Nomads of Gor

by John Norman

  "I suppose not," said Harold.

  "I'm sorry," I said.

  "But you still do not understand?"

  "No," I admitted.

  "Poor Koroban," he muttered. Then he got up, wiped his quiva on his left sleeve, and thrust it in his belt.

  "Where are you going?" I asked.

  "To my wagon," he said. "It arrived with the bosk along with better than two hundred other wagons today—including yours."

  I propped myself up on one elbow. "I do not have a wagon," I said.

  "But of course you do," he said. "And so do I."

  I merely looked at him, wondering if it were merely Harold the Tuchuk at work again.

  "I am serious," he averred. "The night that you and I departed for Turia, Kamchak ordered a wagon prepared for each of us—to reward us."

  I remembered that night—the long swim against the underground current, the well, our capture, the Yellow Pool of Turia, the Pleasure Gardens, the tarns—and escape.

  "At that time, of course," said Harold, "our wagons were not painted red, nor filled with booty and rich things, for we were not then commanders."

  "But to reward us for what?" I asked.

  "For courage," said he.

  "Just that?" I asked.

  "But for what else?" asked Harold.

  "For success," I said. "You were successful. You did what you set out to do. I did not. I failed. I did not obtain the golden sphere."

  "But the golden sphere is worthless," said Harold. "Kamchak has said so."

  "He does not know its value," I said.

  Harold shrugged. "Perhaps," he said.

  "So you see," I said, "I was not successful."

  "But you were successful," insisted Harold.

  "How is that?" I asked.

  "To a Tuchuk," said Harold, "success is courage—that is the important thing—courage itself—even if all else fails—that is success."

  "I see," I said.

  "There is something here I think you do not realize," said Harold.

  "What is that?" I asked.

  He paused. "That in entering Turia—and escaping as we did—even bringing tarns to the camp—we—the two of us—won the Courage Scar."

  I was silent. Then I looked at him. "But," I said, "you do not wear the scar."

  "It would have been rather difficult to get near the gates of Turia for a fellow wearing the Courage Scar, would it not?"

  "Indeed it would," I laughed.

  "When I have time," said Harold, "I will call one from the clan of Scarers and have the scar affixed. It will make me look even more handsome."

  I smiled.

  "Perhaps you would like me to call him for you as well?" inquired Harold.

  "No," I said.

  "It might take attention away from your hair," he mentioned.

  "No, thank you," I said.

  "All right," said Harold, "it is well known you are only a Koroban, and not a Tuchuk." But then he added, soberly, "But you wear the Courage Scar for what you did—not all men who wear the Courage Scar do so visibly."

  I did not speak.

  "Well," said Harold, "I am tired—and I am going to my wagon—I have a little slave there I am anxious to put to work."

  "I did not know of my wagon," I said.

  "I gathered not," said Harold, "seeing that you apparently spent the night after the battle comfortably resting on the floor of Kamchak's wagon—I looked around for you that night—but didn't find you." He added, "Your own wagon, you will be pleased to hear, was among the wagons untouched by the Paravaci—as was mine."

  I laughed. "It is strange," I said, "I did not even know of the wagon."

  "You would have found out long ago," said Harold, "had you not rushed off to Turia again immediately after our return—when the wagons were moving toward Ta-Thassa. You did not even stop by Kamchak's wagon that day. Had you done so Aphris, or someone, might have told you."

  "From the sleen cage?" I asked.

  "She was not in the sleen cage the morning of our return from Turia with the tarns," said Harold.

  "Oh," I said, "I am glad to hear it."

  "Nor was the little barbarian," said Harold.

  "What became of her?" I asked.

  "Kamchak gave her to a warrior," he said.

  "Oh," I said. I was not glad to hear it. "Why didn't you tell me of my wagon?" I asked.

  "It did not seem important," he said.

  I frowned.

  "I suppose, however," he said, "Korobans are impressed with such things—having wagons and such."

  I smiled. "Harold the Tuchuk," I said, "I am tired."

  "Are you not going to your wagon tonight?" he asked.

  "I think not," I said.

  "As you wish," said he, "but I have had it well stocked—with paga and Ka-la-na wines from Ar and such."

  In Turia, even though we had much of the riches of the city at our disposal, there had not been much paga or Ka-la-na wine. As I may have mentioned the Turians, on the whole, favor thick, sweet wines. I had taken, as a share of battle loot, a hundred and ten bottles of paga and forty bottles of Ka-la-na wine from Tyros, Cos and Ar, but these I had distributed to my crossbowmen, with the exception of one bottle of paga which Harold and I had split some two nights ago. I decided I might spend the night in my wagon. Two nights ago it had been a night for paga. Tonight, I felt, was a night for Ka-la-na. I was pleased to learn there would be some in the wagon.

  I looked at Harold and grinned. "I am grateful," I said.

  "Properly so," remarked Harold and leaped to his kaiila, untethering the beast and springing to its saddle. "Without me," he said, "you will never find your wagon—and I for one will dawdle here no longer."

  "Wait!" I cried.

  His kaiila sprang from the room, bounding across the carpet in the next hall, and then thudding down a corridor toward the main entrance.

  Muttering I jerked loose the reins of my kaiila from the column to which I had tethered it, leaped to the saddle and raced after Harold, not wishing to be left behind somewhere in the streets of Turia or among the dark wagons beyond the gate, pounding on wagon after wagon to find which one might be mine. I bounded down the stairs of the palace of Phanius Turmus, and sped through the inner and outer courtyard and out into the street, leaving the startled guards trying to salute me as a commander.

  A few yards beyond the gate I hauled my kaiila up short, rearing and pawing the air. Harold was sitting there calmly on the back of his kaiila, a reproachful look on his face.

  "Such haste," he said, "is not seemly in the commander of a Thousand."

  "Very well," I said, and we walked our kaiila at a stately pace toward Turia's main gate.

  "I was afraid," I said, "that without you I would not be able to find my wagon."

  "But it is the wagon of a commander," said Harold, as though puzzled, "so anyone could tell you where it is."

  "I did not think of that," I said.

  "I am not surprised," said Harold. "You are only a Koroban."

  "But long ago," I said, "we turned you back."

  "I was not there at the time," said Harold.

  "That is true," I admitted.

  We rode on a while.

  "If it were not for your dignity," I remarked, "I would settle these matters by racing you to the main gate."

  "Look out!" cried Harold. "Behind you!"

  I spun the kaiila and whipped my sword from its sheath. I looked about wildly, at doorways, at roof tops, at windows.

  "What?" I cried.

  "There!" cried Harold. "To the right!"

  I looked to the right but could see nothing but the side of a brick building.

  "What is it?" I cried.

  "It is," cried Harold decisively, "the side of a brick building!"

  I turned to look at him.

  "I accept your wager," he cried, kicking his kaiila toward the main gate.

  By the time I had turned my animal and was racing after him he was almost a quarter of a pasang do
wn the street, bounding over beams and rubbish, and litter, some of it still smoking. At the main gate I overtook him and together we sped through it, slowing our mounts on the other side to a decorous pace suitable to our rank.

  We rode a bit into the wagons and then he pointed. "There is your wagon," he said. "Mine is nearby."

  It was a large wagon, drawn by eight black bosk. There were two Tuchuk guards outside. Beside it, fixed in the earth, on a pole, there was a standard of four bosk horns. The pole had been painted red, which is the color of commanders. Inside the wagon, under the door, I could see light.

  "I wish you well," said Harold.

  "I wish you well," I said.

  The two Tuchuk guards saluted us, striking their lances three times on their shields.

  We acknowledged the salute, lifting our right hands, palm inward.

  "You certainly have a fast kaiila," remarked Harold.

  "The race," I said, "is all in the rider."

  "As it was," said Harold, "I scarcely beat you."

  "I thought I beat you," I said.

  "Oh?" asked Harold.

  "Yes," I said. "How do you know I didn't beat you?"

  "Well," said Harold, "I don't know—but that would certainly seem unlikely, would it not?"

  "Yes," I said, "I suppose so."

  "Actually," said Harold, "I am uncertain who won."

  "So am I," I admitted. "Perhaps it was a tie," I suggested.

  "Perhaps," he said, "incredible though that might seem." He looked at me. "Would you care to guess seeds in a tospit?" he inquired. "Odd or even?"

  "No," I said.

  "Very well," said he, grinning, and lifted his right hand in Gorean salute. "Until morning."

  I returned the salute. "Until morning," I said.

  I watched Harold ride towards his wagon, whistling a Tuchuk tune. I supposed the little wench Hereena would be waiting for him, probably collared and chained to the slave ring.

  Tomorrow I knew the assault would begin on the House of Saphrar and the tower of Ha-Keel. Tomorrow one or both of us, I supposed, might be dead.

  I noted that the bosk seemed well cared for, and that their coats were groomed, and the horns and hoofs polished.

  Wearily I gave the kaiila to one of the guards and mounted the steps of the wagon.

  25

  I Am Served Wine

  I entered the wagon and stopped, startled.

  Within, a girl, across the wagon, beyond the tiny fire bowl in the center of its floor, standing on the thick rug, near a hanging tharlarion-oil lamp, turned suddenly to face me.

  I heard a rustle of chain.

  She clutched about herself as well as she could a richly wrought yellow cloth, a silken yellow sheet. The red band of the Koora bound back her hair. It contrasted strikingly with the yellow of the sheet. It was a large sheet, voluminous, and came even to the floor. I could see a chain running across the rug from the slave ring to the sheet, beneath which it disappeared. I could not see the termination of the chain because of the yellow sheet, but I had little doubt that, in some fashion, she was secured.

  Had I not heard a rustle of chain?

  Did she think to conceal her bonds, her condition?

  Surely any Gorean, despite the sheet, would have instantly supposed her to be what she indeed was, a slave, tethered with obdurate metal.

  "You!" she cried.

  She held her hand before her face.

  I did not speak, but stood dumbfounded, finding myself facing Elizabeth Cardwell.

  "You're alive!" she said. And then she trembled. "You must flee!" she cried.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "He will discover you!" she wept. "Go!"

  Still she would not remove her hand from before her face.

  "Who is he?" I asked, startled.

  "My master!" she cried. "Please go!"

  "Who is he?" I inquired.

  "He who owns this wagon!" she wept. "I have not yet seen him!"

  Suddenly I felt like shaking, but did not move, nor betray emotion. Harold had said that Elizabeth Cardwell had been given by Kamchak to a warrior. He had not said which warrior. Now I knew.

  "Has your master visited you often?" I asked.

  "As yet, never," said she, "but he is in the city—and may this very night come to the wagon!"

  "I do not fear him," I said.

  She turned away, the chain moving with her. She pulled the yellow sheet more closely about her. She dropped her hand from before her face and stood facing the back of the wagon.

  "Whose name is on your collar?" I asked.

  "They showed me," she said, "but I do not know—I cannot read!"

  What she said, of course, was true. She could speak Gorean but she could not read it. For that matter many Tuchuks could not, and the engraving on the collars of their slaves was often no more than a sign which was known to be theirs. Even those who could read, or pretended to be able to, would affix their sign on the collar as well as their name, so that others who could not read could know to whom the slave belonged. Kamchak's sign was the four bosk horns and two quivas.

  I walked about the fire bowl to approach the girl.

  "Don't look at me," she cried, bending down, holding her face from the light, then covering it with her hands.

  I reached over and turned the collar somewhat. It was attached to a chain. I gathered the girl was in Sirik, the chain on the floor attached to the slave ring doubtless running to one of the twin ankle rings, probably to that on her left ankle.

  A single ankle chain is commonly run to a girl's left ankle. Marching girls in coffle is usually done with either a throat chain or a wrist chain. If a wrist chain is used it is normally fastened on the left wrist. If an ankle chain is used, it is commonly fastened on the left ankle.

  She would not face me but stood covering her face, looking away. The engraving on the Turian collar consisted of the sign of the four bosk horns and the sign of the city of Ko-ro-ba, which I took it, Kamchak had used for my sign. There was also an inscription in Gorean on the collar, a simple one: I am the girl of Tarl Cabot. I restraightened the collar and walked away, going to the other side of the wagon, leaning my hands against it, wanting to think.

  I could hear the chain move as she turned to face me. "What does it say?" she begged.

  I said nothing.

  "Whose wagon is this?" she pleaded.

  I turned to face her and she put one hand before her face, the other holding the yellow sheet about her. I could see now that her wrists were encircled with slave bracelets, linked to the collar chain, which then continued to the ankle rings. She was indeed in Sirik. The second chain, that which I had first seen, fastened the Sirik itself, of course, to the slave ring, and, indeed, by the left ankle ring, as I had supposed. Over the hand that shielded the lower part of her face I could see her eyes, and they seemed filled with fear.

  "Whose wagon is it?" she pleaded.

  "It is my wagon," I said.

  She looked at me, thunderstruck. "No," she said, "it is the wagon of a commander—he who could command a Thousand."

  "I am such," I said. "I am a commander."

  She shook her head.

  "The collar?" she asked.

  "It says," I said, "that you are the girl of Tarl Cabot."

  "Your girl?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Your slave?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  She did not speak but stood looking at me, in the yellow sheet, with one hand covering her face.

  "I own you," I said.

  Tears shone in her eyes and she sank to her knees, trembling, unable to stand, weeping.

  I knelt beside her. "It is over now, Elizabeth," I said. "It is finished. You will no longer be hurt. You are no longer a slave. You are free, Elizabeth."

  I gently took her braceleted wrists in my hands and removed them from her face.

  She tried to twist her head away. "Please don't look at me, Tarl," she said.

  In her nose
, as I had suspected, there glinted the tiny, fine golden ring of the Tuchuk woman.

  "Don't look at me, please," she said.

  I held her lovely head with its soft dark hair in my hands, gazing on her face, her forehead, her dark, soft eyes, with tears, the marvelous, trembling mouth, and set in her fine nose, delicate and lovely, the tiny golden ring.

  "It is actually very beautiful," I said.

  She sobbed and pressed her head to my shoulder. "They bound me on a wheel," she said.

  With my right hand I pressed her head more closely against me, holding it.

  "I am branded," she said. "I am branded."

  "It is finished now," I said. "You are free, Elizabeth."

  She lifted her face, stained with tears, to mine.

  "I love you, Tarl Cabot," she said.

  "No," I said softly, "you do not."

  She leaned against me yet again. "But you do not want me," she said. "You never wanted me."

  I said nothing.

  "And now," she said, bitterly, "Kamchak has given me to you. He is cruel, cruel, cruel."

  "I think Kamchak thought well of you," I said, "that he would give you to his friend."

  She withdrew from me a bit, puzzled. "Can that be?" she asked. "He whipped me—he—touched me," she shuddered, "with the leather." She looked down, not wanting to look into my eyes.

  "You were beaten," I said, "because you ran away. It was a light punishment, primarily admonitory in nature. You were actually quite fortunate. A girl who does what you did might be maimed or thrown to sleen or kaiila, and that he touched you with the whip, the Slaver's Caress, that was only to show me, and perhaps you, that you were female."

  She looked down. "He shamed me," she said. "I cannot help it that I moved as I did—I cannot help that I am a woman."

  "It is over now," I told her.

  She still did not raise her eyes, but stared down at the rug.

  "Tuchuks," I remarked, "regard the piercing of ears as a barbarous custom—inflicted on their slave girls by Turians."

  Elizabeth looked up, the tiny ring glinting in the light of the fire bowl.

  "Are your ears pierced?" I asked.

  "No," she said, "but many of my friends—on Earth—who owned fine earrings, had their ears pierced."

  "Did that seem so dreadful to you?" I asked.

  "No," she said, smiling.

  "It would to Tuchuks," I said. "They do not even inflict that on their Turian slaves." I added, "And it is one of the great fears of a Tuchuk girl that, should she fall into Turian hands, it will be done to her."