by John Norman
"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 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 color. 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 jeweled 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 with the hood," said Saphrar, gesturing to his right, "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."
"It was long ago," I said.
"Your swordplay with Pa-Kur, Master of the Assassins, was superb."
A nod of my head acknowledged his compliment.
"You may ask," said Ha-Keel, "how it is that I, a tarnsman of Ar, ride for merchants and traitors on the southern plains?"
"It saddens me," I said, "that a sword that was once raised in defense of Ar is raised now only by the beck and call of gold."
"About my neck," he said, "you see a golden tarn disk of glorious Ar. I cut a throat for that tarn disk, to buy silks and perfumes for a woman. But she had fled with another. I, hunted, also fled. I followed them and in combat slew the warrior, obtaining my scar. The wench I sold into slavery. I could not return to Glorious Ar." He fingered the tarn disk. "Sometimes," said he, "it seems heavy."
"Ha-Keel," said Saphrar, "wisely went to the city of Port Kar, whose hospitality to such as he is well known. It was there we first met."
"Ha!" cried Ha-Keel. "The little urt was trying to pick my pouch!"
"You were not always a merchant, then?" I asked Saphrar.
"Among friends," said Saphrar, "perhaps we can speak frankly, particularly seeing that the tales we tell will not be retold. You see, I know I can trust you."
"How is that?" I asked.
"Because you are to be slain," he said.
"I see," I said.
"I was once," continued Saphrar, "a perfumer of Tyros—but I one day left the shop it seems inadvertently with some pounds of the nectar of talenders concealed beneath my tunic in a bladder—and for that my ear was notched and I was exiled from the city. I found my way to Port Kar, where I lived unpleasantly for some time on garbage floating in the canals and such other tidbits as I could find about."
"How then are you a rich merchant?" I asked.
"A man met me," said Saphrar, "a tall man—rather dreadful actually—with a face as gray as stone and eyes like glass."
I immediately recalled Elizabeth's description of the man who had examined her for fitness to bear the message collar—on Earth!
"I have never seen that man," said Ha-Keel. "I wish that I might have."
Saphrar shivered. "You are just as well off," he said.
"Your fortunes turned," I said, "when you met that man?"
"Decidedly," he said. "In fact," continued the small merchant, "it was he who arranged my fortunes and sent me, some years ago, to Turia."
"What is your city?" I demanded.
He smiled. "I think—" he said, "Port Kar."
That told me what I wanted to know. Though raised in Tyros and successful in Turia, Saphrar the merchant thought of himself as one of Port Kar. Such a city, I thought, could stain the soul of a man.
"That explains," I said, "how it is that you, though in Turia, can have a galley in Port Kar."
"Of course," said he.
"Also," I cried, suddenly aware, "the rence paper in the message collar, paper from Port Kar!"
"Of course," he said.
"The message was yours," I said.
"The collar was sewn on the girl in this very house," said he, "though the poor thing was anesthetized at the time and unaware of the honor bestowed upon her." Saphrar smiled. "In a way," he said, "it was a waste—I would not have minded keeping her in my Pleasure Gardens as a slave." Saphrar shrugged and spread his hands. "But he would not hear of it—it must be she!"
"Who is 'he'?" I demanded.
"The gray fellow," said Saphrar, "who brought the girl to the city, drugged on tarnback."
"What is his name?" I demanded.
"Always he refused to tell me," said Saphrar.
"What did you call him?" I asked.
"Master," said Saphrar. "He paid well," he added.
"Fat little slave," said Harold.
Saphrar took no offense but arranged his robes and smiled.
"He paid very well," he said.
"Why," I asked, "did he not permit you to keep the girl as a slave?"
"She spoke a barbarous tongue," said Saphrar, "like yourself apparently. The plan was, it seems, that the message would be read, and that the Tuchuks would then use the girl to find you and when they had they would kill you. But they did not do so."
"No," I said.
"It doesn't matter—now," said Saphrar.
I wondered what death he might have in mind for me.
"How was it," I asked, "that you, who had never seen me, knew me and spoke my name at the banquet?"
"You had been well described to me by the gray fellow," said Saphrar. "Also, I was certain there could not have been two among the Tuchuks with hair such as yours."
I bristled slightly. For no rational reason I am sometimes angered when enemies or strangers speak of my hair. I suppose this dates back to my youth when my flaming hair, perhaps a deplorably outrageous red, was the object of dozens of derisive comments, each customarily engendering its own rebuttal, both followed often by a nimble controversy, adjudicated by bare knuckles. I recalled, with a certain amount of satisfaction, even in the House of Saphrar, that I had managed to resolve most of these disputes in my favor. My aunt used to examine my knuckles each evening and when they were skinned—which was not seldom—I trooped away to bed with honor rather than supper.
"It was an amusement on my part," smiled Saphrar, "to speak your name at that time—to see what you would do—to give you something, so to speak, to stir in your wine."
It was a Turian saying. They used wines in which, as a matter of fact, things could be and were, upon occasion, stirred—mostly spices and sugars.
"Let us kill him," said the Paravaci.
"No one has spoken to you, Slave," remarked Harold.
"Let me have this one," begged the Paravaci of Saphrar, pointing the tip of his quiva at Harold.
"Perhaps," said Saphrar. Then the little merchant stood up and clapped his hands twice. From a side, from a portal which had been concealed behind a hanging, two men-at-arms came forth, followed by two others. The first two carried a platform, draped in purple. On this platform, nestled in the folds of the purple, I saw the object of my quest—what I had come so far to find—that for which I had risked and, apparently, lost my life—the golden sphere.
It was clearly an egg. Its longest axis was apparently about eighteen inches. It was, at its widest point, about a foot thick.
"You are cruel to show it to him," said Ha-Keel.
"But he has come so far and risked so much," said Saphrar kindly. "Surely he is entitled to a glimpse of our precious prize."
"Kutaituchik was killed for it," I said.
"Many more than he," said Saphrar, "and perhaps in the end even more will die."
"Do you know what it is?" I asked.
"No," said Saphrar, "but I know it is important to Priest-Kings." He stood up and went to the egg, putting his finger on it. "Why, though," he said, "I have no idea—it is not truly of gold."
"It appears to be an egg," said Ha-Keel.
"Yes," said Saphrar, "whatever it is, it has the shape of an egg."
"Perhaps it is an egg," suggested Ha-Keel.
"Perhaps," admitted Saphrar, "but what would Priest-Kings wish with such an egg?"
"Who knows?" asked Ha-Keel.
"It was this, was it not," asked Saphrar, looking at me, "that you came to Turia to find?"
"Yes," I admitted. "That is what I came to find."
"See how easy it was!" he laughed.
"Yes," I said, "very easy."
Ha-Keel drew his sword. "Let me slay him as befits a warrior," he said.
"No," cried the Paravaci, "let me have him as well as the other."
"No," said Saphrar firmly. "They are both mine."
Ha-Keel angrily rammed his sword back into the sheath. He had clearly wanted to kill me honorably, swiftly. Clearly he had little stomach for whatever games the Paravaci or Saphrar might have in mind. Ha-Keel might have been a cutthroat and a thief but, too, he was of Ar—and a tarnsman.
"You have secured the object," I inquired, "to give it to the gray man?"
/> "Yes," said Saphrar.
"He will then return it to Priest-Kings?" I asked innocently.
"I do not know what he will do with it," said Saphrar. "As long as I receive my gold—and the gold will perhaps make me the richest man on Gor—I do not care."
"If the egg is injured," I said, "the Priest-Kings might be angry."
"For all I know," said Saphrar, "the man is a Priest-King. How else would he dare to use the name of Priest-Kings on the message in the message collar?"
I knew, of course, that the man was not a Priest-King. But I could now see that Saphrar had no idea who he was—or for whom, if anyone, he was working. I was confident that the man was the same as he who had brought Elizabeth Cardwell to this world—he who had seen her in New York and decided she would play her role in his perilous sport—and that thus he had at his disposal an advanced technology—certainly to the level of at least space flight. I did not know, of course, if the technology at his disposal was his own, or that of his kind, or if it were furnished by others—unknown—not seen—who had their own stake in these games of two worlds, perhaps more. He might well be, and I supposed it true, merely an agent—but for whom, or what?—something that would challenge even Priest-Kings—but, it must be, something that feared Priest-Kings, or it would already have struck—this world, or Earth—something that wanted Priest-Kings to die—that the one world, or two, or perhaps even the system of our sun, would be freed for their taking.
"How did the gray man know where the golden sphere was?" I asked.
"He said once," said Saphrar, "that he was told—"
"By whom?" I asked.
"I do not know," said Saphrar.
"You know no more?"
"No," said Saphrar.
I speculated. The Others—those of power, not Priest-Kings, must, to some extent, understand or sense the politics, the needs and policies of the remote denizens of the Sardar—they were probably not altogether unaware of the business of Priest-Kings, particularly not now, following the recent War of Priest-Kings, after which many humans had escaped the Place of Priest-Kings and now wandered free, if scoffed at and scorned for the tales they might bear—possibly from these, or from spies or traitors in the Nest itself, the Others had learned—the Others, I was sure, would neither jeer nor scoff at the stories told by vagabonds of Priest-Kings. They could have learned of the destruction of much of the surveillance equipment of the Sardar, of the substantial reduction in the technological capabilities of Priest-Kings, at least for a short time—and, most importantly, that the War had been fought, in a way, over the succession of dynasties—thus learning that generations of Priest-Kings might be in the offing. If there had been rebels—those wanting a new generation—there must have been the seeds of that generation. But in a Place of Priest-Kings there is only one bearer of young, the Mother, and she had died shortly before the War. Thus, the Others might well infer that there was one, or more, concealed eggs, hidden away, which must now be secured that the new generation might be inaugurated, but hidden away quite possibly not in the Place of Priest-Kings itself, but elsewhere, out of the home of Priest-Kings, beyond even the black Sardar itself. And they might have learned, as well, that I had been in the War of Priest-Kings a lieutenant to Misk, the Fifth Born, Chief of the Rebels, and that I had now made my way to the southern plains, to the land of the Wagon Peoples. It would not then have required great intelligence to suspect that I might have come to fetch the egg or eggs of Priest-Kings.