by John Norman
“Turn the wagons!” called Kamchak.
Slowly, wagon by wagon, the long columns of the Tuchuk retreat were formed, each wagon in its column, each column in its place, and, covering pasangs of prairie, the march front Turia had begun.
Far beyond the wagons I could see the herds of bosk, and the dust from their hoofs stained the horizon.
Kamchak rose in his stirrups. “The Tuchuks ride from Turia!” he cried.
Rank by rank the warriors on the kaiila, dour, angry, silent, turned their mounts away from the city and slowly went to find their wagons, save for the Hundreds that would flank the withdrawal and form its rear guard.
Kamchak rode his kaiila up the hill until he stood, that cold dawn, at the edge of the burned wood and ashes of Kutaituchik’s wagon. He stayed there for some time, and then turned his mount away, and came slowly down the hill.
Seeing me, he stopped. “I am pleased to see you live,” he said.
I dropped my head, acknowledging the bond he had acknowledged. My heart felt grateful to the stern, fierce warrior, though he had been in the past days harsh and strange, half drunk with hatred for Turia. I did not know if the Kamchak I had known would ever live again. I feared that part of him perhaps that part I had loved best had died the night of the raid, when he had entered the wagon of Kutaituchik.~
Standing at his stirrup I looked up. “Will you leave like this?” I asked. “Is it enough?”
He looked at me, but I could read no expression on his face. “The Tuchuks ride from Turia,” he said. He then rode away, leaving me standing on the hill.
Somewhat to my surprise I had no difficulty the next morning, after the withdrawal of the wagons, in entering the city. Before leaving the wagons I had joined them briefly on their march, long enough to purchase my peddler’s disguise and the pound or so of stones which was to complete it. I purchased these things from the man from whom Kamchak had, on a happier afternoon, obtained a new saddle and set of quivas. I had seen many things in the man’s wagon and I had gathered, correctly it seems, that he was himself a peddler of sorts. I then, on foot, following for a time the tracks of the departing wagons, then departing from them, returned to the vicinity of Turia. I spent the night on the prairie and then, on what would have been the second day of the retreat, entered the city at the eighth hour. My hair was concealed in the hood of a thin, ankle-length rep-cloth garment, a dirty white through which ran flecks of golden thread, a fit garment, in my opinion, for an insignificant merchant. Beneath my garment, concealed, I carried sword and quiva.
I was hardly questioned by guards at the gates of Turia, for the city is a commercial oasis in the plains and during a year hundreds of caravans, not to mention thousands of small merchants, on foot or with a single tharlarion wagon, enter her gates. To my great surprise the gates of Turia stood open after the withdrawal of the wagons and the lifting of the siege. Peasants streamed through them returning to their fields and also hundreds of townsfolk for an outing, some of them to walk even as far as the remains of the old Tuchuk camp, hunting for souvenirs. As I entered I regarded the lofty double gates, and wondered how long it would take to close them.
As I hobbled through the city of Turia, one eye half shut, staring at the street as though I hoped to find a lost copper tarn disk among the stones, I made my way toward the compound of Saphrar of Turia. I was jostled in the crowds, and twice nearly knocked down in the guard of Phanius Turmus, Ubar of Turia.
I was vaguely conscious, from time to time, that I might be followed. I dismissed this possibility, however, for, glancing about, I could find no one I might fear. The only person I saw more than once was a slip of a girl in Robes of Concealment and veil, a market basket on her arm, who the second time passed me, not noticing me. I breathed a sigh of relief. It is a nerve-wracking business, the negotiation of an enemy city, knowing that discovery might bring torture or sudden death, at best perhaps an Impalement by sundown on the city’s walls, a warning to any other who might be similarly tempted to transgress the hospitality of a Gorean city.
I came to the ring of flat, cleared ground, some hundred feet or so wide, which separates the walled compound of buildings which constitutes the House of Saphrar of Turia from all the surrounding structures. I soon learned, to my irritation, that one could not approach the high compound wall more closely than ten spear lengths.
“Get away you!” cried a guard from the wall, with a crossbow. “There is no loitering here”
“But master!” I cried. “I have gems and jewels to show the noble Saphrar!”
“Approach then the nearer gate!” he called. “And state your business.”
I found a rather small gate in the wall, heavily barred, and begged admittance to show my wares to Saphrar. I hoped to be ushered into his presence and then, on the threat of slaying him, secure the golden sphere and a tarn for escape.
To my chagrin I was not admitted into the compound, but my pitiful stock of almost worthless stones was examined outside the gate by a steward in the company of two armed warriors. It took him only a few moments to discover the value of the stones and, when he did, with a cry of disgust, he hurled them away from the gate into the dust, and the two warriors, while I pretended fright and pain, belaboured me with the hilts of their weapons. “Be gone, Fool!” they snarled.
I hobbled after the stones, and fell to my knees in the dust, scrabbling after them, moaning and crying aloud.
I heard the guards laugh.
I had just picked up the last stone and tucked it back in my pouch and was about to rise from my knees when I found myself staring at the high, heavy sandals, almost boots, of a warrior.
“Mercy, Master,” I whined.
“Why are you carrying a sword beneath your robe?” he asked.
I knew the voice. It was that of Kamras of Turia, Champion of the City, whom Kamchak had so sorely bested in the games of Love War.
I lunged forward seizing him by the legs and upended him in the-dust and then leaped to my feet and ran, the hood flying off behind me.
I heard him cry. “Stop that man! Stop him! I know him! He is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba! Stop him!”
I stumbled in the long robe of the merchant and cursed and leaped up and ran again. The bolt of a crossbow splattered into a brick wall on my right, gouging a cupful of masonry loose in chips and dust.
I darted down a narrow street. I could hear someone, probably Kamras, and then one or two others running after me. Then I heard a girl cry out, and scream, and two men curse. I glanced behind me to see that the girl who carried the market basket had inadvertently fallen in front of the warriors. She was crying angrily at them and waving her broken basket. They pushed her rudely to one side and-hurried on. By that time I had rounded a corner and leaped to a window, pulled myself up to the next window, and hauled myself up again and onto the flat roof of a shop. I heard the running feet of the two warriors, and then of six more men, pass in the street below. Then some children, screaming, ran after the soldiers. I heard some speculative conversation in the street below, between two or three passers-by, then it seemed quiet.
I lay there scarcely daring to breathe. The sun on the flat roof was hot. I counted five Gorean Ehn, or minutes. Then I decided I had better move across the roofs in the opposite direction, find a sheltered roof, stay there until nightfall and then perhaps try to leave the city. I might go after the wagons, which would be moving slowly, obtain the tarn I had left with them, and then return on tarnback to Saphrar’s house. It would be extremely dangerous, of course, to leave the city in the near future. Certainly word would be at the gates to watch for me. I had entered Turia easily. I did not expect I would leave as easily as I had entered. But how could I stay in the city until vigilance at the gates might be relaxed, perhaps three or four days from now? Every guardsman in Turia would be on the lookout for Tarl Cabot, who unfortunately, was not difficult to recognize.
About this time I heard someone coming along the street whistling a tune. I had heard it. Then
I realized that I had heard it among the wagons of the Tuchuks. It was a Tuchuk tune, a wagon tune, sometimes sung by the girls with the bosk sticks.
I picked up the melody and whistled a few bars, and then the person below joined me and we finished the turn.
Cautiously I poked my head over the edge of the roof. The street was deserted save for a girl, who was standing below, looking up toward the roof. She was dressed in veil and Robes of Concealment. It was she whom I had seen before, when I had thought I might be followed. It was she who had inadvertently detained my pursuers. She carried a broken market basket.
“You make a very poor spy, Tarl Cabot,” she said.
“Dina of Turia!” I cried.
I stayed four days in the rooms above the shop of Dina of Turia. There I dyed my hair black and exchanged the robes of the merchant for the yellow and brown tunic of the Bakers, to which caste her father and two brothers had belonged.
Downstairs the wooden screens that had separated the shop from the street had been splintered apart; the counter had been broken and the ovens ruined, their oval domes shattered, their iron doors twisted from their hinges; even the top stones on tile two grain mills had been thrown to the floor and broken.
At one time, I gathered from Dina, her father’s shop had been the most famed of the baking shops of Turia, most of which are owned by Saphrar of Turia, whose interests range widely, though operated naturally, as Gorean custom would require, by members of the Caste of Bakers. Her father had refused to sell the shop to Saphrar’s agents, and take his employment under the merchant. Shortly thereafter some seven or eight ruffians, armed with clubs and iron ban, had attacked the shop, destroying its equipment. In attempting to defend against this attack both her father and her two older brothers had been beaten to death. Her mother had died shortly thereafter of shock. Dina had lived for a time on the savings of the family, but had then taken them, sewn in the lining of her roles, and purchased a place on a caravan wagon bound for Ar, which caravan had been ambushed by Kassars, in which raid she herself, of course, had fallen into their hands.
“Would you not like to hire men and reopen the shop?” I asked.
“I have no money,” she said.
“I have very little,” I said, taking the pouch and spilling the stones in a glittering if not very valuable heap on the small table in her central room.
She laughed and poked through them with her fingers. “I learned something of jewels,” she said, “in the wagons of Albrecht and Kamchak and there is scarcely a silver tarn disk’s worth here.”
“I paid a golden tarn disk for them,” I asserted.
“But to a Tuchuk” she said.
“Yes,” I admitted.
“My dear Tarl Cabot,” she said, “my sweet dear Tarl Cabot.” Then she looked at me and her eyes saddened.
“But,” said she, “even had I the money to reopen the shop it would mean only that the men of Saphrar would come again.”
I was silent. I supposed what she said was true.
“Is there enough there to buy passage to Ar?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “But I would prefer in any case to remain in Turia it is my home.”
“How do you live?” I asked.
“I shop for wealthy women,” said she, “for pastries and tarts and cakes things they will not trust their female slaves to buy.”
In answer to her questions I told her the reason for which I had entered the city to steal an object of value from Saphrar of Turia, which he himself had stolen from the Tuchuks. This pleased her, as I guessed anything would which was contrary to the interests of the Turian merchant, for whom she entertained the greatest hatred.
“Is this truly all you travel” she asked, pointing at the pile of stones.
“Yes,” I said.
“Poor warrior,” said she, her eyes smiling over the veil, “you do not even have enough to pay for the use of a skilled slave girl.”
“That is true,” I admitted.
Slit laughed anti with an easy motion dropped the veil from her face and shook her head, freeing her hair. She held out her hands. “I am only a poor free woman,” said she, “but might I not do?”
I took her hands and drew her to me, and into my arms.
“You are very beautiful, Dina of Turia,” I said to her.
For four days I remained with the girl, and each day, once at noon and once in the evening, we would stroll by one or more of the gates of Turia, to see if the guards might now be less vigilant than they had been the time before. To my disappointment, they continued to check every outgoing person and wagon with great care, demanding proof of identity and business. When there was the least doubt, the individual was detained for interrogation by an officer of the guard. On the other hand I noted, irritably, that incoming individuals and wagons were waved ahead with hardly a glance. Dina and myself attracted little attention from guardsmen or men-
at-arms. My hair was now black; I wore the tunic of the Bakers; and I was accompanied by a woman.
Several times criers had passed through the streets shouting that I was still at large and calling out my description.
Once two guardsmen came to the shop, searching it as I expect most other structures in the city were searched. During this time I climbed out a back window facing another building, and hoisted myself to the flat roof of the shop, returning by the same route when they had gone.
I had, almost from the first in Kamchak’s wagon, been truly fond of Dina, and I think she of me. She was truly a fine, spirited girl, quick-witted, warm-hearted, intelligent and brave. I admired her and feared for her. I knew, though I did not speak of it with her, that she was willingly risking her life to shelter me in her native city. Indeed, it is possible I might have died the first night in Turia had it not been that Dina had seen me, followed me and in my time of need boldly stood forth as my ally. In thinking of her I realized how foolish are certain of the Gorean prejudices with respect to the matter of caste. The Caste of Bakers is not regarded as a high caste, to which one looks for nobility and such; and yet her father and her brothers, outnumbered, had fought and died for their tiny shop; and this courageous girl, with a valour I might not have expected of many warriors, weaponless, alone and friendless, had immediately, asking nothing in return, leaped to my aid, giving me the protection of her home, and her silence, placing at my disposal her knowledge of the city and whatever resources might be hers to command.
When Dina was about her own business, shopping for her clients, usually in the early morning and the late afternoon, I would remain in the rooms above the shop. There I thought long on the matter of the egg of Priest-Kings and the House of Saphrar. In time I would leave the city when I thought it safe and return to the wagons, obtain the tarn and then make a strike for the egg. I did not give myself, however, much hope of success in so desperate a venture. I lived in constant fear that the grey man he with eyes like glass would come to Turia on tarnback and acquire, before I could act, the golden sphere for which so much had been risked, for which apparently more than one man had died.
Sometimes Dina and I, in our walking about the city, would ascend the high walls and look out over the plains.
There was no objection to this on the part of anyone, provided entry into the guard stations was not attempted.
Indeed, the broad walk, some thirty feet wide, within the high walls of Turia, with the view over the plains, is a favourite promenade of Turian couples. During times of danger or siege, of course, none but military personnel or civilian defenders are permitted on the walls.
“You seem troubled, Tarl Cabot,” said Dina, by my side, looking with me out over the prairie.
“It is true, my Dina,” said I.
“You fear the object you seek will leave the city before you can obtain it?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “I fear that.”
“You wish to leave the city tonight?” she asked.
“I think perhaps I shall,” I said.
She
knew as well as I that the guards were still questioning those who would depart from Turia, but she knew too, as I, that each day, each hour, I remained in Turia counted against me.
“It is my hope that you will be successful,” she said.
I put my arm about her and together we looked out over the parapet.
“Look,” I said, “there comes a single merchant wagon it must be safe now on the plains.”
“The Tuchuks are gone,” she said. And she added, “I shall miss you, Tarl Cabot.”
“I shall miss you, too, my Dina of Turia,” I told her.
In no hurry to depart from the wall, we stood together there. It was shortly before the tenth Gorean hour, or noon of the Gorean day.
We stood on the wall near the main gate of Turia, through which I had entered the city some four days ago, the morning after the departure of the Tuchuk wagons for the pastures this side of the Ta-Thassa Mountains, beyond which lay the vast, gleaming Thassa itself.
I watched the merchant wagon, large and heavy, wide, with planked sides painted alternately white and gold, covered with a white and gold rain canvas. It was drawn not by the draft tharlarion like most merchant wagons but, like some, by four brown bosk.
“How will you leave the city?” asked Dina.
“By rope,” I said. “And on foot.”
She leaned over the parapet, looking sceptically down at the stones some hundred feet below.
“It will take time,” she said, “and the walls are patrolled closely after sundown, and lit by torches.” She looked at me.
“And you will be on foot,” she said. “You know we have hunting sleen in Turia?”
“Yes,” I said, “I know.”
“It is unfortunate,” she said, “that you do not have a swift kaiila and then you might, in-broad daylight, hurtle past the guards and make your way into the prairie.”
“Even could I steal a kaiila or tharlarion,” I said, “there are tarnsmen.”