“I am pleased,” said Tajima. “So, too, I am sure, will be Lord Nishida.”
“I must speak to him soon,” I said, “for there is much to be done.”
“What of the riders?” asked Tajima.
“We do not know, now, who will be the riders,” I said, “who will survive the training.”
“True,” said Tajima. “And I fear the larls will have much hunting to do.”
“When the riders are well asaddle,” I said, “I will speak to them, but not before.”
“So it will be,” said Tajima.
I was then prepared to leave the plaza, but, in turning about, I saw a sight which, to me, if not to Tajima, and his people, seemed exceedingly odd.
“What is going on there?” I asked.
“One is preparing to recover his honor,” said Tajima.
On a small platform, in a white kimono, one of Tajima’s people, which I will now refer to as the Pani, as that is their word for themselves, knelt. His head was bowed, and before him, on the platform, was a curved wooden sheath, which contained, doubtless, a knife. Near the fellow, also clad in a rather formal kimono, white, stood a fellow with an unsheathed sword, of the longer sort.
“Do not intrude,” said Tajima.
“What is the fellow with the sword doing?” I asked.
“It is sometimes difficult to perform the act,” said Tajima. “If it cannot be well completed the swordsman will assist. There is no loss of honor in that.”
“Stop!” I called.
“Do not interfere!” cried Tajima, whose suave placidity was for once not at his disposal.
I thrust Tajima back and strode to the figure on the platform, who had now loosened his robe and drawn forth a small dagger from the sheath.
The man with the sword stood to one side, two hands on the hilt of the weapon. He regarded me. He did not seem resentful, outraged, or such. Rather, he seemed puzzled. He had not expected this intrusion, nor had the fellow on the platform.
The fellow on the platform gripped the knife. I thought blood had drained from his hand. He looked up, not fully comprehending this disruption. He had already, I understood, given himself to the knife, and all that remained now was to finish the deed.
“Allow him dignity!” begged Tajima.
“I will not allow this,” I said.
“Who are you to stop it?” asked Tajima, once again in command of his emotions. The Pani are an extremely emotional, passionate race, as I would learn, and the calmness of their exterior demeanor, their frequently seeming impassibility, even seeming apathy, was less of a disposition than an achievement.
Civility is not an adornment, but a necessity. Is the beast not always at one’s elbow? Behind the facade of a painted screen a larl may lurk. Every chain can snap, every rope break. Savagery lies close to the precincts of civilization. The borderland between them is narrow and easily traversed. Courtesy, or politeness, you see, must not always be understood as a lack, a debility, or insufficiency. One must not recklessly part curtains. Behind them might be found things you would just as soon not see. He who writes poetry and sips tea, and waits expectantly for a flower to blossom, may, in a frenzy, on the field of battle, take head after head.
In any event, it is unwise to take mountains for granted. They may conceal volcanoes.
“I am commander, I am captain,” I told Tajima.
“This man is a coward,” said Tajima.
“No,” I said, “he is not.”
It seemed to me that the act he contemplated was sufficient evidence of that.
“He fled from a tarn,” said Tajima.
“He will not do so again,” I said.
“Do not interfere,” said Tajima. “You can make no difference. He will simply complete the act later, when you are not present.”
“No, he will not,” I said.
“Why not?” asked Tajima, genuinely interested.
“Because I forbid it,” I said. “I will have no more of this amongst men who will dare the tarn.”
“It is our way,” said Tajima.
“Who is captain?” I asked.
“You, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima.
“It is not my way,” I said.
“You are captain,” said Tajima, quietly.
“I will not lose men in this fashion,” I said.
“It is better to lose such men,” said Tajima.
“If you want to die,” I said to the kneeling figure on the platform, “do so under the talons of the tarn.”
“It is wrong for you to interfere in this, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima. “One must recover honor.”
“One recovers honor in life,” I said, “not in death. If he lives, he may begin again, and gain honor.”
“That is not our way,” said Tajima.
“But it is a way,” I said.
“Doubtless,” said Tajima.
“And it is my way,” I said.
“Yes,” said Tajima. “It is your way.”
“And I am captain,” I said.
“Yes,” said Tajima. “You are captain.”
“Return to your training,” I told the fellow kneeling on the platform. “You are late.”
“Yes, Captain San,” he said.
Stumbling, shaken, he made his way toward the barracks.
“I will see that your views on this matter are conveyed to all,” said Tajima.
I then bowed to the fellow with the sword. “Thank you for your attendance,” I said to him, “but your honorable assistance is no longer required.”
He returned my bow, sheathed the sword, and left.
“This pertains only to your command, you understand,” said Tajima.
“At least now,” I said, “you have something interesting to report to Lord Nishida.”
“That is true,” smiled Tajima.
Chapter Thirteen
I SEEK INFORMATION IN THE SLAVE HOUSE
It was night.
I entered the slave house and received a lighted taper and a switch.
Others, similarly accoutered, were in the slave house, as well, perhaps seven or eight. The house was more than a hundred feet long, and built of thick logs, with a roof of branches and thatch. The structure was some twenty feet in width, and windowless. Its ceiling was some eight feet from the flooring. On each side there were aligned some twenty-five to thirty mats. These mats were some three to four inches in thickness, and something like a yard wide. They were sewn of heavy, striped canvas, and stuffed with straw. When I had entered I heard tiny sounds in the darkness, whimperings, small noises of fear, here and there the movement of a body on the straw-filled mat, the rustle of a chain.
I was interested in a particular slave.
I moved slowly down the aisle, lifting the taper first to the left, and then the right.
Each slave was chained by the neck, to a ring anchored in the floor, to the left of her mat, as she would look toward the aisle. Each had some four feet of chain.
As I lifted the taper one slave, kneeling, head down, crouched down, and tried to cover herself.
Surely she knew that was not permitted.
I did not strike her.
Another lay on her side and drew up her legs, and, bent at the waist, held her arms, too, tightly, frightened, about her.
That, too, was not permitted.
Nor did I strike her.
Both were dismayed, and terrified. I gathered they had not been long on the mats.
Torgus, the mercenary leader whom I had met on the beach earlier, had rented some of these, former high women of Ar, to the house.
I had ascertained those he had sold, either to the loggers, or craftsmen, or suppliers, or trainers, and such, or to the Pani themselves, and she whom I sought was not amongst those.
Accordingly I sought her here.
Several of the mats were empty, but I conjectured there might be some sixty or so girls in the house.