by John Norman
We rolled in the darkness, fighting on the, floor of the booth. Curios on shelves fell and scattered. I heard men outside. The canvas at the front of the booth was being torn away.
We struggled to our feet, swaying.
He was strong, but I knew myself his master.
I thought him now of the assassins for the trick with the canvas was but a variant of the loosened door trick, left ajar as in flight, a lure to the unwary to plunge in his pursuit into the waiting blade.
He cried out with pain and the knife had fallen. We stumbled, locked together, grappling, to the back of the tenting, and, twisted, tangled in the rent canvas, fell to the outside. A confederate was there waiting and I felt the loop of the garrote drop about my neck. I thrust the man I held from me and spun about, the cord cutting now at the back of my neck. I saw another man, too, in the darkness. The heels of both hands drove upward and the head of the first confederate snapped back. The garrote was loose about my neck. I turned. The first man had fled, and the other with him. A peasant came about the edge of the booth. Two more men looked through the rent canvas, who had climbed over the counter. I dropped the garrote to the ground. “Don’t,” I said to the peasant. “It is already done,” he said, wiping the blade on his tunic. I think the man’s neck had been broken by the blow of my hands under his chin, but he had still been alive. His head now lay half severed, blood on the peasant’s sandals. Gorean men are not patient with such as he. “The other?” asked the peasant. “There were two,” I said. “Both are gone.” I looked into the darkness between the tents.
“Call one of the physicians,” I heard.
“One is coming,” I heard.
These voices came from within the booth.
I bent down and brushed aside the canvas, re-entering the booth. Two men with torches were now there, as well as several others. A man held the merchant in his arms.
I pulled aside his robes. The wounds were grievous, but not mortal.
I looked to the scribe. “You did not well defend your master,” I said.
I recalled he had been standing to one side when I had entered the booth.
“I tried,” said the scribe. He indicated his bleeding face, the cut on his arm. “Then I could not move. I was frightened.” Perhaps, indeed, he had been in shock. His eyes though had not suggested that. He wag not now in shock. Perhaps he had been truly paralyzed with feat. “He had a knife,” pointed out the scribe.
“And your master had none,” said a man.
I returned my attention to the struck merchant. The placement of the wounds I found of interest.
“Will I die?” asked the merchant.
“He who struck you was clumsy,” I said. “You will live.” I then added, “If the bleeding is stopped.”
I stood up.
“For the sake of Priest-Kings,” said the man, “stop the bleeding.”
I regarded the scribe. Others might attend to the work of stanching the flow of blood from the wounds of the merchant.
“Speak to me,” I said.
“We entered the booth and surprised the fellow, surely some thief. He turned upon us and struck us both, my master most grievously.”
“In what was he interested?” I asked. Surely there was little in a shop of curios to interest a thief. Would one risk one’s throat and blood for a toy of wood or an ivory carving?
“In that, and that alone,” said the merchant, pointing to the object which the thief had held, and which he had dropped in our struggle. It lay wrapped in fur on the ground within the booth. Men held cloth against the wounds of the merchant.
“It is worthless,” said the scribe.
“Why would he not have bought it?” asked the merchant. “It is not expensive.”
“Perhaps he did not wish to be identified as he who had made the purchase,” I said, “for then he might be traced by virtue of your recollection to the transaction.”
One of the men in the tent handed me the object, concealed in fur.
A physician entered the booth, with his kit slung over the shoulder of his green robes. He began to attend to the merchant.
“You will live,” he assured the merchant.
I recalled the assailant. I recalled the turning of the blade in his hand. I remembered the coolness of his subterfuge at the back of the booth, waiting beside the rent canvas for me to thrust through it, thus locating myself and exposing myself for the thrust of the knife.
I held the object wrapped in fur in my hands. I did not look at it.
I knew what it would contain.
When the physician had finished the cleansing, chemical sterilization and dressing of the merchant’s, wounds, he left. With him the majority of the watchers withdrew as well. The scribe had paid the physician from a small iron box, taken from a locked trunk; a tarsk bit.
A man had lit the tiny lamp again and set it on a shelf. Then only I remained in the booth with the scribe and merchant. They looked at me.
I still held the object, wrapped in fur, in my hand.
“The trap has failed,” I said.
“Trap?” stammered the scribe.
“You are not of the scribes,” I said. “Look at your hands.” We could hear the flame of the lamp, tiny, soft, in the silence of the tent.
His hands were larger than those of the scribe, and scarred and roughened. The fingers were short. There was no stain of ink about the tips of the index and second finger.
“Surely you jest,” said the fellow in the robe of the scribe.
I indicated the merchant. “Consider his wounds,” I said. “The man I fought was a master, a trained killer, either of the warriors or of the assassins. He struck him as he wished, not to kill but in the feigning of a mortal attack.”
“You said he was clumsy,” said the fellow in the scribe’s blue.
“Forgive my colleague,” said the merchant. “He is dull. He did not detect that you spoke in irony.”
“You work for Kurii,” I said.
“Only for one,” said the merchant.
I slowly unwrapped the object in my hands, moving the fur softly aside.
It was a carving, rather roundish, some two pounds in weight, in bluish stone, done in the manner of the red hunters, a carving of the head of a beast. It was, of course, a carving of the head of a great Kur. Its realism was frightening, to the suggestion of the shaggy hair, the withdrawn lips, exposing fangs, the eyes. The left ear of the beast, as indicated with the patient fidelity of the red hunter, was half torn away.
“Greetings from Zarendargar,” said the merchant.
“He awaits you,” said the man in blue, “—at the world’s end.”
Of course, I thought. Kurii do not care for water. For them, not of Gorean background, the world’s end could mean only one of the poles.
“He said the trap would fail,” said the merchant. “He was right.”
“So, too,” I said, “did the earlier trap, that of the sleen.”
“Zarendargar had naught to do with that,” said the merchant.
“He disapproved of it,” said the fellow in the robes of the scribe.
“He did not wish to he cheated of meeting you,” said the merchant. “He was pleased that it failed.”
“There are tensions in the Kurii high command,” I said.
“Yes,” said the merchant.
“But you,” I said, “work only for Zarendargar?”
“Yes,” said the merchant. “He will have it no other way. He must have his own men.”
“The assailant and his confederates?” I asked.
“They are in a separate chain of command,” said the merchant, “one emanating from the ships, one to which Zarendargar is subordinate.”
“I see,” I said.
I lifted the carving.
“You had this carving,” I asked, “from a red hunter, a bare-chested fellow, with rope and bow about his shoulders?”
“Yes,” said the merchant. “But he had it from another. He was told to bring it t
o us, that we would buy it.”
“Of course,” I said. “Thus, if the trap failed, I would supposedly detect nothing. You would then give me this carving, in gratitude for having driven away your assailant. I, seeing it, would understand its significance, and hurry to the north, thinking to take Half-Ear unsuspecting.”
“Yes,” said the merchant.
“But he would be waiting for me,” I said.
“Yes,” said the merchant.
“There is one part of this plan, however,” I said, “which you have not fathomed.”
“What is that?’ asked the merchant. Momentarily he gritted his teeth, in pain from his wounds.
“It was the intention of Half-Ear,” I said, “that I understand full well, and with no possible mistake, that I would be expected.”
The merchant looked puzzled.
“Else,” I said, “he would have given orders for both of you to be slain.”
They looked at one another, frightened. The fellow with whom I had grappled, who had called himself Bertram of Lydius, would have been fully capable of dispatching them both with ease.
“That would have put the badge of authenticity on the supposedly accidental discovery of the carving,” I said.
They looked at one another.
“That you were not killed by one of the skill of the assailant,” I said, “makes clear to a warrior’s eye that you were not intended to die. And why not? Because you were confederates of Kurii. A twofold plan is thus manifested, a trap and a lure, but a lure which is obvious and explicit, not so much a lure as an invitation.” I looked at them. “I accept the invitation,” I said.
“Are you not going to kill us?” asked the merchant.
I went to the counter and thrust back the canvas. I slipped over the counter, feet first, and then turned to regard them.
I lifted the carving, which I had rewrapped in its fur. “I may have this?” I asked.
“It is for you,” said the merchant.
“Are you not going to kill us?” asked the fellow in blue.
“No,” I said.
They looked at me.
“You are only messengers,” I said. “And you have done your work well.” I threw them two golden tarn disks. I grinned at them. “Besides,” I said, “violence is not permitted at the fair.”
5. I Take My Departure From The House Of Samos
“The game,” I said, “was an excellent one.”
Samos rose to his feet, storming with rage. “While you sported at the fair,” said he, “here in Port Kar catastrophe has struck!”
I had seen the flames in the arsenal as I had returned on tarn from the perimeters of the Sardar.
“He was mad,” I said. “You know this to be true.”
“Only he could have so approached the ship, only he could have done this!” cried Samos.
“Perhaps he was not satisfied with the design,” I suggested. “Perhaps he feared to paint the eyes, perhaps he feared to commit his dream to the realities of Thassa.”
Samos sat down, cross-legged, behind the low table in his hall. He wept. He struck the table with his fist.
“Are you sure it was he?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Samos, bitterly. “It was indeed he.”
“But why?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said Samos. “I do not know.”
“Where is he now?” I asked.
“He has disappeared,” said Samos. “Doubtless he has thrown himself into the canals.”
“It meant so much to him,” I said. “I do not understand it. There is a mystery here.”
“He took a fee from Kurii agents,” said Samos.
“No,” I said. “Gold could not buy dreams from Tersites.”
“The ship,” said Samos, “is destroyed.”
“What remains?” I asked.
“Ashes,” said he, “blackened timbers,”
“And the plans?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he, “the plans.”
I nodded. “Then it might be rebuilt,” I said.
“You must take the Dorna,” said he, “or the Tesephone.”
“It makes little sense to me,” said I, “that Tersites would fire the ship.”
“It is the end of our hopes,” said Samos, “to meet Half-Eat at the world’s end.”
“I have spoken to you of that matter,” I said.
“Yes,” said Samos, bitterly, “I have seen your carving. Can you not recognize that as a ruse to mislead you northward, while Kurii pursue unimpeded their fierce schemes at the world’s end?”
“Perhaps,” I said. “But I sense that there is an honesty in this, as of the cruel sport of war. I think I sense the nature and being of this Zarendargar.”
“Kurii,” said Samos, “are without honor.”
“There is a brotherhood of professional soldiers,” I said, “which I suspect crosses the boundaries of species.”
“We have only one choice,” said Samos. “You must take another ship, the Dorna or the Tesephone, or you may take my flagship, the Thassa Ubara.”
“But there is little hope,” I smiled, “that such ships may reach the world’s end.”
“None have hitherto done so, or have done so and returned,” said Samos. He looked at me. “I do not, of course, command that you undertake such a journey.”
I nodded.
No sane leader could command this of a subordinate. A journey so far and terrible could be undertaken by none but volunteers.
“I am sorry about the ship,” I said, “and I do not understand what has happened there, but I had previously determined, my dear Samos, that in any case I would venture not to the west but the north.”
Samos looked at me, angrily.
“I hope, of course,” said I, “to discover one day what occurred in the arsenal.”
“I can command you,” said Samos, “as one loyal to Priest-Kings, to remain in Port Kar.”
“I am in my way a mercenary,” I said. “I command myself. I choose my wars. I choose my loyalties.”
“Would you betray Priest-Kings?” asked Samos.
“I will keep faith with them in my own way,” I said.
“I order you to remain in Port Kar,” said Samos, coldly.
I smiled at him. “That is an order you have no authority to issue,” I told him. “I am a free soldier.”
“You are a brigand and an adventurer!” he cried,
“I am curious to see the north,” I said.
“The ship may have been destroyed by Tersites, in fee to Kurii,” snapped Samos, “precisely to prevent you from reaching the world’s end!”
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
“That is where Zarendargar waits for you!” said Samos.
“We think of the world’s end as lying betwixt Tyros and Cos, at the end of a hundred horizons,” I said, “but who knows where a Kur would see it to be.” I rose to my feet and strode to the map mosaic on the floor of the great hall. I pointed downwards. “There,” I said, “may well be what a Kur regards as the world’s end.” I indicated the frozen north, the polar sea, the ice of the lonely pole. “Is that not a world’s end?” I asked.
“Only red hunters can live in such a place,” whispered Samos.
“And Kurii?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“And perhaps others?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“It is my belief,” I said, “that Zarendargar waits in the north.”
“No,” said Samos. “The carving is a trick, to lure you away from the locus of their true efforts, those at the true world’s end, there.” He indicated the western edge of the map, the terra incognita beyond Cos and Tyros, and the scattered, farther islands.
“A judgment must be made here,” I said. “And I have made it.”
“I will make the judgment,” said Samos. “I am commanding you to remain in Port Kar.”
“But I am not under your command,” I pointed out. “I am a free captain. Appr
ise yourself of the articles of the Council of Captains.”
I turned and strode to the door.
“Stop him,” said Samos.
The two guards, their spears crossed, barred my way. I turned to regard Samos.
“I am sorry, my friend,” he said. “You are too valuable to risk in the north.”
“Am I to understand,” I asked, “that it is your intention to prevent me by force from leaving your house?”
“I will cheerfully accept your word,” said he, “that you will remain in Port Kar.”
“I do not, of course, accord you that word,” I grinned.
“Then I must detain you by force,” he said. “I am sorry. I will see that your accommodations are in keeping with your station as a captain.”
“I trust,” I said, “you can make clear the benevolence of your intentions to my men.”
“If the house is stormed,” said Samos, “my defenses will be found to be in order. It would be my hope, however, that you would not see fit, under the circumstances, to encourage useless strife. We are both, surely, fond of our men.”
“To be sure,” I said, “I expect they could find better things to do than die on your walls.”
“I ask only your word, Captain,” said Samos.
“It seems I have little choice,” I said.
“Forgive me, Captain,” said Samos.
I turned and seized the crossed spears of the guards, twisting and pulling them toward me, flinging them, they surprised, not swiftly enough releasing the weapons, to the tiles.
“Stop!” cried Samos.
I slipped through the door and, with one of the spears, which I had retained, sliding the shaft through the great handles, closed the door. Instantly they were pounding on it. I seized the mallet of an alarm bar which hung in the hail, and began to pound it madly. It served to drown out the noise. Men’s feet began to pound in the halls; I heard the clank of weapons. I hurried down the hall and struck another alarm bar.
A guardsman appeared. “There!” I cried. “In the great hall! Hurry!”
Four more guards appeared.