It was well into the hour of The Crow before Brother Mikal had reached the Pilgrim’s Rest, and his horse was in need of a break. He turned it over to the groom in the stables and entered the inn.
"Welcome, Brother," said the innkeeper. "The roads are crowded with pilgrims today. Still, a little free food and drink is a small price to pay for protection from the demons, eh?"
"My associates have been here, then?"
"You’ll have a long way to go to catch up with them, if that's your intention. They barely stopped for breakfast, and the Master seemed anxious to reach the coast. I suppose their ship is sailing soon. They were clearly foreigners."
"Was it that obvious?"
The innkeeper laughed. "The Master black as soot, with a barbarous accent? I should say it was. And the novices too. One of them had tattoos, I believe, though I didn’t see much of him."
"Well, my Master has a last few messages for them before they set sail for home, and I fear for my backside if I don’t catch them. How many hours lead do they have on me?"
"Let’s see." The innkeeper counted on his fingers. "Crow, Centaur, Wolf. A good three hours back, it was."
"Thank you, Innkeep." Mikal turned to go.
"Well, then, Brother, take a bit of food with you." The innkeeper gave him a loaf with some ham. He fell upon it, surprising himself with his own hunger; then he returned to his mount and set off toward the coast.
The road from the foot of Mount Olympus to the port-city of Nix Olympica had been maintained in good repair by the Brotherhood, and the Earthborn Men were sure to make good speed across the coastal plain. Mikal rode until his mount could run no more, and then he reluctantly stopped to rest at a crossroads. There was a great rock at the side of the road, covered with the graffiti of many passers-by, though one could still read the directions to Nix Olympica, Olympus Mons, Albus, and the Amazonis Coast carved there by the Brotherhood long ago. It was the Hour of the Unicorn now and the sun was setting; the prudent thing to do would be to build a fire and rest for the night, but Mikal was determined to reach Nix Olympica as soon after the Earthborn Men as possible. They could pass relatively unnoticed in a port city, filled with strangers, but there was no telling what trouble they might get into there.
Mikal’s horse began to stamp and shake its head nervously. Mikal pulled it behind him into a thicket and peered out at the road. Bandits were rare in the Olympic Region, so near the monastery, and few would dare to harm a Brother, but it was best to be careful.
Mikal’s hair stood on end and a cold chill crept up his spine as he saw the object moving down the road, hovering a fathom or two above the ground. It moved slowly, as if sniffing out the spoor of its prey--a black winged object, like a huge bat with glowing eyes. It stopped at the crossroads and remained motionless, as if listening. Mikal hardly dared to breathe; he stroked his horse to calm it. One suspicious noise, he knew, and the Morgh vessel would blast the thicket to a pile of smoking ash.
Suddenly a shaft of light came down from heaven and lit up the surrounding countryside as if it were high noon. Mikal could clearly see that the glowing eyes of the bat were really window ports revealing a reddish glow within, and in the bright light he could see the occupants. They were dead. One was a rotting corpse, and the other nearly a skeleton, but their heads moved from side to side as if they could see through the goggles they wore. They looked about, their lifeless gaze passing right over the thicket where Mikal lay concealed. He held his breath, certain that he was about to be scorched into oblivion. One skeletal hand went up to flip some switches over one demon’s head, and the ship began to rise. The light from the heavens winked out and Mikal was left in darkness.
Mikal’s knees went weak. But he shook off his fear, dragged his horse from the thicket and swung up into the saddle. There was no doubt in his mind that the Morgh had been searching for the Earthborn Men. He rode off toward the coast at breakneck speed, urging on his mount, though it needed little encouragement. It seemed to have found enough renewed strength to carry it as far from the area as possible.
***
The great shield of Olympus had finally fallen beyond the horizon when the riders spotted the sprawling port of Nix Olympica. Houses seemed piled on top of each other and hung out over the sea, the masts of sailing ships towered over the rooftops, and the streets were filled with people.
The Earthborn Men attracted less attention than they had feared in the diverse population, featuring peoples from all over the Northern Hemisphere of Mars. Even Doctor Hassan’s height drew little more than the odd glance from the generally tall populace, and many of the sailors in the street were scarified or tattooed, though not as thoroughly as Sanchez. Fedorova, however, was careful to keep her beauty under wraps.
Hassan had found a garment for her which covered all of her body except her eyes. Still, people passing by would stop to gaze into their blue depths and walk on as if stunned.
It fell to the Argonauts to explore the city anonymously and return with their reports. The Earthborn Men rested under an awning, nursing their beers, as Orpheus returned and dropped another sack of coins on the table.
"Where did you get that?" Hassan asked.
"Don’t ask. Same place I got your beer money. Even in this robe, it's proving difficult to unload a bunch of horses with the Brotherhood brand on them. It seems they're supposed to have papers, and I'm supposed to have a ring of some kind. Too bad we didn’t stop to pick up a few shiny bits of the Cheshire Cat. Metal is very valuable here."
"If I could have kept her airborne another few minutes," Sanchez replied, "I might have been able to land safely. There wouldn’t have been any shiny bits."
"Even then, I think repairing her would have been pretty difficult on this world," Hassan said. "And I believe you were ordered to bail out with the rest of us."
Sanchez shrugged. "Jason and I thought it was worth the risk. Anyway, repairing her would have been a damn sight less difficult than what we’re facing now."
Jason appeared and sat down. "There are ships available for hire, and the captains seem very knowledgeable about the sea-routes, but even if we could find someone willing to sail south, it would cost a great deal more than that." He gestured toward Orpheus’ little bag of coins.
"I could have made a small fortune, myself," Atalanta said as she ducked under the tent-flap. "I had plenty of offers. Anything and everything can be obtained here, for a price. But unless we all want to prostitute ourselves or sign onto someone’s private army, I don’t see how we can make enough to live on, let alone hire a ship and crew."
"Perhaps we don’t need a crew," Hassan said.
"Why? Can you sail a ship?"
"Well, yes. On Earth, my family owned a fishing fleet. Only two ships, but a fleet none the less. They were dhows, not so different from most of the ships in this harbour. I took my turn at the helm as a young boy, under supervision of course, but I know how to pilot a ship and patch sails and repair rigging. We have plenty of able-bodied crew among us. Jason knows the stars and Sanchez knows the planet."
"The Mars I knew was an airless desert," Sanchez said. "I recognized the silhouette of Mount Olympus, but aside from that the place is an unknown quantity. There are winds and tides and weather..."
"Winds and tides and weather obey the rules of physics, just as they do on Earth," Hassan said. "All we have to do is figure out the Martian rules. For example, there won't be any tides. The moons are too small."
"Perhaps we should return to the Brotherhood," Jason suggested. "We’re working for the same cause, after all, and they have resources."
"Our relationship didn’t exactly start off well," Sanchez said. "They locked us up, and we stole their horses." She shook her head. "You didn’t see the look in their eyes that I saw. They could hardly wait to start the Inquisition."
"The fewer the people who know about us the better," Hassan said. "I’m not anxious to get involved in any local religious movements. There’s no telling what kind of complications can come from such a thing."
"Well," Orpheus said, "I think it might be a bit more difficult to steal a ship than to steal a few horses. I’m prepared to try it, if you want, but then there are provisions and maps and other things. But I think I know how to make a great deal of money in a short time without prostituting ourselves. At least, not much."
"And how is that?"
"This is a port city. Not so different from the Belter ports I’ve seen. The only industries are shipping, food and drink, sex and gambling. And do you know what they like to gamble on, most of all?"
"No, what?"
"The fights." Orpheus picked up a shoulder-bag and dumped it on the table. "We have at this very table, as superb a collection of fighting slaves as any in this city. But we will need different clothing--these religious robes won’t do--and I’ve already taken the liberty. This is for me, so I’ll look like a prosperous fight-promoter." He pulled a garment from the bag and held it up.
"Nice material," Atalanta said. "What have you got for me?"
"A robe--homespun and plain, but not Brotherhood-issue. And this." He tossed a leather loincloth on the table in front of her.
Atalanta held up the garment--no more than a few scraps of chamois held together by laces. "You must be joking," she said.
***
Jason and Atalanta stepped into the ring. The noise was deafening under the tent-cover--fans shouting encouragement to one team or another, food-vendors hawking their wares, gamblers calling out the odds. Now and then, Jason recognized the voice of Orpheus, speaking in a rapid patter. Across the ring, a young man and woman stepped out onto the sawdust and slipped off their robes. Their nearly naked bodies were powerfully built, with not a gram of fat, and their eyes burned with determination; they were fighting slaves, whose very lives depended on victory.
"Remind me to kill Orpheus if we survive," Atalanta said. She dropped her robe and a sigh of whispers swept through the crowd at her sleek beauty. Jason dropped his own robe, and his taut musculature received a similar tribute. The bruises sustained in the crash of the Cat added to his image as a fighting-slave. The other boy and girl began to slather oil upon each other’s bodies and the crowd fell silent, enjoying the spectacle.
"This is more entertainment than fight, I think," Atalanta growled, but she poured oil on her hands and began to anoint Jason’s body, attracting whoops of approval from the crowd as she dropped to her knees to massage his strong thighs and tight buttocks. He poured a copious amount of oil on his hands and slowly stroked Atalanta’s long legs, taut belly, and high breasts until she glistened with oil. They heard the clack of slapsticks and the four figures began to circle.
Jason and Atalanta had been training to adapt to Terran gravity; their muscles were powerful, but their movements were tentative in the one-third gee of Mars. Their opponents had been born and bred under this gravity and were sure-footed and balanced. Jason could hear the voice of Orpheus and realized the schemer’s plan. The audience was anxious to see the beautiful strangers pinned and writhing under the local heroes, and at first glance they seemed awkward and uncertain. Their superior strength would come into play later, and by that time the odds would be heavily in favour of their opponents.
Suddenly, Jason found himself on the ground. His male opponent had whirled and kicked, his naked foot connecting with Jason’s jaw. Only his lightning reflexes had saved it from dislocation. The boy dove for him and Jason rolled away and leaped to his feet. They circled each other.
Jason found it hard to ignore Atalanta and the other girl, who were struggling together, each unable to get a grip on the other's slippery body. He shook off the distraction and concentrated on his opponent. The boy rushed him and kicked, but Jason was ready this time. He blocked, seized his opponent’s ankle and threw him on his back. Instead of leaping upon him, he waited, dancing just out of range, and as the boy struggled to his feet, Jason leaped in close with his powerful legs, and cracked his opponent across the jaw with his fist. The boy stretched out on the ground, unconscious, and Jason turned to Atalanta.
She planted a tiny naked foot in the other girl’s solar plexus and the unfortunate collapsed. Atalanta brought the heel of her hand up under the girl’s jaw, lifting her off her feet and laying her out in the sawdust. Exhausted and covered with sweat, Jason and Atalanta went to each other, linked hands, and raised their arms high as the crowd roared. Then they stumbled out of the ring.
"I hope you made a bundle," Jason said to Orpheus. "They could have killed us."
"Nonsense. They didn’t have a chance. They were well-trained and experienced, but you kids are naturally graceful and very strong. It had to tell in the end." He put a robe over Atalanta’s shoulders with surprising gentleness. "Now, you two should rest. I’ve put a small fortune on Doctor Hassan. Did you know he boxed in college?"
Jason and Atalanta looked at each other. "I’ve got to see this," Jason said, and they followed Orpheus into the main tent.
Doctor Hassan stepped into the ring and Orpheus removed his robe, having to stand on tiptoe to do it. He looked magnificent in a boxing loin-cloth--tall and black and smooth-muscled. His opponent was much shorter, but powerful, and he bore the scars of many a battle. Their fists were wrapped in leather thongs and the slapsticks clattered.
The antagonists danced into the ring, Hassan’s opponent being careful at first to stay out of the reach of the Doctor’s long arms. But after a few moments he dashed in and landed a quick series of blows upon Hassan’s torso, then danced out of reach again. Doctor Hassan seemed stunned, as if he had not expected to be hit. The betting escalated furiously.
The battle went on, but it was obvious that the good Doctor was outmatched in technique. Jason guessed that the little guy had defeated many a larger opponent by his fleetness of foot. The round ended and the Doctor sat down, looking perplexed. Orpheus massaged his muscles and kept up a patter in his ear until the slapsticks cracked, and then he went off to take more bets.
Hassan received more punishing blows but seemed unable to connect with his wily opponent. His huge arms flailed, and he began to stumble. The opponent became confident and went for the head instead of the body, hoping for a knockout. To do this he had to move in closer. Still the Doctor was unable to get in anything but a glancing blow, which his opponent knew how to take and deflect without serious damage. The round ended with Hassan apparently exhausted and his opponent strutting arrogantly. Jason saw the Doctor glance up at the posturing figure, blood trickling over his brow, sweat pouring off his magnificent body, and he caught a glimpse of something he had never seen in the good Doctor’s face before--anger.
The sticks clacked. Doctor Hassan rose to his feet, strode across the ring, and his huge fist connected with the surprised boxer’s jaw. He spun sideways like a top and collapsed like a rag doll. Hassan stood over him, breast heaving, then suddenly seemed to come to himself and looked about with surprise as the crowd cheered madly. Orpheus hustled him away. Jason and Atalanta ducked back into the side-tent and helped wipe down the doctor.
"I knew there was a killer inside that civilized exterior somewhere," Orpheus said. "I had to trust the other guy wouldn’t be able to do too much damage until the pain brought it out."
Doctor Hassan looked at him with lowered brow, and Orpheus stepped back in fear. Then the Doctor put back his head and roared with laughter. "You’ve been manipulating all of us, haven’t you? Including that crowd out there."
"Oh, the crowd most of all," Orpheus chuckled. And he winked. "You just watch me now."
The roar was deafening as Sanchez stepped into the ring and threw off her cloak with a flourish. Then there was awed silence as she stood in near-naked magnificence, muscles rippling, tattoos dancing all over her body.
"Sanchez has been in a lot of fights," the Doctor said. "And she’s even seen a few professional bouts. She knows what’s expected of her. But I don’t expect anybody to bet against her. I wonder what Orpheus has up his sleeve."
The opponent stepped into the ring. She was an Amazon; she towered over Sanchez and her body was powerful, but she seemed already intimidated. The fight that followed was almost a debacle; Sanchez lit into her, knocked her down, threw her around the ring. The opponent became desperate and aggressive, and fought back fiercely. Finally, one kick landed on Sanchez’ powerful thigh and she collapsed, writhing in apparent pain. A whistle blew, the antagonist stepped back, and officials entered the ring to question Sanchez. She lay on the ground, shaking her head.
Orpheus leaped into the ring and bent over her. She treated him to a volley of Spanish curses, and he replied in what was apparently the same language. Whether he was faking, or Sanchez had told him what to say, Jason did not know.
"Your choices are not good ones," the chief official told Orpheus. The silence in the tent was complete and the entire crowd could hear his words. "You could forfeit the match and your fighter, Sanchez, will go to the owner of the opposing fighter..."
"What?" said Sanchez. "You sonofabitch! You didn’t say I could end up a slave!" She tried to rise, as Orpheus backed away, but she collapsed again.
"Or," the official went on, "you could allow her to continue the match. She will surely lose and may be severely injured."
"Either way I lose a valuable commodity," Orpheus mused.
"You fucking bastard!"
"Or," the official continued, "you could substitute another fighter, if your opponent agrees. This way, you might be able to sacrifice a slave of lesser value, but I don’t see why your opponent would agree to this."
Orpheus seemed to ponder for a moment, wringing his hands. Jason thought he was laying it on a bit thick, but the crowd was eating it up. Contradictory advice rang out from all quarters. Finally, Orpheus said, "I will chose the third option. Fedorova!"
The crowd fell into silent awe as the tall blonde stepped into the ring and delicately dropped her veils. She stood in all her naked glory and every eye was upon her for what seemed like several minutes. The official shook off his reverie and said, "This delicate creature will not last a moment in the ring. You will surely lose her to your opponent."
"But she’s not so great an investment. Beauties can be bought, but good fighters are hard to find. And I suspect my opponent may agree to the substitution."
A man stepped out of the crowd across the ring. His clothing was of the most expensive material, he was covered in jewellery, and a woman only somewhat less beautiful than Fedorova hung on his arm. He shook off her angry grasp and stepped into the ring. He came up and examined Fedorova closely, and she looked into his eyes and smiled, lighting up the room.
"The substitution is acceptable," he said, and left the ring, followed by the officials and Orpheus. The betting instantly went the other way, as no one could imagine Fedorova lasting an entire round with her Amazon antagonist.
The other fighter came forward. She seemed reluctant to injure Federova and at first merely tapped her. Fedorova stumbled, but somehow did not fall. The other fighter kicked, but somehow her foot did not connect with Fedorova’s body. She threw a punch, but it was blocked so effortlessly that the spectators could not understand how it had been done.
Orpheus would take no more bets.
The opponent became angry, frustrated, careless. Fedorova tripped her, almost as if by accident, and she went down. Jason realized that the other woman’s movements would seem to be in slow motion to Fedorova, and thoroughly telegraphed. The slave-owner stalked over to Orpheus and confronted him.
"What is this trick?" he demanded.
"No trick at all. You agreed to the substitution. Isn’t she beautiful? She’s a dancer, you know. Trained on her previous owner’s farm by leaping onto charging bulls."
Fedorova was moving with incredible grace; her opponent was exhausted and clumsy. Sanchez had taken a lot out of her to begin with, and she was now completely demoralized by Fedorova--unable to land any but the most glancing blow, constantly finding herself on the ground for no apparent reason. She finally collapsed and was unable to rise. Orpheus leaped into the pit and lifted Fedorova’s delicate arm.
Pandemonium broke out in the tent. Some in the audience were cheering for the beauty, others crying foul. A knot of angry protestors, including the defeated slave-owner, advanced on Orpheus and his party.
"I’m afraid," Orpheus said, "we may be in for more fighting."
"What do you mean, we?" Sanchez snickered. She was careful to struggle to her feet and lean on Jason, as if injured.
"Stop," said a voice, "in the name of the Brotherhood!"
Brother Mikal pushed his way through the crowd, which fell back in deference to his robes; he looked about in disgust. "What is the nature of this dispute?" he demanded, and then listened quietly as everyone related their story.
"In other words," Brother Mikal said at last, "you agreed to the substitution because you believed, from merely looking at this woman, that she could not win the match, and you wanted her for yourself. Then you were surprised to find that she was stronger and better trained than you thought."
"Well, yes."
"You did not substitute another fighter for your exhausted one for the same reason."
"Yes."
"And Orpheus did not disclose to you the fact that his slave was more than an erotic toy; she was in fact a superbly trained athlete. Was he required to do so? Are any of you required to reveal your fighters’ training and condition to your opponents?"
"No."
"Well, then, you were deceived indeed, but by your own over-confidence, and by your lust. And those of you who lost money on the match have merely suffered from your own lack of imagination. I am directing you to pay your debts honestly, and I am putting these people under my protection. However, all fighting slaves will remain with their owners." He banged his staff on the ground.
As the party set off toward the waterfront, Jason came up beside Brother Mikal. "Thank you for your help, Brother," he said. Mikal turned on him, and on Orpheus and Hassan, his eyes blazing. "You did cheat, however, didn’t you? This woman is no more injured than I am."
"I studied the rules very carefully," Orpheus said, quickly. "They say that I am permitted to substitute one fighter for another for any reason, provided the opposition agrees. I believe the purpose of this rule is to help fighting slaves avoid a battle to the death. I am certain I am not the first person to counsel a fighter to feign injury in the interest of this higher goal. Besides, if you believe what we did was wrong, why did you help us?"
"Because that man is known to the Brotherhood and I know he will hardly miss the money, much of which was stolen in the first place, and both he and the gamblers could do with a hard lesson about now, and because I, too, understand the concept of dissembling in the interest of a higher goal." He turned to Doctor Hassan. "I am not entirely certain of your reasons for being here, but I am certain that I must aid you in any way I can, even if it means sailing into danger."
"How did you know that was our intention?"
"An omen. From the constellation Argo. But that is not important." He pulled some scrolls from his bag. "I have all the maps and charts you will need, and you will find no better navigator than myself. In fact, you will find no one else on Mars prepared to sail into the waters you will need to navigate if you have any hope of accomplishing your task. Nor, I believe, is there anyone else with the barest notion of how you can succeed. In short, I am here because there is simply no alternative."
"And you know the nature of our task?"
"I know it better than you do. Your intention may simply be to return to Earth, but I believe your purpose here is to defeat the Morgh Rajah and free Mars from his tyranny. The fact is: you can’t accomplish the former unless you accomplish the latter." He stopped at the end of the dock. "I believe this is the ship you need."
Hassan glanced up. It was a dhow, beautifully and powerfully built, and covered in fine woodcarving. The mast towered over them, the boom was wrapped in white sailcloth, and the eyes painted on the bow were icy blue, like Fedorova’s. "We shall call her Argo Navis," Brother Mikal said.