by John Norman
Then we sat there together for a time, not speaking further, he eating, I watching while he cut and chewed the meat that was his supper. There was a fire nearby, but it was not his fire. The wagon over his head was not his wagon. There was no kaiila tethered at hand. As far as I could gather Harold had little more than the clothes on his back, a boskhide robe, his weapons and his supper.
“You will be slain in Turia,” said Harold, finishing his meat and wiping his mouth in Tuchuk fashion on the back of his right sleeve.
“Perhaps,” I admitted.
“You do riot even know how to enter the city,” he said.
“That is true,” I admitted.
“I can enter Turia when I wish,” he said. “I know a way.”
“Perhaps,” I suggested, “I might accompany you.”
“Perhaps,” he granted, carefully wiping the quiva on the back of his left sleeve.
“When are you going to Turia?” I asked.
“Tonight,” he said.
I looked at him. “Why have you not gone before?” I asked.
He smiled. “Kamchak,” he said, “told me to wait for you.”
Chapter 16
I FIND THE GOLDEN SPHERE
It was not a pleasant path to Turia that Harold the Tuchuk showed to me, but I followed him.
“Can you swim?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. Then I inquired, “How is it that you, a Tuchuk, can swim?” I knew few Tuchuks could, though some had learned in the Cartius.
“I learned in Turia,” said Harold, “in the public baths where I was once a slave.”
The baths of Turia were said to be second only to those of Ar in their luxury, the number of their pools, their temperatures, the scents and oils.
“Each night the baths were emptied and cleaned and I was one of many who attended to this task,” he said. “I was only six years of age when I was taken to Turia, and I did not escape the city for eleven years.” He smiled. “I cost my master only eleven copper tarn disks,” he said, “and so I think he had no reason to be ill satisfied with his investment.”
“Are the girls who attend to the baths during the day as beautiful as it is said?” I inquired. The bath girls of Turia are almost as famous as those of Ar.
“Perhaps,” he said, “I never saw them during the day I and the other male slaves were chained in a darkened chamber that we might sleep and preserve our strength for the work of the night.” Then he added, “Sometimes one of the girls, to discipline her, would be thrown amongst us but we had no way of knowing if she were beautiful or not.”
“How is it,” I asked, “that you managed to escape?”
“At night, when cleaning the pools, we would be unchained, in order to protect the chain from dampness and rust we were then only roped together by the neck, I had not been put on the rope until the age of fourteen, at which time I suppose my master adjudged it wise prior to that I had been free a bit to sport in the pools before they were drained and sometimes to run errands for the Master of the Baths it was during those years that I learned how to swim and also became familiar with the streets of Turia one night in my seventeenth year I found myself last man on the rope and I chewed through it and ran, I hid by seizing a well rope and descending to the waters below there was movement in the water at the foot of the well and I dove to the bottom and found a cleft, through which I swam underwater and emerged in a shallow pool, the well’s feed basin I again swam underwater and this time emerged in a rocky tunnel, through which flowed an underground stream fortunately in most places there were a few inches between the level of the water and the roof of the tunnel it was very long, I followed it.”
“And where did you follow it to?” I asked.
“Here,” said Harold, pointing to a cut between two rocks, only about eight inches wide, through which from some underground source a flow of water was emerging, entering and adding to the small stream at which, some four pasangs from the wagons, Aphris and Elizabeth had often drawn water for the wagon bosk.
Not speaking further, Harold, a quiva in his teeth, a rope and hook on his belt, squeezed through and disappeared. I followed him, armed with quiva and sword.
I do not much care to recall that journey. I am a strong swimmer but it seemed we must confront and conquer the steady press of flowing water for pasangs and indeed we did so. At last, at a given point in the tunnel, Harold disappeared beneath the surface and I followed him. Gasping, we emerged in the tiny basin area fed by the underground stream. Here, Harold disappeared again under the water and once more I followed him. After what seemed to me an uncomfortably long moment we emerged again, this time at the bottom of a tile-lined well. It was a rather wide well, perhaps about fifteen feet in width. A foot or so above the surface hung a huge, heavy drum, now tipped on its side. It would contain literally hundreds of gallons-of water when filled. Two ropes led to the drum, a small rope to control its filling, and a large one to support it; the large rope, incidentally, has a core of chain; the rope itself, existing primarily to protect the chain, is treated with a waterproof glue made from the skins, bones and hoofs of bosk, secured by trade with the Wagon Peoples. Even so the rope and chain must be replaced twice a year. I judged that the top of the well might lie eight or nine hundred feet above us.
I heard Harold’s voice in the darkness, sounding hollow against the tiled walls and over the water. “The tiles must be periodically inspected,” he said, “and for this purpose there are foot knots in the rope.”
I breathed a sigh of relief. It is one thing to descend a long rope and quite another, even in the lesser gravity of Gor, to climb one particularly one as long as that which I now saw dimly above me.
The foot knots were done with subsidiary rope but worked into the fibre of the main rope and glued over so as to be almost one with it. They were spaced about every ten feet on the rope. Still, even resting periodically, the climb was an exhausting one. More disturbing to me was the prospect of bringing the golden sphere down the rope and under the water and through the underground stream to the place where we had embarked on this adventure. Also, I was not clear how Harold, supposing him to be successful in his shopping amongst the ferns and flowers of Saphrar’s Pleasure Gardens, intended to conduct his squirming prize along this unscenic, difficult and improbable route.
Being an inquisitive chap, I asked him about it, some two or three hundred feet up the rope “In escaping,” he informed me, “we shall steal two tarns and make away.”
“I am pleased to see,” I said, “that you have a plan.”
“Of course,” he said, “I am Tuchuk.”
“Have you ever ridden a tarn before?” I asked him.
“No,” he said, still climbing somewhere above me.
“Then how do you expect to do soy” I inquired, hauling myself up after him.
“You are a tarnsman, are you not?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Very well,” said he, “you will teach me.”
“It is said,” I muttered, “that the tarn knows who is a tarnsman and who is not and that it slays him who is not.”
“Then,” said Harold, “I must deceive it.”
“How do you expect to do that?” I asked.
“It will be easy,” said Harold. “I am a Tuchuk.”
I considered lowering myself down the rope and returning to the wagons for a bottle of Paga. Surely tomorrow would be as propitious a day as any for my mission. Yet I did not care to pursue again that underground stream nor, particularly, on some new trip to Turia, to swim once more against it. It is one thing to roll about in a public bath or splash about in some pool or stream, but quite another to struggle for pasangs against a current in a tunnel channel with only a few inches between the water and the roof of the tunnel.-
“It should be worth the Courage Scar,” said Harold from above, “don’t you thinly so?”
“What?” I asked.
“Stealing a wench from the House of Saphrar and returning on a stol
en tarn.”
“Undoubtedly,” I grumbled. I found myself wondering if the Tuchuks had an Idiocy Scar. If so, I might have nominated the young man hoisting himself up the rope above me as a candidate for the distinction.
Yet, in spite of my better judgment, I found myself somehow admiring the confident young fellow.
I suspected that if anyone could manage the madness on his mind it would surely be he, or someone such as he, someone quite as courageous, or daft.
On the other hand, I reminded myself, my own probabilities of success and survival were hardly better and here I was, his critic climbing up the drum rope, wet, cold, puking, a stranger to the city of Turia, intending to Steal an object the egg of Priest-Kings which was undoubtedly, by now, as well guarded as the Home Stone of the city itself. I decided that I would nominate both Harold and myself for an Idiocy Scar and let the Tuchuks take their pick.
It was with a feeling of relief that I finally got my arm over the crossbar of the windlass and drew myself up. Harold bad already taken up a position, looking about, near the edge of the well. The Turian wells, incidentally, have no raised wall, but are, save for a rim of about two inches in height, flat with the level. I joined Harold. We were in an inclosed well yard, surrounded by walls of about sixteen feet in height, with a defender’s catwalk about the inside. The walls provide a means for defending the water and also, of course, considering the number of wells in the city, some of which, by the way, are fed by springs, provide a number of defensible enclaves should portions of the city fall into enemy hands. There was an archway leading from the circular well yard, and the two halts of the timbered, arched gate were swung back and fastened on both sides. It was necessary only to walk through the archway and find ourselves on one of the streets of Turia. I had not expected the entry to the city to be so easy so to speak.
“The last time I was here,” said Harold, “was over five years ago.”
“Is it far to the House of Saphrar?” I asked.
“Rather far,” he said. “But the streets are dark.”
“Good,” I said. “Let us be on our way.” I was chilly in the spring night and my clothes, of course, were soaked. Harold did not seem to notice or mind this inconvenience. The Tuchuks, to my irritation, tended on the whole not to notice or mind such things. I was pleased the streets were dark and that the way was long.
“The darkness,” I said, “will conceal somewhat the wetness of our garments and by the time we arrive we may be rather dry.”
“Of course,” said Harold. “That was part of my plan.”
“Oh,” I said.
“On the other hand,” said Harold, “I might like to stop by the baths.”
“They are closed at this hour, are they not?” I asked.
“No,” said he, “not until the twentieth hour.” That was midnight of the Gorean day.
“Why do you wish to stop by the baths?” I asked.
“I was never a customer,” he said, “and I often wondered like yourself apparently if the bath girls of Turia are as lovely as it is said.”
“That is all well and good,” I said, “but I think it would be better to strike out for the House of Saphrar.”
“If you wish,” said Harold. “After all, I can always visit I the baths after we take the city.”
“Take the city?” I asked.
“Of course,” said Harold.
“Look,” I said to him, “the bosk are already moving away the wagons will withdraw in the morning. The siege is over. Kamchak is giving up.”
Harold smiled. He looked at me. “Oh, yes,” he said.
“But,” I said, “if you like I will pay your way to the baths.”
“We could always wager,” he suggested.
“No,” I said firmly, “let me pay.”
“If you wish,” he said.
I told myself it might be better, even, to come to the House of Saphrar late, rather than possibly before the twentieth hour. In the meantime it seemed reasonable to while away some time and the baths of Turia seemed as good a place as any to do so.
Arm in arm, Harold and I strode under the archway leading from the well yard.
We had scarcely cleared the portal and set foot in the street when we heard a swift rustle of heavy wire and, startled, looking up, saw the steel net descend on us.
Immediately we heard the sound of several men leaping down to the street and the draw cords on the wire net probably of the sort often used for snaring sleen began to tighten. Neither Harold nor myself could move an arm or hand and, locked in the net, we stood like fools until a guardsman kicked the feet out from under us and we rolled, entrapped in the wire, at his feet.
“Two fish from the well,” said a voice.
“This means, of course,” said another voice, “that others know of the well.”
“We shall double the guard,” said a third voice.
“What shall we do with them?” asked yet another man.
“Take them to the House of Saphrar,” said the first man.
I twisted around as well as I could. “Was this,” I asked Harold, “a part of your plan?”
He grinned, pressing against the net, trying its strength.
“No,” he said.
I, too, tried the net. The thick woven wire held well.
Harold and I had been fastened in a Turian slave bar, a metal bar with a collar at each end and, behind the collar, manacles which fasten the prisoner’s hands behind his neck.
We knelt before a low dais, covered with rugs and cushions, on which reclined Saphrar of Turia. The merchant wore his pleasure Robes of white and gold and his sandals, too, were of white leather bound with golden straps. His toenails, as well as the nails of his hands, were carmine in colour. His small, fat hands moved with delight as he observed us. The golden drops above his eyes rose and fell. He was smiling and I could see the tips of the golden teeth which I had first noticed on the night of the banquet.
Beside him, on each side, cross-legged, sat a warrior. The warrior on his right wore a robe, much as one might when emerging from the baths. His head was covered by a hood, such as is worn by members of the Clan of Torturers. He was toying with a Paravaci quiva. I recognized him, somehow in the build and the way he held his body. It was he who had hurled the quiva at me among the wagons, who would have been my assassin save for the sudden flicker of a shadow on a lacquered board. On the left of Saphrar there sat another warrior, in the leather of a tarnsman, save that he wore a jewelled belt, and about his neck, set with diamonds, there hung a worn tarn disk from the city of Ar.
Beside him there rested, lying on the dais, spear, helmet and shield.
“I am pleased that you have chosen to visit us, Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,” said Saphrar. “We expected that you would soon try, but we did not know that you knew of the Passage Well.”
Through the metal bar I felt a reaction on the part of Harold. He had apparently when fleeing years ago, stumbled on a route in and out of the city which had not been unknown to certain of the Turians. I recalled that the Turians, because of the baths, are almost all swimmers.
The fact that the man with the Paravaci quiva wore the robe now seemed to be significant.
“Our friend,” said Saphrar, gesturing to his right, “with the hood preceded you tonight in the Passage Well. Since we have been in touch with him and have informed him of the well, we deemed it wise to mount a guard nearby fortunately, as it seems.”
“Who is the traitor to the Wagon Peoples?” asked Harold.
The man in the hood stiffened.
“Of course,” said Harold, “I see now the quiva he is Paravaci, naturally.”
The man’s hand went white on the quiva, and I feared he might leap to his feet and thrust the quiva to its hilt in the breast of the Tuchuk youth.
“I have often wondered,” said Harold, “where the Paravaci obtained their riches.”
With a cry of rage the hooded figure leaped to his feet, quiva raised.
“Please,”
said Saphrar, lifting his small fat hand. “Let there be no ill will among friends.”
Trembling with rage, the hooded figure resumed his place on the dais.
The other warrior, a strong, gaunt man, scarred across the left cheekbone, with shrewd, dark eyes, said nothing, but watched us, considering us, as a warrior considers an enemy.
“I would introduce our hooded friend,” explained Saphrar, “but even I do not know his name nor face only that he stands high among the Paravaci and accordingly has been of great use to me.”
“I know him in a way,” I said. “He followed me in the camp of the Tuchuks and tried to kill me.”
“I trust,” said Saphrar, “that we shall have better fortune.”
I said nothing.
“Are you truly of the Clan of Torturers?” asked Harold of the hooded man.
“You shall find out,” he said.
“Do you think,” asked Harold, “you will be able to make me cry for mercy?”
“If I choose,” said the man.
“Would you care to wager?” asked Harold.
The man leaned forward and hissed. “Tuchuk sleen!”
“May I introduce,” inquired Saphrar, “Ha-Keel of Port Kar, chief of the mercenary tarnsmen.”
“Is it known to Saphrar,” I inquired, “that you have received gold from the Tuchuks?”
“Of course,” said Ha-Keel.
“You think perhaps,” said Saphrar, chuckling, “that I might object and that thus you might sow discord amongst us, your enemies. But know, Tarl Cabot, that I am a merchant and understand men and the meaning of gold, I no more object to Ha-Keel dealing with Tuchuks than I would to the fact that water freezes and fire burns and that no one ever leaves the Yellow Pool of Turia alive.”
I did not follow the reference to the Yellow Pool of Turia.
I glanced, however, at Harold, and it seemed he had suddenly paled.
“How is it,” I asked, “that Ha-Keel of Port Kar wears about his neck a tarn disk from the city of Ar?”
“I was once of Ar,” said scarred Ha-Keel. “Indeed, I can remember you, though as Tarl of Bristol, from the siege of Ar.”