Murphy himself needed no disguise, being a familiar figure there. For more than twenty years he had pestered ocean voyagers, exerting microscopic pressure—a tankard of hilk was all it usually required—to get the sailors to tell their sea stories. Always he listened for news about Tissathi, the “Misplaced Continent”. Always he was disappointed.
He would not be disappointed tonight.
“The Elephant & Donkey!” he repeated as we neared the tavern. It looked to me like any other slime-covered pile of stone this planet had to offer. The only difference was the dirty gray waves lapping at its foundation. The agent paid our fare. We ducked from the leaking canopy into the dripping shadows of the tavern’s eaves, then went inside.
The aristocratic Geydes was definitely out of place. Noise of the rain was suddenly replaced by shouting, laughing men, the roar of a dozen fires, the clash of a thousand (or so it sounded) tankards of dark, evil-smelling hilk. In a corner sat a sailor, rags wrapped about his eyes, torturing a musical contraption that was half bellows, half keyboard.
Beneath our feet, the floor consisted of a heavy metal grating. I suppose it saved management the trouble of cleaning up after spilled drinks or customers who had one hilk too many. From the looks of the place, they invested their savings elsewhere. Below, waves rolled from one end of the crowded room to the other. Scattered about, seafaring men gambled, drank, sang along with the blind musician, or paid their disrespects to the wenches bringing drinks. The smells of tar, of hilk, mingled with that of the sea, not as unpleasantly as the words suggest.
Captain B’garthy was unmistakable, a tall, trimly-built individual with close-cropped gray hair, he had the hearty look of a middle-aged athlete. He held court at a big corner table strewn with tankards of hilk, maps, weapons, a scattering of coins. A woman sat on each of his knees, skirts hitched up to show their legs. B’garthy paid his real attention, however, to a miserable little fellow standing opposite the table.
“An’ what have ye t’say fer yerself, young Chrissie Hockins?”
Stooped over, miserable with terror, Hockins twisted his knitted cap in trembling hands. He shifted nervously from one foot to the other.
“I didn’t mean nothin’ by it, Cap’n, I swear!”
A great roar went up from B’garthy’s tablemates, a threatening-looking collection of peg-legs, eye-patches, dire hooks in place of hands.
“He didn’t mean nothin’ by it, says he! Hawr! Hawr! Hawr!”
“Now, calm yerselves, bhoys,” replied an unruffled B’garthy, once the raucous piratical laughter had died a bit. “Mehinks we’ll hear him out.”
“Then we’ll keel-haul the little bilge-rat, right, Cap’n? Hawr! Hawr!”
Hockins features did, indeed, remind me of a sneaky little rodent of some kind. He even had a ratty mustache. His pointy nose quivered. He twisted his knit cap again, a tear squeezing out from beneath each eyelid. For the first time, I suddenly noticed a dozen or more obvious—angry—non-sailors gathered behind the Captain in the shadowy corner.
“Awrr, Cap’n,” Hockins pleaded. “These be only landlubbers an’ feather merchants as I was kypin’ from. That don’t hardly count, do it?”
There came no immediate reply. B’garthy’s sudden silence was contagious. Conversation ceased. Even the blind accordion-player stopped. For once there was no braying chorus from the Captain’s table.
Then: “By all the saints, you little barnacle, I orta let these here landsmen hang ye after all! A theft is a theft, Chrissie Hockins, be it from lubbers or yer mates. Fer that matter, ye were stealin’ from yer mates, in a manner of speakin’—now these worthies’ll have yet another reason t’be seein’ all us seafarin’ folk as untrustworthy dogs, an’ every bit of it’ll be yer fault. Now what have ye t’say t’that?”
Amazingly, Hockins stood up straighter, a look of defiance on his weaselly face. “Cap’n, I was not alone, pinchin’ them chickens. ’Twas both of the Edwards twins helped as me out. If I hang, they orta hang, too!”
B’garthy snorted: “Misery loves its company, don’t it?”
There was a general round of “Arrrh!” from his table companions.
“All right, then,” the Captain said. “Here be punishment—an’ the same fer Glarg an’ Graid Edwards, do they confess. Do they not, then these townies can have ’em—draw, quarter, hang, stab, shoot an’ burn ’em. An’ Afdiar hisself have mercy on their non-existent souls!”
The captain took a swig of hilk, clearing his throat judicially: “Ye shall go about the town, Christopher Hockins, in every street an’ alleyway, an’ no umbrelly. There shall ye shout twice in every block ‘I am a liar an’ a thief an’ a betrayer of me friends’, an’ this ye shall do until we raise anchor from this port, pausin’ only fer bread an’ water an’ two hours’ sleep each night. In addition, ye shall pay back the chickens ye stole, an’ at the rate we been takin’ loot, lately, ye’ll be at it ’til ye’ve a long gray beard. I’ll not ask ye what ye say t’that, for ye well know the alternative. Can ye read an’ write?”
“Aye, Cap’n, after a fashion,” Hockins gulped, fear and confusion flitting across his rat face, mixed with the first faint touches of hope.
“Very well: four hours’ sleep shall ye have, an’ a spare hour t’write ‘I shall never initiate force again’ a thousand an’ one times. The chickens’ll come outa ship’s expenses. Dismissed. See to ’im, Sharkey!”
A grim-looking figure rose from the table, possessing as many missing parts as the rest of the Captain’s messmates combined, “Aye, Cap’n darlin’, I’d be most delighted. Come, lad, ye’ve yer work cut out.”
Caught in the middle of thanking B’garthy profusely, Hockins cringed, was taken by the collar by the unshaven officer, then led away.
The music started again. Soon the room was back to its familiar uproar. “Uberd! Uberd B’goverd! An’ if it ain’t Johd-Beydard Geydes hisself, come aslummin’! Sit ye down here, ye old philosophizers! What think ye gentles of the disgustin’ly enlightened sentence I’ve just passed?”
We squeezed through to B’garthy’s table. Murphy shook the gray Captain’s hand. “Ah, ‘twas a fine upstandin’ thing ye did, Yewjeed, a fine upstandin’ thing. Sounds like ye been listenin’ t’somebody we know.”
B’garthy winked at Geydes. “Aye, we’ve both accepted yer damnable Non-Aggression Principle. ’Tis no man’s right to inititiate force against another human bein’ fer any reason. Though it’s cut that deep into me privateerin’ income. But ’tis the one code fittin’ sea-rovers like us. An’ ’twill add to our wealth immeasurably in the long run, I trow.”
“That it will, Yewjeed, virtue bein’ its own punishment, to the contrary nonwithstandin’. An’ I’m here to add a pinch more, if ye be willin’.”
“Virtue or punishment, Uberd?”
Murphy grinned, removing a long, rolled-up section of yellowed parchment from under his cloak. He added it to the pile on the Captain’s table. “’Tis a map, me friend, of the Misplaced Continent, Tissathi.”
Raucous laughter circled around the table. B’garthy slapped the other parchments lying there with a hard hand. Flagons jumped, slopping hilk over the scrolls. “Scrounge around in these a while, old dog. Ye’ll find another dozen claimin’ exactly the same. Hilk for me mates!” the man shouted into the air. “Ye never outgrow yer need fer hilk!”
A tired-looking young woman with large breasts, exposed for the most part by her barmaid’s costume, brought the drinks to the table. Murphy took a long draught, looking at me expectantly. I gulped, but I had thought in advance to disguise that reflex with a big swallow of brew.
“Ye will find no such a map in yon haystack, Yer Worship.” I said as I had been coached. I still had not gotten the hang of the accent. Now I had to control my stomach as I spoke: hilk did not agree with me.
“It is indeed a chart of the Misplaced Continent—though she be misplaced no longer—as I should know who has lately been there hisself.”
There were only two decent-sized landmasses on the entire planet, both of them straddling the equator, at opposite ends of the globe. We had examined the ancient spherical colonizing vessel left in orbit, identical to the one that circled Vespucci. The first arrivals to Afdiar had mapped the world, intending to land in the more hospitable place. Something had gone wrong. Now, sunk into a barbarism they were only just (excruciatingly slowly) climbing out of, their “Misplaced Continent, Where It Only Rained Occasionally”, had become a fantastic legend.
B’garthy laughed uproariously. “Tisathee, the land of hilk an’ money, is it? Well, say on, then, m’lad, I’m in sore need of a tall tale.”
Tall was the word: the map had started as an orbital photo of the other side of Afdiar, altered to look hand-drawn. There were details of closer islands already half explored which only a sailor would know.
The old pirate was impressed.
“Yewjeed, I’ve a plan,” offered B’goverd. “Ye say yerself that yer privateerin’ days’re over. Explore these coasts, take with ye only those as accept the Principle. Johd-Beydard’ll sign on. Build a city, a nation, free of Queens an’ rules an’ regulations, an’ repel all boarders!”
“A dream,” sighed Yewjeed B’garthy, “An impossible dream.”
“More than that, my friend.” He looked directly at me: “There are cures, me bhoy, both individual an’ otherwise, for the authoritarian personality. But because the problem’s rooted in the evolution of the species, none simple or easy. Birth by low-trauma methods lower the temptation t’use the repressive mechanism that fatal first time. Derepressive therapy can undo damage an’ raise resistance, as does use of natural derepressives: vitamin B6, REM, communication with the unborn ...”
B’garthy smiled at me as if he were perfectly used to outbursts like this from his old friend Uberd. All of this talk about ethics bothered me, however. Aboard ship, I had seen people practicing jailbreaks for Sodde Lydfe, rehearsing assassinations, preparing bombs, planning to wreck monetary systems, encourage the growth of black markets. The object, I had been told, was to minimize disorder or loss of life, to leave the surviving real economies intact, while utterly destroying the governments that had fed off them. This was supposed to be a good thing, the absolute right of any being anywhere to undertake. I wondered if B’garthy would still be smiling if he knew.
“Electronic cerebrocortical Implants,” added Rogers, “provide users with a warning that their repression ‘circuits’ have been stimulated.”
“What we’re tryin’ t’do,” said Murphy, “is abolish any opportunity t’ gain power an’ avoid circumstances where folks seek others t’rule ’em.”
He hefted a pouch. It was the remainder of the fortune he had not given to Geydes. “I think me that this’ll outfit such a voyage, Yewjeed.”
Geydes raised the ante, plopping a similar bag on the table.
B’garthy’s eyes lit. “An’ will ye an’ Dorrie be comin’?”
The agent shook his head. “Ye’ll need fresh recruits t’replace us. Somebody t’stay here, teachin’ an’ writin’, sendin’ more pioneers t’Tisathee.”
“All right, then by Afdiar’s two-wheeled chariot, I’ll think on it, my—”
“Whaddyou shay aboud Afdiar anna Gweed?”
A drunken individual wearing a food-stained uniform had passed by our table several times, the last nearly stumbling across it. Now he stood with both hands planted on his hips, challenging anyone else to speak.
I looked over at Geydes. “Your noble friends, the police.”
Geydes looked at the cop, opened his mouth, “Officer—”
Casually, the police officer backhanded the aristocrat across the mouth, drawing blood. Then he raised his staff, brandishing it at the rest of us. “Thaddle do it! Resistin’ arrest! I’m runnin the lotta you in!”
Geydes hit him in his swollen stomach with a tankard.
Snatching up the precious map, the bag of money that went with it, Murphy rose while B’garthy overturned the enormous table. Wishing for the pistol I had not brought with me, my hand went instead for my sword-hilt.
Another hand fell over mine.
“Unnecessary, son,” said the pirate. “Just go have yerself a grand time.”
He smacked another constable over the head with his own flagon, ducked a flying chair, then plunged with a
whoop!
into the melee that had spread away from us in circles. The accordion-player did not miss a beat, simply speeded up the tempo, getting into the spirit of things.
I felt another hand, this time on my shoulder, turned—
Whaaack!
—wound up on the gridded floor, rubbing an aching jaw. A huge civilian stood over me for some unfathomable reason, both his fists raised.
“Hey, get up an’ fight like a man!”
I kicked him in the kneecap, heard the cartilage crumble in a satisfactory manner. When he had sunk, screaming, to my level, I let him have a straight shot with my hardest knuckles, right in the nose. He fell over onto his face. I stood, trod over the man’s body, found another person sneaking up on Geydes (who was punching the bartender) from behind. Picking up a chair, I lifted it overhead, took careful aim—
“Hey!”
—it was snatched out of my hands. I whirled. There behind me stood another policeman, hanging grimly onto the business end of my chair.
“Naughty, naughty, little sailor bhoy. That there’s our fine, proud City Councilman G’neezovig, don’t you know. Now come along quiet—Ungh!”
I hit him in the nose while his hands were full. It felt so good I did it again. He fell backward, over someone crawling on the floor. I repossessed the chair—Geydes had finished his debate with the city councilman using a broken bottle—so I used it to hold off a trio of Udobian Navy swabbies who had joined the fun while I watched Redhawk Gonzales.