by John Norman
“Down!” cried Harold, and I fell to the floor barely sensible of the silverish quiva of the Paravaci speeding overhead. I took the attack of the second guardsman by rolling on my back and flinging up my blade in defence. Four times he struck and each time I parried and then I had regained my feet. He fell back from my blade, turned once and fell into the glistening, living liquid of the Yellow Pool of Turia.
I spun to face the Paravaci but he, weaponless, with a curse, turned and from the room.
From the breast of the first guardsman I removed the quiva, wiping it on his tunic.
I stepped to Harold and with one motion severed the bonds that constrained him.
“Not badly done for a Koroban,” he granted.
We heard running feet approaching, those of several men, the clank of arms, the high-pitched, enraged screaming of Saphrar of Turia.
“Hurry!” I cried.
Together we ran ate-out the perimeter of the pool until we came to a tangle of vines depending from the ceiling, up which we climbed, broke through the blue substance, and cast wildly about for an avenue of escape. There would be such, for the ceiling had been unbroken by a door or panel, and there must surely be some provision for the rearrangement and replacement of energy bulbs. We quickly found the exit, though it was only a panel some two feet by two feet, of a size for slaves to crawl through. It was locked but we kicked it open, splintering the bolt from the wood, and emerged on a narrow, unrailed balcony.
I had the guardsman’s sword and my quiva, Harold his quiva alone.
He had, running swiftly, climbed up the outside of a dome concentric to the one below, and was there looking about.
“There it is!” he cried.
“What?” I demanded. “Tarns! Kaiila!”
“No,” he cried, “Saphrar’s Pleasure Gardens!” and disappeared down the other side of the dome.
“Come back!” I cried.
But he was gone.
Angry, I sped about the dome, not wishing to silhouette myself against the sky on its curve, lest there be enemy bowmen within range.
About a hundred and fifty yards away, over several small roofs and domes, all within the vast compound that was the House of Saphrar of Turia, I saw the high walls of what was undoubtedly a Pleasure Garden. I could see, here and there, on the inside, the tops of graceful flower trees.
-I could also see Harold bounding along, from roof to roof, in the light of the three moons.
Furious I followed him.
Could I have but put my hands on him at the time I might have wrung a Tuchuk neck.
I now saw him leap to the wall and, scarcely looking about, run along and then leap to the swaying trunk of one of the flower trees and descend swiftly into the darkness of the gardens.
In a moment I followed him.
Chapter 19
HAROLD FINDS A WENCH
I had no difficulty finding Harold. Indeed, coming down the segmented trunk of the dower tree, I almost landed on top of him. He was sitting with his back to the tree, puffing, resting.
“I have formed a plan,” he said to me.
“That is good news indeed,” I responded. “Does it include some provision for escaping?”
“I have not yet formed that part of it,” he admitted.
I leaned back against the tree, breathing heavily. “Would it not have been a good idea to reach the streets immediately?” I asked.
“The streets will be searched,” puffed Harold, “Immediately by all the guardsmen and men-at-arms in the city.” He took two or three deep breaths. “It will never occur to them to search the Pleasure Gardens,” he said. “Only fools would try to hide there.”
I closed my eyes briefly. I felt ready to concede his last point.
“You are aware, of course,” I mentioned, “that the Pleasure Gardens of so rich a man as Saphrar of Turia may contain a large number of female slaves not all of whom might be trusted to keep silent and some of whom will undoubtedly notice something as unusual as two strange warriors wandering about among the shrubs and ferns?”
“That is true,” said Harold, “but I do not expect to be here by morning.” He picked up a stalk of a patch of violet grass, one of several hues used in such gardens, and began to chew on it. “I think,” said he, “an hour or so will be sufficient perhaps less.”
“Sufficient for what?” I asked.
“For tarnsmen to be called in to aid in the search,” he said. “Their movements will undoubtedly be coordinated in the house of Saphrar and some tarns and their riders, if only messengers or officers will surely be available.”
Suddenly there seemed to me a real possibility in Harold’s plan. Undoubtedly tarnsmen, mounted, would come from time to time during the night to the House of Saphrar.
“You are clever,” I said.
“Of course,” he said, “I am a Tuchuk.”
“But I thought you told me,” I said, “that your plan did not yet contain a provision for escape.”
“At the time,” he said, “it did not but while sitting here I formed it.”
“Well,” I said, “I am glad.”
“Something always comes to me,” he said. “I am a Tuchuk.”
“What do you suggest we do now?” I asked.
“For the time,” said Harold, “let us rest.”
“Very well,” I said.
And so we sat with our backs against the flower tree in the House of Saphrar, merchant of Turia. I looked at the lovely, dangling loops of interwoven blossoms which hung from the curved branches of the tree. I knew that the clusters of flowers which, cluster upon cluster, graced those linear, hanging stems, would each be a bouquet in itself, for the trees are so bred that the clustered flowers emerge in subtle, delicate patterns of shades and hues. Besides several of the flower trees there were also some Ka-la-na trees, or the yellow wine trees of Gor; there was one large-bunked, reddish Tur tree, about which curled its assemblage of Tur-Pah, a vine like tree parasite with curled, scarlet, ovate leaves, rather lovely to look upon; the leaves of the Tur-Pah incidentally are edible and figure in certain Gorean dishes, such as sullage, a kind of soup; long ago, I had heard, a Tur tree was found on the prairie, near a spring, planted perhaps long before by someone who passed by; it was from that Tur tree that the city of Turia took its name; there was also, at one side of the garden, against the far wall, a grove of em-wood, linear, black, supple. Besides the trees there were numerous shrubs and plantings, almost all flowered, sometimes fantastically; among the trees and the coloured grasses there wound curved, shaded walks. Here and there I could hear the Rowing of water, from miniature artificial waterfalls and fountains. From where I sat I could see two lovely pools, in which lotus like plants floated; one of the pools was large enough for swimming; the other, I supposed, was stocked with tiny, bright fish from the various seas and lakes of Gor.
Then I became aware of the flickerings and reflections of light from over the wall, against some of the higher buildings about. I also heard the running of feet, the sound of arms. I could hear someone shouting. Then the noise, the light, passed.
“I have rested,” said Harold.
“Good,” I said.
“Now,” said he, looking about, “I must find myself a wench.”
“A wench!” I cried, almost a shout.
“Shhhh,” said he, cautioning me to silence.
“Have we not enough troubles?” I inquired.
“Why do you think I came to Turia?” he asked.
“For a wench,” I said.
“Certainly,” said he, “and I do not intend to depart without one.”
I gritted my teeth. “Well,” I said, “I am sure there are many about.”
“Doubtless,” said Harold, getting to his feet, as though he must now be back to work.
I, too, got to my feet.
He had no binding fibre, no slave hood, no tarn. Yet this absence of equipment did not deter him, nor did he seem to regard his deprivations in these particulars as worthy of not
e.
“It may take a moment to pick out one I like,” he apologized.
“That is all right,” I assured him, “take your time.”
I then followed Harold along one of the smooth, stone paths leading among the trees, brushing our way through the clusters of blossoms, skirting the edge of the nearer blue pool. I could see the three moons of Gor rejected in its surface. They were beautiful shining among the green and white blossoms on the water.
The masses of flowers and vegetation in Saphrar’s Pleasure Gardens filled the air with mingled, heavy sweet fragrances.
Also the fountains had been scented and the pools.
Harold left the walk and stepped carefully to avoid trampling a patch of talenders, a delicate yellow flower, often associated in the Gorean mind with love and beauty. He made his way across some dark blue and yellowish orange grass and came to the buildings set against one wall of the gardens. Here we climbed several low, broad marble steps and passed down a columned porch and entered the central building, finding ourselves in a dim, lamp-lit hall, bestrewn with carpets and cushions and decorated, here and there, with carved, reticulated white screening.
There were seven or eight girls, clad in Pleasure Silks, sleeping in this hall, scattered about, curled up on cushions.
Harold inspected them, but did not seem satisfied. I looked them over nod would have thought that any one of them would have been a prize, presuming it could be safely transported somehow to the wagons of the Tuchuks. One poor girl slept naked on the tiles by the fountain. About her neck was a thick metal collar to which a heavy iron chain had been fastened; the chain itself was attached to a large iron ring placed in the floor. I supposed she was being disciplined.
I immediately began to worry that that girl would be the one who would strike Harold’s eye. To my relief, he examined her briefly and passed on.
Soon Harold had left the central hall and was making his way down a long, carpeted, lamp-hung corridor. He entered various rooms off this corridor and, after, I suppose, inspecting their contents, always emerged and trekked off again.
We then examined other corridors and other rooms, and finally returned to the main hall and started off down another way, again encountering corridors and rooms; this we did four times, until we were moving down one of the last corridors, leading from one of the five main corridors off the central hall. I had not kept count but we must have passed by more than seven or eight hundred girls, and still, among all these riches of Saphrar, he could not seem to find the one for which he searched. Several times, one girl or another, would roll over or shift in her sleep, or throw out an arm, and my heart would nearly stop, but none of the wenches awakened and we would troop on to the next room.
-At last we came to a largish room, but much smaller than the main hall, in which there were some seventeen beauties strewn about, all in Pleasure Silk. The light in the room was furnished by a single tharlarion-oil lamp which hung from the ceiling. It was carpeted by a large red rug on which were several cushions of different colours, mostly yellows and oranges. There was no fountain in the room but, against one wall, there were some low tables with fruits and drinks upon them. Harold looked the girls over and then he went to the low table and poured himself a drink, Ka-la-na wine by the smell of it. He then picked up a juicy, red larma fruit, biting into it with a sound that seemed partly crunching as he went through the shell, partly squishing as he bit into the fleshy, segmented endocarp. He seemed to make a great deal of noise. Although one or two of the girls stirred uneasily, none, to my relief, awakened.
Harold was now fishing about, still chewing on the fruit, in a wooden chest at one end of the table. He drew out of the chest some four silken scarves, after rejecting since others which did not sufficiently please him.
Then he stood up and went to where one of the girls lay curled on the thick red carpet.
“I rather like this one,” he said, taking a bite out of the fruit, spitting some seeds to the rug.
She wore yellow Pleasure Silk, and, beneath her long black hair, on her throat, I glimpsed a silverish Turian collar. She lay with her knees drawn up and her head resting on her left elbow. Her skin colour was tarnish, not too unlike the girl I had seen from Port Karl I bent more closely. She was a beauty, and the diaphanous Pleasure Silk that was the only garment permitted her did not, by design, conceal her charms. Then, startled, as she moved her head a bit, restlessly on the rug, I saw that in her nose was the tiny golden ring of a Tuchuk girl.
“This is the one,” Harold said.
It was, of course, Hereena, she of the First Wagon.
Harold tossed the emptied, collapsed shell of the larma fruit into a corner of the room and whipped one of the scarves from his belt.
He then gave the girl a short, swift kick, not to hurt her, but simply, rather rudely, to startle her awake.
“On your feet, Slave Girl,” he said.
Hereena struggled to her feet, her trend down, but Harold had stepped behind her, pulling her wrists blind her back and tying then with the scarf in his hand.
“What is it?” she asked.
“You are being abducted,” Harold informed her.
The girl’s head flew up and she spun to face him, pulling to free herself. When she saw him her eyes were as wide as larma fruit and her mouth flew open.
“It is I,” said Harold, “Harold the Tuchuk.”
“No!” she said. “Not you!”
“Yes,” he said, “I,” turning her about once again, routinely checking the knots that bound her wrists, taking her wrists in his hands, trying to separate them, examining the knots for slippage; there was none. He permitted her to turn and face him again.
“How did you get in here?” she demanded.
“I chanced by,” said Harold.
She was trying to free herself. After an instant she realized that she could not, that she had been bound by a warrior.
Then she acted as though she had not noticed that she had been perfectly secured, that she was his prisoner, the prisoner of Harold of the Tuchuks. She squared her small shoulders and glared up at him.
“What are you doing here?” she demanded.
“Stealing a slave girl,” he said.
“Who?” she asked.
“Oh, come now,” said Harold.
“Not I!” she said.
“Of course,” said he.
“But I am Hereena,” she cried, “of the First Wagon!”
I feared the girl’s voice might awaken the others, but they seemed still to sleep.
“You are only a little Turian slave girl,” said Harold, “who has taken my fancy.”
“Nor” she said.
Then Harold had his hands in her mouth, holding it open.
“See,” he said to me.
I looked. To be sure, there was a slight gap between two of the teeth on the upper right.
Hereena was trying to say something. It is perhaps just as well she could not.
“It is easy to see,” said Harold, “why she was not chosen First Stake.”
Hereena struggled furiously, unable to speak, the young Tuchuk’s hands separating her jaws.
“I have seen kaiila with better teeth,” he said.
Hereena made an angry noise. I hoped that the girl would not burst a blood vessel. Then Harold removed his hands deftly, narrowly missing what would have been a most savage bite.
“Sleen!” she hissed.
“On the other hand,” said Harold, “all things considered, she is a not unattractive little wench.”
“Sleen! Sleen!” cursed the girl.
“I shall enjoy owning you,” said Harold, patting her head.
“Sleep! Sleen! Sleen!” cursed the girl.
Harold turned to me. “She is, is she not all things considered a pretty little wench?” I could not help but regard the angry, collared Hereena, furious in the swirling Pleasure Silk.
“Yes,” I said, “very.”
“Do not fret, little Slave Girl,” sai
d Harold to Hereena.
“You will soon be able to serve me and I shall see that you shall do so superbly.”
Irrationally, like a terrified, vicious little animal, Hereena struggled again to free herself.
Harold stood by, patiently, making no attempt to interfere.
At last, trembling with rage, she approached him, her back to him, holding her wrists to him. “Your jest has gone far enough,” she said. “Free me.”
“No,” said Harold.
“Free me!” commanded the girl.
“No,” said Harold.
She spun to face him again, tears of rage in her eyes.
“No,” said Harold.
She straightened herself. “I will never go with you,” she hissed. “Never! Never! Never!”
“That is interesting,” said Harold. “How do you propose to prevent it?”
“I have a plan,” she said.
“Of course,” he said, “you are Tuchuk.” He looked at her narrowly. “What is your plan?”
“It is a simple one,” she responded.
“Of course,” said Harold, “though you are Tuchuk, you are also female.”
One of Hereena’s eyebrows rose sceptically. “The simplest plans,” she remarked, “are often the best.”
“Upon occasion,” granted Harold. “What is your plan?”
“I shall simply scream,” she said.
Harold thought for a moment. “That is an excellent plan,” he admitted.
“So,” said Hereena, “free me and I will give you ten Ihn to flee for your lives.”
That did not seem to me like much time. The Gorean Ihn, or second, is only a little longer than the Earth second.
Regardless of the standard employed, it was clear that Hereena was not being particularly generous.
“I do not choose to do so,” remarked Harold.
She shrugged. “Very well,” she said.
“I gather you intend to put your plan into effect,” said Harold.
“Yes,” she said.
“Do so,” said Harold.
She looked at him for a moment and then put back her head and sucked in air and then, her mouth open, prepared to utter a wild scream.