“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming to a kajira.”
“So I have been told,” she said.
“And now you have been told again,” I said.
“Asperiche understands,” she said. “She is not stupid. She is not a barbarian.”
“We do not bring stupid slaves to Gor,” I said.
“Naive slaves then, ignorant slaves,” she said. “Barbarian kajirae do not even know they are women.”
“They soon learn,” I said.
“They are all frigid,” she said.
“Not all,” I said.
“Some,” she said.
“The collar takes that out of them,” I said.
“Slaves talk,” she said. “There are only so many barbarians. Lot numbers take time to wear off. Masters are not the only ones with memories. Would you like me to find her for you, bind her hands behind her, and switch-herd her to your feet?”
“Certainly not,” I said.
“You do not want her kneeling, bound before you?”
“No,” I said.
“What is special about her?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said. “Where are you going?”
“To fetch food,” she said. “The kitchen is open now.”
Chapter Nineteen
“I have not seen you so,” I said to Tyrtaios.
“I have been contacted,” said Tyrtaios.
“Friends?” I asked.
“One might say so,” he said.
“In the camp?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Across the river?” I asked.
He looked at me, suddenly, narrowly. “What do you know of what lies across the river?” he asked.
“Very little,” I said. “I do know there is a palisaded compound there, which presumably houses special supplies, and perhaps prize slaves, too precious to be risked amongst the men of Shipcamp.”
“You have access to a glass of the Builders,” he said.
“No,” I said. “I have heard such.”
“I see,” he said. His hand fell then to his side. No longer did it rest, half opened, poised like a crouching sleen at the hilt of his belt knife.
“Whatever your business,” I said, “I think it must soon be brought to a conclusion, for the great ship is muchly fitted.” The single great rudder had been hung yesterday. “I suspect the eyes will be soon painted.”
“I think not,” he said. “Tersites has forbidden it.”
“Men may fear to sail,” I said, “if the ship cannot see.”
“Those who do not embark,” he said, “will be left behind, or slain.”
“Why would Tersites not permit the ship to see?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps he is afraid to let it see, for what it might see.”
“You intend to embark?” I said.
“Yes,” he said. “Much is at stake.”
“Perhaps a world,” I said, “or its division.”
“You need do only what you are told,” he said.
“And what am I to be told?” I asked.
“There is a cargo,” he said, “two large crates, heavy, with mysterious contents, now across the river, for safekeeping, which are to be secretly embarked.”
“Games are afoot,” I said, “in which the dice are to be judiciously weighted.”
“The cargo was conveyed across the river, weeks ago,” he said. “It must now be brought back, to the wharf, to be stowed aboard the great vessel.”
“There are guards,” I said.
“I have selected them,” he said.
I wondered how it was that Tyrtaios would have had the authority to make such selections.
“Tonight,” he said, “clouds are likely to conceal the moons. Boats come and go. I think there will be little difficulty in placing the cargo aboard.”
“And if there is?” I asked.
“Then men will die,” he said.
“What of the Pani?” I asked.
“They have their own concerns, their own projects, their own wars,” he said.
“Still,” I said.
“One high amongst them is involved in this,” he said.
“I see,” I said. I had supposed so.
“A place has been prepared for the cargo,” he said. “It will be stowed, netted, and lashed down amongst objects of a similar appearance. An innocent labeling will identify it on the manifests.”
“The manifests are already prepared?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“This business is to be transacted tonight,” I said.
“Conditions permitting,” he said. “Clouds, the moons obscured, darkness, an empty dock, the absence of random patrols.”
“Mariners speak of a storm tonight,” I said.
“So much the better,” he said.
“If all is so innocent, or seemingly so,” I said, “why not manage the business in the day?”
“Too many are about,” he said. “Smiths, carpenters, sail makers, sawyers, docksmen, mariners, wagoners, armsmen, even slaves. Even one who might be curious, or suspicious, or ask a question, is far too many.”
“Who are your friends?” I asked.
“Friends?” he asked.
“Those by whom you have been contacted,” I said.
“They are in the forest,” he said.
“Not across the river, with the boxes?”
“They fear to be near them,” he said.
“Surely they are innocent enough, mere crates, mere boxes,” I said.