Some men now emerged from buildings. Some made their way over to the balustrade. Others crossed the bridge, toward the docking area. Whatever was going on did not, it seemed, concern this part of the city. I saw even the robes of a free woman coming out onto the terrace.
Some more tarns, from the city, hastened by, overhead.
The bars continued to sound.
“What is it?” cried a man.
“Strangers! Tarnsmen!” he heard.
“A raid,” said another.
“Whence?” asked a man.
“Who knows?” asked another.
“How man?” asked one.
“Not many,” said a man.
“Twenty, thirty,” said another.
“So few?” said a fellow. “They must be mad!”
“They cannot be interested in the city,” said another.
“There must be a tarn caravan approaching the city!”
“It would have its escort,” said a man.
“There are non scheduled,” said another, one with the sleeves of a blue robe rolled up.
“What could they want?” asked a man.
“Women?” suggested a man.
I backed away a bit toward the wall. We, I knew, to men such as those on this world, did count as booty, obedient, trainable, well-curved booty. We learned to serve our masters well. And, indeed, women such as I, slaves, as we were domestic animals, constituted booty in a most uncontroversial, immediate and obvious sense, a form of booty as taken for granted here, as, on another world, cattle to Huns, horses to Indians. To be sure, we were not the only sort of animal which counted as booty. Many other sorts would have, as well, even the mighty tarns. And, as I have indicated, we are not specially privileged. Here, on this world, even the free woman counts as booty.
“What was their direction?” asked another.
“There!” said a man, pointing.
“That is it,” said a man, convinced.
“The pens!” said a fellow.
“Yes,” said another.
“But it is madness,” said another. “The pens are guarded.”
“They must be mad,” said another.
“Look!” said a fellow. “There come our lads!”
“Are they ours?” asked a man.
“See the banners!” said another.
I stood up, again, on my tiptoes, to look, between the men. There must have been nearly a hundred tarnsmen now in flight.
Only too obviously were they on the trail of the earlier party.
“Those poor sleen,” said a fellow. “They will be cut to pieces.”
Though none seemed to notice me, I thought it best to kneel. There were, after all, free men present.
“They can stop the bars,” said a fellow.
“No,” said another. “Let the city stay alert.”
“It may even be over by now,” said a man.
This seemed to me possible, particularly if the strangers had reached the pens. They would be, I assumed, well secured, well defended. Too, tarnsmen and guardsmen from about the city had doubtless rendezvoused at that point by now. But moments ago I had seen tarnsmen even from this part of the city hurrying in that direction.
“We may as well go home now,” said a man.
“But why would so few men try to reach the city?” asked a fellow. “And why, so few in number, would they strike at the pens?”
“They are mad,” said a fellow.
“Drunk,” suggested another.
A man looked down at me, and I quickly lowered my head, that I not meet his eyes.
“It is over now,” said a fellow.
“We do not know,” said a fellow. “There may still be fighting.”
“There were less than fifty, surely,” said a man.
“I think it would be over,” said another.
At about that time the bars began to diminish, first one stopping sounding, and then another.
“Yes,” said a fellow. “It is over now.”
They began then, wishing one another well, separating the one from the other, to take their diverse ways from the terrace.
I lifted my head.
It was still bright, still late afternoon.
I wondered if, elsewhere, some skirmish was done, some steel reddened.
It was a strange feeling, being where I was, where it seemed so quiet, the sky so blue and calm, the clouds moving overhead, unhurried, knowing that not far away some terrible action might be ensuant, perhaps at the pens. But the bars had stopped sounding. It was done then. It was over.
I sat back against the wall.
I wondered where the Lady Constanzia and the scarlet-clad fellow might be. One supposed they might have taken cover with the sounding of the bars. Or perhaps she had been braceleted while he went to investigate, perhaps one bracelet put about her left wrist, and the other about the linkage of a stout fence, or perhaps she had been knelt before a stanchion, her wrists braceleted about it.
Some folks were strolling now on the terrace. I closed my eyes, against the heat, the sun.
“Look!” I hear. It was a man’s voice. It came from somewhere in the vicinity of the balustrade.
I opened my eyes and stood up, by the ring. I looked in the direction in which he was pointing, out, over the balustrade. Several others, too, were looking. Some of these were near the balustrade. Others had turned about, from where they were on the terrace.
“Look!” he cried again.
I could now see, in the distance, that to which he must have reference. It was another flight of tarns. They seemed tiny, so far away. It was difficult to judge their number.
“Tarns!” said another fellow, now, too, pointing. Two more men ran to the balustrade.
The tarns seemed larger now. They must be coming very rapidly, I thought. It seemed clear that there were more tarns in this group than in the first group, perhaps considerably more, but by how much the numbers of this group might exceed those of the first group it would be very difficult to say, that for two reasons, their formation and orientation. They were in single-file, like the first group, but they were not moving to the right, as had the first group, an orientation that had made possible a fairly exact estimate of their numbers. Rather, this time, in file, they seemed to be moving directly toward us. If one had not been looking at an exact point in the sky one might not even have noticed them. Too, they seemed at a fairly low altitude, approaching parallel to the ground. They might not be more than a few yards height above the walls. At times they were difficult to detect for the mountains behind them.
“They’re coming this way!” said a fellow.
“Go,” said a man to a free woman. “Leave! Get indoors! Get off the terrace!”
I saw a child, with a ball, running toward the balustrade.
“Run!” said a man.
“There is no danger!” said a fellow. “The bars are not sounding!”
“They have to be our lads!” said another. “It is a second pursuit!”
“Disperse! Disperse!” said a guardsman, near the balustrade. “Move! Move!”
The flight did indeed seem to be approaching with great rapidity.
“Go!” said the guardsman. He actually pushed a fellow. That is seldom done with free persons.
If the approaching riders had banners they had not yet unfurled them. To be sure, this is normally done only when recognition is practical, or important. It might be mentioned, too, that the unfurled banner, at high speeds, is difficult to manage. It requires a strong man under such conditions to keep it from being whipped from its boot. It also, because of drag, reduces airspeed. Too, obviously, it handicaps its bearer in combat. His compensation is the banner guard, usually four of his fellows whose duty it is to protect him and the ensign. Actual instructions in flight are usually auditory rather than visual. They tend to be transmitted not by manners, or standards, or even pennons, but by tarn drums, trumpets, and such. Even riderless birds, as I understand it, will often respond to these signals, the charge, the wheel to one attitude or another, the ascent, the dive, the retreat, and such. In measured flight, tarn drums may also supply the cadence for the wing beat.
“Go!” said the guardsman.