"Cart Seventeen is ready to leave!" I heard called.
"That is my cart," said the fellow, thrusting the last of his various articles, strewn about, into the pack.
"It is mine, too, as well you know," I said. "Do not fear. I shall accompany you to the cart and see that you board safely." I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. Although I had no proof of the sort which might convince a praetor I was confident that it was Ephialtes of Torcadino who had stolen the letters. It was ironic. I had ridden in the very cart with him.
"We are ready to go," said Boabissia coming up to me.
"The cart is going to leave." "I know," I said. "I heard. Go along, you." I thrust the fellow before me, toward the carts.
I stood near the front railing of the cart. I did look back to make sure the fellow was still on the bench where I had placed him. "That is the checkpoint ahead?" I asked the driver, as I leaned over the railing.
"Yes," he said, lifting his head and speaking back over his shoulder. "You will all get out here, and those who pass will board again, on the other side. There are no refunds, if you do not pass. Such failures are not the responsibility of the company."
"We are only a day from Ar," said a fellow.
"There is the barrier," said another, coming to stand beside me at the railing. "Look," said another, joining us. "Look at that poor sleen." He indicated a small figure near the checkpoint, impaled on a high pole, lifted some twenty feet above the heads of the refugees.
"Among the crowds there," I said, suddenly, pointing, "there are soldiers with purple cloaks and helmets." I had not seen such things in years, since the time of the usurper, Cernus, in Ar, dethroned long ago in the restoration of Marlenus, ubar of ubars.
"Those are Taurentians, members of the elite palace guard," said a man. "The Taurentians were disbanded in 10,119," I said.
"They have been restored to favor," said a man.
"Had you not heard?" asked another.
"No," I said. The sight of Taurentians made me uneasy. Such men, with their internal esprit de corps, their identification with their own units, their allegiance to their personal commanders, their status, privileges and skills, their proximity to the delicate fulcrums of power, hold in their hands the power to enthrone and dethrone ubars.
"It was done only this year," said a man.
"They are fine soldiers," said another.
"I know," I said. I had met them in combat, as long ago as the sands of the Stadium of Blades. There is a common myth, given their post in the city, that Taurentians are spoiled, and soft. This myth is false. They are elite troops, highly trained and devoted to their commanders. One does not gain admittance to their coveted ranks in virtue of mediocre skills or poor condition. The current year was 10,13 °C.A. In the chronology of Port Kar, it was Year 11 in the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains. Their captain, when I had known them long ago, had been Saphronicus of Ar. Seremides of Tyros, in those days, had been a high general of Ar. He, appointed through the influence of Cernus, who was soon to ascend the throne of Ar, had replaced the venerated hero, Maximus Hegesius Quintilius of Ar, who had earlier expressed reservations concerning the investiture of Cernus, a merchant and slaver, in the caste of warriors. Maximus Hegesius Quintilius was later found assassinated in his own pleasure gardens, slain there by the bite of a chemically prepared poison girl, one killed by Taurentians before she could be questioned. Such an appointment, of course, that of one of Tyros to such a post, later would have been unthinkable, given the developing frictions between Ar and Cos, and her mighty ally, Tyros, frictions largely consequent upon competitions in the valley of the Vosk. After the defeat and deposition of Cernus, so briefly a ubar, I had seen both Saphronicus and Seremides in chains before Marlenus, then again upon the throne. They had both, with other high traitorous officers, been ordered to Port Kar, in chains, to be sold to the galleys.
One of the figures in the purple cloak and helmet stood out from the others near the side of the road and lifted his hand.
The driver pulled back on the reins of his tharlarion and the beast slowed, grunting. The high-wheeled cart halted.
"Passengers alight and take your places in the line to the right," said the driver. "I am going in the wagon line. Rejoin me on the far side of the barrier, in the wagon line." He had been here before.
"How will be able to pass?" whispered Boabissia, whom I helped down, through the cart gate. "You no longer have the letters."
"I am not sure," I said. "But surely most of the folks here do not have letters." I kept my eye on the fellow who had called himself Philebus, claiming to be a vintner of Torcadino. I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. If letters were required, and he presented those stolen from me, I would find that of interest. I would also, when the opportunity presented itself, an opportunity which I would see to it would present itself, break his arms and legs.
"Waiting, waiting," complained Hurtha. "I think that I shall compose a poem on the insolencies of bureaucracy."
"A good idea," I said.
"Done!" he said.
"Done?" I asked.
"It is a short poem," he said. "Would you care to hear it?"
"It must be quite short," I said.
"Yes," said Hurtha.
"I would be pleased to hear it," I said, keeping my eyes on the so-called Philebus.
"Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines," began Hurtha.
"Wait," I said. "There is only one word in the poem?" I began to suspect I had penetrated the secret of the poem's swift completion.
"No," said Hurtha, "already there are more than a half dozen. Count them. " "Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines.
"Yes," I said, "you are right."
The lines moved forward a few feet. I kept my eyes on the so-called Philebus. "Lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines," said Hurtha. "You are starting again?" I asked.
"No," he said, "I am picking up from where I left off. Do you really want to hear this poem?"
"Yes, of course," I said. I began to suspect that certain basic civilities, hitherto regarded as largely innocent, retained from my English upbringing, might not be wholly without occasional disadvantages.
"Then do not interrupt," said Hurtha.
"Sorry," I said.
"Those lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines are very long, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines."
"Yes, they are," I granted him.
"What?" asked Hurtha.
"Those lines," I said, "they are pretty long."
"Yes," agreed Hurtha, somewhat suspiciously. "Please do not interrupt." "Sorry," I chuckled. After all, how often does a common fellow like myself get a chance to put one over on a poet.
"You are quite a wit," observed Boabissia.
"Thank you," I said. But, from the tone of her voice, I suspected her compliment was not to be taken at face value. I think she was prejudiced somewhat by her affection for the stocky larl, Hurtha. I did not think it was to be explained by her love of poetry. I did glance back to Feiqa. She was smiling. She was obviously of high intelligence. Then, observing herself the object of my scrutiny, she put down her head, quickly, even more humbly than was perhaps required under the circumstances. After all, her neck was in a collar.
"Be pleased that Hurtha does not strike you to the ground with a heavy blow," said Boabissia.
"I am pleased," I said. "I am pleased."
"If I may continue," said Hurtha.
"Please," I said.
" "Those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines they make me tired, those long lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, lines, " said Hurtha.