“If they are in the forest, if beyond the wands,” I said, “they must fear the larls.”
“Perhaps,” he said, “it is the larls which might fear them.”
“They have access to a forbidden weapon,” I conjectured.
“I do not think so,” said Tyrtaios.
“Then?” I said.
But Tyrtaios did not respond.
Most Goreans, I was sure, certainly those of the First Knowledge, knew little of forbidden weapons. There were rumors, whispers, stories, of course, of lightning sticks, tubes of fire, bows which cast quarrels so swift and small one could not even see them in flight, of metal rocks which burst apart like ripe pods in the Schendi death plant, and such.
“I have not seen these boxes,” I said.
“They are large, and heavy, but manageable,” he said. “As before, we will fashion a platform athwart two linked longboats. I anticipate no difficulty. Meet us here at the eighteenth Ahn. This should give us the time to cross the river, fetch the cargo, fasten it on the platform, come back, free it, and get it aboard.”
“All by the twentieth Ahn,” I said.
“Earlier, if possible,” he said.
“The shore side of the dock will be clear,” I said.
“It will be seen to,” he said.
“What of passers-by?” I asked.
“It will be seen to,” he said, “by the knife.”
“The wind is rising,” I said. “I think the mariners are right. There is to be a storm.”
“Wear a cloak,” he said, “a dark cloak.”
Chapter Twenty
I tried to slip the shackle from my ankle. It was held with perfection, of course, as was doubtless the intention of the masters, the brutes and beasts who owned us.
“What are you doing?” inquired Janina, turning toward me, with a rustle of her own chain. It was muchly dark in the log kennel. The kennel was low-ceilinged, windowless, and some twenty paces, master’s paces, in length. There was a small hanging lamp at each end. We are stripped in the kennel, but we have our blankets. My shackle, with its short chain, was attached to the long chain, which was fastened at each end of the kennel. “Nothing,” I said, angrily.
“You will scrape your ankle doing that,” she said.
“The masters will not be pleased if you mark yourself,” said Relia, across the kennel, on the other long chain. “They like us smooth, to their touch.”
“Do they!” I said, angrily.
But I could remember, only recently, how concerned I had been, that I would be smooth to the touch of masters. Slaves are concerned with such things. They hope to be desirable, and pleasing. After all, they are slaves.
“In the last few days,” said Relia, “you have been so different, so surly, petulant, and unhappy. What is wrong?”
“Nothing,” I said.
“It was after she returned from the dock,” said Relia, to Janina.
“What happened?” asked Janina.
“Go to sleep,” said another slave, turning in her blanket.
I wept. “You cannot slip your shackle,” said Relia.
“She knows that,” said Janina. “It is symbolic, if anything, something to do, frustration.”
“She could still mark herself,” said Relia.
“She is a barbarian,” said another.
“Sleep,” said the slave, who had turned away from us.
“Day after day,” I said, “carrying water, back and forth, doing errands, running, fetching, cooking, serving, the kitchens, the shops, the ironing, the laundering, the sewing of rent tunics!”
“What do you expect?” asked a slave.
“She is a barbarian,” said another.
“But a pretty barbarian,” said another.
“They are all pretty,” said another, “else they would not be brought here.”
“Some are beautiful,” said another.
“Not as beautiful as we,” said another.
“No,” said another.
“You are not in a rich man’s house, a pleasure garden, the palace of a Ubar,” said Relia, “with little to do but sing and play the kalika.”
“More likely,” said another, “with little to do until it was time to adorn your master’s slave ring.”
“I do not know how to sing and play the kalika,” I said.
“She cannot even dance,” said another slave.
“All slaves can dance,” said another.
“How is that?” asked another.
“They are women,” said another.
“Some are better than others,” said a slave.
“Of course,” said another.
“If she were more intelligent,” said another, “she might be educated, to be a more interesting chattel.”
“I am educated,” I said.
“How many breeds of kaiila are there?” asked a slave.
“I do not know,” I said.
“When do talenders bloom?” asked another.
“I do not know,” I said.
“How many eggs does the Vosk gull lay?”
“I do not know,” I said.
“Children know such things,” said a slave.
“Surely she has more serious opinions,” said another, “as to the ranking of the nine classic poets, the values of