It was now the nineteenth Ahn, an Ahn before the twentieth Ahn, the Gorean midnight.
I was more careless than I should have been. I had been thinking of Miles of Vonda and the slave he owned, who had once been the Lady Florence of Vonda. I was pleased with her happiness, and regarded him as a fortunate fellow.
“Hold!” said a voice, menacingly.
I spun about, near a pile of lumber on the wharves. It was lonely there now.
I had no opportunity to draw my sword. The point of the other’s blade was entered into my gut. I backed against the lumber.
“So you have followed me, Miles of Vonda,” I said. He did not respond.
“The mask is not necessary,” I said. “It is dark here, and we are alone.”
The blade drew back a few inches. “Hold your hands at your sides, and kneel, very slowly,” said the man.
I did so.
“Now, slowly, very slowly, place your sword belt and scabbard on the boards,” said the voice.
I slowly slipped the belt and scabbard, with the sheathed blade, from my shoulder, and placed them on the boards.
“You are not Miles of Vonda,” I said. I could now tell that it was not his voice. “Who are you,” I asked, “a brigand?”
He said nothing. I watched the sword.
“I have some money with me,” I said. “I will give it to you. You do not need to slay me.”
“Do not be a fool,” he said “Where is it?” he said.
“What?” I asked.
“The topaz,” he said.
“You are the courier of Ragnar Voskjard,” I said. It would have been he who would have, to protect himself during the search of the tavern of Cleanthes, by the guardsmen of Ar’s Station, placed the topaz in my pouch. I had not been searched within the tavern because I, like certain others, had been searched outside the tavern, but moments before. He would presumably be an important man, and the security of his identity a closely guarded secret.
“Where is the topaz?” he pressed.
“It was you, was it not,” I asked, “who raided my house, who ransacked it, and put the Lady Beverly under interrogation in the matter of the topaz?”
“I did not find it there,” he said, menacingly.
“But you received something for your trouble,” I reminded him. “You tied the Lady Beverly as a slave and made her beg for her rape, after which you courteously acceded to her request.”
“She was not displeasing,” he said.
“The rape of a free woman is a serious offense,” I said.
“I know women,” he said. “She was a natural slave.”
“I cannot gainsay it,” I said. I had learned in the stronghold of Policrates, the pirate, that the beautiful Miss Henderson was, in her heart, a slave among slaves. It was not inappropriate, thus, but quite appropriate, that she had been subjected to merciless slave rape.
“The guardsmen of Port Cos, who, too, searched your house, and the gardens, upon the informings of the Lady Beverly, who turned against you, were no more successful.”
“You are well informed,” I said.
“Where then is the topaz?” he asked.
“Safe,” I said. He surely need not know I had delivered it, in accord with a plan, to Policrates myself.
“Do you wish to be slain now?” he asked.
“If you slay me,” I said, “how, then, will you find the topaz?”
He drew back the sword a little. “I have watched you,” said he. “I have been patient. But you have not led me to the topaz. You must understand I cannot wait indefinitely. There are those to whom I must answer.”
“I am sensitive to such matters,” I said.
“Where is the topaz?” he said, angrily.
“If I give it to you,” I said, “of what value, then, would be my life to you?”
“None,” he said.
“Under such circumstances,” I said, “I think you can easily understand that I might not be eager to surrender it to you.”
“I, myself,” he said, menacingly, “if I do not deliver the topaz, may be slain.”
“Your identity is known, of course, to Ragnar Voskjard,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“Your situation is not an enviable one either,” I admitted.
“In such a situation,” he pointed out, “I have little to lose by slaying you.”
“That point has not eluded me,” I admitted.
“But there is a simple solution to our mutual difficulty,” he said, “one which is in our common interest.”
“That you will spare me, if I give you the topaz,” I said.
“Of course,” said he.
“But what guarantee have I,” I asked, “that you will abide by the terms of such a bargain?”
“I give you my word,” said he, “in it pledging my honor.”
“With all due respect,” I said, “pirates, and those in league with them, are not noted for their honor.”
“Do you have a choice?” he asked. The sword drew back.
“I will show you where I put the topaz,” I said.
“Rise slowly,” he said. “And walk slowly. Do not pick up your sword.”
I got to my feet, not hurrying, leaving the sword, with the belt and scabbard, on the boards. I began to walk, slowly, among the materials on the wharves. He was behind me, sword drawn. If I were to turn on him I was sure he could cut me down before I could get my hands on him. Similarly, before I could dodge or run, it seemed to me not unlikely that he could strike at the back of my neck.
“Slowly,” he said. “Slowly.”
“Very well,” I said.
“It is here,” I said, “that I put the topaz.” It was true that I had put it there. I had also, of course, removed it later from that place when I had carried it to the holding of Policrates. Carefully, I removed one of the heavy granite blocks of stone, building stone, rectangular, some six inches by six inches, by eighteen inches, from the tiered pile of stones. It was building stone brought in by a quarry galley several weeks ago. The intended purchaser had defaulted on his contract and the stone was to be stored over the winter, beside the quarry warehouse, until the following spring, when it was to be auctioned. In the spring prices tend to be highest on such materials. In virtue of the temporary commercial inertness of the stone, and its weight and cheapness, it had seemed to me to provide an ideal hiding place for the topaz. Also it lay no more than four hundred yards from the hiring yard on the wharves, to which I often went in seeking work.
“None would expect that the topaz would be hidden in such a place,” I speculated.
“Do you have it yet?” asked the fellow behind me, masked, with the sword. He was a tall, spare man. Originally I had taken him to be Miles of Vonda.
I realized I had little time. Carefully I moved another stone. Then I took another stone in my hands, seeming to struggle with it.
“I am to be spared, if I give you the topaz,” I reminded him.
“Yes, yes,” he said.
“It is here,” I said.
He struck down with the sword and I, turning, thrust up the block of granite to block the blow. Sparks showered off the stone, and particles of rock. I kicked him back from the stone, which I still held in my hands. He staggered back. I waited until he was upright, in the moment he had caught his balance. Then, underhanded, with two hands, I slung the block of granite at him. It caught him in the left shoulder. He gasped, and spun about, turned by the stone. I lunged toward him, but, he turning swiftly, stopped. The thrust of the sword was short by a foot. I stepped back a foot. He did not advance. He breathed heavily. His left arm and hand hung beside him. I suspected that his left shoulder and side must be ringing with numbness.
“It was not there after all,” I said. “It seems I was mistaken.”
Gasping, he staggered toward me, and I turned and, swiftly, fled from the place, making my way swiftly back to the piled lumber. It was there that I, in a moment, bending down, seized up the sword which I had left there. I turned, then, to see him, painfully, following. When he saw that I now held my blade ready, he stopped. That action convinced me that whoever he was, he was not of Victoria. In Victoria it was thought I did not know the blade. Thus, had he been of Victoria I think that he, even in pain, might have advanced. As it was, not knowing my capacity with the sword, I not being known to him, and knowing himself better than I how his injury might have impeded his swordplay, he hesitated. I saw he did not know what to do.
“Treacherous sleen!” he said.
“It was not I who struck down at you,” I pointed out.
“Sleen!” he said.
“Ho, there!” I cried out, loudly. “Ho, there! What are you doing here? Who are you! Get away from there! We do not permit pilfering on these wharves!”
The man trembled with rage. He advanced a step.
“Begone, Thief!” I cried. “Begone!”
“Be silent, you fool!” said the man.
“Thief! Thief!” I cried. “You may not steal here, Fellow! This is Victoria, you know!”
“What is going on there?” called a voice, from along the wharves, behind me.
“A thief!” I cried. “Assistance! Assistance!”
Glancing back I saw a lantern approaching. Two men were there, advancing with slaves.
“Sleen!” said the fellow with the mask, and then he turned and made his way rapidly away.
“Is that you, Jason?” asked one of the men.
“Yes,” I said, sheathing my sword.
“What is it?” asked the other man.
“Some fellow prowling about the docks,” I said, “doubtless not up to much good.”
“He seems to be gone now,” said the first man.
“Yes,” I said. “Before he was over by the quarry warehouse. He was busying himself about the granite there, that of the defaulted shipment.”
“There is nothing of value there,” said the second man.
“That is true,” I said.