The Seascape Tattoo by Larry Niven Page A

to his bedroll. He watched the play of lights, a bit like an electrical storm, just beyond their camp.
    He examined his new tattoos with interest. Fandy watched him.
    â€œThis is a strange feeling.”
    Fandy scrambled closer. “How is it strange, Aros?”
    â€œI’ve traveled. And sometimes I had my flesh paint-pricked to remind myself of a port … or a woman … or even an enemy.”
    â€œAn enemy?” the elf asked.
    Aros nodded. “Yes. I actually tattooed…”
    He paused as Neoloth approached him, eyebrows arched in query.
    Aros shrugged, changing his mind. “Never mind.”
    â€œNo,” Neoloth insisted. “Really.”
    Aros’s eyes narrowed. “No.”
    He stood in the moonlight, looking at the new empty space on his flesh. “You took my scars,” he said.
    â€œYes,” Neoloth agreed. “Yes. Some of them.”
    Aros’s voice lowered until it was nearly gravel. “I want them back.”
    â€œWhen we’re finished,” Neoloth replied. “But I have to ask … why?”
    â€œWho am I without them?”
    A thin thread of wind rustled the leaves. Neoloth sighed. “Who are any of us, without our memories?” He sat next to the fire, gazing into it.
    â€œAros,” Fandy said.
    â€œYes?”
    The elf’s ears twitched, perhaps with the cold. “If you were not your history … who might you choose to be?”
    That might have been the oddest question Aros had ever heard. “I don’t know,” he said. “Why would you even ask such a thing?”
    â€œA prince?” Fandy offered.
    Neoloth watched them both, silent.
    â€œI don’t know,” he repeated.
    â€œThen perhaps you know what you really want from all of this,” Fandy said.
    â€œA man without history has no future,” Aros tried.
    Now, at last, Neoloth spoke. “A man without history is not confined by it.”
    They both turned to look at the wizard. Aros felt both irritated and curious. “What are you running from?”
    â€œLet’s just say that I would like to stop running. And leave it at that.”
    Suddenly, Aros had an inkling. “The princess is your plan?”
    â€œI wouldn’t expect you to understand,” Neoloth said, and turned over onto his side. And was snoring in suspiciously short order.

 
    ELEVEN
    The Troll
    Neoloth awoke so quickly that he heard his own last snore. Awoke realizing that some instinct had functioned where conscious awareness had failed.
    Something hunkered above them, a massive, vaguely man-shaped moon shadow. Larger than twenty men. “Who you?” the shadow said. A round-faced mountain with tree-trunk legs.
    Across the ashes of the dying fire from Neoloth, Aros stirred. “Oh, blood and steel,” he muttered. “I knew this would happen.”
    â€œI hurt,” the ogre said.
    â€œWe haven’t done anything to it,” the barbarian whispered. “What is it talking about?”
    â€œThe beast is tied to the land,” Neoloth whispered back. “When I charged the talisman, I created a void. It feels that void like a gash.”
    â€œIt’s some kind of a watchdog?”
    Before Neoloth could answer, the ogre swung at them. The arm was as massive as a log but thankfully slow enough that even the wizard could duck. Aros dodged even faster, drawing Macuahuitl. He darted in and slashed with the sawtooth edge, but the creature’s shins were covered with matted hair so thick Flaygod couldn’t reach flesh.
    Aros screamed curses to his feathered god.
    Neoloth grabbed the talisman, gripping it in both hands. “Death to the destroyer!”
    Light boiled around the talisman, then lanced out at the ogre, who recoiled violently.
    â€œYes!” Aros screamed.
    Then the talisman flickered, and the light died.
    The ogre’s arms hung at his sides, as limp as half-filled sausage skins. The