e other slaves nor Ch'aka.
The dots expanded and became another row of marchers, apparently
absorbed in the same task as Jason's group. They plodded forward,
making a slow examination of the sand, followed behind by the solitary
figure of their master. The two lines slowly approached each other,
paralleling the shore.

Near the dunes was a crude mound of stones and the line of walking
slaves stopped as soon as they reached it, dropping with satisfied
grunts onto the sand. The cairn was obviously a border marker and
Ch'aka walked to it and rested his foot on one of the stones, watching
while the other line of slaves approached. They, too, stopped at the
cairn and settled to the ground: both groups stared with dull-eyed
lack of interest and only the slave-masters showed any animation. The
other master stopped a good ten paces before he reached Ch'aka and
waved an evil looking stone hammer over his head.

"Hate you, Ch'aka!" he roared.

"Hate you, Fasimba!" boomed back the answer.

The exchange was as formal as a _pas de deux_ and just about as
warlike. Both men shook their weapons and shouted a few insults, then
settled down to a quiet conversation. Fasimba was garbed in the same
type of hideous and fear-inspiring outfit as Ch'aka, differing only in
unimportant details. Instead of a conch, his head was encased in the
skull of one of the amphibious _rosmaroj_, brightened up with some
extra tusks and horns. The differences between the two men were all
minor, and mostly a matter of decoration or variation of weapon
design. They were obviously slave masters and equals.

"Killed a _rosmaro_ today, second time in ten days," Ch'aka said.

"You got a good piece coast. Plenty _rosmaroj_. Where the two slaves
you owe me?"

"I owe you two slaves?"

"You owe me two slaves, don't play like stupid. I got the iron arrows
for you from the D'zertanoj, one slave you paid with died. You still
owe other one."

"I got two slaves for you. I got two slaves more I pulled out of the
ocean."

"You got a good piece coast."

Ch'aka walked down his line of slaves until he came to the over-bold
one he had half-crippled with a kick the day before. Pulling him to
his feet he booted him towards the other mob.

"Here's a good one," he said, delivering the goods with a last parting
kick.

"Look skinny. Not too good."

"No, all muscles. Works hard. Doesn't eat much."

"You're a liar!"

"Hate you, Fasimba!"

"Hate you, Ch'aka! Where'