"Rabbits will chase wolves or ever the Novarians submit to such an overlord. Ardyman the Terrible once tried it, but he did not long abide. Besides, there are virtues in a group of squabbling little city-states, over against a big, monolithic empire like yours."
"To what advantage are your eternal, cruel and destructive internecine wars?"
"Well, each of the Twelve Cities is small enough so that a man feels that what he does matters. So our people take a lively interest in creative effort and in their respective governments. In Mulvan, the state is so huge and so rigidly organized that the individual feels lost and powerless. So you let Shaju and his like do as they please, be they never such idlers or debauchees or idiots or monsters. Now, in the Twelve Cities we have all kinds of governments—kingdoms, duchies, republics, theocracies, and so on—and if somebody invents a new and better one, all the others are eager to see how it works and whether they should consider imitating it."
"But if only there were a supreme ruler to stop your fighting and direct your energies into constructive channels—"
"Then we should soon be just like Mulvan, with the supreme ruler directing all these energies towards the enhancement of his own power and glory."
"But at least we have internal peace, which is no small boon."
"And what has Mulvan done with its internal peace? From all I hear, your customs and usages and beliefs are exactly the same as a thousand years ago. Why think you the Twelve Cities so easily routed the vast army that Shaju's sire, King Sirvasha, sent to conquer them? Because the Mulvanians still rely upon the weapons and tactics of the days of Ghish the Great. So our cavalry made mincemeat of your scythed chariots, whilst our archers swept your slingers and darters from the field. Compare unchanging Mulvan with the Twelve Cities; consider what in the last century we have accomplished in the arts and sciences, in literature and drama, in law and government, and you will see what I mean."
"All very well, if one deem such material things important," grumbled Karadur. "I suppose it is partly a matter of age. When I was young, such turbulence and change appealed to me, also; but now I find safety and stability fairer to contemplate. Mark my words, my son, some day one of the Twelve Cities will call in the hordes of Shven to help it against its neighbor, and soon you will find a Gending cham ruling all of Novaria. Such things have happened before."
"But at least—" Jorian broke oft", listening. There were footsteps and a murmur of talk outside. Jorian pulled Karadur behind a pile of bales.
Two persons entered the warehouse. From their sizes, Jorian took them to be a man and a woman, although the predawn light was too dim to tell any more. The man was speaking:
"… here we are, fair mistress. Your servant will find you a comfortable bed amongst all these piles of cargo, I swear; for there is scant romance in doing it standing up… Ah, here we are, my sweetling: a pile of new sacking, just the thing for—unh!"
The final grunt followed the thud of the leaden pommel of Jorian's dagger on the man's skull. The man fell heavily to the stone floor. The woman was drawing her dress off over her head and so could not see what had happened. She completed her disrobing and stood for three heartbeats naked, holding the dress in her hands. The light was now strong enough for Jorian to perceive that she was a comely wench. A mask, which she had just dropped, lay at her feet.
Seeing her lover lying prone on the pave and Jorian's huge, shadowy form behind him, she uttered a thin little scream, fled out the door with her dress in her hands, and vanished into the fog. Jorian turned over the body and pulled off the mask.
"I was right," he said, squatting beside the body. "It was Master Laziendo, may dogs devour his vitals. I knew his voice. Let's hope the wench does not set the watch upon us."
"Is—is he dead?" quavered Karadur.
"No; his pate's only dented, not cracked, and his heart beats strongly." He looked up. "I have an idea that may save our hides. Can you sell a horse and a brace of asses?"
"I have never done horse trading, but I suppose I could."
"Then hie you to our room to fetch our gear and to the stable where our creatures dwell. Tell the stableman you wish to sell. It's early, but with luck he will know a couple of buyers ready for a quick bargain. The horse is worth at least two Mulvanian crowns or the equivalent, and the asses a quarter or a third as much apiece. Since it is a forced sale, you will have to take less, but at least do not accept the first offer."
"And you, my son?"
"I must bind and gag this rascal to keep him out of circulation until we have departed. When life stirs aboard the Talaris, I shall board the ship and see what my flapping tongue can do."
Two hours later, the risen sun was burning off the last wisps of fog, and Water Street was awakening. Carrying Jorian's pack and crossbow, Karadur shuffled across Water Street to the dock where the Talaris lay. The ship—a one-sticker of moderate size—was lively with longshoremen loading last-minute cargo, sailors handling ropes, and a dozen comely young slave girls chattering like a flock of starlings. Jorian stood at the rail, leaning on his elbows as if he had no cares. When Karadur climbed the companionway, Jorian helped him down, murmuring:
"How much did you get?"
"One crown, two and six for the lot."
"I could have done better, but we cannot be choosy. Let me present you. Captain Strasso, this is my friend, Doctor Karadur of Trimandilam, of whom I told you. Doctor, pay the captain ten marks for your passage and board to Janareth."
"Glad to have you aboard, sir," growled the captain. "Remember: no spitting, puking, or pissing from the weather rail! And no garbage on deck, either. I keep a clean ship. Get your girls out of the way, Master Maltho; we are about to shove off."
Later, when Vindium was small in the distance and the ship was heeling to the pressure of the wind on the striped triangular sail, Karadur and Jorian ate breakfast in the tiny cabin they occupied in the deckhouse aft. The cabin hummed with the splash, splash of the stem cutting waves, the gurgle of water against the hull, the creak of the ship's timbers, and the thrum of wind-quivered cordage. Karadur asked:
"What in the name of Vurnu's heaven have you done, my son?"
Jorian grinned. "I found paper and ink in the warehouseman's desk and persuaded Master Laziendo to pen a note to Captain Strasso, saying he'd broken an ankle during the Feast of Spooks, and would the captain please ship his friend Maltho of Kortoli—an experienced commercial man from the Western Ocean—in his place?"
"How could you compel him to do that?"
"There are ways." Jorian chuckled. "I also found nine of our missing Xylarian lions in his purse and repossessed them. Porrex must have given him ten for his part in the swindle, and he'd spent one on his lady love. Of course, he denied all, if not convincingly. What most infuriated him was my cutting his fine velvet mantle into strips to bind him. He didn't lack courage, for he called me all sorts of foul names with my dagger at his throat. But he wrote the note, which was the main thing.
"Captain Strasso didn't much like it, but he did not wish to lose a day's sail by going ashore to rout Benniver's Sons out of bed to demand another supercargo. And when Belius, the slave dealer, arrived with his twelve little lovelies, I signed for them without a qualm.
"Now, forget not my new name: Maltho of Kortoli. I thought Nikko and Jorian had worn out their usefulness. Which philosopher said: The best equipment for life is effrontery?"
"Were it not wiser to give your origin as some western land, like Ir? You claim you've sailed those waters."
"Not with my accent! I can ape some of the others with fair skill if I try; but that, methinks, were a little too much effrontery for our own good!"