“It is not only the matter of the wands,” he said. “You scout about too much in the camp.”
“Oh?” I said.
“You ask few questions,” he said, “but you look about a great deal. I think there are few who know these premises as well. Pani notice such things.”
“Apparently not only Pani,” I said.
“It is supposed,” he said, “that you are mapping the camp, the training area, the east road, perhaps to convey a sense to others of defenses, armories, supplies, the rounds of guards, and such.”
“I had not thought of such things,” I said.
“Matters to be confided to others, say, at the wands,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“So,” said he, “you understand the concern of my superior.”
“So,” I asked, “why have I not been killed?”
“I think you have some other concern,” he said.
“What could that be?” I asked.
“I do not think, now,” he said, “that your prime motivation was pay, that you came north for gold, or gold alone.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Your behavior suggests,” he said, “that you are searching for something, something which, to your frustration, you have not found.”
“That is an interesting thought,” I said.
“Someone has come north,” he said, “perhaps to escape you, a debtor, perhaps, or perhaps an enemy, or someone who has information you much desire.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“But perhaps he is not here.”
“Perhaps it is a she,” I suggested.
“There are no free women in camp,” he said.
“Some,” I said, “are with the Pani, Pani women.”
He smiled.
“They are sedately clothed,” I said. Their robes were colorful and narrow. They moved with short, delicate steps. “One can scarcely detect their slippers.”
“They have been sold,” he said, “usually as children, rather with papers, deeds, or contracts. They do not contract themselves. They serve who owns their contracts.”
“I see,” I said.
“And contracts may be exchanged, bought and sold, such things.”
“I see,” I said.
“You may think of them as free, or not,” he said.
“I would suppose them not free,” I said.
“And I, as well,” he said. “But they hold themselves a thousand times above our slaves, who are branded and collared, and publicly exhibited as the helpless, lovely animals they are.”
“Too,” I said, “they are clearly Pani.”
“As I said,” he said, “there are no free women in camp. Free women are a nuisance, an inconvenience, a bother. They crave attention, they speak when they wish, they make demands. They stand even in the presence of free men. One cannot just point to the ground and have them on their belly before you, their lips and tongue ministering to your feet.”
“They are not yet mastered,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Perhaps, then,” I said, “I am seeking a slave.”
“Do not trifle with me,” he said. “Do not jest, or be foolish. Slaves are cheap. They are meaningless. They are worthless. They can be bought in a thousand places.”
“True,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said he, “you are seeking a fellow who has information important to you, or others.”
I did not respond.
“Perhaps,” he said, regarding me narrowly, “you are an assassin, seeking your flighted quarry.”
“I am not of the dark caste,” I said.
“For that,” he said, “I suspect your skills would be insufficient.”
“Perhaps yours would not be,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
“It grows late,” I said. The sun was muchly blocked by the trees. The fellows who had handled the two-handled saw had withdrawn. None were now about, save myself and Tyrtaios.
“You may not realize how late,” he said.
He wore his scabbard on the left hip. The draw would be across the body. He was right-handed. I had determined that as long ago as Brundisium. This is particularly important if one is concerned with a short weapon, such as a sleeve dagger, a tunic knife, a hook knife, such things.
“Put aside the ax,” said Tyrtaios.
I laid it by.
“I meant only,” he said, “that it is later than many in Tarncamp realize.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“The season advances,” he said. “Ice will soon form in the Alexandra. Tarncamp will be abandoned.”
“Our work here is finished?” I asked.
“Largely,” he said.
“What then?” I asked.
He looked about himself.
“We are alone,” I said. I had determined that earlier.
“Much is afoot,” he said, “more than I fully understand. You have heard of Priest-Kings, and Kurii?”
“All have heard of Priest-Kings,” I said. “How else would there be a world, a universe?”
“Perhaps,” he said, “Priest-Kings are the children of the world, of the universe.”
“They are gods,” I said.
“And might not gods,” he said, “be the children of the world, or universe, as much as sleen or kaiila?”
“I know little of such things,” I said. “I am not an Initiate.”
“Initiates,” said he, “are frauds and hypocrites, living off the superstition of the lower castes.”
“Beware,” I said, looking about.
“Do you believe in Priest-Kings?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Do you think they concern themselves with us?” he asked.
“Of what interest might we, or urts or sleen, be to such remote and powerful beings?” I asked.
“But you believe in them?” he said.
“Certainly,” I said. “There is the Flame Death. There are well-authenticated cases.”
“Then they occasionally concern themselves with us,” he said.
“It seems so,” I said.
“What are they afraid of?” he asked.
“They are without fear,” I said.
“Why, then,” he asked, “the weapon and technology laws?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“Their enforcement, too,” he said, “appears imperfect.”
“Doubtless they enforce them when, and as, they please,” I said.
“Or, perhaps,” he said, “they do not always detect lapses or violations.”
“They would then have to be, to some extent, finite, and limited,” I said.
“Precisely,” he said.
“You hint at heresy,” I said.
“Or truth,” he said. “Suppose that Priest-Kings, wise and powerful, or cruel and powerful, or arrogant and powerful, or exotic and powerful, were in their way mortal, and vulnerable, and concerned to protect their kind and world.”
“From what?” I asked.
“Others,” he said.
“‘Others’?” I asked.
“Kurii,” he said.
“You said that word before,” I said. “I do not understand the word. What are Kurii?”
“I do not know,” he said, looking about. “But I think they are foes of Priest-Kings.”
“Then they are foolish, indeed,” I said. “Who would be so foolish as to challenge gods?”
“Gods,” he said. “Other gods.”
“Children of the world?” I said.
“I have not seen one,” he said. “But I have heard they are large, and terrible.”
“Then some have seen them,” I said.
“Some, I think,” he said. “But they fear to speak of them. Perhaps they are warned not to do so.”
“I do not think they exist,” I said.
“I found a fellow, in a marsh beside the Cartius,” he said, “bitten at the shoulder, ribs and intestines torn from his body, who cried out the words, ‘Kur, Kur,’ and died.”
“He was delirious,” I said. “A larl commonly attacks in such a way, fastening on the neck or shoulder, and clawing out the belly, and organs.”
“Larls are rare in the locale of the Cartius,” he said.
“But you saw no sign of an unusual beast,” I said.
“No,” he said. “Have you ever seen a Priest-King?”
“No,” I said.
“What do you think they are like?” he asked.
“Like tall, large, and handsome men,” I said. “Unseen like the wind, mighty like the sea, wise as the stars, swift like the flash of lightning.”
“Like men?” he said.
“Surely,” I said. “Did they not create us in their image?”
“How imperfect then must they be,” he mused.
“Lower your voice,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said, “the ost, the sleen, the hith, the panther, the river shark, the larl, was created in their image.”
“Such words might have you impaled,” I said.
“Only where Ubars fear the white caste,” he said.
“Priest-Kings and Kurii,” I said, “have something to do with Tarncamp?”
“I do not know,” he said. “It is conjecture.”
“Much here is mysterious,” I said.
“Consider a kaissa board,” he said. “The pieces do not know they are on the board; they do not know they are pieces; they do not know there is a game; and certainly they do not know who plays the game.”
“No,” I said.
“Suppose now,” he said, “the players are closely matched, and the board is balanced. The game is frozen, arrested, and a draw is unwelcome.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Might not the players,” he asked, “seek to resolve the game, in one way or another?”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Might not even a spearman, least of the pieces, influence the outcome?”
“But the game is balanced, arrested,” I said.
“But might not the players,” he suggested, “free the pieces?”
“That would be to abandon the game,” I said, “to forsake it, to substitute for its beauty, for its stately majesty, a sport of gambling stones, an extraction of ostraka from the urn, a casting of dice.”
“Perhaps,” said he, “it is another way of continuing the game, a darker, more fearful kaissa.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Suppose something were at issue,” he said.
“A world?” I asked.
“Or parts of a world, a division of a world,” he said.
“I understand nothing of this,” I said.
“Suppose something simple was at issue,” he said, “say, a slave. If the game seemed arrested, prolonged, or wearying, might not the issue of her possession be resolved easily, simply, by drawing a card or casting a die?”
“And the slut would go to the winner.”
“Of course,” he said, “just as anything else for which one might gamble.”
“There are many men here,” I said.
“And in Shipcamp,” he said.
“A war is involved?” I asked.
“It seems so,” he said.
“But there is no war here,” I said. “Ar is free, the island ubarates are quiescent, there are, as far as I know, only the usual raids and skirmishes amongst the cities.”
“A war elsewhere,” he suggested.
“You have been to Shipcamp,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“A fort is being built there?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
“What then?” I asked. Enormous amounts of timber, and other stores I did not recognize, many in sealed containers, had traversed the eastern road. Haulage had been taking place for weeks, almost daily.
“Something else,” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“Perhaps a ship,” he said.
“A ship?” I asked.
“A great ship,” he said.
“Not a fort, not a hundred barges,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“The outcome of a war is somehow involved in this?” I asked.
“I think so,” he said.
“And where is this war to be fought?” I asked.
“Not here,” he said.
“Where?” I asked.
“Beyond Cos and Tyros,” he said, “beyond the farther islands, at the World’s End.”
“There is nothing at the World’s End,” I said, “only the currents, the storms, and the great cliff, over which ships will be swept, to plunge forever.”
“Such things are said,” he said, “but you do not believe them.”
I was silent.
“You are apprised, I would suppose, of the Second Knowledge,” he said.
“I do know,” I said, “that ships do not return from beyond the farther islands.”
“Why?” he asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “Thassa guards her secrets.”
“Some,” he said, “are curious to inquire into those secrets which Thassa guards.”
“Who would be so foolish?” I asked.
“Some,” he said. “Have you heard of Tersites, of Port Kar?”
“I have heard of him,” I said. “He disappeared, years ago. He was a shipwright, eccentric and unreliable, driven from Port Kar. It is said he is lame, half-blind, and mad. It is said he is at war with Thassa, and would challenge her.”
“It is his ship,” said Tyrtaios, “and it is being built for, and outfitted for, a voyage to the World’s End.”
“From whence are the Pani?” I asked.
“I think,” said he, “from the World’s End.”
“How came they here?” I asked.
“It is said,” he said, “on the wings of Priest-Kings.”
“Or Kurii?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Let them return similarly,” I said.
“Apparently,” he said, “that is not part of the game.”
“The ship,” I said, “may never reach the World’s End.”
“That, too, I think,” said Tyrtaios, “is part of the game.”
“How am I involved in this?” I asked.
“I think,” said Tyrtaios, “that one player, and perhaps neither, is content to resign himself in these matters to the role of a passive, uninvolved spectator.”
“One or neither then would be content, despite possible asseverations, pledges, and such,” I ventured, “to leave the matter to chance.”
“I think too much is involved,” said Tyrtaios.
“Priest-Kings and Kurii are involved,” I said.
“I think so,” said Tyrtaios.
“I have seen neither,” I said.
“Nor have I,” he said.
“Gods battle with gods,” I said.
“And we,” said he, “small men, have our own projects, and interests, and wars. I am sure that the Pani suspect little of what is going on. They presumably see little beyond their own conflicts, their own foes.”
“What of Lord Okimoto?” I asked.
“I think he suspects more,” said Tyrtaios, “and intends to intertwine his own ambitions and prospects with these larger matters. Surely wars can be exploited for one’s own ends, even a war of gods.”
“And you?” I asked.
“Let each further his own projects as he may,” he said.
“And what is my role here?” I asked.
“A marking of cards, the weighting of a die, the control of ostraka deposited in the urn, such things,” he said.