[Arry]

Bahir’s toes grasped the thick rope with an accustomed ease. He climbed a little further upwards to a place where he might sit comfortably and watch the troops go ashore. The Captain’s men had left in their usual disorderly fashion. In the tumult of their leaving he noted that all wore a strip of purple cloth affixed to their helms as did the men of Sangahyando’s House. And what did that signify, he wondered, especially since those troops of the other Lord went unadorned. His eyes flashed as Lord Sangalazin’s men came last, well after the others had gone. Tall and shining in their black armor, they marched with precision across the pier in perfect order. Bahir smiled in approval.

Not that he would want or even could be one of those warriors. They were handsome in their tall, northern paleness. He knew though, even if he were of the age to be such a man, he was too much the Southron to fit that role. Still, there were other niches he could fill. He looked down toward the deck, his lip curling at the meanness of his little world. Not for long . . . not for long . . .

As Sangalazin’s troops drew out of sight, Bahir’s consideration turned toward the Lord’s quarters. Some of the guard had been left, he could see. One of the captains and a dozen or so men. There were none, he noted, on that small section of deck just off the quarters where the Lord often took his leisure on fair evenings as he watched the sun set across the sea’s surface. Bahir looked closer at the little piece of sheltered retreat. His dark eyes glinted in a calculating manner at the person who’d just come out the door and was now wrapping himself in a silk coverlet as he lay down on one of the couches.

The blond haired boy! What right had he to be there in such ease and in the midst of such favor and bounty? ‘None!’ Bahir rasped, spitting out the bad taste of his own situation. A thought which had been brewing for some time, since first he’d seen the blond haired Lord’s pet, resolved itself in his mind to action. Were the boy to be gone, there might . . . no, he would see to it there would be . . . room for him to take his place.

-o-o-o-o-

It was not much trouble to ease his slender form over the side of the ship and walk carefully along the lines that looped along the ship’s side. They were docked and the only movement was the gentle pitching of ship in the calm waters near the pier. Then up, like a nimble monkey, to the deck. And a quick look between the railing and the deck edge to see who moved about in Lord Sangalazin’s private retreat. No guards were stationed there, nor in what he could see of the quarters beyond through the open door. And the boy . . . his form was still upon the couch, his head resting on a tasseled pillow.

Bahir slid quietly onto the deck, his eyes and ears alert for any danger. The boy was sleeping; he could hear the soft rhythm of his breath. And peeking over the raised edge of the couch he could see the long blond lashes resting against the pale cheeks. In a quick motion he took off the braided strip of silk cloth that was tied about his turban for ornament. He whispered a few soft words to the boy as he slid his hand beneath the boy’s neck. The boy’s eyes fluttered open, expecting to see his master’s face. With an economy of motion, Bahir was astride him, pinning down the boy’s arms with his knees. His hands pulled the silk braid tightly across the blond boy’s neck, as tightly as he could. The blond boy’s eyes went wide and he struggled briefly; but his fair form was no match for the wiry attacker. His muscles went slack; his chest stilled, no longer drawing breath.

Bahir leaned back, considering his handiwork. Shall I leave him here? It would be amusing to see the Lord berate his men for allowing this to happen. He grinned, thinking of Sangalazin’s cold fury. Oh, better yet! He pursed his lips in thought and nodded at the new idea. Let him be found in the captain’s cabin . . . that should prove an interesting exchange.

He rolled the body in the silk coverlet, knotting the ends, as if it were simply some large, overstuffed sausage. ‘Oof!’ he murmured, slinging the limp form over his shoulder. ‘Too many sweets, my dear. A few more years and you would have run to fat like some greedy, overfed pig.’

-o-o-o-o-

The body was left snug beneath the captain’s quilts, as if the blond boy were sleeping. He’d wrapped the cold fingers of one of the boy’s hands about the neck of a half empty bottle of spirits, moistening the cold lips with some of the alcohol. The silk coverlet was removed, the ends untied, and the whole of it left in a rumpled heap at the end of the captain's bed. Pillows and covers were strewn about on the bed so that the body was not immediately noticeable.

Bahir had entered the quarters with a key he’d fashioned nearly a year ago from some thick wire beguiled from the carpenter’s mate. Bahir had been delivering messages to the captain’s quarters, deemed trustworthy enough to be allowed to do so . . . and he’d taken the key and returned it, but not before a passable likeness had been made.

He looked about the room, noting as his eyes slid past the porthole, that it was nearly time he was to bring the bucket of fresh water and the dipper down to the rowers’ benches. They would be thirsty and he would be missed, reported if he did not show up at his usual time. Bahir slipped out of the captain’s room, locking the door securely behind him. He lowered his eyes as he met one of the Lord’s men near the hatchway going down to the slave deck.

-o-o-o-o-

‘Water!’ he called out as he began his pass down the aisle between the benches. His face was smooth, his hands steady as he dipped the ladle and handed it round to the waiting rowers.