The galley was pulled along swiftly by the oarsmen and headed northward and slightly eastward. It passed the fortress on the western tip of Mohasi island and soon was going through the broad strait between the naval-base island of Sigady and the two-pronged peninsula, the Python’s Head, which projected from the mainland. The fortresses on each ran up their flags in salute to the ship which bore the hero of the Games. At another time, Hadon would have swelled with exultation. Now he felt that he was being mocked, though he had a residue of common sense which told him that this was not really so.
Then, as the hours passed and great Resu began his descent, the galley went northwestward along the cliffs of the western side of the Gulf of Gahete. When night fell, the ship was still deep in the narrow gulf. The air cooled, and with it Hadon. The stars shone brightly, and after a while Lahla, goddess of the moon, Kho’s fairest daughter, showered her grace upon all who would appreciate it. She was so bright that Hadon could see smoke rising from Khowot, the Voice of Kho, a cone rising toward the sky. The smoke was a series of broken and strangely shaped clouds, illuminated by intermittent flashes of fire. He tried to read the shapes as if they were parts of a syllabary, but he could make nothing of them. Was Kho sending him a message which he was too unperceptive to understand?
After a while, the first mate approached him and asked him if he cared to dine with the captain and the priestess. Hadon, suddenly aware that he was hungry, said that he would be pleased.
The roof of the captain’s cabin had been removed to let in the moonlight and the cooling air. The interior was bright with pine torches set in brackets on the bulkheads, and the odor of resin was so strong that Hadon almost could not smell the food. A table was set within the narrow cabin for six people and the ever-present unseen guest, dread Sisisken. Hadon stood by his oak chair while the priestess prayed to Kho and Piqabes, Kho’s green-eyed daughter, to bless the food and those about to partake of it. Hadon sat down then and ate voraciously, as if he were gobbling up those he hated—Minruth and those vague forces that had brought him to this sorry position. But the hate disappeared in the savory okra soup, the tender juicy buffalo steak, the fillets of horned fish, the emmer bread, the black olives, the cabbage, the delicacy of fried termites, and the papyrus piths. And he indulged himself with one beaker of mead, made from the far-famed honey of the bees of the city of Qoqoda. Afterward he sat at the table talking and chewing on a soft twig to cleanse his teeth.
Three of his tablemates, he found, were to accompany him on the expedition. Tadoku was his second-in-command. He was middle-sized, very lean, about forty, a numatenu, and a major in the Vth Army, which meant he was a native of Dythbeth. His body and face were scarred from a hundred fights, and his skull near the right temple was slightly indented where a stone from a Klemqaba sling had almost killed him. He was, Hadon judged, a tough and shrewd man. And, no doubt, he could give Hadon many points on the wielding of a tenu.
The second was Hinokly, whom he had seen and heard in the palace. Hinokly was to be his guide through the Wild Lands. Judging from his moroseness, he was not pleased with the task.
The third was the expedition’s bard, Kebiwabes. He was about thirty and was dressed in the bard’s white linen robe, which concealed somewhat a short slim body. His head was large, his hair a glossy brown, his nose snub, his mouth full and broad, his eyes large and russet-brown and merry. Near him, on a peg on the bulkhead, hung his seven-stringed lyre. It was made of boxwood, and the strings were from the small intestine of the sheep. One of the projecting upper ends was carved with the figure of the goddess of the moon, who was also the patroness of music and poetry. Kebiwabes also seemed to be under the influence of Besbesbes, goddess of bees and mead, judging by the many beakers he drank. As the evening progressed, his russet eyes became blood-red, and his voice thickened as if honey had been poured down his throat. And he became indiscreet, talking openly of things better said in privacy if they must be said.
“When we land in Mukha, Hadon, you will be given command of as sorry a body of soldiers as ever disgraced the army. Misfits, goldbrickers, troublemakers, loonies, thieves, and cowards. All, except for the numatenu here, Tadoku, men whom Minruth should have discharged or hanged long ago. Men whom he will be glad to get rid of. Men who will ensure that your expedition is a failure. Why the great soldier Tadoku was assigned to you, I do not know. Is there something of which I am not aware, Tadoku? Have you, like me, offended Minruth in some way?”
“I was chosen by Awineth herself and assigned over the protests of Minruth,” Tadoku said.
“That’s one good thing, perhaps the only good thing, to happen,” the bard said. “Does Awineth know what kind of personnel poor Hadon here has to command?”
“I am not that much in her confidence,” Tadoku said, glaring at him.
“Well, I was chosen as the bard for this lousy expedition because I composed and sang a satirical song about Minruth,” Kebiwabes said. “Minruth did not dare to touch me, because bards are sacred. But he was able to honor me—honor!—by appointing me your bard. In effect, it’s an exile from which, most likely, I will not return. But I don’t care. I have always wanted to see. the wonders of the Wild Lands. Perhaps they will inspire me to compose a great epic, The Song of Hadon, and my name will rank with those of the divine bards, Hala, she who composed The Song of Gahete, and Kwamim, she who composed The Song of Kethna. Then all will have to admit that a man can create music and poetry as well as a woman.”
“Neither of those were drunks,” Tadoku said.
Kebiwabes laughed and said, “Mead is the blood of Besbesbes, and if I take enough in, perhaps I will sweat out the effluvia of divinity. In any event, once we are deep into the Wild Lands, there will be no more mead. Willy-nilly, I must be sober. But then I will become drunk on moonlight, on the silver liquor which Lahla pours so freely.”
He drank deeply, belched, and said, “If I live that long.”
Hadon concealed his dismay. He spoke to Hinokly, who was languidly stirring a spoon in his cold soup.
“And you, Hinokly, do you take as dark a view?”
“Of all the good men who went out into the Wild Lands, I was the least fitted to survive,” he said. “I am a scribe, small and weak and unused to hardships and terrors. The others were tall strong men of the stuff of heroes. Minruth himself picked them for the qualities those who go into the Wild Lands must have. Yet I alone did not die. I alone came back. So I will say only that we are in the hands of Kho. Success and failure and the names of those who will die and those who will not are already written in the rolls that no man may read.”
“Which is to say that we can’t know the future and must act as if the goddesses were on our side,” Tadoku said briskly. “As for myself, I pray to Kho and to Resu, who, besides being god of the sun and of the rain, is also god of war.”
The priestess said sharply, “And what about Bhukla, the goddess of war! War was originally her domain, and Resu usurped it. At least, he did so in the minds of some, but we priestesses know that Bhukla was the first, and the soldier who neglects her will find sorrow.”
“I pray to her, of course, priestess, since she is now the goddess of the tenu,” Tadoku said. “Every numatenu prays to her in the morning and before going to bed, and she presides when the swords of the numatenu are being made. But, as I was going to say, I rely not only on the gods and the goddesses. I trust in myself, in my hard-won skill with the sword.
“Tell me,” he said, turning to Hadon, “what do you know of military service?”
“Not much,” Hadon said, “which is why I am glad that you are my lieutenant. As a child, I used to hang around the parade grounds and watch the soldiers drill, and I learned something of procedure and discipline when I worked in the kitchens and as a water boy in the fort near Opar. And I learned some things from my father.”
“Then you’re not a raw recruit, and your task will be easier,” Tadoku said. “You must have picked up much about the politicking and the pas
sing of the buck which are, if not the backbone of the army, the ribs. And you must know that having good cooks is very important. Most laymen think only of the glory of the battle when they think of the army. But having good cooks and good doctors and an incorruptible but foxy supply sergeant are things that occupy an officer’s mind more than leading men into fray.”
“As I understand it,” Kebiwabes said, “you are a poor man. Or were.”
“And what is that to you?” Hadon said angrily.
“Much,” the bard said. “I am interested in the character of the man who will be leading us into unknown dangers. I have observed that the rich are always corrupted, and the poor are corrupted too, though in a different way. Money and power change a man as surely as if the hands of terrible Khuklaqo, the Shapeless Shaper, had seized him. However, the rich man attempts to disguise it from himself—he becomes arrogant, and he acts as if dread Sisisken were not always around the corner. He becomes hard but not strong, brittle as a badly cast tool.
“On the other hand, poverty is a demon with an odor of its own. The rich stink of money, and the poor stink of its lack. The middle classes stink of both. But a poor man may rise above his poverty, whereas a rich man seldom, if ever, rises above his wealth.”
“I don’t think I understand you,” Hadon said.
“It doesn’t matter. You are young yet, but you have wits, and if you live long enough, you will understand. Though understanding, as usual, will have as its companion sorrow. Suffice it that I have faith in you. Lahla has given me the ability to hear a man’s vibrations as if he were a lyre plucked by her fingers. In your case, the seven strings of the soul make a sweet music. But the song will not always be a merry one.”
Kebiwabes arose and said, “I must go to sleep.”
The priestess said, “I had hoped that you would sing for us.”
“The sweet mead would come forth as sour music,” he said. “Tomorrow I will sing for you. But not until evening. Good night, all.”
Tadoku stared after the staggering bard and said, “There goes one of the misfits and troublemakers.”
“But he seems to be more troubled within himself than by things outside him,” the priestess said. “He has never been violent. He uses only his voice to express his discontent and to criticize the things amiss in this world.”
“That kind is the worst kind of troublemaker,” Tadoku said. “He speaks, and many act out his words.”
“I rather like him,” Hadon said. “Major, would you do me the honor of sword-exercising with me tomorrow?”
“Gladly,” Tadoku said.
Hadon dreamed that night, not of the beautiful Awineth, as might have been expected, but of his mother. He kept running after her, and she, though standing with arms open to receive him, moved always backward and finally was lost in the shadows. He awoke sobbing and wondering if Sisisken had sent him a message that his mother was dead. After breakfast he wrote a long letter to his family. But the letter would have to be posted in Mukha, and it would be many a month—if ever—before it arrived in distant Opar.
Kebiwabes, up earlier than Hadon had expected, saw him writing the last paragraphs on the roll. He approached him as Hadon sealed the letter and said, “You can write? I am impressed. I myself have some facility with the syllabary, but I am afraid to become too literate.”
Hadon was surprised. “Why is that?”
“Writing is the enemy of memory,” Kebiwabes said. “Look at me. I am, a bard who must memorize, and has memorized, thousands of lines. I carry the words of a hundred songs in my head. I began to learn these when I was three, and my lifelong labor of learning these has been hard. But I know them well; they are stamped onto my heart.
“If, however, I depended upon the written word, my heart would grow weak. I would soon find myself halting, searching for the line, and would have to go to a roll to find the lost words. I fear that when all become lettered, which is what the priestesses would like, bards will have as short a memory as everybody else.”
“Perhaps,” Hadon said. “But if the great Awines had not invented the syllabary, science and commerce would not have progressed so swiftly. And the empire of Khokarsa would not be so wide-flung.”
“That might be just as well,” the bard said. When he was questioned about the meaning of this, he did not reply but said, “Tadoku asked me to tell you that he will meet you at midmorning on the foredeck for an exercise. At the moment he is busy dictating to Hinokly letters to the palace. He seems upset by my words last night.”
“You remember them?” Hadon said.
The bard laughed and said, “I am not always as drunk as I seem. He was disturbed because I knew more about the type of men he will command than he did. Apparently no one had told him.”
“And how did you find out?” Hadon said.
“Next to the queen’s bedchamber, the best place to find out secrets is the tavern. Especially if the palace servants do their drinking there.”
“I have a lot to learn,” Hadon said.
“Admitting that means that you can learn,” Kebiwabes said.
At midmorning Tadoku entered the cabin and saluted Hadon. Hadon returned it with the right arm held out straight before him, the thumb and little finger touching tips, the three longest fingers spread out.
“Officially, you will not take command until we reach Mukha,” Tadoku said. “But we might as well get accustomed to our roles before then. And if there is any advice I can give you, anything I can teach you, I am yours.”
“Sit down,” Hadon said. “First, I would like a frank answer. Do you, an experienced officer and a famed numatenu, resent serving under a green youth?”
“Under different circumstances, I might,” Tadoku said. “But this is an unusual situation. Besides, you aren’t a know-it-all. And, to be frank, if I serve you well, my career may be advanced. After all, you may be king someday.”
“You say that as if you don’t believe I’ll ever sit on the throne.”
“Our chances of survival are not high,” Tadoku said cheerfully. “And if you will allow me to continue to be frank, if we should get back, our chances of survival may be even less.”
Hadon was startled. He considered Tadoku’s statement and then said, “You think that our king would dare to kill us?”
“It’s a long voyage from Mukha to the island,” Tadoku said. “And much can happen aboard a galley. Especially if it is manned by those faithful to Minruth.”
“But we will be, or anyway should be, under the protection of Sahhindar.”
“If there is a Gray-Eyed God in the Wild Lands and if Hinokly did see him,” Tadoku said. “Hinokly may be telling the truth. On the other hand, he may have made up the story , to save his neck. Or Minruth may have put him up to it to get rid of you.”
Hadon had another mild shock. He said, “But the Voice of Kho? Surely She would not be deceived, nor would She deceive us?”
“She would not be deceived,” Tadoku said. “But She may have said what She did in order to carry out plans of Her own. Besides, the oracular priestess always says something which may be interpreted in more than one way. Only after the event can mortals know what She truly meant.”
Tadoku paused, and then, as if the words came hard, said, “Moreover, priests and priestesses are men and women, and men and women are corruptible.”
Disbelief choked Hadon. He said, “You can’t mean that Minruth might have bribed the oracle? The voice of the Voice of Kho? That couldn’t be! Kho Herself would strike the woman dead!”
“Yes, but Kho may have allowed this so that She could carry out her plans, as I said before. However, I don’t really believe that the priestess would lie for the sake of money. She would be too terrified. I just suggested that because one should consider all possibilities, no matter how farfetched they seem.”
“You are cynical!” Hadon said.
“I have a sharp eye, and I have been close to the great ones of the empire for a long time,” Tadoku said. “In any ev
ent, I have checked out the personnel of the vessel. It’s a merchant ship, you know, basically a mail-carrier. That is odd. Why weren’t you put on a naval vessel, since you’re such a precious cargo? Why weren’t we given a naval escort? What if a pirate ship were to attack us? It’s true that pirates haven’t been in the waters north of the island for two hundred years. But that doesn’t mean that they might not appear again. And what if the pirate vessel were in the employ of Minruth?
“Not that I consider that likely. Such a thing would be too raw for anybody to digest, and the rage of Awineth, as everybody but you seems to know, is awful. Minruth would be the first to die, unless he ordered his troops into action at once. And then he would likely be defeated. On the other hand, Minruth is called the Mad for good reasons, and you cannot expect him always to act as a rational man would.
“However, assuming that he does use good sense, he will take no action until, or if, you return. In the meantime—which will be a long one—much can happen in Khokarsa.”
Hadon, instead of being depressed, became angry. When he and Tadoku practiced with wooden swords, he attacked Tadoku as if he meant to kill him. But Tadoku gave him a beating that soon cooled him down, and the points Tadoku gained were thereafter much less. Finally, panting and sweating, the two ceased. A sailor emptied buckets of cool sea-water over them, and they sat down to discuss the exercise.
“You have the makings of a great swordsman,” Tadoku said. “You will be one in five years if you get enough experience. And if you live that long. Bhukla is fickle, and I have seen better men than myself go to her sister Sisisken. A man has an off-day, and a lesser swordsman kills him. Or he may have problems which he cannot thrust out of his mind during the fighting. Or something has happened to break his spirit, and he may unconsciously wish to die. Or chance, a foot slipping in blood, the sun in his eyes, a fly landing on his nose, weakening caused by the onslaught of a cold or an ill-digested meal—all these and much more may cause the death of even the greatest swordsman.