by John Norman
“But you brewed an antidote,” I remarked.
“Not of my own free will,” he smiled.
He had been infected with his own toxin, which produced, in time, a broad paralysis, that he might prepare, if time permitted, its remedy. His lord, Chenbar, had not approved of poisoned steel, and I had once spared the Ubar’s life, on the 25th of Se-Kara. The antidote, proven in the case of Sullius Maximus, had been conveyed to Port Kar.
“I am pleased to see you are looking well,” said Sullius Maximus.
“How is it that I find you here?” I asked.
“Surely you know,” he said.
“Scarcely,” I said.
“Surely you do not think this is some eccentric coincidence,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“You are waiting for the agent of Priest-Kings,” he said.
I was silent.
“I am he,” he said.
“No,” I said.
“How else would I know of your location?”
“Kurii know,” I said.
“Who are Kurii?” he said.
“You do not know?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“How is it that you, an agent of Priest-Kings, know not of Kurii?”
“To serve our lords, the masters of the Sardar,” he said, “one needs know no more than they deem suitable.”
“Perhaps they are your lords,” I said. “They are not mine.”
“Are they not the lords of us all,” he said, “are they not the gods of Gor?”
“And are the Initiates not their ministers and servitors,” I said.
“One must allow all castes their vanities,” he said.
“Doubtless,” I said.
“I understand,” he said, “that you have labored, now and then, on behalf of Priest-Kings.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I find their choice of agents strange,” he said. “You are a barbarian, more of a larl than a man. You know little of poetry, and your kaissa is commonplace.”
“My kaissa is satisfactory,” I said, “for one who is not a Player.”
“You are not even a caste or city champion,” he said.
“Are you?” I inquired.
“Games are for children,” he said.
“Kaissa is not for children,” I said. Life and death sometimes hung on the outcomes of a kaissa match, and war or peace. Cities had been lost in such matches, and slaves frequently changed hands.
Too, the game is beautiful.
Its fascinations, as those of art and music, exercise their spells and raptures.
“To be sure,” he said, “you do have, I gather, a certain audacious expertise in certain forms of vulgar weaponry.”
“Less sophisticated and urbane, doubtless,” I said, “than the administrations of poisons.”
“Do not be bitter,” he said. “All that was long ago, and seasons change.”
“Seasons, like enmities, and tides, return, do they not?” I asked.
“I come to you in friendship,” he said, “as partisans in a common cause.”
“I do not think you are an agent of Priest-Kings,” I said.
“I find it difficult, too,” he said, “to suppose that you are an agent of Priest-Kings.”
“I do not think of myself as such,” I said.
“But you are here,” he said.
“At the will of Priest-Kings, yes,” I said, “but I do not know why.”
“I am here to inform you,” he said.
“How do I know you are an agent of Priest-Kings?” I asked.
“Perhaps I am an unlikely agent,” he said. “Who am I to know? One might say the same of you, if you are indeed an agent. Who is to tell Priest-Kings who will be their instruments? Are you privy to their councils, can you read the mists, the fogs and clouds, which hover about the Sardar?”
I supposed it was possible that this man might be an agent of Priest-Kings. Doubtless they selected their human agents with an eye to probity and utility, not nobility, not honor. Too, the moralities of Priest-Kings might not be those of men, or of Kurii. Too, I knew there was a new dynasty in the Nest. The remnants of the older order might, by now, dispossessed and superseded, neglected and scorned, have long ago sought the pleasures of the Golden Beetle.
“You have some token, some sign, some credential, or such, which might testify to your legitimacy here, something which might certify your authenticity?”
“Certainly,” he said, reaching within his tunic.
I tensed.
He smiled.
He withdrew a loop of leather from within the tunic, on which loop was fastened a golden ring. This ring was something like two inches in diameter, and the way it hung suggested its weightiness.
The golden circle, incidentally, is taken as the sign of Priest-Kings. Such circles are often carried by high Initiates, on golden chains about their necks. Too, they are likely to appear on the walls, and over the gates, and such, of temples, and, within temples, they invariably surmount altars. Staffs surmounted with this symbol are often carried by Initiates, as well, and such staffs invariably figure in their ceremonial processions. The gold is the symbol of that which is rare, is precious, is constant, and does not tarnish. The circular form is a symbol of eternity, that which has no beginning, that which has no end. The blessings of Initiates are accompanied by the sign of Priest-Kings, a circular motion of the right hand. These blessings, on feast days, may be bestowed on the faithful without cost. Sometimes, of course, such blessings must be purchased. The favor of Priest-Kings is not easily obtained, and Initiates, as other castes, must live.
“Anyone,” I said, “might fix a ring of gold on a leather string.”
“That is how you know its authenticity,” said Sullius Maximus. “For those endeavoring in fraud, to abet a ruse, would surely fix the ring on a chain of gold.”
“May I see the ring?” I said.
I was not interested in the ring, of course, but the leather string, for leather can absorb certain substances, such as oil, or the exudates of a communicative organ.
Sullius Maximus cast me the ring, on its leather loop. He did not care to approach me too closely. I did not blame him. Might not a knife swiftly, like a striking viper, dart from its sheath, find its home in a startled heart, and might not the very body of that heart serve an assassin as shield, sheltering the assailant from the vengeance of the crossbows’ metal-finned, soon-flighted penetrant iron?
I pretended to examine the gold. I lowered my head respectfully to the symbol, as one might salute the Sardar, but I kept my eyes raised, to keep in view its purveyor. The string, in which I was primarily interested, was bunched in my hand, close to the ring, and I took its scent. Without a translator I had no hope of deciphering the scent, but I recognized the voice, so to speak, of Priest-Kings, who communicate by scent. I had no doubt that that leather had been impressed with the message of Priest-Kings.
But I had no way of reading it.
I did not inquire of Sullius Maximus the location or fate of an appropriate translator, for I was confident he knew nothing of such a device.
It was lighter now, and I examined the string, visibly. On it, in two places, there were reddish brown stains.
“The string is soiled,” I said.
“Is it?” he asked.
“Blood,” I said.
“Interesting,” he said. “It was given to me as it is.”
“I do not doubt that it came into your possession rather as it is,” I said.
He bowed his head, in assent.
I now knew I would not be met here by an agent of Priest-Kings.
The agent of Priest-Kings had been intercepted.
How then would I know the will of the denizens of the Sardar, even to judge whether or not I should honor it, or endeavor to comply with it?
“You have been to the Sardar?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, looking at me, narrowly.
“Recently?”
“Of course, to be given the ring, and the message.”
“What are the Priest-Kings like?” I asked.
“Surely you know,” he said.
“Tell me,” I said.
“They are like us,” he said.
“I am pleased to hear it,” I said.
“Only larger, stronger, more powerful,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“As befits gods,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I recognize, and respect, and honor, your caution,” he said. “But now, if you are satisfied, I will execute my charge. I will deliver the message of Priest-Kings, and withdraw.”
“You received this message,” I said, “from the great Priest-King, Lord Sarm?”
“— Yes,” he said.
Sarm, of course, years ago, had succumbed to the pleasures of the Golden Beetle. I was reassured, then, that the Kurii still knew little of the denizens of the Sardar.
It is difficult to do contest with an enemy which is both mysterious and powerful.
I had little love for Priest-Kings, but theirs was the law and the rod which held in check the inventive and indiscreet aggressions of humans on this, their world. Had it not been for the governance of Priest-Kings, and their surveillance, and the enforcement of their prohibitions on technology and weaponry, I had little doubt that the suspicions, fears, and simian ingenuity of my species on Gor would have by now produced lethalities equivalent to, if not superior to, the madnesses which currently threatened the destruction of another world, the ruination of another habitat, the extinction of an indigenous species, my own, on that other world. The paw which first grasped a jagged stone can eventually become the hand which can, with the pressing of a switch, eliminate continents. How easy it is to poison atmospheres, and how easy, soon, to set axes awry, and roll a world into a star’s flaming maw. I supposed that the human species was one of the few species with the capacity to render itself extinct. I doubted that the Priest-Kings were overly concerned with the welfare of humans, but it seemed clear that they had no intention of sharing the psychotic pastimes of such a species, or of enduring the consequences of its stupidities, hence their weapon and technology laws. But the shield of Priest-Kings was concerned not only to protect their own world from the potential dangers of an eventually advanced and technologically armed humanity, mostly, originally, brought over millennia to Gor in Voyages of Acquisition for its biological interest, as were many other forms of animal life not native to the world, but, as well, from the incursions of a particularly acquisitive and predatory life form, the Kurii. Too, interestingly, the sheltering wing of the Priest-Kings, her declared protectorate, extended beyond Gor to another world as well, to her sister world, Earth. It, and its resources, were to be protected from Kurii. Let Kurii be denied Earth, with its wealth of water and hydrogen, be denied such a foothold and platform for their projects, so splendid a staging area for an approach to Gor. Let them remain, rather, in their distant, isolated, metal worlds, confined to an alien wilderness, an archipelago of debris between Mars and Jupiter, the Reefs of Space, the Asteroid Belt. It was interesting, I thought, that those of Earth owed so much, their world as they knew it, to an unknown benefactor, a form of life whose very existence was unknown to them. To be sure, I was confident that the motivations of Priest-Kings were self-serving and prudential, not moral, or at least not moral as humans might understand such things. If there were agendas here they were not ours; they were those of the Sardar.
“What is the message of Priest-Kings?” I asked.
“First,” said he, “return to me the ring.”
“Should I not keep it?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “It is meaningless to you. It is important to me. It is my token, my proof, that I speak for Priest-Kings.”
“You are to speak further,” I asked, “to others, at other times?”
“I do not know,” he said. “Put the ring down, on the sand. Step away. I will pick it up.”
To be sure, I had no translator, and was, accordingly, unable to read the message. I wondered if Sullius Maximus suspected that some significance, other than that which he had conjectured, might lie within the leather loop of the golden ring. He was a highly intelligent man. That was surely not impossible.
“Did Lord Sarm give you the token,” I asked, “in a box, a container, of some sort?”
Sullius Maximus regarded me, suddenly, alertly.
Yes, I thought, he is quite intelligent.
Presumably the agent of Priest-Kings, he who had been intercepted, would have had about himself not only the message but a translator. The translator would presumably, as it was outside the Sardar, open only to a code, and only at a certain time, and for a certain time. Presumably there would have been a schedule or envelope of two or three days in which it might have been utilized. The agent would have been instructed to process the leather band, which was, in effect, a scent tape, only in my presence, or, more likely, supply me with the code, and then withdraw. The scent itself, given its nature, as a covert message, would fade after a time, not having been imprinted permanently on the tape. These would seem fairly obvious security measures.
“There was a box,” said Sullius Maximus.
“But it was unusual, was it not?” I asked.
“Quite,” said Sullius Maximus.
I was sure that Sullius Maximus, and his presumed fellows, would have supposed the message was in the box, which was, in fact, unknown to them, either the translator, or contained the translator, and would have tried to open it. I did not think they would associate the ring, on its leather cord, with the box itself. I had little doubt that their efforts had been attended with surprising results. I remembered a metal envelope in which I had received a message, years ago, on a solitary camping trip, in the winter, in the White Mountains of New Hampshire. I had neglected to follow the instructions, to discard the envelope. It had burst suddenly into flame. The fearful destruction of the object not only destroyed it, but was such that it might have blinded one in whose hands it lay, or burned them alive. It had been in my knapsack and I had managed to slip it free and let it fall to the snow, which it melted, for yards about.
“In what way?” I asked.
“— Ornate,” said Sullius Maximus, “small, crusted with jewels, such things.”
“I see,” I said.
I wondered if one or more of his confederates had been incinerated. Doubtless the agent of Priest-Kings would have resisted capture, and would have been quickly, brutally slain, it being presupposed that his life would be of small value, that he was the mere carrier of the message, a message presumably in the box, and the token, which they would have supposed was his identification, his certification to be the one to whom the Priest-Kings had entrusted the transmission of the message.
Sullius Maximus, and his fellows, then, would be unaware of the contents of the actual message.
But then, so, too, was I.
To be sure, the actual nature of the message, which might have been suspected by Kurii, and which, in any event, they would not have delivered to me, would be of less interest to them than the message, their message, which they would want delivered to me, as though it were the message of Priest-Kings. The will of Kurii then would be conveyed to me under the pretense that it was the will of Priest-Kings. If their designs held firm, and their deception was successful, I would then, supposing me obedient to Priest-Kings, pursue their design in place of that of the masters of the Sardar.
Given the presumed destruction of the “box,” supposed to contain the original message, presumably on its scroll, the Kurii, or their minions, utilizing the “token,” not understanding the nature of its imbedded message, and accommodating themselves to the situation as best they might, would deliver their own message orally.
Fortunately for me, they knew little of the Sardar, of Priest-Kings themselves, of their modalities of communication, of their caution, of their security measures.
“The ring, please,” said Sullius Maximus.
I put the ring, on its loop, down on the sand, and backed away from it.
Sullius Maximus approached it and, not taking his eyes from me, picked it up.
“My thanks,” said he.
“Smell the leather,” I said. “It seems to have been perfumed.”
“I know,” he said. “But I doubt the perfume would be popular in the paga taverns of Kasra.”
“Nor elsewhere,” I speculated.
He held it briefly to his nose, and then, with an expression of disgust, returned the loop and ring to a concealment within his tunic.
“Perhaps it would do for a free woman,” I said, “intent on discouraging the avidity of a suitor.”
“No,” he said. “Free women are women, and they desire to be desired. It gives them great pleasure to attract, and then deny and torment suitors. They find it gratifying. It is an exercise of power.”
“True,” I said. Gorean free women were famed for their arrogance and pride. It was little wonder that men often took such things from them. What a terror for a free woman, reduced to bondage, to know that spurned suitors may find her, even seek her out, and buy her. When a woman is stripped and collared, and knelt, and has the whip pressed to her then unveiled lips, she is scarcely any longer in a position to discomfort and torment a fellow. Rather she must then be seriously concerned for her life, and hope that she will be found pleasing, and fully.
“It was much stronger a few days ago,” he said. “The scent has faded, significantly.”
“Even since yesterday?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, puzzled.
The agent of Priest-Kings was to have contacted me yesterday, I supposed, the day I had arrived on the beach, disembarked from Peisistratus’s ship. Instead I had been met by Pertinax.
“If you find it offensive,” I said, “you might clean the cord, wipe it free of scent — and blood.”
“I will,” he said, “now.”
“Now?” I said.
“I thought the odor might be pertinent to the authenticity of the token,” he said. “I noted that you took the scent.”
“You are perceptive,” I said.
“But the scent is fading,” he said. “If I accept an office anew from Priest-Kings, they will doubtless provide a new signature string, with the appropriate scent.”