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.
“I trust,” I said, “you will soon be more explicit.”
“At Shipcamp,” he said.
“It is growing cold,” I said.
“Let us return to the shelters,” he said.
Chapter Fifteen
I shielded my eyes, as I could, from the light of the candle. It was not bright, I suppose, but the contrast with the darkness of the slave house was painful. I half closed my eyes. I could not see who held the candle. I knew he would carry a switch. At the entrance to the slave house, that rude, long, low-ceilinged, wooden building, the visitors are given a small lamp, or a taper, in its holder, and a switch. The offerings, on their mats, are aligned on the two sides of the building, with an aisle between them.
If we are not pleasing, we are switched.
We strive to be pleasing.
“Does the light hurt your eyes, pretty kajira?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered.
“Get on your belly,” he said.
I turned to my belly, with a soft rattle of the chain. I felt it pull against my collar ring. The chain runs to a heavy ring anchored in the floor, on my left, if I were on my back. The mat is thick, and coarse, and the floor is of planking. We are not coddled.
I had seldom been switched.
We hope to please the masters.
The palms of my hands were on the mat, at the sides of my head. I looked to the left, my right cheek on the mat.
I sensed that he was regarding me. We are on some four feet of chain. We are naked.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Laura,” I said, “if it pleases Master.” They may name us, of course, as they please. I had been used under a variety of names. Sometimes, I fear, we stand proxy for another.
“That is a barbarian name,” he said. “Are you a barbarian?”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I tensed. “Please do not whip me, Master,” I begged. Some men seem to feel that barbarian women, some barbarian women, from the world