"No, we have not!" Pedi said angrily. "I am no Shadem or Lemmar vern to go around covered in their stinking sumei!"
"Would you rather be a Servant of God?" Cord asked tonelessly in his native tongue. The shaman had clearly been following the conversation, in general terms, at least, and he turned a gaze as expressionless as his voice upon his new benan. "Or forsworn in your duty? The path of duty is not a matter of 'I will not.' Choose."
Roger doubted that Pedi understood Cord's words completely, either, but it was obvious that the gist had come through. Her mouth worked for a moment, then she hissed a one-word reply to him.
"Robes."
"There, all settled," the prince said brightly. "But what kind of robes? And where do we get them?"
"The sumei weighs at least five latha—that's 'what kind of robes,' " Pedi said bitterly. "And we can get them at Kirsti. That's one of the main weaving centers for all of Krath." After a moment she brightened up. "On the other hand, it's also one of the main producers of cosmetics." She made a complicated gesture of annoyance. "And on that subject, Light O'Casey has something else she needs to say."
"I'm not sure what we'll do about that, Pedi," the chief of staff said, with an odd, sidelong glance at Cord.
"What's the problem?" Pahner asked.
"Well," Julian began, heroically grasping the dilemma's horns for O'Casey, "you'll notice that most of the Mardukans we've run into on this side of the pond are clothed."
"Not Pedi," Roger objected, gesturing at the benan with his chin.
"Ah, yes, but she was a slave," O'Casey replied carefully. "It turns out that the Krath and the Shin—even the Shadem—have strong body modesty taboos."
"Oh, dear," Kosutic said. "I think maybe we should get the young lady some clothes then, eh?"
"That would be good," Julian agreed. "Cord feels perfectly normal the way he is. He's just... undressed. Pedi, on the other hand—"
"Feels nekkid," the sergeant major finished. "Gotcha. We'll deal with that in just a moment. But how does it affect the rest of us?"
"Well, the Vashin are generally in their armor," Julian pointed out. "Same with the Diasprans and K'Vaernians. If we just explain that the local custom is to wear clothing, and staying in armor is the easy way to do that, they'll stay in armor most of the time."
"We need to get them some clothes, anyway," Pahner observed. "Armor all the time is bad hygiene."
"Yes, Sir," Julian acknowledged. "But they're used to the concept. Cord and Denat, on the other hand..."
"What about us?" Cord asked.
"If we go wandering around with naked 'savages' we'll be violating various local taboos," O'Casey explained delicately. "It might have a certain 'kick' to it politically, but it would be much more likely to be destabilizing."
"Since the local custom is to wear clothes like humans do, Cord," Roger translated, "we'll all have to do the same thing or these snooty locals will think we're uncivilized."
"What? Cover myself in cloth?" Cord sounded incredulous. "Ridiculous! What reasonable person would do such a thing?!"
"Pedi would," Roger reminded him with unwonted delicacy. "The Lemmar didn't take her clothes away to be nice when they captured her, Cord."
"You mean... Oh." The shaman made a complex gesture of frustration. "I'm too old to have an asi—benan! Especially one I can't even understand!"
"Hey, don't blame that on the language, buddy!" Roger retorted. "Nobody understands women!"
"You'll pay for that, Your Highness," Despreaux warned him with a smile. Roger nodded in acknowledgment of her threat, but his expression had suddenly taken on an abstracted air. He tugged at a strand of hair for a second, then looked around the table.
"People wear clothes around here," he observed, and his eyes moved to Cord's new benan. "How many did the Lemmar assign to each of their prize crews when they took the convoy, Pedi?"
"It looked like five to ten—possibly as many as fifteen for the larger vessels. Why?"
"Rastar?"
The Vashin former prince looked up when Roger called his name. He'd been silent through most of the discussion, since it was related to seagoing matters, where he'd had little to add. Now he cocked his head, alerted by Roger's tone.
"You called, O Light of the East?"
Roger chuckled and shook his head.
"How many of these Lemmar do you think you can take. Seriously?"
"By surprise, I take it?" the Vashin asked. He let one hand rest on each of his revolvers' butts. "At least six, I believe. More if the range is great enough for additional shots before they can close. It all depends."
"And there, I think, is the answer to the question of how we capture the other ships," Roger said with a nod.
"And just who, if I may ask, backs him up?" Pahner asked darkly.
"Well," Roger replied with a smile of total innocence, "I suppose that depends on who—after Rastar, of course—is fastest with a pistol."
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
Tras Sofu had no intention of becoming a Servant of God.
Again.
He had escaped from the slave pens of the High Temple once. Only a handful of Servants could make that claim, and even fewer of those who had escaped had evaded recapture. That was a point which had been forcibly borne in upon Sofu when he realized that Agents of Justice were everywhere in Kirsti. That was also when he'd decided that the sailor's life was for him. Trade among the Lemmar Islands was dangerous—there were not only the pirates to consider, but many shoals and other hazards to navigation. But given the choice between sailing the shoals and risking the Agents, he'd take shipwreck any day.
Now, though, his bet had backfired, and he was probably headed right back to the pens. It was rumored, however, that the Lemmar would sometimes keep particularly good workers around. There were always plenty of Lemmar who wanted to work their ships—the greatest problem with the Islands was a lack of shipping, not lack of labor for the boats—but a good crewman, as Tras was, might be better than an untrained landsman. So whenever there was any little thing that needed doing, it was always Tras Sofu who was right on it. Any line that needed coiling was coiled immediately, and when the crew went aloft, it was always Tras Sofu in the lead.
His Lemmar captors—and his fellow crewmen, for that matter—knew what he was doing. Whether the Lemmar approved or were just sizing him up for the ax was another matter, though. He knew that the pirates could give slime whether any Krath lived or died. The way they'd casually chopped the heads off of the captain and the mate had made that point crystal clear. And, truth to tell, he wasn't all that much fonder of the pirates than he was of the Fire Priests themselves. But while a part of him hated acting as an accomplice in his own enslavement, being indispensable to his new masters was the only way he knew to avoid his old ones... and the pens.
None of the other crewmen seemed to share his attitude. They were sunk into apathy, never taking initiative at anything. The Lemmar literally had to whip them into position, and they acted as if they were already Servants, beyond redemption. Certainly none of them seemed to have any interest in emulating Tras's ingratiating eagerness.
Which was why it was Tras, always head-up and looking out for any change he might turn to advantage, who first spotted the strange, triangular sails on the horizon. The single ship closing fast on an impossible tack, practically straight into the wind, was the most outlandish thing Tras had ever seen—and he paused for a moment, staring at the sleek, low-slung craft as the slower Krath merchantman dipped into a swell. He wondered briefly what worm had devoured the brains of anyone stupid enough to sail towards a Lemmaran ship. Of course, the merchant ship didn't look very much like a raiding vessel, so perhaps these lunatics didn't realize what they were dealing with. If that were the case, was it his responsibility to try to warn them off before they sailed into such danger?