She looked up at me. She shook her head. "You have not been destroyed," said she, "my Ubar."

Angrily I took again my seat on the chair of the oar-master.

"If any has been destroyed," said she, "it was surely I."

"Do not speak foolishly," I commanded her, angrily. "Be silent!"

She dropped her head. "I am at the pleasure of my Ubar," she said.

I was ashamed that I had been brutal with her, but I would not show it. I knew, in my heart, that it had been I, I myself, who had betrayed me, I who had fallen short of the warrior codes, I who had dishonored my own Home Stone, and the blade I bore. It was I who was guilty. Not she. But everything in me cried out to blame some other for the treacheries and the defections that were my own. And surely she had most degraded me of all. Surely, of all, she had been the most cruel, the one before whom I had groveled most slave. It was in my mouth, black and swollen, that she had put the kiss of the Mistress.

I dismissed her from my mind.

Thurnock, the peasant, and Clitus, the fisherman, approached, holding between them Ho-Hak, bound hand and foot, the heavy collar of the galley slave, with its dangling chain, still riveted about his neck.

They placed him on his knees, on the rowing deck, before me.

I removed my helmet.

"I knew it would be you," he said.

I did not speak.

"There were more than a hundred men," said Ho-hak.

"You fought well, Ho-hak," said I, "on the rence island, with only an oar-pole." "Not well enough," said he. He looked up at me, from his bonds. His great ears leaned a bit forward. "Were you alone?" he asked.

"No," I said. I nodded to Telima, who, head down, knelt at the foot of the stairs.

"You did well, Woman," said Ho-Hak.

She lifted her head, tears in her eyes. She smiled at him.

"Why is it," asked Ho-Hak, "that she who aided you kneels bound at your feet?" "I do not trust her," I said, "nor any of you."

"What are you going to do with us?" asked Ho-Hak.

"Do you not fear that I will throw you bound to the tharlarion?" I asked. "No," said Ho-Hak.

"You are a brave man," I said. I admired him, so calm and strong, though before me naked and bound, at my mercy.

Ho-Hak looked up at me. "It is not," he said, "that I am a particularly brave man. It is rather that I know you will not throw me to tharlarion." "How can you know that?" I asked.

"No man who fights a hundred," said he, "with only a girl at his side, could act so."

"I shall sell you all in Port Kar!" I cried.

"Perhaps," said Ho-Hak, "but I do not think so."

"But I have won you and your people, and all these slaves," I told him, "that I might have my vengeance on you, for making me slave, and come rich with cargo to Port Kar!"

"I expect that is not true," said Ho-Hak.

"He did it for Eechius," said Telima.

"Eechius was killed on the island," said Ho-Hak.

"Eechius had given him rence cake when he was bound at the pole," said Telima. "Ti was for him that he did this."

Ho-Hak looked at me. There were tears in his eyes. "I am grateful, Warrior," said he.

I did not understand his emotion.

"Take him away!" I ordered Thurnock and Clitus, and they dragged Ho-Hak from my presence, taking him back somewhere on the second barge, among other bound slaves.

I was angry.

Ho-Hak had not begged for mercy. He had not demeaned himself. He had shown himself a dozen times more man than me.

I hated rencers, and all men, saving perhaps the two who served me. Ho-Hak had been bred a slave, a degraded and distorted exotic, and had served even in the darkness of the stinking rowing holds of cargo vessels of Port Kar, and yet, before me, he had shown himself a dozen times more man than me. I hated him, and rencers.

I looked at the slaves chained at the benches. Any of them, in rags sheared and shackled, beaten and half-starved, was greater than I.

I was no longer worthy of the love of two women I had know, Talena, who had once foolishly consented to be the Free Companion of one now proved to be ignoble and coward, and Vella, Elizabeth Cardwell, once of Earth, who had mistakenly granted her love to one worthy raother only of her contempt and scorn. And, too, I was no longer worthy of the respect of my father, Matthew Cabor, Administrator of Ko-ro-ba, and of my teacher at arms, the Older Tarl, nor of he who had been my small friend, Torm, the Scribe. I could never again face those I had known, Kron of Tharna, Andreas of Tor, Kamchak of the Tuchuks, Relius and Ho-Sorl of Ar, none of them. All would despise me now.

I looked down on Telima.

"What will you do with us, my Ubar?" she asked.

Did she mock me?

"You have taught me," I said, "that I am of Port Kar."

"You have perhaps, my Ubar," said she, "misunderstood the lesson."

"Be silent!" I cried.

She put down her head. "If any here," she said, "is of Port Kar, it is surely Telima."

Furious at her mockerly I leaped from the chair of the oar-master and struck her with the back of my hand, snapping her head to one side.

I felt shamed, agonized, but I would show nothing.

I returned to my seat.

There was a streak of blood across her face where her lip had been cut by her teeth.

She put down her head again. "If any," she whispered, "surely Telima." "Be silent!" I cried.

She looked up. "Telima," she whispered, "is at her Ubar's pleasure." I looked at Thurnock and Clitus.

"I am going to Port Kar," I said.

Thurnock crossed his great arms on his chest, and nodded his head. Clitus, too, gave assent to this.

"You are free men," I said. "You need not accompany me."

"I," said Thurnock, in a booming voice, "would follow you even to the Cities of Dust."

"And I," said Clitus, "I, too."

Thurnock was blue-eyed, Clitus gray-eyed. Thurnock was a huge man, with arms like the oars of the great galleys; Clitus was slighter, but he had been first oar; he would have great strength, beyond what it might seem.

"Build a raft," I said, "large enough for food and water, and more than two men, and what we might find here that we might wish to take with us."

They set about their work.

I sat, alone, on the great chair of the oar-master. I put my head in my hands. I was Ubar here, but I found the throne a bitter one. I would have exchanged it all for Tarl Cabot, the myth, and the dream, that had been taken from me. When I raised my head from my hands I felt hard and cruel.

I was alone, but I had my arm, and its strength, and the Gorean blade. Here, on this wooden land lost in the delta marshes, I was Ubar.

I knew now, as I had not before, what men were. I had in misery learned this in myself. And I now saw myself a fool for having espoused codes, for having set above myself ideals.

What could there be that could stand above the steel blade?

Was not honor a sham, loyalty and courage a deceit, an illusion of the ignorant, a dream of fools?

Was not the only wise man he who observed carefully and when he might took what he could?

The determinants of the wise man could not be such phantoms.

There was only gold, and power, and the bodies of women, and steel. I was a strong man.

I was such that might make a place for himself in a city such as Port Kar. "The raft is ready," said Thurnock, his body gleaming sweat, wiping a great forearm across his face.

"We found food and water," said Clitus, "and some weapons, and gold." "Good," I said.

"There is much rence paper," said Thurnock. "Did you want us to put some on board?"

"No," I said. "I do not want rence paper."

"What of slaves?" asked Thurnock.

I looked to the prow of the first barge, where was bound the lithe, dark-haired beauty, she who had been so marvelously legged in the brief rence tunic. Then I looked to the second prow, and the third, where were tied the large girl, blond and gray-eyed, who had held marsh vine against my arm, and the shorter girl, dark-haired, who had carried a net over her left shoulder. These had danced their insolence, their contempt of me. They had spat upon me, when I had been bound helpless, and then whirled away laughing into the circle of the dance. I laughed.