor, came a hunched figure, oddly clothed in the silky brown robes of a monk, complete with hood and roped cincture about the waist. Varian noticed him mainly for his lack of color in an otherwise artist’s palette of motion and sound. His assignment done, Varian leaned on the starboard gunwale, watching the hooded person move uneasily through the crowd. Occasionally the figure’s face would turn into the sun, and Varian could see that it was an old man, bearded and gray, looking into the crowd’s midst, as if looking for someone he knew would not be there.
There was something odd, out of place, about the old man, which Varian could not define. That Varian could single him out, a stoop-shouldered beggar, in a molten, viscous throng of color and excitement, was in itself strange. But it was more than that. There was a slowness, a deliberation, with which the man walked among the vendors’ stalls and gangways. It was a gait which hinted at great age, older than a man should ever fear to be, as if the man carried the weight of centuries upon those old curved shoulders. And there was a cast to his eyes which also spoke to the ages, as if many generations had unfolded like parchment scrolls before those lonely, almost desperate eyes.
Suddenly, something happened which changed the rhythm of Varian’s pulse, caused him to catch his breath. The crowd surged and eddied past the gangways, the old man an insignificant element moving with the flow; but in an instant, his eyes flicked upward to The Courtesan and locked in on the gaze of Varian.
It was as though the old man knew the sailor had been staring, watching him.
Once the connection was established, it seemed that neither man could break it. Varian thought he perceived a slight nod of the hooded figure’s head, then he cut diagonally across the current of the throng, moving deliberately toward the gangway of The Courtesan.
What have I done? thought Varian. Grabbed the attention of an old beggar, now to be personally harassed by him? It was an indignity, an affront to his station and rank. He could not allow his fellow sailors to see such a thing happen to him.
Turning, Varian looked anxiously across the deck, hoping that no one had yet noticed.
“You will listen to me,” said a voice.
Varian tensed as a hand touched his shoulder. He whirled defensively, shocked to see the old man beside him.
“How—?”
“I am not as helpless as I appear.” Close up, the hooded figure’s face appeared to be ageless—not young, not old—simply a man. The eyes were a cold blue, but they reflected wisdom and not a small amount of pain.
“What do you want with me?” Varian took a step backward, unconsciously watching to see if the man made a move toward a possibly concealed weapon.
“I want only to talk to you. That is my . . . my fate. To talk to people.”
“Your fate? What’re you talking about? What do you want with me?” Varian did not trust the man.
“My name is Kartaphilos. Have you heard of me?” The name meant nothing to Varian. He shook his head.
The man laughed softly, nodding. “Always the same. No one recognizes the name. But no matter. I’ve a story to tell.”
“Listen, old man, that may be true, but I’ve a job to do and you’re keeping me from it. I would not be a merchant sailor if I had time to sit around and listen to every old gaffer’s story. So—”
A hand had grabbed Varian’s arm, just below the biceps. It was a young, strong hand. Varian could feel the power and the pressure on his arm, could feel the reserve strength which felt as if it could crush his arm to the bone. “But you will listen to me, Varian Hamer.” The old man’s eyes almost glowed.
“How do you know me?”
“I know all the men to whom I choose to tell my story. I’m no crazy beggar! I’ve watched you. You are a resourceful man, a respected man. Your name is spoken with deference in the bars and taverns around Mentor docks. You were one of the only survivors off The Dragonfly. She went down in less than a minute. You know you were one of the special ones.”
An appeal to Varian’s ego was never a detriment. “That may be so,” he said. “So what do you have to tell me?”
Kartaphilos smiled. “I thought you would understand flattery. It’s a universal language, I am told.”
“You’re funny, but not that funny. Don’t try my patience, old man.” Varian tried to sound harsh, but knew he was not fooling Kartaphilos. The old man had an ineluctable charm about him.
“Very well, Hamer. I will tell you something that I know will pique your curiosity. I know that you are interested in the World, and especially its many mysteries. You are not
