NOMADS OF GORVolume four of the

Chronicles of Counter-Earthby John Norman

Published Nov, 1969, byBallantine

Cover art by Boris Vallejo

This ePub edition byDead^Man Dec, 2010

Tarl Cabot, warrior and tarnsman, left theforbidden Sardar Mountains on a missionfor the Priest-Kings of Gor, the barbaric

world of Counter-Earth. The Priest-Kingswere dying, and he had to find their lastlink to survival. All he knew about hisgoal was that it lay hidden somewhereamong the nomads.

There were hidden the Wagon Peoples,the wild tribes that lived off the rovingherds of bosk, fiercest of the animals ofGor. But still more fierce were theirmasters, the savage Tuchuks. All menfled before them when they moved.

All except Tarl Cabot, who stood alone,watching the oncoming clouds of dustthat might bring him death.

CONTENTSChapter 1 THE PLAINS OF

TURIAChapter 2 I MAKE THE

ACQUAINTANCE OF THEWAGON PEOPLES

Chapter 3 THE SPEARGAMBLING

Chapter 4 THE OUTCOME OFSPEAR GAMBLING

Chapter 5 THE PRISONERChapter 6 TO THE WAGON OF

KUTAITUCHIKChapter 7 LA KAJIRAChapter 8 THE WINTERINGChapter 9 APHRIS OF TURIAChapter 10 LOVE WARChapter 11 BELLS AND

COLLARChapter 12 THE QUIVAChapter 13 THE ATTACK

Chapter 14 TARNSMANChapter 15 HAROLDChapter 16 I FIND THE

GOLDEN SPHEREChapter 17 THE YELLOW

POOL OF TURIAChapter 18 THE PLEASURE

GARDENSChapter 19 HAROLD FINDS A

WENCHChapter 20 THE KEEPChapter 21 KAMCHAK

ENTERS TURIAChapter 22 KAMCHAK’S

FEASTChapter 23 THE BATTLE AT

THE WAGON

Chapter 24 THE WAGON OF ACOMMANDER

Chapter 25 I AM SERVEDWINE

Chapter 26 THE EGG OFPRIEST-KINGS

Chapter 27 THE SPARING OFTHE HOME STONE OF TURIA

Chapter 28 ELIZABETH AND IDEPART FROM THE WAGONPEOPLES

Chapter 1THE PLAINS OF TURIA“Run!” cried the woman. “Flee

for your life!”I saw her eyes wild with fear for

a moment above the rep-cloth veiland she had sped past me.

She was peasant, barefoot, hergarment little more than coarsesacking. She had been carrying awicker basket containing vulos,domesticated pigeons raised foreggs and meat.

Her man, carrying a mattock, wasnot far behind. Over his leftshoulder hung a bulging sack filledwith what must have been theparaphernalia of his hut.

He circled me, widely.“Beware,” he said, “I carry a Home

Stone.”I stood back and made no move

to draw my weapon. Though I wasof the caste of warriors and he ofpeasants, and I armed and hecarrying naught but a crude tool, Iwould not dispute his passage. Onedoes not lightly dispute the passageof one who carries his Home Stone.

Seeing that I meant him no harm,he paused and lifted an arm, like astick in a torn sleeve, and pointedbackward. “They’re coming,” hesaid. “Run, you fool! Run for thegates of Turia!”

Turia the high-walled, the nine-gated, was the Gorean city lying in

the midst of the huge prairiesclaimed by the Wagon Peoples.

Never had it fallen.Awkwardly, carrying his sack,

the peasant turned and stumbled on,casting occasional terrified glancesover his shoulder.

I watched him and his womandisappear over the brown wintrygrass.

In the distance, to one side andthe other, I could see other humanbeings, running, carrying burdens,driving animals with sticks, fleeing.

Even past me there thundered alumbering herd of startled, short-trunked kailiauk, a stoc1ky,

awkward ruminant of the plains,tawny, wild, heavy, their haunchesmarked in red and brown bars, theirwide heads bristling with a tridentof horns; they had not stood andformed their circle, shes and youngwithin the circle of tridents; they,too, had fled; farther to one side Isaw a pair of prairie sleen, smallerthan the forest sleen but quite asunpredictable and vicious, eachabout seven feet in length, furred,six-legged, mammalian, moving intheir undulating gait with theirviper’s heads moving from side toside, continually testing the wind;beyond them I saw one of the

tumits, a large, flightless birdwhose hooked beak, as long as myforearm, attested only too clearly toits gustatory habits; I lifted myshield and grasped the long spear,but it did not turn in my direction; itpassed, unaware; beyond the bird,to my surprise, I saw even a blacklarl, a huge catlike predator morecommonly found in mountainousregions; it was stalking away,retreating unhurried like a king;before what, I asked myself, wouldeven the black larl flee; and I askedmyself how far it had been driven;perhaps even from the mountains ofTa-Thassa, that loomed in this

hemisphere, Gor’s southern, at theshore of Thassa, the sea, said to bein the myths without a farther shore.

The Wagon Peoples claimed thesouthern prairies of Gor, from thegleaming Thassa and the mountainsof Ta-Thassa to the southernfoothills of the Voltai Range itself,that reared in the crust of Gor likethe backbone of a planet. On thenorth they claimed lands even to therush-grown banks of the Cartius, abroad, swift flowing tributaryfeeding into the incomparable Vosk.The land between the Cartius andthe Vosk had once been within theborders of the claimed empire of

Ar, but not even Marlenus, Ubar ofUbars, when master of luxurious,glorious Ar, had flown his tarnsmensouth of the Cartius.

In the past months I had made myway, afoot, overland, across theequator, living by hunting andoccasional service in the caravansof merchants, from the northern tothe southern hemisphere of Gor. Ihad left the vicinity of the SardarRange in the month of Se`Var,which in the northern hemisphere isa winter month, and had journeyedsouth for months; and had nowcome to what some call the Plainsof Turia, others the Land of the

Wagon Peoples, in the autumn ofthis hemisphere; there is, dueapparently to the balance of landand water mass on Gor, noparticular moderation of seasonalvariations either in the northern orsouthern hemisphere; nothing much,so to speak, to choose betweenthem; on the other hand, Gor’stemperatures, on the whole, tend tobe somewhat fiercer than those ofEarth, perhaps largely due to thefact of the wind-swept expanses ofher gigantic land masses; indeed,though Gor is smaller than Earth,with consequent gravitationalreduction, her actual land areas may

be, for all I know, more extensivethan those of my native planet; theareas of Gor which are mapped arelarge, but only a small fraction ofthe surface of the planet; much ofGor remains to her inhabitantssimply terra incognita. *

* For purposes of convenience I amrecounting directions in English terms,thinking it would be considerably difficultfor the reader to follow references to theGorean compass. Briefly, for those itmight interest, all directions on the planetare calculated from the SardarMountains, which for the purposes ofcalculating direction play a role analogousto our north pole; the two main directions,so to speak, in the Gorean way of

thinking are Ta-Sardar-Var and Ta-Sardar-Ki-Var, or as one would normallysay, Var and Ki-Var; ‘Var’ means aturning and ‘Ki’ signifies negation; thus,rather literally, one might speak of‘turning to the Sardar’ and ‘not turning tothe Sardar’, something like either facingnorth or not facing north; on the other1hand, more helpfully, the Gorean compassis divided into eight, as opposed to ourfour, main quadrants, or better said,divisions, and each of these itself is ofcourse subdivided. There is also a systemof latitude and longitude figured on thebasis of the Gorean day, calculated inAhn, twenty of which constitute a Goreanday, and Ehn and Ihn, which aresubdivisions of the Ahn, or Gorean hour.Ta-Sardar-Var is a direction whichappears on all Gorean maps; Ta-Sardar-Ki-Var, of course, never appears on amap, since it would be any directionwhich is not Ta-Sardar-Var. Accordingly,

the main divisions of the map are Ta-Sardar-Var, and the other seven; takingthe Sardar as our “north pole” the otherdirections, clockwise as Earth clocksmove (Gorean clock hands move in theopposite direction) would be, first, Ta-Sardar-Var, then, in order, Ror, Rim, Tun,Vask (sometimes spoken of as VerusVar, or the true turning away), Cart,Klim, and Kail, and then again, of course,Ta-Sardar-Var.

The Cartius River incidentally,mentioned earlier, was named forthe direction it lies from the city ofAr. From the Sardar I had gonelargely Cart, sometimes Vask, thenCart again until I had come to thePlains of Turia, or the Land of theWagon Peoples. I crossed the

Cartius on a barge, one of severalhired by the merchant of the caravanwith which I was then serving.These barges, constructed oflayered timbers of Ka-la-na wood,are towed by teams of rivertharlarion, domesticated, vast,herbivorous, web-footed lizardsraised and driven by the Cartiusbargemen, fathers and sons,interrelated clans, claiming thestatus of a cast for themselves. Evenwith the harnessed might of severalhuge tharlarion drawing toward theopposite shore the crossing took usseveral pasangs downriver. Thecaravan, of course, was bound for

Turia. No caravans, to myknowledge, make their way to theWagon Peoples, who are largelyisolated and have their own way oflife. I left the caravan before itreached Turia. My business waswith the Wagon Peoples, not theTurians, said to be indolent andluxury-loving; but I wonder at thischarge, for Turia has stood forgenerations on the plains claimedby the fierce Wagon Peoples.

For some minutes I stood silentlyobserving the animals and the menwho pressed toward Turia,invisible over the brown horizon. Ifound it hard to understand their

terror.Even the autumn grass itself bent

and shook in brown tides towardTuria, shimmering in the sun like atawny surf beneath the fleeingclouds above; it was as though theunseen wind itself, frantic volumesand motions of simple air, toodesired its sanctuary behind thehigh walls of the far city.

Overhead a wild Gorean kite,shrilling, beat its lonely way fromthis place, seemingly no differentfrom a thousand other places onthese broad grasslands of the south.

I looked into the distance, fromwhich these fleeing multitudes,

frightened men and stampedinganimals, had come. There, somepasangs distant, I saw columns ofsmoke rising in the cold air, wherefields were burning. Yet the prairieitself was not afire, only the fieldsof peasants, the fields of men whohad cultivated the soil; the prairiegrass, such that it might graze theponderous bosk, had been spared.

Too in the distance I saw dust,rising like black, raging dawn,raised by the hoofs of innumerableanimals, not those that fled, butundoubtedly by the bosk herds ofthe Wagon Peoples.

The Wagon Peoples grow no

food, nor do they havemanufacturing as we know it. Theyare herders and it is said, killers.They eat nothing that has touchedthe dirt. They live on the meat andmilk of the bosk. 1They are amongthe proudest of the peoples of Gor,regarding the dwellers of the citiesof Gor as vermin in holes, cowardswho must fly behind walls,wretches who fear to live beneaththe broad sky, who dare not disputewith them the open, windsweptplains of their world.

The bosk, without which theWagon Peoples could not live, is anox like creature. It is a huge,

shambling animal, with a thick,humped neck and long, shaggy hair.It has a wide head and tiny redeyes, a temper to match that of asleen, and two long, wicked hornsthat reach out from its head andsuddenly curve forward toterminate in fearful points. Some ofthese horns, on the larger animals,measured from tip to tip, exceed thelength of two spears.

Not only does the flesh of thebosk and the milk of its cowsfurnish the Wagon Peoples withfood and drink, but its hides coverthe domelike wagons in which theydwell; its tanned and sewn skins

cover their bodies; the leather of itshump is used for their shields; itssinews forms their thread; its bonesand horns are split and tooled intoimplements of a hundred sorts, fromawls, punches and spoons todrinking flagons and weapon tips;its hoofs are used for glues; its oilsare used to grease their bodiesagainst the cold. Even the dung ofthe bosk finds its uses on thetreeless prairies, being dried andused for fuel. The bosk is said to bethe Mother of the Wagon Peoples,and they reverence it as such. Theman who kills one foolishly isstrangled in thongs or suffocated in

the hide of the animal he slew; if,for any reason, the man should kill abosk cow with unborn young he isstaked out, alive, in the path of theherd, and the march of the WagonPeoples takes its way over him.

Now there seemed to be fewermen and animals rushing past,scattered over the prairie; only thewind remained; and the fires in thedistance, and the swelling, nearingroll of dust that drifted into thestained sky. Then I began to feel,through the soles of my sandals, thetrembling of the earth. The hair onthe back of my neck seemed to leapup and I felt the hair on my forearms

stiffen. The earth itself was shakingfrom the hoofs of the bosk herds ofthe Wagon Peoples.

They were approaching.Their outriders would soon be in

sight.I hung my helmet over my left

shoulder with the sheathed shortsword; on my left arm I bore myshield; in my right hand I carried theGorean war spear.

I began to walk toward the dustin the distance, across the tremblingground.

Chapter 2

I MAKE THEACQUAINTANCE OF THEWAGON PEOPLES

As I walked I asked myself why Idid so — why I, Tarl Cabot —once of Earth, later a warrior of theGorean city of Ko-ro-ba, theTowers of the Morning, had comehere.

In the long years that had passedsince first I had come to theCounter-Earth I had seen manythings, and had known loves, andhad found adventures and perils andwonders, but I asked myself ifanything I had done was as

unreasoning, as foolish as this, asstrange.

Some years before, perhapsbetween two and five years before,as the culmination of an intrigueenduring centuries, two men,humans from the walled cities ofGor, had, for the sake of Priest-Kings, undertaken a long, secretjourney, carrying an object to theWagon Peoples, an objectbestowed on them by Priest-Kings,to be given to that people that was,to the Goreans’ knowledge, themost free, among the fiercest,among the most isolat1ed on theplanet — an object that would be

given to them for safekeeping.The two men who had carried

this object, keeping well its secretas demanded by Priest-Kings, hadbraved many perils and had been asbrothers. But later, shortly after thecompletion of their journey, in awar between their cities, each hadin battle slain the other, and thusamong men, save perhaps for someamong the Wagon Peoples, thesecret had been lost. It was only inthe Sardar Mountains that I hadlearned the nature of their mission,and what it was that they hadcarried. Now I supposed that Ialone, of humans on Gor, with the

possible exception of some amongthe Wagon Peoples, knew the natureof the mysterious object which oncethese two brave men had brought insecrecy to the plains of Turia —and, to be truthful, I did not knowthat even I — should I see it —would know it for what I sought.

Could I — Tarl Cabot, a humanand mortal, find this object and, asPriest-Kings now wished, return itto the Sardar — return it to thehidden courts of Priest-Kings that itmight there fulfil its unique andirreplaceable role in the destiny ofthis barbaric world — Gor, ourCounter-Earth?

I did not know.What is this object?One might speak of it as many

things, the subject of secret, violentintrigues; the source of vast strifesbeneath the Sardar, strifes unknownto the men of Gor; the concealed,precious, hidden hope of anincredible and ancient race; asimple germ; a bit of living tissue;the dormant potentiality of apeople’s rebirth, the seed of gods— an egg — the last and only eggof Priest-Kings.

But why was it I who came?Why not Priest-Kings in their

ships and power, with their fierce

weapons and fantastic devices?Priest-Kings cannot stand the sun.They are not as men and men,

seeing them, would fear them.Men would not believe they were

Priest-Kings. Men conceive Priest-Kings as they conceive themselves.

The object — the egg — mightbe destroyed before it could bedelivered to them.

It might already have beendestroyed.

Only that the egg was the egg ofPriest-Kings gave me occasion tosuspect, to hope, that somehowwithin that mysterious, presumablyovoid sphere, if it still existed,

quiescent but latent, there might belife.

And if I should find the object —why should I not myself destroy it,and destroy thereby the race ofPriest-Kings, giving this world tomy own kind, to men, to do with asthey pleased, unrestricted by thelaws and decrees of Priest-Kingsthat so limited their development,their technology? Once I had spokento a Priest-King of these things. Hehad said to me, “Man is a larl toman; if we permitted him, he wouldbe so to Priest-Kings as well.”

“But man must be free,” I hadsaid.

“Freedom without reason issuicide,” had said the Priest-King,adding, “Man is not yet rational.”

But I would not destroy the egg— not only because it contained life— but because it was important tomy friend, whose name was Miskand is elsewhere spoken of; muchof the life of that brave creaturewas devoted to the dream of a newlife for Priest-Kings, a new stock, anew beginning; a readiness torelinquish his place in an old worldto prepare a mansion for the new; tohave and love a child, so to 1speak,for Misk, who is a Priest-King,neither male nor female, yet can

love.I recalled a windy night in the

shadow of the Sardar when we hadspoken of strange things, and I hadleft him and come down the hill,and had asked the leader of thosewith whom I had travelled the wayto the Land of the Wagon Peoples.

I had found it.The dust rolled nearer, the

ground seemed more to move thanever.

I pressed on.Perhaps if I were successful I

might save my race, by preservingthe Priest-Kings that might shelterthem from the annihilation that

might otherwise be achieved ifuncontrolled technologicaldevelopment were too soonpermitted them; perhaps in time manwould grow rational, and reasonand love and tolerance would waxin him and he and Priest-Kingsmight together turn their senses tothe stars.

But I knew that more thananything I was doing this for Misk— who was my friend.

The consequences of my act, if Iwere successful, were too complexand fearful to calculate, the factorsinvolved being so numerous andobscure.

If it turned out badly, what I did,I would have no defence other thanthat I did what I did for my friendfor him and for his brave kind, oncehated enemies, whom I had learnedto know and respect.

There is no loss of honour infailing to achieve such a task, I toldmyself. It is worthy of a warrior ofthe caste of Warriors, a swordsmanof the high city of Ko-ro-ba, theTowers of the Morning.

Tal, I might say, in greeting, I amTarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba; I bring nocredentials, no proofs; I come fromthe Priest-Kings; I would like tohave the object which was brought

to you from them; they would nowlike it back; Thank you; farewell.

I laughed.I would say little or nothing.The object might not even be

with the Wagon Peoples any longer.And there were four Wagon

Peoples, the Paravaci, the Kataii,the Kassars, and the dreadedTuchuks.

Who knew with which people theobject might have been placed?

Perhaps it had been hidden awayand forgotten?

Perhaps it was now a sacredobject, little understood, butr eve r ed — and it would be

sacrilege to think of it, blasphemyto speak its name, a cruel and slowdeath even to cast one’s eyes uponit.

And if I should manage to seizeit, how could I carry it away?

I had no tarn, one of Gor’s fiercesaddle birds; I had not even themonstrous high tharlarion, used asthe mounts of shock cavalry by thewarriors of some cities.

I was afoot, on the treelesssouthern plains of Gor, on thePlains of Turia, in the Land of theWagon Peoples.

The Wagon Peoples, it is said,slay strangers.

The words for stranger andenemy in Gorean are the same.

I would advance openly.If I were found on the plains near

the camps or the bosk herds I knewI would be scented out and slain bythe domesticated, nocturnal herdsleen, used as shepherds andsentinels by the Wagon Peoples,released from their cages with thefalling of darkness.

These a1nimals, trained prairiesleen, move rapidly and silently,attacking upon no other provocationthan trespass on what they havedecided is their territory. Theyrespond only to the voice of their

master, and when he is killed ordies, his animals are slain andeaten.

There would be no question ofnight spying on the Wagon Peoples.

I knew they spoke a dialect ofGorean, and I hoped I would beable to understand them.

If I could not I must die asbefitted a swordsman of Ko-ro-ba.

I hoped that I would be granteddeath in battle, if death it must be.The Wagon Peoples, of all those onGor that I know, are the only onesthat have a clan of torturers, trainedas carefully as scribes orphysicians, in the arts of detaining

life.Some of these men have achieved

fortune and fame in various Goreancities, for their services to Initiatesand Ubars, and others with aninterest in the arts of detection andpersuasion. For some reason theyhave all worn hoods. It is said theyremove the hood only when thesentence is death, so that it is onlycondemned men who have seenwhatever it is that lies beneath thehood.

I was surprised at the distance Ihad been from the herds, for thoughI had seen the rolling dust clearly,and had felt and did feel the shaking

of the earth, betraying the passageof those monstrous herds, I had notyet come to them. But now I couldhear, carried on the wind blowingtoward distant Turia, the bellowingof the bosks. The dust was nowheavy like nightfall in the air. Thegrass and the earth seemed to quakebeneath my tread.

I passed fields that were burning,and burning huts of peasants, thesmoking shells of Sa-Tarnagranaries, the shattered, slattedcoops for vulos, the broken walls ofkeeps for the small, long-haireddomestic verr, less belligerent andsizeable than the wild verr of the

Voltai Ranges.Then for the first time, against the

horizon, a jagged line, humped androlling like thundering waters,seemed to rise alive from theprairie, vast, extensive, a huge arc,churning and pounding from onecorner of the sky to the other, theherds of the Wagon Peoples,encircling, raising dust into the skylike fire, like hoofed glaciers of furand horn moving in shaggy floodsacross the grass, toward me.

And then I saw the first of theoutriders, moving toward me,swiftly yet not seeming to hurry. Isaw the slender line of his light

lance against the sky, strappedacross his back.

I could see he carried a small,round, leather shield, glossy, black,lacquered; he wore a conical, fur-rimmed iron helmet, a net ofcoloured chains depending from thehelmet protecting his face, leavingonly holes for the eyes. He wore aquilted jacket and under this aleather jerkin; the jacket wastrimmed with fur and had a furcollar; his boots were made of hideand also trimmed with fur; he had awide, five-buckled belt. I could notsee his face because of the net ofchain that hung before it. I also

noted, about his throat, nowlowered, there was a soft leatherwind scarf which might, when thehelmet veil was lifted be drawnover the mouth and nose, against thewind and dust of his ride.

He was very erect in the saddle.His lance remained on his back, buthe carried in his right hand thesmall, powerful horn bow of theWagon Peoples and attached to hissaddle was a lacquered, narrow,rectangular quiver containing asmany as forty arrows. On the saddlethere also hung, on one side, acoiled rope of braided boskhideand, on the other, a long, three-

weighted bola of the sort used inhunting tumits and men; in thesaddle itself on the right side,indicating the rider must be right-handed, were the seven sheaths forthe almost legendary quivas, thebalanced saddle knives of theprairie. It was said a youth of theWagon Peoples was taught the bow,the quiva and the lance before theirparents would consent to give him aname, for names are preciousamong the Wagon Peoples, asamong Goreans in general, and theyare not to be wasted on someonewho is likely to die, one whocannot well handle the weapons of

the hunt and war. Until the youth hasmastered the bow, the quiva and thelance he is simply known as thefirst, or the second, and so on, sonof such and such a father.

The Wagon Peoples war amongthemselves, but once in every twohands of years, there is a time ofgathering of the peoples, and this, Ihad learned, was that time. In thethinking of the Wagon Peoples it iscalled the Omen Year, though theOmen Year is actually a season,rather than a year, which occupies apart of two of their regular years,for the Wagon Peoples calculate theyear from the Season of Snows to

the Season of Snows; Turians,incidentally, figure the year fromsummer solstice to summer solstice;Goreans generally, on the otherhand, figure the year from vernalequinox to vernal equinox, theirnew year beginning, like nature’s,with the spring; the Omen Year, orseason, lasts several months, andconsists of three phases, called thePassing of Turia, which takes placein the fall; the Wintering, whichtakes place north of Turia andcommonly south of the Cartius, theequator of course lying to the northin this hemisphere; and the Returnto Turia, in the spring, or, as the

Wagon Peoples say, in the Seasonof Little Grass. It is near Turia, inthe spring, that the Omen Year iscompleted, when the omens aretaken usually over several days byhundreds of haruspexes, mostlyreaders of bosk blood and verrlivers, to determine if they arefavourable for a choosing of a UbarSan, a One Ubar, a Ubar whowould be High Ubar, a Ubar of allthe Wagons, a Ubar of all thePeoples, one who could lead themas one people.*

*A consequence of thechronological conventions of theWagon Peoples, of course, is that

their years tend to vary in length,but this fact, which might bother us,does not bother them, any more thanthe fact that some men and someanimals live longer than others; thewomen of the Wagon Peoples,incidentally, keep a calendar basedon the phases of Gor’s largestmoon, but this is a calendar offifteen moons, named for the fifteenvarieties of bosk, and functionsindependently of the tallying ofyears by snows; for example, theMoon of the Brown Bosk may atone time occur in the winter, atanother time, years later, in thesummer; this calendar is kept by a

set of coloured pegs set in the sidesof some wagons, on one of which,depending on the moon, a round,wooden plate bearing the image ofa bosk is fixed. The years,incidentally, are not numbered bythe Wagon Peoples, but givennames, toward their end, based onsomething or other which hasoccurred to distinguish the year.The year names are kept in livingmemory by the Year Keepers, someof whom can recall the names ofseveral thousand consecutive years.The Wagon Peoples do not trustimportant matters, such as yearnames, to paper or parchment,

subject to theft, insect and rodentdamage, deterioration, etc. Most ofthose of the Wagon Peoples haveexcellent memories, trained frombirth. Few can read, though somecan, perhaps having acquired theskill far from the wagons, perhapsfrom merchants or tradesmen. TheWagon Peoples, as might beexpected, have a large and complexoral literature. This is kept by andoccasionally, in parts, recited bythe Camp Singers. They do not havecastes, as Goreans tend to think ofthem. For example, every male ofthe Wagon Peoples is expected tobe a warrior, to be able to ride, to

be able to hunt, to care for the bosk,and so on. When I speak of YearKeepers and Singers it must beunderstood1 that these are not, forthe Wagon Peoples, castes, butmore like roles, subsidiary to theirmain functions, which are those ofthe war, herding and the hunt. Theydo have, however, certain clans, notcastes, which specialize in certainmatters, for example, the clan ofhealers, leather workers, salthunters, and so on. I have alreadymentioned the clan of torturers. Themembers of these clans, however,like the Year Keepers and Singers,are all expected, first and foremost,

to be, as it is said, of the wagonsnamely to follow, tend and protectthe bosk, to be superb in the saddle,and to be skilled with the weaponsof both the hunt and war.

The omens, I understood, had notbeen favourable in more than ahundred years. I suspected that thismight be due to the hostilities andbickerings of the peoples amongthemselves; where people did notwish to unite, where they relishedtheir autonomy, where they nursedold grievances and sang the gloriesof vengeance raids, where theyconsidered all others, even those ofthe other Peoples, as beneath

themselves, there would not belikely to exist the conditions forserious confederation, a joiningtogether of the wagons, as thesaying is; under such conditions itwas not surprising that the “omenstended to be unfavourable”; indeed,what more inauspicious omenscould there be? The haruspexes, thereaders of bosk blood and verrlivers, surely would not be unawareof these, let us say, larger, graveromens. It would not, of course, beto the benefit of Turia, or the farthercities, or indeed, any of the freecities of even northern Gor, if theisolated fierce peoples of the south

were to join behind a singlestandard and turn their herdsnorthward — away from their dryplains to the lusher reaches of thevalleys of the eastern Cartius,perhaps even beyond them to thoseof the Vosk. Little would be safe ifthe Wagon Peoples should march.

A thousand years ago it was saidthey had carried devastation as faras the walls of Ar and Ko-ro-ba.

The rider had clearly seen meand was moving his mount steadilytoward me.

I could now see as well, thoughseparated by hundreds of yards,three other riders approaching. One

was circling to approach from therear.

The mount of the Wagon Peoples,unknown in the northern hemisphereof Gor, is the terrifying but beautifulkaiila. It is a silken, carnivorous,lofty creature, graceful, long-necked, smooth-gaited. It isviviparous and undoubtedlymammalian, though there is nosuckling of the young. The youngare born vicious and by instinct, assoon as they can struggle to theirfeet, they hunt. It is an instinct of theother, sensing the birth, to deliverthe young animal in the vicinity ofgame. I supposed, with the

domesticated kaiila, a bound verror a prisoner might be cast to thenewborn animal. The kaiila, once iteats its fill, does not touch food forseveral days.

The kaiila is extremely agile, andcan easily outmanoeuvre theslower, more ponderous hightharlarion. It requires less food, ofcourse, than the tarn. A kaiila,which normally stands about twentyto twenty-two hands at the shoulder,can cover as much as six hundredpasangs in a single day’s riding.*

*The pasang, a common unit ofGorean land measurement, isapproximately seven-tenths of a

mile.The head of the kaiila bears two

large eyes, one on each side, butthese eyes are triply lidded,probably an adaptation to theenvironment which occasionally iswracked by severe storms of windand dust; the adaptation, actually atransparent third lid, permits theanimal to move as it wishes underconditions that force other prairieanimals to back into the wind or,like the sleen, to burrow into theground. The kaiila 1is mostdangerous under such conditions,and, as if it knew this, often usessuch times for its hunt.

Now the rider had reined in thekaiila.

He held his ground, waiting forthe others.

I could hear the soft thud of akaiila’s paws in the grass, to myright.

The second rider had haltedthere. He was dressed much as thefirst man, except that no chaindepended from his helmet, but hiswind scarf was wrapped about hisface. His shield was lacqueredyellow, and his bow was yellow.Over his shoulder he, too, carriedone of the slender lances. He was ablack. Kataii, I said to myself.

The third rider placed himself,reining in suddenly, pulling themount to its hind legs, and it rearedsnarling against the bit, and thenstood still, its neck straining towardme. I could see the long, triangulartongue in the animal’s head, behindthe four rows of fangs. The rider,too, wore a wind scarf. His shieldwas red. The Blood People, theKassars.

I turned and was not surprised tosee the fourth rider, motionless onhis animal, already in position. Thekaiila moves with great rapidity.The fourth rider was dressed in ahood and cape of white fur. He

wore a flopping cap of white fur,which did not conceal the conicaloutlines of the steel beneath it. Theleather of his jerkin was black. Thebuckles on his belt of gold. Hislance had a rider hook under thepoint, with which he might dismountopponents.

The kaiila of these men were astawny as the brown grass of theprairie, save for that of the manwho faced me, whose mount was asilken, sable black, as black as thelacquer of the shield.

About the neck of the fourth riderthere was a broad belt of jewels, aswide as my hand. I gathered that

this was ostentation. Actually I waslater to learn that the jewelled beltis worn to incite envy and accrueenemies; its purpose is to encourageattack, that the owner may try theskill of his weapons, that he neednot tire himself seeking for foes. Iknew, though, from the belt, though Ifirst misread its purpose, that theowner was of the Paravaci, theRich People, richest of the wagondwellers.

“Tal!” I called, lifting my hand,palm inward, in Gorean greeting.

As one man the four ridersunstrapped their lances.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I called. “I

come in peace!”I saw the kaiila tense, almost like

larls, their flanks quivering, theirlarge eyes intent upon me. I saw oneof the long, triangular tongues dartout and back. Their long ears werelaid back against the fierce, silkenheads.

“Do you speak Gorean?” Icalled.

As one, the lances were lowered.The lances of the Wagon Peoplesare not couched. They are carried inthe right fist, easily, and are flexibleand light, used for thrusting, not thebattering-ram effect of the heavylances of Europe’s High Middle

Ages. Needless to say, they can bealmost as swift and delicate in theiraddress as a sabre. The lances areblack, cut from the poles of youngtem trees. They may be bent almostdouble, like finely tempered steel,before they break. A loose loop ofboskhide, wound twice about theright fist, helps to retain the weaponin hand-to-hand combat. It isseldom thrown.

“I come in peace!” I shouted tothem.

The man behind me called out,speaking Gorean with a harshaccent. “I am Tolnus of theParavaci.” Then he shook away his

hood, letti1ng his long hair streambehind him over the white fur of thecollar. I stood stock still, seeing theface.

From my left came a cry. “I amConrad, he of the Kassars.” Hethrew the chain mask from his face,back over the helmet and laughed.Were they of Earth stock, I askedmyself. Were they men?

From my right there came a greatlaugh. “I am Hakimba of theKataii,” he roared. He pulled asidethe wind scarf with one hand, andhis face, though black, bore thesame marks as the others.

Now the rider in front of me

lifted the coloured chains from hishelmet, that I might see his face. Itwas a white face, but heavy,greased; the epicanthic fold of hiseyes bespoke a mixed origin.

I was looking on the faces of fourmen, warriors of the WagonPeoples.

On the face of each there were,almost like corded chevrons,brightly coloured scars. The vividcolouring and intensity of thesescars, their prominence, remindedme of the hideous markings on thefaces of mandrills; but thesedisfigurements, as I soonrecognized, were cultural, not

congenital, and bespoke not thenatural innocence of the work ofgenes but the glories and status, thearrogance and prides, of theirbearers. The scars had been workedinto the faces, with needles andknives and pigments and the dung ofbosks over a period of days andnights. Men had died in the fixing ofsuch scars. Most of the scars wereset in pairs, moving diagonallydown from the side of the headtoward the nose and chin. The manfacing me had seven such scarsceremonially worked into the tissueof his countenance, the highestbeing red, the next yellow, the next

blue, the fourth black, then twoyellow, then black again. The facesof the men I saw were all scarreddifferently, but each was scarred.The effect of the scars, ugly,startling, terrible, perhaps in partcalculated to terrify enemies, hadeven prompted me, for a wildmoment, to conjecture that what Ifaced on the Plains of Turia werenot men, but perhaps aliens of somesort, brought to Gor long ago fromremote worlds to serve some nowdischarged or forgotten purpose ofPriest-Kings; but now I knew better;now I could see them as men; andnow, more significantly, I recalled

what I had heard whispered of oncebefore, in a tavern in Ar, theterrible Scar Codes of the WagonPeoples, for each of the hideousmarks on the face of these men hada meaning, a significance that couldbe read by the Paravaci, theKassars, the Kataii, the Tuchuks asclearly as you or I might read a signin a window or a sentence in abook. At that time I could read onlythe top scar, the red, bright, fiercecordlike scar that was the CourageScar. It is always the highest scaron the face. Indeed, without thatscar, no other scar can be granted.The Wagon Peoples value courage

above all else. Each of the menfacing me wore that scar.

Now the man facing me lifted hissmall, lacquered shield and hisslender, black lance.

“Hear my name,” cried he, “I amKamchak of the Tuchuks!”

As suddenly as he had finished,as soon as the men had namedthemselves, as if a signal had beengiven, the four kaiila boundedforward, squealing with rage, eachrider bent low on his mount, lancegripped in his right hand, strainingto be the first to reach me.

Chapter 3

THE SPEARGAMBLING

One, the Tuchuk, I might haveslain with a cast of the heavyGorean war spear; the others wouldhave had free play with theirlances. I might have thrown myselfto the ground as the 1larl huntersfrom Ar, once their weapon is cast,covering myself with the shield; butthen I would have been beneath theclawed paws of four squealing,snorting kaiila, while the ridersjabbed at me with lances, off myfeet, helpless.

So gambling all on the respect ofthe Wagon Peoples for the courage

of men, I made no move to defendmyself but, heart pounding, bloodracing, yet no sign visible ofagitation on my face, without aquiver of a muscle or tendonbetraying me, I stood calmly erect.

On my face there was onlydisdain.

At the last instant, the lances offour riders but a hand’s breadthfrom my body, the enraged,thundering kaiila, hissing andsquealing, at a touch of the controlstraps, arrested their fierce charge,stopping themselves, tearing intothe deep turf with suddenlyemergent claws. Not a rider was

thrown or seemed for an instant offbalance. The children of the WagonPeoples are taught the saddle of thekaiila before they can walk.

“Aieee” cried the warrior of theKataii.

He and the others turned theirmounts and backed away a handfulof yards, regarding me.

I had not moved.“My name is Tarl Cabot,” I said.

“I come in peace.The four riders exchanged

glances and then, at a sign from theheavy Tuchuk, rode a bit away fromme.

I could not make out what they

were saying, but an argument ofsome sort was in progress.

I leaned on my spear andyawned, looking away toward thebosk herds.

My blood was racing. I knew thathad I moved, or shown fear, orattempted to flee, I would now bedead. I could have fought. I mightperhaps then have been victoriousbut the probabilities wereextremely slim. Even had I slaintwo of them the others might havewithdrawn and with their arrows orbolas brought me to the ground.More importantly, I did not wish tointroduce myself to these people as

an enemy. I wished, as I had said, tocome in peace.

At last the Tuchuk detachedhimself from the other threewarriors and pranced his kaiila towithin a dozen yards of me.

“You are a stranger,” he said.“I come in peace to the Wagon

Peoples,” I said.“You wear no insignia on your

shield,” he said. “You are outlaw.”I did not respond. I was entitled

to wear the marks of the city of Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning,but I had not done so. Once, long,long ago, Ko-ro-ba and Ar hadturned the invasion of the united

Wagon Peoples from the north, andthe memories of these things,stinging still in the honest songs ofcamp skalds, would rankle in thecraws of such fierce, proudpeoples. I did not wish to presentmyself to them as an enemy.

“What was your city?” hedemanded.

But to such a question, as awarrior of Ko-ro-ba, I could not butrespond.

“I am of Ko-ro-ba,” I said. “Youhave heard of her.”

The Tuchuk’s face tightened.Then he grinned. “I have heard singof Ko-ro-ba,” he said.

I did not reply to him.He turned to his fellows. “A

Koroban!” he cried.The men moved on their mounts,

restlessly, eagerly said something toon1e another.

“We turned you back,” I said.“What is your business with the

Wagon Peoples?” demanded theTuchuk.

Here I paused. What could I tellhim? Surely here, in this matter, Imust bide my time.

“You see there is no insignia onmy shield or tunic,” I said.

He nodded. “You are a fool,” hesaid, “to flee to the Wagon

Peoples.”I had now led him to believe that

I was indeed an outlaw, a fugitive.He threw back his head and

laughed. He slapped his thigh. “AKoroban! And he flies to the WagonPeoples!” Tears of mirth ran fromthe sides of his eyes. “You are afool!” he said.

“Let us fight,” I suggested.Angrily the Tuchuk pulled back

on the reins of the kaiila, causing itto rear, snarling, pawing at the sky.“And willingly would I do so,Koroban sleen,” he spit out. “Praythou to Priest-Kings that the lancedoes not fall to me!”

I did not understand this.He turned his kaiila and in a

bound or two swung it about in themidst of his fellows.

Then the Kassar approached me.“Koroban,” said he, “did you not

fear our lances?”“I did,” I said.“But you did not show your

fear,” said he.I shrugged.“Yet,” said he, “you tell me you

feared.” There was wonder on hisface.

I looked away.“That,” said the rider, “speaks to

me of courage.”

We studied each other for amoment, sizing one another up.Then he said, “Though you are adweller of cities — a vermin of thew a l l s — I think you are notunworthy — and thus I pray thelance will fall to me.”

He turned his mount back to hisfellows.

They conferred again for amoment and then the warrior of theKataii approached, a lithe, strongproud man, one in whose eyes Icould read that he had never lost hissaddle, nor turned from a foe.

His hand was light on the yellowbow, strung taut. But no arrow was

set to the string.“Where are your men?” he asked.“I am alone,” I said.The warrior stood in the stirrups,

shading his eyes.“Why have you come to spy?” he

asked.“I am not a spy,” I said.“You are hired by the Turians,”

he said.“No,” I responded.“You are a stranger,” he said.“I come in peace,” I said.“Have you heard,” he asked,

“that the Wagon Peoples slaystrangers?”

“Yes,” I said, “I have heard

that.”“It is true,” he said, and turned

his mount back to his fellows.Last to approach me was the1

warrior of the Paravaci, with hishood and cape of white fur, and theglistening broad necklace ofprecious stones encircling histhroat.

He pointed to the necklace. “It isbeautiful, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.“It will buy ten bosks,” said he,

“twenty wagons covered withgolden cloth, a hundred she-slavesfrom Turia.”

I looked away.

“Do you not covet the stones,” heprodded, “these riches?”

“No,” I said.Anger crossed his face. “You

may have them,” he said.“What must I do?” I asked.“Slay me!” he laughed.I looked at him steadily. “They

are probably false stones,” I said,“amber droplets, the pearls of theVosk sorp, the polished shell of theTamber clam, glass coloured andcut in Ar for trade with ignorantsouthern peoples.”

The face of the Paravaci, richwith its terrible furrowed scars,contorted with rage.

He tore the necklace from histhroat and flung it to my feet.

“Regard the worth of thosestones!” he cried. I fished thenecklace from the dust with thepoint of my sword, it in the sun. Ithung like a belt of light, sparklingwith a spectrum of riches hundredmerchants.

“Excellent,” I admitted, handingit back to him on the tip of thespear.

Angrily he wound it about thepommel of the saddle.

“But I am of the Caste ofWarriors,” I said, “of a high cityand we do not stain our spears for

the stones of men — not even suchstones as these.”

The Paravaci was speechless.“You dare to tempt me,” I said,

feigning anger, “as if I were of theCaste of Assassins or a commonthief with his dagger in the night.” Ifrowned at him. “Beware,” Iwarned, “lest I take your words asinsult.”

The Paravaci, in his cape andhood of white fur, with thepriceless necklace wrapped aboutthe pommel of his saddle, sat stiff,not moving, utterly enraged. Then,furiously, the scars wild in his face,he sprang up in the stirrups and

lifted both hands to the sky. “Spiritof the Sky,” he cried, “let the lancefall to me — to me!” Then abruptly,furious, he wheeled the kaiila andjoined the others, whence he turnedto regard me.

As I watched, the Tuchuk tookhis long, slender lance and thrust itinto the ground, point upward.Then, slowly, the four riders beganto walk their mounts about thelance, watching it, right hands freeto seize it should it begin to fall.

The wind seemed to rise.In their way I knew they were

honouring me, that they hadrespected my stand in the matter of

the charging lances, that now theywere gambling to see who wouldfight me, to whose weapons myblood must flow, beneath the pawsof whose kaiila I must fall bloodiedto the earth.

I watched the lance tremble in theshaking earth, and saw theintentness of the riders as theywatched its Lightest movement. Itwould soon fall.

I could now see the herds quiteclearly, making out individualanimals, the shaggy humps movingthrough the dust, see the sun of thelat1e afternoon glinting offthousands of horns. Here and there I

saw riders, darting about, allmounted on the swift, gracefulkaiila. The sun reflected from thehorns in the veil of dust that hungover the herds was quite beautiful.

The lance had not yet fallen.Soon the animals would be

turned in on themselves, to milltogether in knots, until they werestopped by the shaggy walls of theirown kind, to stand and graze untilthe morning. The wagons would, ofcourse, follow the herds. The herdforms both vanguard and rampartfor the advance of the wagons. Thewagons are said to be countless, theanimals without number. Both of

these claims are, of course,mistaken, and the Ubars of theWagon Peoples know well eachwagon and the number of brandedbeasts in the various herds; eachherd is, incidentally, composed ofseveral smaller herds, eachwatched over by its own riders.The bellowing seemed now to comefrom the sky itself, like thunder, orfrom the horizon, like the breakingof an ocean into surf on the rocks ofthe shore. It was like a sea or a vastnatural phenomenon slowlyapproaching. Such indeed, Isuppose, it was. Now, also, for thefirst time, I could clearly smell the

herd, a rich, vast, fresh, musky,pervasive odour, compounded oftrampled grass and torn earth, of thedung, urine and sweat of perhapsmore than a million beasts. Themagnificent vitality of that smell, sooffensive to some, astonished andthrilled me; it spoke to me of theinsurgence and the swell of lifeitself, ebullient, raw, overflowing,unconquerable, primitive, shuffling,smelling, basic, animal, stamping,snorting, moving, an avalanche oftissue and blood and splendour, aglorious, insistent, invinciblecataract of breathing and walkingand seeing and feeling on the sweet,

flowing, windswept motheringearth. And it was in that instant thatI sensed what the bosk might meanto the Wagon Peoples.

“Ho!” I heard, and spun to seethe black lance fall and scarcelyhad it moved but it was seized inthe fist of the scarred Tuchukwarrior.

Chapter 4THE OUTCOME OF

SPEAR GAMBLINGThe Tuchuk warrior lifted the

lance in triumph, in the same instantslipping his fist into the retention

knot and kicking the rowelled heelsof his boots into the silken flanks ofhis mount, the animal springingtowards me and the rider in thesame movement, as if one with thebeast, leaning down from thesaddle, lance slightly lowered,charging.

The slender, flexible wand of thelance tore at the seven-layeredGorean shield, striking a spark fromthe brass rim binding it, as the manhad lunged at my head.

I had not cast the spear.I had no wish to kill the Tuchuk.The charge of the Tuchuk, in

spite of its rapidity and momentum,

carried him no more than four pacesbeyond me. It seemed scarcely hadhe passed than the kaiila hadwheeled and charged again, thistime given free rein, that it mighttear at me with its fangs.

I thrust with the spear, trying toforce back the snapping jaws of thescreaming animal. The kaiila struck,and then withdrew, and then struckagain. All the time the Tuchuk thrustat me with his lance. Four times thepoint struck me drawing blood, buthe did not have the weight of theleaping animal behind his thrust; hethrust at arm’s length, the pointscarcely reaching me. Then the

animal seized my shield in its teethand reared lifting it and myself, bythe shield straps, from the ground. Ifell from some dozen feet to thegrass and saw the1 animal snarlingand biting on the shield, then itshook it and hurled it far and awaybehind it.

I shook myself.The helmet which I had slung

over my shoulder was gone.I retained my sword. I grasped

the Gorean spear.I stood at bay on the grass,

breathing hard, bloody.The Tuchuk laughed, throwing

his head back.

I readied the spear for its cast.Warily now the animal began to

circle, in an almost human fashion,watching the spear. It shifteddelicately, feinting, and thenwithdrawing, trying to draw thecast.

I was later to learn that kaiila aretrained to avoid the thrown spear. Itis a training which begins withblunt staves and progresses throughheaded weapons. Until the kaiila issuitably proficient in this art it isnot allowed to breed. Those whocannot learn it die under the spear.Yet, at a close range, I had no doubtthat I could slay the beast. As swift

as may be the kaiila I had no doubtthat I was swifter. Gorean warriorshunt men and larls with thisweapon. But I did not wish to slaythe animal, nor its rider.

To the astonishment of theTuchuk and the others whoobserved, I threw away theweapon.

The Tuchuk sat still on his mount,as did the others. Then he took hislance and smote it on the small,glossy shield, acknowledging myact. Then so too did the others, eventhe white-caped man of theParavaci.

Then the Tuchuk drove his own

lance into the dirt and hung on thelance his glossy shield.

I saw him draw one of the quivasfrom a saddle sheath, loosen thelong, triple-weighted bola from hisside.

Slowly, singing in a gutturalchant, a Tuchuk warrior song, hebegan to swing the bola. It consistsof three long straps of leather, eachabout five feet long, eachterminating in a leather sack whichcontains, sewn inside, a heavy,round, metal weight. It wasprobably developed for hunting thetumit, a huge, flightless carnivorousbird of the plains, but the Wagon

Peoples use it also, and well, as aweapon of war. Thrown low thelong straps, with their approximateten-foot sweep, almost impossibleto evade, strike the victim and theweighted balls, as soon asresistance is met, whip about thevictim, tangling and tightening thestraps. Sometimes legs are broken.It is often difficult to release thestraps, so snarled do they become.Thrown high the Gorean bola canlock a man’s arms to his sides;thrown to the throat it can stranglehim; thrown to the head, a difficultcast, the whipping weights cancrush a skull. One entangles the

victim with the bola, leaps fromone’s mount and with the quiva cutshis throat.

I had never encountered such aweapon and I had little notion as tohow it might be met.

The Tuchuk handled it well. Thethree weights at the end of thestraps were now almost blurring inthe air and he, his song ended, thereins in his left hand, quiva bladenow clenched between his teeth,bola in his swinging, uplifted rightarm, suddenly cried out and kickedthe kaiila into its charge.

He wants a kill, I told myself. Heis under the eyes of warriors of the

other peoples. It would be safest tothrow low. It would be a finer cast,however, to try for the throat orhead. How vain is he? How skilfulis he?

He would be both skilful andvain; he was Tuchuk.

To the head came1 the flashingbola moving in its hideous, swiftrevolution almost invisible in theair and I, instead of lowering myhead or throwing myself to theground, met instead the flyingweighted leather with the blade of aKoroban short sword, with the edgethat would divide silk droppedupon it and the taut straps, two of

them, flew from the blade and theother strap and the three weightslooped off into the grass, and theTuchuk at the same time, scarcelyrealizing what had occurred, leapedfrom the kaiila, quiva in hand, tofind himself unexpectedly facing abraced warrior of Ko-ro-ba, sworddrawn.

The quiva reversed itself in hishand, an action so swift I was onlyaware of it as his arm flew back,his hand on the blade, to hurl theweapon.

It sped toward me withincredible velocity over the handfulof feet that separated us. It could not

be evaded, but only countered, andcountered it was by the Korobansteel in my hand, a sudden ringing,sliding flash of steel and the knifewas deflected from my breast.

The Tuchuk stood struck withawe, in the grass, on the tremblingplains in the dusty air.

I could hear the other three menof the Wagon Peoples, the Kataii,the Kassar, the Paravaci, strikingtheir shields with their lances.“Well done,” said the Kassar.

The Tuchuk removed his helmetand threw it to the grass. He jerkedopen the jacket he wore and theleather jerkin beneath, revealing his

chest.He looked about him, at the

distant bosk herds, lifted his head tosee the sky once more.

His kailla stood some yardsaway, shifting a bit, puzzled, reinsloose on its neck.

The Tuchuk now looked at meswiftly. He grinned. He did notexpect nor would he receive aidfrom his fellows. I studied hisheavy face, the fierce scarring thatsomehow ennobled it, the blackeyes with the epicanthic fold. Hegrinned at me. “Yes,” he said,“well done.”

I went to him and set the point of

the Gorean short sword at his heart.He did not flinch.“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said. “I

come in peace.”I thrust the blade back in the

scabbard.For a moment the Tuchuk seemed

stunned. He stared at me,disbelievingly, and then, suddenly,he threw back his head and laugheduntil tears streamed down his face.He doubled over and pounded onhis knees with his fist. Then hestraightened up and wiped his facewith the back of his hand.

I shrugged.Suddenly the Tuchuk bent to the

soil and picked up a handful of dirtand grass, the land on which thebosk graze, the land which is theland of the Tuchuks, and this dirtand this grass he thrust in my handsand I held it.

The warrior grinned and put hishands over mine so that our handstogether held the dirt and the grass,and were together clasped on it.

“Yes,” said the warrior, “comein peace to the Land of the WagonPeoples.”

Chapter 5THE PRISONER

I followed the warrior Kamchakinto the encampment of Tuchuks.

Nearly were we run down by sixriders on thundering kaiila who,riding for sport, raced past uswildly among the cr1owded,clustered wagons. I heard thelowing of milk bosk from among thewagons. Here and there childrenran between the wheels, playingwith a cork ball and quiva, theobject of the game being to strikethe thrown ball. Tuchuk women,unveiled, in their long leatherdresses, long hair bound in braids,tended cooking pots hung on tem-wood tripods over dung fires.

These women were unscarred, butlike the bosk themselves, each worea nose ring. That of the animals isheavy and of gold, that of thewomen also of gold but tiny andfine, not unlike the wedding rings ofmy old world. I heard a haruspexsinging between the wagons; for apiece of meat he would read thewind and the grass; for a cup ofwine the stars and the flight ofbirds; for a fat-bellied dinner theliver of a sleen or slave.

The Wagon Peoples arefascinated with the future and itssigns and though, to hear themspeak, they put no store in such

matters, yet they do in practice givethem great consideration. I was toldby Kamchak that once an army of athousand wagons turned asidebecause a swarm of rennels,poisonous, crablike desert insects,did not defend its broken nest,crushed by the wheel of the leadwagon. Another time, over ahundred years ago, a wagon Ubarlost the spur from his right boot andturned for this reason back from thegates of mighty Ar itself.

By one fire I could see a squatTuchuk, hands on hips, dancing andstamping about by himself, drunk onfermented milk curds, dancing,

according to Kamchak, to please theSky.

The Tuchuks and the otherWagon Peoples reverence Priest-Kings, but unlike the Goreans of thecities, with their castes of Initiates,they do not extend to them thedignities of worship. I suppose theTuchuks worship nothing, in thecommon sense of that word, but it istrue they hold many things holy,among them the bosk and the skillsof arms, but chief of the thingsbefore which the proud Tuchukstands ready to remove his helmetis the sky, the simple, vast beautifulsky, from which falls the rain that,

in his myths, formed the earth, andthe bosks, and the Tuchuks. It is tothe sky that the Tuchuks pray whenthey pray, demanding victory andluck for themselves, defeat andmisery for their enemies. TheTuchuk, incidentally, like others ofthe Wagon Peoples, prays onlywhen mounted, only when in thesaddle and with weapons at hand;he prays to the sky not as a slave toa master, nor a servant to a god, butas warrior to a Ubar; the women ofthe Wagon Peoples, it might bementioned, are not permitted topray; many of them, however, dopatronize the haruspexes, who,

besides foretelling the future with agreater or lesser degree of accuracyfor generally reasonable fees,provide an incredible assemblageof amulets, talismans, trinkets,philters, potions, spell papers,wonder-working sleen teeth,marvellous powdered kailiaukhorns, and coloured, magic stringsthat, depending on the purpose, maybe knotted in various ways andworn about the neck.

As we passed among the wagonsI leaped back as a tawny prairiesleen hurled itself against the barsof a sleen cage, reaching out for mewith its six-clawed paw. There

were four other prairie sleen in thecage, a small cage, and they werecurling and moving about oneanother, restlessly, like angrysnakes. They would be releasedwith the fall of darkness to run theperiphery of the herds, acting, as Ihave mentioned, as shepherds andsentinels. They are also used if aslave escapes, for the sleen is anefficient, tireless, savage, almostinfallible hunter, capable ofpursuing a scent, days old, forhundreds of pasangs until, perhaps amonth later, it finds its victim andtears it to pieces.

I was startled by the sound of

slave bells and saw a girl, strippedsave for bells and collar, carrying aburden among the wagons.

Kamchak saw that I had noticedthe girl and chuckled, sensing that Imight find it strange, seeing a slaveso among the wagons.

She wore bells locked on bothwrists, and on both ankles, thickcuffs and anklets, each with adouble line of bells, fastened bysteel and key. She wore the Turiancollar, rather than the commonslave collar. The Turian collar liesloosely on the girl, a round ring; itfits so loosely that, when grasped ina man’s fist, the girl can turn within

it; the common Gorean collar, onthe other hand, is a flat, snuglyfitting steel band. Both collars lockin the back, behind the girl’s neck.The Turian collar is more difficultto engrave, but it, like the flatcollar, will bear some legendassuring that the girl, if found, willbe promptly returned to her master.Bells had also been afflicted to hercollar.

“She is Turian?” I asked.“Of course,” said Kamchak.“In the cities,” I said, “only

Pleasure Slaves are so belled, andthen customarily for the dance.”

“Her master,” said Kamchak,

“does not trust her.”In his simple statement I then

understood the meaning of hercondition. She would be allowedno garments, that she might not beable to conceal a weapon; the bellswould mark each of her movements.

“At night,” said Kamchak, “she ischained under the wagon.”

The girl had now disappeared.“Turian girls are proud,” said

Kamchak. “Thus, they makeexcellent slaves.”

What he said did not surprise me.The Gorean master, commonly,likes a spirited girl, one who fightsthe whip and collar, resisting until

at last, perhaps months later, she isoverwhelmed and mustacknowledge herself his, utterly andwithout reservation, then fearingonly that he might tire of her andsell her to another.

“In time,” said Kamchak, “shewill beg for the rag of a slave.”

I supposed it was true. A girlcould take only so much, and thenshe would kneel to her master, herhead to his boots, and beg for a bitof clothing, even though it be onlyto be clad Kajir.

Kajira is perhaps the mostcommon expression for a femaleslave. Another frequently heard

expression is Sa-Fora, a compoundword, meaning, rather literally,Chain Daughter, or Daughter of theChain. Among the Wagon Peoples,to be clad Kajir means, for a girl, towear four articles, two red, twoblack; a red cord, the Curla, is tiedabout the waist; the Chatka, or long,narrow strip of black leather, fitsover this cord in the front, passesunder, and then again, from theinside, passes over the cord in theback; the Chatka is drawn tight; theKalmak is then donned; it is a short,open, sleeveless vest of blackleather; lastly the Koora, a strip ofred cloth, matching the Curla, is

wound about the head, to hold thehair back, for slave women, amongthe Wagon Peoples, are notpermitted to braid, or otherwisedress their hair; it must be, save forthe Koora, worn loose. For a maleslave, or Kajirus, of the WagonPeoples, and there are few, save forthe work chains, to be clad Kajirmeans to wear the Kes, a short,sleeveless work tunic of blackleather. As Kamchak and I walkedto his wagon, I saw several girls,here and there, clad Kajir; theywere magnificent; they walked withthe true brazen insolence of theslave girl, the wench who knows

that she is owned, whom men havefound beautiful enough, and excitingenough, to collar. The dour womenof the Wagon Peoples, I saw,looked on these girls with envy andhatred, sometimes 1striking themwith sticks if they should approachtoo closely the cooking pots andattempt to steal a piece of meat.

“I will tell your master!”screamed one.

The girl laughed at her and with atoss of her auburn hair, bound in theKoora, ran off between the wagons.

Kamchak and I laughed.I gathered that the beauty had

little to fear from her master, saving

perhaps that she might cease toplease him.

The wagons of the WagonPeoples are, in their hundreds andthousands, in their brilliant,variegated colours, a glorious sight.Surprisingly the wagons are almostsquare, each the size of a largeroom. Which is drawn by a doubleteam of bosk, four in a team, witheach team linked to its wagontongue, the tongues being joined bytem-wood crossbars. The two axlesof the wagon are also of tem-wood,which perhaps, because of itsflexibility, joined with the generalflatness of the southern Gorean

plains, permits the width of thewagon.

The wagon box, which standsalmost six feet from the ground, isformed of black, lacquered planksof tem-wood. Inside the wagon box,which is square, there is fixed arounded, tent like frame, coveredwith the taut, painted, varnishedhides of bosks. These hides arerichly coloured, and often workedwith fantastic designs, each wagoncompeting with its neighbour to bethe boldest and most exciting. Therounded frame is fixed somewhatwithin the square of the wagon box,so that a walkway, almost like a

ship’s bridge, surrounds the frame.The sides of the wagon box,incidentally, are, here and there,perforated for arrow ports, for thesmall horn bow of the WagonPeoples can be used to advantagenot only from the back of a kaiilabut, like the crossbow, from suchcramped quarters. One of the moststriking features of these wagons isthe wheels, which are huge, theback wheels having a diameter ofabout ten feet; the front wheels are,like those of the Conestoga wagon,slightly smaller, in this case, abouteight feet in diameter; the largerrear wheels are more difficult to

mire; the smaller front wheels,nearer the pulling power of thebosk, permit a somewhat easierturning of the wagon. These wheelsare carved wood and, like thewagon hides, are richly painted.Thick strips of boskhide form thewheel rims, which are replacedthree to four times a year. Thewagon is guided by a series of eightstraps, two each for the four leadanimals. Normally, however, thewagons are tied in tandem fashion,in numerous long columns, and onlythe lead wagons are guided, theothers simply following, thongsrunning from the rear of one wagon

to the nose rings of the boskfollowing, sometimes as much asthirty yards behind, with the nextwagon; also, too, a wagon is oftenguided by a woman or boy whowalks beside the lead animals witha sharp stick.

The interiors of the wagons,lashed shut, protected from the dustof the march, are often rich,marvellously carpeted and hung,filled with chests and silks, andbooty from looted caravans, lit byhanging tharlarion oil lamps, thegolden light of which falls on thesilken cushions, the ankle-deep,intricately wrought carpets. In the

centre of the wagon there is a small,shallow fire bowl, formed ofcopper, with a raised brass grating.Some cooking is done here, thoughthe bowl is largely to furnish heat.The smoke escapes by a smoke holeat the dome of the tent like frame, ahole which is shut when the wagonsmove.

There was the sudden thud of akaiila’s paws on the grass betweenthe wagons and a wild snortingsqueal. I jumped back avoiding thepaws of the enraged, rearinganimal.

“Stand aside, you fool!” cried agirl’s voice, and to my

astonis1hment, astride the saddle ofthe monster I espied a girl, young,astonishingly beautiful, vital, angry,pulling at the control straps of theanimal.

She was not as the other womenof the Wagon Peoples I had seen,the dour, thin women with braidedhair, bending over the cooking pots.

She wore a brief leather skirt,slit on the right side to allow her thesaddle of the kaiila; her leatherblouse was sleeveless; attached toher shoulders was a crimson cape;and her wild black hair was boundback by a band of scarlet cloth.Like the other women of the

Wagons she wore no veil and, likethem, fixed in her nose was the tiny,fine ring that proclaimed herpeople.

Her skin was a light brown andher eyes a charged, sparkling black.

“What fool is this?” shedemanded of Kamchak.

“No fool,” said Kamchak, “butTarl Cabot, a warrior, one who hasheld in his hands with me grass andearth.”

“He is a stranger,” she said. “Heshould be slain!”

Kamchak grinned up at her. “Hehas held with me grass and earth,”he said.

The girl gave a snort of contemptand kicked her small, spurred heelsinto the flanks of the kaiila andbounded away.

Kamchak laughed. “She isHereena, a wench of the FirstWagon,” he said.

“Tell me of her,” I said.“What is there to tell?” asked

Kamchak.“What does it mean to be of the

First Wagon?” I asked.Kamchak laughed. “You know

little of the Wagon Peoples,” hesaid.

“That is true,” I admitted.“To be of the First Wagon,” said

Kamchak, “is to be of the householdof Kutaituchik.”

I repeated the name slowly,trying to sound it out. It ispronounced in four syllables,divided thus: Ku-tai-tu-chik.

“He then is the Ubar of theTuchuks?” I said.

“His wagon,” smiled Kamchak,“is the First Wagon — and it isKutaituchik who sits upon the greyrobe.”

“The grey robe?” I asked.“That robe,” said Kamchak,

“which is the throne of the Ubars ofthe Tuchuks.”

It was thus I first learned the

name of the man whom I understoodto be Ubar of this fierce people.

“You will sometime be taken intothe presence of Kutaituchik,” saidKamchak. “I myself,” he said, “mustoften go to the wagon of the Ubar.”

I gathered from this remark thatKamchak was a man of no littleimportance among the Tuchuks.

“There are a hundred wagons inthe personal household ofKutaituchik,” said Kamchak. “To beof any of these wagons is to be ofthe First Wagon.”

“I see,” I said. “And the girl —she on the kaiila — is perhaps thedaughter of Kutaituchik, Ubar of the

Tuchuks?”“No,” said Kamchak. “She is

unrelated to him, as are most in theFirst Wagon.”

“She seemed much different thanthe other Tuchuk women,” I said.

Kamchak laughed, the colouredscars w1rinkling on his broad face.“Of course,” said Kamchak, “shehas been raised to be fit prize in thegames of Love and War.”

“I do not understand,” I said.Did you not see the Plains of a

Thousand Stakes?” asked Kamchak.“No,” I said. “I did not.”I was about to press Kamchak on

this matter when we heard a sudden

shout and the squealing of kaiilafrom among the wagons. I heardthen the shouts of men and the criesof women and children. Kamchaklifted his head intently, listening.Then we heard the pounding of asmall drum and two blasts on thehorn of a bosk.

Kamchak read the message of thedrum and horn.

“A prisoner has been brought tothe camp,” he said.

Chapter 6TO THE WAGON OF

KUTAITUCHIK

Kamchak strode among thewagons, toward the sound, and Ifollowed him closely. Many others,too, rushed to the sound, and wewere jostled by armed warriors,scarred and fierce; by boys withunscarred faces, carrying thepointed sticks used often forgoading the wagon bosk; by leather-clad women hurrying from thecooking pots; by wild, half-clothedchildren; even by enslaved Kajir-clad beauties of Turia; even the girlwas there who wore but bells andcollar, struggling under her burden,long dried strips of bosk meat, aswide as beams, she too hurrying to

see what might be the meaning ofthe drum and horn, of the shoutingTuchuks.

We suddenly emerged into thecentre of what seemed to be a wide,grassy street among the wagons, awide lane, open and level, anavenue in that city of Harigga, orBosk Wagons.

The street was lined by throngsof Tuchuks and slaves. Amongthem, too, were soothsayers andharuspexes, and singers andmusicians, and, here and there,small peddlers and merchants, ofvarious cities, for such areoccasionally permitted by the

Tuchuks, who crave their wares, toapproach the wagons. Each ofthese, I was later to learn, wore onhis forearm a tiny brand, in the formof spreading bosk horns, whichguaranteed his passage, at certainseasons, across the plains of theWagon Peoples. The difficulty, ofcourse is in first obtaining thebrand. If, in the case of a singer, thesong is rejected, or in the case of amerchant, his merchandise isrejected, he is slain out of hand.This acceptance brand, of course,carries with it a certain stain ofignominy, suggesting that those whoapproach the wagons do as slaves.

Now I could see down the wide,grassy lane, loping towards us, twokaiila and riders. A lance wasfastened between them, fixed to thestirrups of their saddles. The lancecleared the ground, given the heightof the kaiila, by about five feet.Between the two animals, stumblingdesperately, her throat bound byleather thongs to the lance behindher neck, ran a girl, her wrists tiedbehind her back.

I was astonished, for this girlwas dressed not as a Gorean, not asa girl of any of the cities of theCounter-Earth, not as a peasant ofthe Sa-Tarna fields or the vineyards

where the Ta grapes are raised, noteven as a girl of the fierce WagonPeoples.

Kamchak stepped to the centre ofthe grassy lane, lifting his hand, andthe two riders, with their prize,reined in their mounts.

I was dumbfounded.The girl stood gasping for breath,

her body shaking and quive1ring,her knees slightly bent. She wouldhave fallen except for the lance thatkept her in place. She pulledweakly at the thongs that bound herwrists. Her eyes seemed glazed.She scarcely could look about her.Her clothing was stained with dust

and her hair hung loose and tangled.Her body was covered with asparkling sheen of sweat. Her shoeshad been removed and had beenfastened about her neck. Her feetwere bleeding. The shreds ofyellow nylon stockings hung abouther angles. Her brief dress was tornby being dragged through brush.

Kamchak, too, seemed surprisedat the sight of the girl, for never hadhe seen one so peculiarly attired.He assumed, of course, from thebrevity of her skirt, that she wasslave. He was perhaps puzzled bythe absence of a metal collar abouther throat. There was, however,

literally sewn about her neck, athick, high leather collar.

Kamchak went to her and tookher head in his hands. She lifted herhead and seeing the wild, fearsomescarred face that stared into hers,she suddenly screamed hysterically,and tried to jerk and tear herselfaway, but the lance held her inplace. She kept shaking her headand whimpering. It was clear shecould not believe her eyes, that sheunderstood nothing, that she did notcomprehend her surroundings, thatshe thought herself mad.

I noted that she had dark hair anddark eyes, brown.

The thought crossed my mind thatthis might lower her pricesomewhat.

She wore a simple yellow shift,with narrow orange stripes, of whatmust once have been crisp oxfordcloth. It had long sleeves, withcuffs, and a button down collar, notunlike a man’s shirt.

It was now, of course, torn andsoiled.

Yet she was not an unpleasingwench to look on, slim, well-ankled, lithe. On the Gorean blockshe would bring a good price.

She gave a little cry as Kamchakjerked the shoes from about her

neck.He threw them to me.They were orange, of finely

tooled leather, with a buckle. Theyhad heels, a bit more than an inchhigh. There was also lettering in theshoe, but the script and wordswould have been unfamiliar toGoreans. It was English.

The girl was trying to speak. “Myname is Elizabeth Cardwell,” shesaid. “I’m an American citizen. Myhome is in New York City.”

Kamchak looked in puzzlement atthe riders, and they at him. InGorean, one of the riders said, “Sheis a barbarian. She cannot speak

Gorean.”My role, as I conceived it, was to

remain silent.“You are all mad!” screamed the

girl, pulling at the straps that boundher, struggling in the bonds. “Mad!”

The Tuchuks and the otherslooked at one another, puzzled.

I did not speak.I was thunderstruck that a girl,

apparently of Earth, who spokeEnglish, should be brought to theTuchuks at this time — at the timethat I was among them, hoping todiscover and return to Priest-Kingswhat I supposed to be a goldenspheroid, the egg, the last hope of

their race. Had the girl been broughtto this world by Priest-Kings? Wasshe the recent victim of one of theVoyages of Acquisition? But Iunderstood them to have beencurtailed in the recent subterraneanWar of Priest-Kings. Had they beenresumed? Surely this girl had notbeen long on Gor, perhaps no morethan hours. But if the Voyages ofAcquisition had been resumed, whyhad t1hey been resumed? Or was itactually the case that she had beenbrought to Gor by Priest-Kings?Were there perhaps — others —somehow others? Was this womansent to the Tuchuks at this time —

perhaps released to wander on theplains — inevitably to be picked upby outriders — for a purpose —and if so, to what end — for whosepurpose or purposes? Or was theresomehow some fantastic accident orcoincidence involved in the eventof her arrival? Somehow I knew thelatter was not likely to be the case.

Suddenly the girl threw back herhead and cried out hysterically.“I’m mad! I have gone mad! I havegone mad!”

I could stand it no longer. Shewas too piteous. Against my betterjudgment I spoke to her. “No,” Isaid, “you are sane.”

The girl’s eyes looked at me, shescarcely believing the words shehad heard.

The Tuchuks and others, as oneman, faced me.

I turned to Kamchak. Speaking inGorean, I said to him, “I canunderstand her.”

One of the riders pointed to me,crying out to the crowd, excitedly.“He speaks her tongue!”

A ripple of pleasure coursedthrough the throng.

It then occurred to me that itmight have been for just thispurpose that she had been sent tothe Tuchuks, to single out the one

man from among all the thousandswith the wagons who couldunderstand her and speak with her,thus identifying and marking him.

“Excellent,” said Kamchak,grinning at me.

“Please,” cried the girl to me.“Help me!”

Kamchak said to me. “Tell her tobe silent.”

I did so, and the girl looked atme, dumbfounded, but remainedsilent.

I discovered that I was now aninterpreter.

Kamchak was now, curiously,fingering her yellow garment. Then,

swiftly, he tore it from her.She cried out.“Be silent,” I said to her.I knew what must now pass, and

it was what would have passed inany city or on any road or trail orpath in Gor. She was a captivefemale, and must, naturally, submitto her assessment as prize; she mustalso be, incidentally, examined forweapons; a dagger or poisonedneedle is often concealed in theclothing of free women.

There were interested murmursfrom the crowd when, to theGorean’s thinking, the unusualgarments underlying her yellow

shift were revealed.“Please,” she wept, turning to

me.“Be silent,” I cautioned her.Kamchak then removed her

remaining garments, even the shredsof nylon stockings that had hungabout her ankles.

There was a murmur of approvalfrom the crowd; even some of theenslaved Turian beauties, in spiteof themselves, cried out inadmiration.

Elizabeth Cardwell, I decided,would indeed bring a high price.

She stood held in place by thelance, her throat bound to it with the

wood behind her neck, her wriststhonged behind her back. Other thanher bonds she now wore only thethick leather collar which had beensewn about her neck.

Kamchak picked up the clothingwhich lay near 1her on the grass.He also took the shoes. He waddedit all up together in a soiled bundle.He threw it to a nearby woman.“Burn it,” said Kamchak.

The bound girl watchedhelplessly as the woman carried herclothing, all that she had of her oldworld, to a cooking fire some yardsaway, near the edge of the wagons.

The crowd had opened a passage

for the woman and the girl saw theclothing cast on the open fire.

“No, no!” she screamed. “No!”Then she tried once more to free

herself.“Tell her,” said Kamchak, “that

she must learn Gorean quickly —that she will be slain if she doesnot.”

I translated this for the girl.She shook her head wildly. “Tell

them my name is ElizabethCardwell,” she said. “I don’t knowwhere I am — or how I got here —I want to get back to America —I’m an American citizen — myhome is in New York City — take

me back there — I will pay youanything!”

“Tell her,” repeated Kamchak,“that she must learn Gorean quickly— and that if she does not she willbe slain.”

I translated this once more for thegirl.

“I will pay you anything,” shepleaded. “Anything!”

“You have nothing,” I informedher, and she blushed. “Further,” Isaid, “we do not have the means ofreturning you to your home.”

“Why not?” she demanded.“Have you not,” I pressed,

“noted the difference in the

gravitational field of this place —have you not noted the slightdifference in the appearance of thesun?”

“It’s not true!” she screamed.“This is not Earth,” I told her.

“This is Gor — another earthperhaps — but not yours.” I lookedat her fixedly. She must understand.“You are on another planet.”

She closed her eyes and moaned.“I know,” she said. “I know — I

know — but how — how — how?”“I do not know the answer to

your question,” I said. I did not tellher that I was, incidentally, keenlyinterested — for my own reasons

— in learning the answer to herquestion.

Kamchak seemed impatient.“What does she say?” he asked.“She is naturally disturbed,” I

said. “She wishes to return to hercity.”

“What is her city?” askedKamchak.

“It is called New York,” I said.“I have never heard of it,” said

Kamchak.“It is far away,” I said.“How is it that you speak her

language?” he asked.“I once lived in lands where her

language is spoken,” I said.

“Is there grass for the bosk in herlands?” asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I said, “but they are faraway.”

“Farther even than Thentis?”asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I said.“Farther even than the islands of

Cos and-Tyros?” he asked.“Yes,” I said.Kamchak whistled. “That is far,”

he said.I smiled. “It is too far to take the

bosk,” I said.Kamchak grinned at me.One of the warriors on the kaiila

spoke. “She was with no one,” he

said. “We searched. She was withno one.”

Kamchak nodded at me, and thenat the girl.

“Were you alone?” I asked.The girl nodded weakly.“She says she was alone,” I told

Kamchak.“How came she here?” asked

Kamchak.I translated his question, and the

girl looked at me, and then closedher eyes and shook her head. “Idon’t know,” she said.

“She says she does not know,” Itold Kamchak.

“It is strange,” said Kamchak.

“But we will question her furtherlater.”

He signalled to a boy whocarried a skin of Ka-la-na wineover his shoulder. He took the skinof wine from the boy and bit out thehorn plug; he then, with thewineskin on his shoulder, held backthe head of Elizabeth Cardwell withone hand and with the other shovedthe bone nozzle of the skin betweenher teeth; he tipped the skin and thegirl, half choking, swallowed wine;some of the red fluid ran from hermouth and over her body.

When Kamchak thought she haddrunk enough he pulled the nozzle

from her mouth, pushed back theplug and returned the skin to theboy.

Dazed, exhausted, covered withsweat, dust on her face and legs,wine on her body, ElizabethCardwell, her wrists thongedbehind her and her throat bound to alance, stood captive beforeKamchak of the Tuchuks.

He must be merciful. He must bekind.

“She must learn Gorean,” saidKamchak to me. “Teach her ‘LaKajira’.”

“You must learn Gorean,” I toldthe girl.

She tried to protest, but I wouldnot permit it.

“Say ‘La Kajira’,” I told her.She looked at me, helplessly.

Then she repeated, “La Kajira.”“Again,” I commanded.“La Kajira,” said the girl clearly,

“La Kajira.”Elizabeth Cardwell had learned

her first Gorean.“What does it mean?” she asked.“It means,” I told her, “I am a

slave girl.”“No!” she screamed. “No, no,

no!”Kamchak nodded to the two

riders mounted on kaiila. “Take her

to the wagon of Kutaituchik.”The two riders turned their kaiila

and in a moment, moving rapidly,the girl running between them, hadturned from the grassy lane anddisappeared between the wagons.

Kamchak and I regarded oneanother.

“Did you note the collar shewore?” I asked.

He had not seemed to showmuc1h interest in the high, thickleather collar that the girl had hadsewn about her neck.

“Of course,” he said.“I myself,” I said, “have never

seen such a collar.”

“It is a message collar,” saidKamchak. “Inside the leather, sewnwithin, will be a message.”

My look of amazement must haveamused him, for he laughed.“Come,” he said, “let us go to thewagon of Kutaituchik.”

Chapter 7LA KAJIRAThe wagon of Kutaituchik, called

Ubar of the Tuchuks, was drawn upon a large, flat-topped grassy hill,the highest land in the camp.

Beside the wagon, on a greatpole fixed in the earth, stood the

Tuchuk standard of the four boskhorns.

The hundred, rather than eight,bosk that drew his wagon had beenunyoked; they were huge, red bosk;their horns had been polished andtheir coats glistened from the comband oils; their golden nose ringswere set with jewels; necklaces ofprecious stones hung from thepolished horns.

The wagon itself was the largestin the camp, and the largest wagon Ihad conceived possible; actually itwas a vast platform, set onnumerous wheeled frames; though atthe edges of the platform, on each

side, there were a dozen of thelarge wheels such as are found onthe much smaller wagons; theselatter wheels turned as the wagonmoved and supported weight, butcould not of themselves havesupported the entire weight of thatfantastic, wheeled palace of hide.

The hides that formed the domewere of a thousand colours, and thesmoke hole at the top must havestood more than a hundred feet fromthe flooring of that vast platform. Icould well conjecture the riches,the loot and the furnishing thatwould dazzle the interior of such amagnificent dwelling.

But I did not enter the wagon, forKutaituchik held his court outsidethe wagon, in the open air, on theflat-topped grassy hill. A large daishad been built, vast and spreading,but standing no more than a footfrom the earth. This dais wascovered with dozens of thick rugs,sometimes four and five deep.

There were many Tuchuks, andsome others, crowded about thedais, and, standing upon it, aboutKutaituchik, there were several menwho, from their position on the daisand their trappings, I judged to beof great importance.

Among these men, sitting cross-

legged, was Kutaituchik, calledUbar of the Tuchuks.

About Kutaituchik there werepiled various goods, mostly vesselsof precious metal and strings andpiles of jewels; there was silk therefrom Tyros; silver from Thentis andTharna; tapestries from the mills ofAr; wines from Cos; dates from thecity of Tor. There were also, amongthe other goods, two girls, blondeand blue-eyed, unclothed, chained;they had perhaps been a gift toKutaituchik; or had been thedaughters of enemies; they mighthave been from any city; both werebeautiful; one was sitting with her

knees tucked under her chin, herhands clasping her ankles, absentlystaring at the jewels about her feet;the other lay indolently on her side,incuriously regarding us, her weighton one elbow; there was a yellowstain about her mouth where she hadbeen fed some fruit; both girls worethe Sirik, a light chain favoured forfemale slaves by many Goreanmasters; it consists of a Turian-typecollar, a loose, rounded circle ofsteel, to which1 a light, gleamingchain is attached; should the girlstand, the chain, dangling from hercollar, falls to the floor; it is aboutten or twelve inches longer than is

required to reach from her collar toher ankles; to this chain, at thenatural fall of her wrists, is attacheda pair of slave bracelets; at the endof the chain there is attachedanother device, a set of linked anklerings, which, when closed about herankles, lifts a portion of the slackchain from the floor; the Sirik is anincredibly graceful thing anddesigned to enhance the beauty ofits wearer; perhaps it should onlybe added that the slave braceletsand the ankle rings may be removedfrom the chain and used separately;this also, of course, permits theSirik to function as a slave leash.

At the edge of the dais Kamchakand I had stopped, where oursandals were removed and our feetwashed by Turian slaves, men inthe Kes, who might once have beenofficers of the city.

We mounted the dais andapproached the seeminglysomnolent figure seated upon it.

Although the dais wasresplendent, and the rugs upon iteven more resplendent, I saw thatbeneath Kutaituchik, over theserugs, had been spread a simple,worn, tattered robe of greyboskhide. It was upon this simplerobe that he sat. It was undoubtedly

that of which Kamchak had spoken,the robe upon which sits the Ubar ofthe Tuchuks, that simple robe whichis his throne.

Kutaituchik lifted his head andregarded us; his eyes seemedsleepy; he was bald, save for ablack knot of hair that emerged fromthe back of his shaven skull; he wasa broad-backed man, with smalllegs; his eyes bore the epicanthicfold; his skin was a tinged,yellowish brown; though he wasstripped to the waist, there wasabout his shoulders a rich,ornamented robe of the red bosk,bordered with jewels; about his

neck, on a chain decorated withsleen teeth, there hung a goldenmedallion, bearing the sign of thefour bosk horns; he wore furredboots, wide leather trousers, and ared sash, in which was thrust aquiva. Beside him, coiled, perhapsas a symbol of power, lay a boskwhip. Kutaituchik absently reachedinto a small golden box near hisright knee and drew out a string ofrolled kanda leaf.

The roots of the kanda plant,which grows largely in desertregions on Gor, are extremely toxic,but, surprisingly, the rolled leavesof this plant, which are relatively

innocuous, are formed into stringsand, chewed or sucked, are muchfavoured by many Goreans,particularly in the southernhemisphere, where the leaf is moreabundant.

Kutaituchik, not taking his eyesoff us, thrust one end of the greenkanda string in the left side of hismouth and, very slowly, began tochew it. He said nothing, nor didKamchak. We simply sat near him,cross-legged. I was conscious thatonly we three on that dais weresitting. I was pleased that therewere no prostrations or grovellingsinvolved in approaching the august

presence of the exalted Kutaituchik.I gathered that once, in his earlieryears, he might have been a rider ofthe kaiila, that he might have beenskilled with the bow and lance, andthe quiva; such a man would notneed ceremony; I sensed that oncethis man might have ridden sixhundred pasangs in a day, living ona mouthful of water and a handful ofbosk meat kept soft and warmbetween his saddle and the back ofthe kaiila; that there might havebeen few as swift with the quiva, asdelicate with the lance, as he; thathe had known the wars and thewinters of the prairie; that he had

met animals and men, as enemies,and had lived; such a man did notneed ceremony; such a man, Isensed, was Kutaituchik, calledUbar of the Tuchuks.

And yet was I sad as I lookedupon him, for I sensed that for thisman there could no longer be thesaddle of the kaiila, the whirling ofthe rope and bola, the hunt and thewar. Now, from the right side of hismouth, thin, black and wet, thereemerged the chewed string ofkanda, a quarter of an inch at a time,slowly. The drooping eyes, glazed,regarded us. For him there could nolonger be the swift races across the

frozen prairie; the meetings in arms;even the dancing to the sky about afire of bosk dung.

Kamchak and I waited until thestring had been chewed.

When Kamchak had finished heheld out his right hand and a man,not a Tuchuk, who wore the greenrobes of the Caste of Physicians,thrust in his hand a goblet of boskhorn; it contained some yellowfluid. Angrily, not concealing hisdistaste, Kutaituchik drained thegoblet and then hurled it from him.

He then shook himself andregarded Kamchak.

He grinned a Tuchuk grin. “How

are the bosk?” he asked.“As well as may be expected,”

said Kamchak.“Are the quivas sharp?”“One tries to keep them so,” said

Kamchak.“It is important to keep the axles

of the wagons greased,” observedKutaituchik.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “I believeso.”

Kutaituchik suddenly reached outand he and Kamchak, laughing,clasped hands.

Then Kutaituchik sat back andclapped his hands together sharplytwice. “Bring the she-slave,” he

said.I turned to see a stout man-at-

arms step to the dais, carrying in hisarms, folded in the furs of thescarlet larl, a girl.

I heard the small sound of achain.

The man-at-arms placedElizabeth Cardwell before us, andKutaituchik, and drew away the peltof the scarlet larl.

Elizabeth Cardwell had beencleaned and her hair combed. Shewas slim, lovely.

The man-at-arms arranged herbefore us.

The thick leather collar, I noted,

was still sewn about her throat.Elizabeth Cardwell, though she

did not know it, knelt before us inthe position of the Pleasure Slave.

She looked wildly about her andthen dropped her head. Aside fromthe collar on her throat she, like theother girls on the platform, woreonly the Sirik.

Kamchak gestured to me.“Speak,” I said to her.She lifted her head and then said,

almost inaudibly, trembling in therestraint of the Sirik. “La Kajira”Then she dropped her head.

Kutaituchik seemed satisfied.“It is the only Gorean she

knows,” Kamchak informed him.“For the time,” said Kutaituchik,

“it is enough.” He then looked at theman-at-arms. “Have you fed her?”he asked.

The man nodded.“Good,” said Kutaituchik, “the

she-slave will need her strength.”The interrogation of Elizabeth

Cardwell took hours. Needless tosay, I served as translator.

The interrogation, to my surprise,was conducted largely by Kamchak,rather than Kutaituchik, calledU1bar of the Tuchuks. Kamchak’squestions were detailed, numerous,complex. He returned to certain

questions at various times, invarious ways, connecting subtly herresponses to one with those ofanother; he wove a sophisticatednet of inquiry about the girl,delicate and fine; I marvelled at hisskill; had there been the leastinconsistency or even hesitation, asthough the girl were attempting torecollect or reconcile the details ofa fabrication, it would have beeninstantly detected.

During all this time, and torcheshad been brought, the hours of thenight being burned away, ElizabethCardwell was not permitted tomove, but must needs retain the

position of the Pleasure Slave,knees properly placed, backstraight, head high, the gleamingchain of the Sirik dangling from theTurian collar, falling to the pelt ofthe red larl on which she knelt.

The translation, as you mightexpect, was a difficult task, but Iattempted to convey as much as Icould of what the girl, piteously, thewords tumbling out, attempted totell me.

Although there were risksinvolved I tried to translate asexactly as I could, letting MissCardwell speak as she would,though her words must often have

sounded fantastic to the Tuchuks,for it was largely of a world aliento them that she spoke — a worldnot of autonomous cities but of hugenations; not of castes and crafts butof global, interlocking industrialcomplexes; not of barter and tarndisks but of fantastic systems ofexchange and credit; a world not oftarns and the tharlarion but ofaircraft and motor buses and trucks;a world in which one’s words neednot be carried by a lone rider on theswift kaiila but could be sped fromone corner of the earth to another byleaping through an artificial moon.

Kutaituchik and Kamchak, to my

pleasure, tended to restrainjudgment on these matters; to mygratification they did not seem toregard the girl as mad; I had beenafraid, from time to time, that theymight, losing patience with whatmust seem to them to be the mostutter nonsense, order her beaten orimpaled.

I did not know then, butKutaituchik and Kamchak had somereason for supposing that the girlmight be speaking the truth.

What they were most interestedin, of course, and what I was mostinterested in, namely, how and whythe girl came to be wandering on

the Plains of Turia — in the Landsof the Wagon Peoples — they, andI, did not learn.

We were all, at last, satisfied thateven the girl herself did not know.

At last Kamchak had finished,and Kutaituchik, too, and theyleaned back, looking at the girl.

“Move no muscle,” I said to her.She did not. She was very

beautiful.Kamchak gestured with his head.“You may lower your head,” I

said to the girl.Piteously, with a rustle of chain,

the girl’s head and shoulders fellforward, and though she still knelt,

her head touched the pelt of the larl,her shoulders and back shaking,trembling.

It seemed to me, from what I hadlearned, that there was no particularreason why Elizabeth Cardwell,and not one of Earth’s countlessothers, had been selected to wearthe message collar. As yet thecollar had not been removed andexamined. It was perhaps only thatshe was convenient, and, of course,that she was lovely, thus a fittingbearer of the collar, herself a giftwith the message to please theTuchuks, and perhaps betterdispose them toward its contents.

Miss Cardwell was littledifferent from thousands of lovelyworking girls in the great cities ofEarth, perhaps more intelligent thanmany, perhaps prettier than most,but essentially the same, girls livingalone or together in apartments,working in offices and studios andshops, struggling to earn a living ina glamorous city, whose goods andpleasures they could ill afford topurchase. What had happened to hermight, I gathered, have happened toany of them.

She remembered arising andwashing and dressing, eating ahurried breakfast, taking the

elevator downstairs from herapartment, the subway, arriving atwork, the routines of the morning asa junior secretary in one of thelarger advertising agencies onMadison Avenue, her excitement atbeing invited to interview for theposition of assistant secretary to thehead of the art department, her last-minute concern with her lipstick,the hem of her yellow shift, thensteno pad in hand, entering hisoffice.

With him had been a tall, strangeman, broad of shoulder with largehands, a greyish face, eyes almostlike glass. He had frightened her.

He wore a dark suit of expensivecloth and tailoring, and yetsomehow it seemed not that hewore it as one accustomed to suchgarments. He spoke to her, ratherthan the man she knew, the head ofthe department, whom she had seenoften. He did not permit her to takethe seat by the desk.

Rather he told her to stand andstraighten herself. He seemed toscorn her posture. Angry, shenevertheless did so until,embarrassed, she stood insolentlyerect before him. His eyes regardedher ankles with care, and then hercalves and she was acutely aware,

blushing, that standing as she did,so straight before him, the simpleyellow, oxford-cloth shift illconcealed her thighs, the flatness ofher belly, the loveliness of herfigure. “Lift your head,” he said,and she did, her chin high, thelovely, angry head set proudly onher aristocratic delicate neck.

He then backed away from her.She turned to face him, eyes

flashing.“Do not speak,” he said.Her fingers went white with

anger, clutching the steno pad andpencil.

He gestured to the far side of the

room. “Walk there,” he said, “andreturn.”

“I will not,” she said.“Now,” said the man.Elizabeth had looked, tears

almost in her eyes, at thedepartment head, but he seemedsuddenly to her soft, pudgy, distant,sweating, nothing. He noddedhastily, “Please, Miss Cardwell, doas he says.”

Elizabeth faced the tall, strangeman. She was breathing rapidlynow. She felt the pencil clutched inher sweating hand. Then it broke.

“Now,” said the man.Looking at him she suddenly had

the feeling, a strange one, that thisman, in some circumstances and forsome purpose or another, hadassessed and judged many women.

This infuriated her.It seemed to her a challenge that

she would accept. She would showhim a woman indeed — allowingherself for the instant to beinsolently and fully female —showing him in her walk hercontempt and scorn for him.

She would then leave and godirectly to the personnel office,tendering her resignation.

She threw back her head. “Verywell,” she said. And Elizabeth

Cardwell walked prou1dly, angrily,to the far side of the room, wheeledthere, faced the man, andapproached him, eyes taunting, asmile of contempt playing about herlips. She heard the department headquickly suck in his breath. She didnot take her eyes from the tall,strange man.

“Are you satisfied,” she asked,quietly, acidly.

“Yes,” he had said.She remembered then only

turning and starting for the door,and a sudden, peculiar odour,penetrating, that seemed to closeabout her face and head.

She had regained consciousnesson the Plains of Gor. She bad beendressed precisely as she had beenthe morning she had gone to worksave that about her throat she hadfound sewn a high, thick leathercollar. She had cried out, she hadwandered. Then, after some hoursstumbling confused, terrified,hungry through the high, browngrass, she had seen two riders,mounted on swift, strange beasts.They had seen her. She called tothem. They approached hercautiously, in a large circle, asthough examining the grass forenemies, or others.

“I’m Elizabeth Cardwell,” shehad cried. “My home is in NewYork City. What place is this?Where am I?” And then she hasseen the faces, and had screamed.

“Position,” said Kamchak.I spoke sharply to the girl. “Be as

you were before.”Terrified the girl straightened

herself and again, knees placed,back straight and head high, kneltbefore us in the position of thePleasure Slave.

“The collar,” said Kamchak, “isTurian.”

Kutaituchik nodded.This was news to me, and I

welcomed it, for it meant thatprobably, somehow, the answer toat least a part of the mystery whichconfronted me lay in the city ofTuria.

But how was it that ElizabethCardwell, of Earth, wore a Turianmessage collar?

Kamchak drew the quiva fromhis belt and approached the girl.She looked at him wildly, drawingback.

“Do not move,” I told her.Kamchak set the blade of the

quiva between the girl’s throat andthe collar and moved it, the leathercollar seeming to fall from the

blade.The girl’s neck, where the collar

had been sewn, was red andsweaty, broken out.

Kamchak returned to his placewhere he again sat down cross-legged, putting the cut collar on therug in front of him.

I and Kutaituchik watched as hecarefully spread open the collar,pressing back two edges. Then,from within the collar, he drewforth a thin, folded piece of paper,rence paper made from the fibres ofthe rence plant, a tall, long-stalkedleafy plant which growspredominantly in the delta of the

Vosk. I suppose, in itself, this meantnothing, but I naturally thought ofPort Kar, malignant, squalid PortKar, which claims suzerainty overthe delta, exacting cruel tributesfrom the rence growers, greatstocks of rence paper for trade,sons for oarsmen in cargo galleys,daughters for Pleasure Slaves in thetaverns of the city. I would haveexpected the message to have beenwritten either on stout, glossy-surfaced linen paper, of the sortmilled in Ar, or perhaps on vellumand parchment, prepared in manycities and used commonly inscrolls, the process involving

among other thing tile washing andliming of skins, their scraping andstretching, dusting them with siftedchalk, rubbing them down withpumice.Kamchak handed the paper toKutaituchik and he took it butlooked at it, I thought, blankly.Saying nothing he handed it back toKamchak, who seemed to study itwith great care, and then, to myamazement, turned it sideways andthen upside down. At last hegrunted and handed it to me.

I was suddenly amused, for itoccurred to me that neither of theTuchuks could read.

“Read,” said Kutaituchik.I smiled and took the piece of

rence paper. I glanced at it and thenI smiled no longer. I could read it,of course. It was in Gorean script,moving from left to right, and thenfrom right to left on alternate lines.The writing was quite legible. Itwas written in black ink, probablywith a reed pen. This againsuggested the delta of the Vosk.

“What does it say?” askedKutaituchik.

The message was simple,consisting of only three lines.

I read them aloud.Find the man to whom this girl

can speak.He is Tarl Cabot.Slay him.“And who has signed this

message?” asked Kutaituchik.I hesitated to read the signature.“Well?” asked Kutaituchik.“It is signed,” I said, “— Priest-

Kings of Gor.”Kutaituchik smiled. “You read

Gorean well,” he said.I understood then that both men

could read, though perhaps many ofthe Tuchuks could not. It had been atest.

Kamchak grinned at Kutaituchik,the scarring on his face wrinkling

with pleasure. “He has held grassand earth with me,” he said.

“Ah!” said Kutaituchik. “I did notknow.”

My mind was whirling. Now Iunderstood, as I had only suspectedbefore, why an English-speakinggirl was necessary to bear thecollar, that she might be the devicewhereby I would be singled outfrom the hundreds and thousandsamong the wagons, and so bemarked for death.

But I could not understand whyPriest-Kings should wish me slain.Was I not engaged, in a sense, intheir work? Had I not come to the

Wagon Peoples on their behalf, tosearch for the doubtless goldensphere that was the last egg ofPriest-Kings, the final hope of theirrace?

Now they wished me to die.It did not seem possible.I prepared to fight for my life,

selling it as dearly as possible onthe dais of Kutaituchik, called Ubarof the Tuchuks, for what Goreanwould dare reject the command ofPriest-Kings? I stood up,unsheathing my sword.

One or two of the men-at-armsimmediately drew the quiva.

A small smile touched the broad

face of Kutaituchik.“Put your sword away and sit

down,” said Kamchak.Dumbfounded, I did so.“It is,” said Kamchak,

“obviously not a message of Priest-Kings.”

“How do you know?” I asked.The scarred face wrinkled again

and Kamchak rocked back andslapped his knees. He laughed, “Doyou think1 Priest-Kings, if theywished you dead, would ask othersto do this for them?” He pointed atthe opened collar lying before himon the rug. “Do you think Priest-Kings would use a Turian message

collar?” He pointed his broadfinger at Elizabeth Cardwell. “Doyou think Priest-Kings would needa girl to find you?” Kamchak threwback his head and laughed loudly,and even Kutaituchik smiled. “No,”said Kamchak, slapping his knee,“Priest-Kings do not need Tuchuksto do their killing!”

What Kamchak had said thenseemed to make a great deal ofsense to me. Yet it seemed strangethat anyone, no matter whom, woulddare to use the name of Priest-Kingsfalsely. Who, or what, could daresuch a thing? Besides, how did Iknow that the message was not from

Priest-Kings? I knew, as Kamchakand Kutaituchik did not, of therecent Nest War beneath the Sardar,and of the disruption in thetechnological complexes of the Nest— who knew to what primitivedevices Priest-Kings might nowfind themselves reduced Yet, on thewhole, I tended to agree withKamchak, that it was not likely themessage came from Priest-Kings. Ithad been, after all, months since theNest War and surely, by now, tosome extent, Priest-Kings wouldhave managed to restore-significantportions of the equipment, devicesof surveillance and control, by

means of which they had, for suchlong millennia, managed to maintaintheir mastery of this barbariansphere. Besides this, as far as Iknew, Misk, who was my friendand between whom and myselfthere was Nest Trust, was still thehighest born of the living Priest-Kings and the final authority inmatters of importance in the Nest; Iknew that Misk, if no other, wouldnot have wished my death. Andfinally, I reminded myself again,was I not now engaged in theirwork? Was I not now attempting tobe of service to them? Was I notnow among the Wagon Peoples, in

peril perhaps, on their behalf?But, I asked myself, if this

message was not from Priest-Kings,from whom could it be? Who woulddare this? And who but Priest-Kings would know that I wasamong the Wagon Peoples? But yetI told myself — someone, orsomething — must know — others,not Priest-Kings. There must beothers — others, who did not wishme to succeed in my work, whowished Priest-Kings, the race, todie, others who were capable evenof bringing humans from Earth fortheir purposes — technologicallyadvanced — others who were,

perhaps, I cautiously, invisibly, atwar with Priest-Kings — whoperhaps wished as prize this world,or perhaps this world and Earth aswell, our sun and its planets —others, who perhaps stood on themargins of our system, waitingperhaps for the demise of the powerof Priest-Kings, perhaps the shieldwhich unknown to men, hadprotected them — perhaps from thetime of the first grasping of stones,from the time even before anintelligent, prehensile animal couldbuild fires in the mouth of its lair.

But these speculations were toofantastic, and I dismissed them.

There was remaining, however, amystery, and I was determined toresolve it.

The answer possibly lay inTuria.

In the meantime I would, ofcourse, continue my work. I wouldtry, for Misk, to find the egg, andreturn it to the Sardar. I suspected,truly as it turned out, that themystery and my mission were notutterly unconnected.

“What,” I asked Kamchak,“would you do if you thought themessage were truly from Priest-Kings?”

“Nothing,” said Kamchak,

gravely.“You would risk,” I asked, “the

he r d s — the wagons — thepeoples?” Both Kamchak and Iknew that Priest-Kings were notlightly to be disobeyed.1 Theirvengeance could extend to the totaland complete annihilation of cities.Indeed their power, as I knew, wassufficient to destroy planets.

“Yes,” said Kamchak.“Why?” I asked.He looked at me and smiled.

“Because,” said he, “we havetogether held grass and earth.”

Kutaituchik, Kamchak and I thenregarded Elizabeth Cardwell.

I knew that, as far as theinterrogation was concerned, shehad served her purpose. There wasnothing more to be learned fromher. She, too, must have sensed this,for she seemed, though she did notmove, terribly frightened. Her fearcould be read in her eyes, in theslight, tremulous movement of herlower lip. In the affairs of state shewas now without value. Thenuncontrollably, piteously, suddenly,trembling in the Sirik, she put herhead down to the pelt of the larl.“Please,” she said, “do not killme.”

I translated for Kamchak and

Kutaituchik.Kutaituchik addressed the

question to her.“Are you zealous to please the

fancy of Tuchuks?”I translated.With horror Elizabeth Cardwell

lifted her head from the pelt andregarded her captors. She shook herhead, wildly, “No, please no!”

“Impale her,” said Kutaituchik.Two warriors rushed forward

and seized the girl under the arms,lifting her from the pelt.

“What are they going to do?” shecried.

“They intend to impale you,” I

told her.She began to scream. “Please,

please, please!”My hand was on the hilt of my

sword, but Kamchak’s hand restedon mine.

Kamchak turned to Kutaituchik.“She seems zealous,” he said.

Once again Kutaituchikaddressed his question to her, and Itranslated it.

“Are you zealous to please thefancy of Tuchuks?”

The men who held the girlallowed her to fall to her kneesbetween them. “Yes,” she said,piteously, “yes!”

Kutaituchik, Kamchak and Iregarded her.

“Yes,” she wept, her head to therug, “I am zealous to please thefancy of Tuchuks.”

I translated for Kutaituchik andKamchak.

“Ask,” demanded Kutaituchik, “ifshe begs to be a slave girl.”

I translated the question.“Yes,” wept Elizabeth Cardwell,

“yes — I beg to be a slave girl.”Perhaps in that moment Elizabeth

Cardwell recalled the strange man,so fearsome, grey of face with eyeslike glass, who had so examined heron Earth, before whom she had

stood as though on a block,unknowingly being examined forher fitness to bear the messagecollar of Turia. How she hadchallenged him, how she hadwalked, how insolent she had been!Perhaps in that moment she thoughthow amused the man might be couldhe see her now, that proud girl, nowin the Sirik, her head to the pelt of alarl, kneeling to barbarians, beggingto be a slave girl; and if she thoughtof these things how she must havethen cried out in her heart, for shewould have then 1recognized thatthe man would have known fullwell what lay in store for her; how

he must have laughed within himselfat her petty show of female pride,her vanity, knowing it was this forwhich the lovely brown-haired girlin the yellow shift was destined.

“I grant her wish,” saidKutaituchik. Then to a warriornearby, he said, “Bring meat.”

The warrior leapt from the daisand, in a few moments, returnedwith a handful of roasted bosk meat.

Kutaituchik gestured for the girl,trembling, to be brought forward,and the two warriors brought her tohim, placing her directly beforehim.

He took the meat in his hand and

gave it to Kamchak, who bit into it,a bit of juice running at the side ofhis mouth; Kamchak then held themeat to the girl.

“Eat,” I told her.Elizabeth Cardwell took the meat

in her two hands, confined beforeher by slave bracelets and the chainof the Sirik, and, bending her head,the hair falling forward, ate it.

She, a slave, had accepted meatfrom the hand of Kamchak of theTuchuks.

She belonged to him now.“La Kajira,” she said, putting her

head down, then covering her facewith her manacled hands, weeping.

“La Kajira. La Kajira!”

Chapter 8THE WINTERINGIf I had hoped for an easy answer

to the riddles which concerned me,or a swift end to my search for theegg of Priest-Kings, I wasdisappointed, for I learned nothingof either for months.

I had hoped to go to Turia, thereto seek the answer to the mystery ofthe message collar, but it was not tobe, at least until the spring.

“It is the Omen Year,” had saidKamchak of the Tuchuks.

The herds would circle Turia, forthis was the portion of the OmenYear called the Passing of Turia, inwhich the Wagon Peoples gatherand begin to move toward theirwinter pastures; the second portionof the Omen Year is the Wintering,which takes place far north ofTuria, the equator being approachedin this hemisphere, of course, fromthe south; the third and final portionof the Omen Year is the Return toTuria, which takes place in thespring, or as the Wagon Peopleshave it, in the Season of LittleGrass. It is in the spring that theomens are taken, regarding the

possible election of the Ubar San,the One Ubar, he who would beUbar of all the Wagons, of all thePeoples.

I did manage, however, from theback of the kaiila, which I learnedto ride, to catch a glimpse ofdistant, high-walled, nine-gatedTuria.

It seemed a lofty, fine city, whiteand shimmering, rising from theplains.

“Be patient, Tarl Cabot,” saidKamchak, beside me on his kaiila.“In the spring there will be thegames of Love War and I will go toTuria, and you may then, if you

wish, accompany me.”“Good,” I said.I would wait. It seemed, upon

reflection, the best thing to do. Themystery of the message collar,intriguing as it might be, was ofsecondary importance. For the timeI put it from my mind. My maininterests, my primary objective,surely lay not in distant Turia, butwith the wagons.

I 1wondered on what Kamchakhad called the games of Love War,said to take place on the Plains of aThousand Stakes. I supposed, intime, that I would learn of this.

“After the games of Love War,”

said Kamchak, “the omens win betaken.”

I nodded, and we rode back tothe herds.

There had not been, I knew, aUbar San in more than a hundredyears. It did not seem likely, either,that one would be elected in thespring. Even in the time I had beenwith the wagons I had gathered thatit was only the implicit truce of theOmen Year which kept these fourfierce, warring peoples fromlunging at one another’s throats, ormore exactly put, at one another’sbosk. Naturally, as a Koroban, andone with a certain affection for the

cities of Gor, particularly those ofthe north, particularly Ko-ro-ba, Ar,Thentis and Tharna, I was notdisappointed at the likelihood that aUbar San would not be elected.Indeed, I found few who wished aUbar San to be chosen. TheTuchuks, like the other WagonPeoples, are intensely independent.Yet, each ten years, the omens aretaken. I originally regarded theOmen Year as a rather pointlessinstitution, but I came to see laterthat there is much to be said for it: itbrings the Wagon Peoples togetherfrom time to time, and in this time,aside from the simple values of

being together, there is much bosktrading and some exchange ofwomen, free as well as slave; thebosk trading genetically freshensthe herds and I expect much thesame thing, from the point of viewof biology, can be said of theexchange of the women; moreimportantly, perhaps, for one canalways steal women and bosk, theOmen Year provides aninstitutionalized possibility for theuniting of the Wagon Peoples in atime of crisis, should they bedivided and threatened. I think thatthose of the Wagons who institutedthe Omen Year, more than a

thousand years ago, were wise men.How was it, I wondered, that

Kamchak was going to Turia in thespring?

I sensed him to be a man ofimportance with the wagons.

There were perhaps negotiationsto be conducted, perhaps having todo with what were called the gamesof Love War, or perhaps having todo with trade.

I had learned, to my surprise, thattrade did occasionally take placewith Turia. Indeed, when I hadlearned this, it had fired my hopesthat I might be able to approach thecity in the near future, hopes which,

as it turned out, were disappointed,though perhaps well so.

The Wagon Peoples, thoughenemies of Turia, needed andwanted her goods, in particularmaterials of metal and cloth, whichare highly prized among theWagons. Indeed, even the chainsand collars of slave girls, wornoften by captive Turian girlsthemselves, are of Turian origin.The Turians, on the other hand, takein trade for their goods — obtainedby manufacture or trade with othercities — principally the horn andhide of the bosk, which naturally theWagon Peoples, who live on the

bosk, have in plenty. The Turiansalso, I note, receive other goodsfrom the Wagon Peoples, who tendto be fond of the raid, goods lootedfrom caravans perhaps a thousandpasangs from the herds, indeedsome of them even on the way toand from Turia itself. From theseraids the Wagon Peoples obtain amiscellany of goods which they arewilling to barter to the Turians,jewels, precious metals, spices,coloured table salts, harnesses andsaddles for the ponderoustharlarion, furs of small riveranimals, tools for the field,scholarly scrolls, inks and papers,

root vegetables, dried fish,powdered medicines, ointments,perfume and women, customarilyplainer ones they do not wish tokeep for themselves; prettierwenches, to their dismay, areusually kept with the wa1gons;some of the plainer women are soldfor as little as a brass cup; a reallybeautiful girl, particularly if of freebirth and high caste, might bring asmuch as forty pieces of gold; suchare, however, seldom sold; theWagon Peoples enjoy being servedby civilized slaves of great beautyand high station; during the day, inthe heat and dust, such girls will

care for the wagon bosk and gatherfuel for the dung fires; at night theywill please their masters. TheWagon Peoples sometimes are alsowilling to barter silks to theTurians, but commonly they keepthese for their own slave girls, whowear them in the secrecy of thewagons; free women, incidentally,among the Wagon Peoples are notpermitted to wear silk; it is claimedby those of the Wagons, delightfullyI think, that any woman who lovesthe feel of silk on her body is, in thesecrecy of her heart and blood, aslave girl, whether or not somemaster has yet forced her to don the

collar. It might be added that thereare two items which the WagonPeoples will not sell or trade toTuria, one is a living bosk and theother is a girl from the city itself,though the latter are sometimes, forthe sport of the young men, allowed,as it is said, to run for the city. Theyare then hunted from the back of thekaiila with bola and thongs.

The winter came fiercely downon the herds some days beforeexpected, with its fierce snows andthe long winds that sometimes haveswept twenty-five hundred pasangsacross the prairies; snow coveredthe grass, brittle and brown already,

and the herds were split into athousand fragments, each with itsown riders, spreading out over theprairie, pawing through the snow,snuffing about, pulling up andchewing at the grass, mostlyworthless and frozen. The animalsbegan to die and the keening ofwomen, crying as though thewagons were burning and theTurians upon them, carried over theprairies. Thousands of the WagonPeoples, free and slave, dug in thesnow to find a handful of grass tofeed their animals. Wagons had tobe abandoned on the prairie, asthere was no time to train new bosk

to the harness, and the herds mustneeds keep moving.

At last, seventeen days after thefirst snows, the edges of the herdsbegan to reach their winter pasturesfar north of Turia, approaching theequator from the south. Here thesnow was little more than a frostthat melted in the afternoon sun, andthe grass was live and nourishing.Still farther north, another hundredpasangs, there was no snow and thepeoples began to sing and oncemore dance about their fires of boskdung.

“The bosk are safe,” Kamchakhad said. I had seen strong men leap

from the back of the kaiila and, ontheir knees, tears in their eyes, kissthe green, living grass. “The boskare safe,” they had cried, and thecry had been taken up by the womenand carried from wagon to wagon,“The bosk are safe!”

This year, perhaps because itwas the Omen Year, the WagonPeoples did not advance farthernorth than was necessary to ensurethe welfare of the herds. They didnot, in fact, even cross the westernCartius, far from cities, which theyoften do, swimming the bosk andkaiila, floating the wagons, the menoften crossing on the backs of the

swimming bosk. It was the OmenYear, and not a year, apparently, inwhich to risk war with far peoples,particularly not those of cities likeAr, whose warriors had masteredthe tarn and might, from the air,have wrought great destruction onthe herds and wagons.

The Wintering was notunpleasant, although, even so farnorth, the days and nights wereoften quite chilly; the WagonPeoples and their slaves as well,wore boskhide and furs during thistime; both male and female, slaveor free, wore furred boots andtrousers, coats and the flopping,

ear-flapped caps that tied under thechin; in this time there was oftenn1o way to mark the distinctionbetween the free woman and theslave girl, save that the hair of thelatter must needs be unbound; insome cases, of course, the Turiancollar was visible, if worn on theoutside of the coat, usually underthe furred collar; the men, too, freeand slave, were dressed similarly,save that the Kajiri, or he-slaves,wore shackles, usually with a run ofabout a foot of chain.

On the back of the kaiila, theblack lance in hand, bending downin the saddle, I raced past a wooden

wand fixed in the earth, on the topof which was placed a dried tospit,a small, wrinkled, yellowish-whitepeach like fruit, about the size of aplum, which grows on the tospitbush, patches of which areindigenous to the drier valleys ofthe western Cartius. They are bitterbut edible.

“Well done!” cried Kamchak ashe saw the tospit, unsplit, impaledhalfway down the shaft of the lance,stopped only by my fist and theretaining strap.

Such a thrust was worth twopoints for us.

I heard Elizabeth Cardwell’s cry

of joy as she leaped into the air,clumsy in the furs, clapping herhands. She carried, on a straparound her neck, a sack of tospits. Ilooked at her and smiled. Her facewas vital and flushed withexcitement.

“Tospit!” called Conrad of theKassars, the Blood People, and thegirl hastened to set another fruit onthe wand.

There was a thunder of kaiilapaws on the worn turf and Conrad,with his red lance, nipped the tospitneatly from the tip of the wand, thelance point barely passing into it, hehaving drawn back at the last

instant.“Well done!” I called to him. My

own thrust had been full thrust,accurate enough but rather heavilydone, in war, such a thrust mighthave lost me the lance, leaving it inthe body of an enemy. His thrustwas clearly, I acknowledged, worththree points.

Kamchak then rode, and he, likeConrad of the Kassars, deftly tookthe fruit from the wand; indeed, hislance entering the fruit perhaps afraction of an inch less than hadConrad’s. It was, however, also athree-point thrust.

The warrior who then rode with

Conrad thundered down the lane inthe turf.

There was a cry ofdisappointment, as the lance tipsheared the fruit, not retaining it,knocking it from the wand. It wasonly a one-point thrust.

Elizabeth cried out again, withpleasure, for she was of the wagonof Kamchak and Tarl Cabot.

The rider who had made theunsatisfactory thrust suddenlywhirled the kaiila toward the girl,and she fell to her knees, realizingshe should not have revealed herpleasure at his failure, putting herhead to the grass. I tensed, but

Kamchak laughed, and held meback. The rider’s kaiila was nowrearing over the girl, and he broughtthe beast to rest. With the tip of hislance, stained with the tospit fruit,he cut the strap that held the cap onher head, and then brushed the capoff; then, delicately, with its tip, helifted her chin that she might look athim.

“Forgive me, Master,” saidElizabeth Cardwell.

Slave girls, on Gor, address allfree men as master, though, ofcourse, only one such would be hertrue master.

I was pleased with how well, in

the past months, Elizabeth had donewith the language. Of course,Kamchak had rented three Turiangirls, slaves, to train her; they haddone so, binding her wrists andleading her about the wagons,teaching her the words for things,beating her w1ith switches whenshe made mistakes; Elizabeth hadlearned quickly. She was anintelligent girl.

It had been hard for ElizabethCardwell, particularly the firstweeks. It is not an easy transition tomake, that from a bright, lovelyyoung secretary in a pleasant,fluorescently lit, air-conditioned

office on Madison Avenue in NewYork City — to a slave girl in thewagon of Tuchuk warrior.

When her interrogation had beencompleted, and she had collapsedon the dais of Kutaituchik, cryingout in misery “La Kajira. LaKajira!” Kamchak had folded her,still weeping, clad in the Sirik, inthe richness of the pelt of the redlarl in which she had originallybeen placed before us.

As I had followed him from thedais I had seen Kutaituchik, theinterview ended, absently reachinginto the small golden box of kandastrings, his eyes slowly beginning to

close.Kamchak, that night, chained

Elizabeth Cardwell in his wagon,rather than beneath it to the wheel,running a short length of chain froma slave ring set in the floor of thewagon box to the collar of herSirik. He had then carefullywrapped her, shivering andweeping, in the pelt of the red larl.

She lay there, trembling andmoaning, surely on the verge ofhysteria. I was afraid the next phaseof her condition would be one ofnumbness, shock, perhaps of refusalto believe what had befallen her,madness.

Kamchak had looked at me. Hewas genuinely puzzled by what heregarded as her unusual emotionalreactions. He was, of course, awarethat no girl, Gorean or otherwise,could be expected to take lightly asudden reduction to an abject andcomplete slavery, particularlyconsidering what that would meanamong the wagons.

He did, however, regard MissCardwell’s responses as ratherpeculiar, and somewhatreprehensible. Once he got up andkicked her with his furred boot,telling her to be quiet. She did not,of course, understand Gorean, but

his intention and his impatiencewere sufficiently clear to precludethe necessity of a translation. Shestopped moaning, but she continuedto shiver, and sometimes shesobbed. I saw him take a slavewhip from the wall and approachher, and then turn back and replaceit on the wall. I was surprised thathe had not used it, and wonderedwhy. I was pleased that he had notbeaten her, for I might haveinterfered. I tried to talk toKamchak and help him tounderstand the shock that the girlhad undergone, the total alterationof her life and circumstances,

unexplained — finding herselfalone on the prairie, the Tuchuks,the capture, the return to theWagons, her examination in thegrassy avenue, the Sirik, theinterrogation, the threat ofexecution, then the fact, difficult forher to grasp, of being literally anowned slave girl. I tried to explainto Kamchak that her old world hadnot prepared her for these things,for the slaveries of her old worldare of a different kind, more subtleand invisible, thought by some noteven to exist.

Kamchak said nothing, but thenhe got up and from a chest in the

wagon he took forth a goblet andfilled it with an amber fluid, intowhich he shook a dark, bluishpowder. He then took ElizabethCardwell in his left arm and withhis right hand gave her the drink.Her eyes were frightened, but shedrank. In a few moments she wasasleep.

Once or twice that night, toKamchak’s annoyance and my ownloss of sleep, she screamed, jerkingat the chain, but we discovered thatshe had not awakened.

I supposed that on the morrowKamchak would call for the TuchukIron Master, to brand what he

called his little barbarian; the brandof the Tuchuk slave, inci1dentally,is not the same as that generallyused in the cities, which for girls, isthe first letter of the expressionKajira in cursive script, but the signof the four bosk horns, that of theTuchuk standard; the brand of thefour bosk horns, set in such amanner as to somewhat resemblethe letter “H,” is only about an inchhigh; the common Gorean brand, onthe other hand, is usually an inchand a half to two inches high; thebrand of the four bosk horns, ofcourse, is also used to mark thebosk of the Tuchuks, but there, of

course, it is much larger, formingroughly a six-inch square; followingthe branding, I supposed thatKamchak would have one of thetiny nose rings affixed; all Tuchukfemales, slave or free, wear suchrings; after these things there wouldonly remain, of course, an engravedTurian collar and the clothing ofElizabeth Cardwell Kajir.

In the morning I awakened to findElizabeth sitting, red-eyed, at theside of the wagon, leaning backagainst one of the poles thatsupported the wagon hides,wrapped in the pelt of the red larl.

She looked at me. “I’m hungry,”

she said.My heart leaped. The girl was

stronger than I had thought. I wasvery pleased. On the dais ofKutaituchik I had feared that shemight not be able to survive, thatshe was too weak for the world ofGor. I had been troubled that theshock of her radical transpositionbetween worlds, coupled with herreduction to servitude, mightdisarrange her mind, might shatterher and make her worthless to theTuchuks, who might then havesimply cast her to the kaiila andherd sleen. I saw now, however,that Elizabeth Cardwell was strong,

that she would not go mad, that shewas determined to live.

“Kamchak of the Tuchuks is yourmaster,” I said. “He will eat first.Afterward, if he chooses, you willbe fed.”

She leaned back against thewagon pole. “All right,” she said.

When Kamchak rolled out of hisfurs Elizabeth, involuntarily, shrankback, until the pole would permither to withdraw no further.

Kamchak looked at me. “How isthe little barbarian this morning?”he asked.

“Hungry,” I said.“Excellent,” he said.

He looked at her, her back tightagainst the wagon pole, clutchingthe pelt of the larl about her withher braceleted hands.

She was, of course, differentfrom anything he had ever owned.She was his first barbarian. He didnot know exactly what to make ofher. He was used to girls whoseculture had prepared them for thevery real possibility of slavery,though perhaps not a slavery asabject as that of being a wench ofTuchuks. The Gorean girl is, even iffree, accustomed to slavery; shewill perhaps own one or moreslaves herself; she knows that she is

weaker than men and what this canmean; she knows that cities fall andcaravans are plundered; she knowsshe might even, by a sufficientlybold warrior, be captured in herown quarters and, bound andhooded, be carried on tarnbackover the walls of her own city.Moreover, even if she is neverenslaved, she is familiar with theduties of slaves and what isexpected of them; if she should beenslaved she will know, on thewhole, what is expected of her,what is permitted her and what isnot; moreover, the Gorean girl isliterally educated, fortunately or

not, to the notion that it is of greatimportance to know how to pleasemen; accordingly, even girls whowill be free companions, and neverslaves, learn the preparation andserving of exotic dishes, the arts ofwalking, and standing and beingbeautiful, the care of a man’sequipment, the love dances of1 theircity, and so on. Elizabeth Cardwell,of course, knew nothing of thesethings. I was forced to admit thatshe was, on almost all counts, prettymuch what Kamchak thought — alittle barbarian. But, to be sure, avery pretty little barbarian.

Kamchak snapped his fingers and

pointed to the rug, Elizabeth thenknelt to him, clutching the pelt abouther, and put her head to his feet.

She was slave.To my surprise Kamchak, for no

reason that he explained to me, didnot clothe Elizabeth CardwellKajir, much to the irritation of otherslave girls about the camp.Moreover, he did not brand her, norfix in her nose the tiny golden ringof the Tuchuk women, nor did heeven, incomprehensibly, put her inthe Turian collar. He did not permither, of course, to bind or dress herhair; it must be worn loose; thatalone, naturally, was sufficient to

mark her slave among the wagons.For clothing he permitted her to

cut and sew, as well as she could, asleeveless garment from the pelt ofthe red larl. She did not sew welland it amused me to hear hercursing at the side of the wagon,bound now only by a collar andchain to the slave ring, time aftertime sticking the bone needle intoher fingers as it emerged through thehide, or fouling the leather-threadedstitches, which would either be tootight, wrinkling and bunching thefur, or too loose, exposing whatmight eventually lie beneath it. Igathered that girls such as Elizabeth

Cardwell, used to buying machine-made, presewn garments on Earth,were not as skilled as they might bein certain of the homely craftswhich used to be associated withhomemaking, crafts which might,upon occasion, it seemed, come inhandy.

At last she had finished thegarment, and Kamchak unchainedher that she might rise and put it on.

Not surprisingly, but to myamusement, I noted that it hungseveral inches below her knees,indeed, only about four inches or soabove her ankles. Kamchak tookone look and, with a quiva,

shortened it considerably, indeed,until it hung even more briefly thanhad the quite short, delightfulyellow shift in which she had beencaptured.

“But it was the length of theleather dresses of the Tuchukwomen,” Elizabeth had dared toprotest.

I translated.“But you are slave,” had said

Kamchak.I translated his remark.She dropped her head, defeated.Miss Cardwell had slim, lovely

legs. Kamchak, a man, had desiredto see them. Besides being a man,

of course, Kamchak was her master;he owned the wench; thus he wouldhave his desire. I will admit, ifneed be, that I was not displeasedwith his action. I did notparticularly mind the sight of thelovely Miss Cardwell moving aboutthe wagon.

Kamchak made her walk backand forth once or twice, and spoketo her rather sharply about herposture, then, to the surprise of bothMiss Cardwell and myself, he didnot chain her, but told her she mightwalk about the camp unattended,warning her only to return beforedusk and the release of the herd

sleen. She dropped her head shyly,and smiled, and sped from thewagon. I was pleased to see her thatmuch free.

“You like her?” I asked.Kamchak grinned. “She is only a

little barbarian,” he said. Then helooked at me. “It is Aphris of TuriaI want,” he said.

I wondered who she might be.On the w1hole, it seemed to me

that Kamchak treated his littlebarbarian slave notably well,considering that he was Tuchuk.This does not mean that she was notworked hard, nor that she did notreceive a good drubbing now and

then, but, on the whole, consideringthe normal lot of a Tuchuk slavegirl, I do not think she was ill used.Once, it might be noted, shereturned from searching for fuelwith the dung sack, dragging behindher, only half full. “It is all I couldfind,” she told Kamchak. He then,without ceremony, thrust her headfirst into the sack and tied it shut.He released her the next morning.Elizabeth Cardwell never againbrought a half-filled dung sack tothe wagon of Kamchak of theTuchuks.

Now the Kassar, mounted on hiskaiila, his lance under the tip of the

girl’s chin, who knelt before him,looking up at him, suddenly laughedand removed the lance.

I breathed a sign of relief.He rode his kaiila to Kamchak.

“What do you want for your prettylittle barbarian slave?” he asked.

“She is not for sale,” saidKamchak.

“Will you wager for her?”pressed the rider. He was Albrechtof the Kassars, and, with Conrad ofthe Kassars, had been riding againstmyself and Kamchak.

My heart sank.Kamchak’s eyes gleamed. He

was Tuchuk. “What are your

terms?” he asked.“On the outcome of the sport,” he

said, and then pointed to two girls,both his, standing to the left in theirfurs, “against those two.” The othergirls were both Turian. They werenot barbarians. Both were lovely.Both were, doubtless, well skilledin the art of pleasing the fancy ofwarriors of the Wagon Peoples.

Conrad, hearing the wager ofAlbrecht, snorted derisively.

“No,” cried Albrecht, “I amserious!”

“Done!” cried Kamchak.Watching us there were a few

children, some men, some slave

girls. As soon as Kamchak hadagreed to Albrecht’s proposal thechildren and several of the slavegirls immediately began to rushtoward the wagons, delightedlycrying “Wager! Wager!”

Soon, to my dismay, a largenumber of Tuchuks, male andfemale, and their male or femaleslaves, began to gather near theworn lane on the turf. The terms ofthe wager were soon well known.In the crowd, as well as Tuchuksand those of the Tuchuks, therewere some Kassars, a Paravaci ortwo, even one of the Kataii. Theslave girls in the crowd seemed

particularly excited. I could hearbets being taken. The Tuchuks, nottoo unlike Goreans generally, arefond of gambling. Indeed, it is notunknown that a Tuchuk will bet hisentire stock of bosk on the outcomeof a single kaiila race; as many as adozen slave girls may change handson something as small as thedirection that a bird will fly or thenumber of seeds in a tospit.

The two girls of Albrecht werestanding to one side, their eyesshining, trying not to smile withpleasure. Some of the girls in thecrowd looked enviously on them. Itis a great honour to a girl to stand

as a stake in Tuchuk gambling. Tomy amazement Elizabeth Cardwell,too, seemed rather pleased with thewhole thing, though for what reasonI could scarcely understand. Shecame over to me and looked up. Shestood on tiptoes in her furred bootsand held the stirrup. “You willwin,” she said.

I wished that I was as confidentas she.

I was second rider to Kamchak,as Albrecht was to Conrad, 1he ofthe Kassars, the Blood People.

There is a priority of honourinvolved in being first rider, butpoints scored are the same by either

rider, depending on hisperformance. The first rider is,commonly, as one might expect, themore experienced, skilled rider.

In the hour that followed Irejoiced that I had spent much of thelast several months, when not ridingwith Kamchak in the care of hisbosk, in the pleasant and, to awarrior, satisfying activity oflearning Tuchuk weaponry, both ofthe hunt and war. Kamchak was askilled instructor in these mattersand, freely, hours at a time, until itgrew too dark to see, supervised mypractice with such fierce tools asthe lance, the quiva and bola. I

learned as well the rope and bow.The bow, of course, small, for usefrom the saddle, lacks the range andpower of the Gorean longbow orcrossbow; still, at close range, withconsiderable force, firing rapidly,arrow after arrow, it is a fearsomeweapon. I was most fond, perhaps,of the balanced saddle knife, thequiva; it is about a foot in length,double edged; it tapers to a daggerlike point. I acquired, I think, skillin its use. At forty feet I could strikea thrown tospit; at one hundred feetI could strike a layered boskhidedisk, about four inches in width,fastened to a lance thrust in the turf.

Kamchak had been pleased.I, too, naturally had been

pleased.But if I had indeed acquired

skills with those fierce articles,such skills, in the current contests,were to be tested to the utmost.

As the day grew late points wereaccumulated, but, to the zest andfrenzy of the crowd, the lead inthese contests of arms shifted backand forth, first being held byKamchak and myself, then byConrad and Albrecht.

In the crowd, on the back of akaiila, I noted the girl Hereena, ofthe First Wagon, whom I had seen

my first day in the camp of theTuchuks, she who had almostridden down Kamchak and myselfbetween the wagons. She was avery exciting, vital, proud girl andthe tiny golden nose ring, againsther brownish skin, with her flashingblack eyes, did not detract from herconsiderable but rather insolentbeauty. She, and others like her, hadbeen encouraged and spoiled fromchildhood in all their whims, unlikemost other Tuchuk women, that theymight be fit prizes, Kamchak hadtold me, in the games of Love War.Turian warriors, he told me, enjoysuch women, the wild girls of the

Wagons. A young man, blondish-haired with blue eyes, unscarred,bumped against the girl’s stirrup inthe press of the crowd. She struckhim twice with the leather quirt inher hand, sharply, viciously. I couldsee blood on the side of his neck,where it joins the shoulder.

“Slave!” she hissed.He looked up angrily. “I am not a

slave,” he said. “I am Tuchuk.”“Turian slave!” she laughed

scornfully. “Beneath your furs youwear, I wager, the Kes!”

“I am Tuchuk,” he responded,looking angrily away.

Kamchak had told me of the

young man. Among the wagons hewas nothing. He did what work hecould, helping with the bosk, for apiece of meat from a cooking pot.He was called Harold, which is nota Tuchuk name, nor a name usedamong the Wagon Peoples, though itis similar to some of the Kassarnames. It was an English name, butsuch are not unknown on Gor,having been passed down, perhaps,for more than a thousand years, thename of an ancestor, perhapsbrought to Gor by Priest-Kings inwhat might have been the earlyMiddle Ages of Earth. I knew theVoyages of Acquisition were of

even1 much greater antiquity. I haddetermined, of course, to mysatisfaction, having spoken withhim once, that the boy, or youngman, was indeed Gorean; hispeople and their people before themand as far back as anyone knew hadbeen, as it is said, of the Wagons.The problem of the young man, andperhaps the reason that he had notyet won even the Courage Scar ofthe Tuchuks, was that he had falleninto the hands of Turian raiders inhis youth and had spent severalyears in the city; in his adolescencehe had, at great risk to himself,escaped from the city and made his

way with great hardships across theplains to rejoin his people; they, ofcourse, to his great disappointment,had not accepted him, regarding himas more Turian than Tuchuk. Hisparents and people had been slainin the Turian raid in which he hadbeen captured, so he had no kin.There had been, fortunately for him,a Year Keeper who had recalledthe family. Thus he had not beenslain but had been allowed toremain with the Tuchuks. He did nothave his own wagon or his ownbosk. He did not even own a kaiila.He had armed himself with cast-offweapons, with which he practiced

in solitude. None of those,however, who led raids on enemycaravans or sorties against the cityand its outlying fields, or retaliatedupon their neighbours in thedelicate matters of bosk stealing,would accept him in their parties.He had, to their satisfaction,demonstrated his prowess withweapons, but they would laugh athim. “You do not even own akaiila,” they would say. “You donot even wear the Courage Scar.” Isupposed that the young man wouldnever be likely to wear the scar,without which, among the stern,cruel Tuchuks, he would be the

continuous object of scorn, ridiculeand contempt. Indeed, I knew thatsome among the wagons, the girlHereena, for example, who seemedto bear him a great dislike, hadinsisted that he, though free, beforced to wear the Kes or the dressof a woman. Such would have beena great joke among the Tuchuks.

I dismissed the girl, Hereena, andthe young man, Harold, from mymind.

Albrecht was rearing on hiskaiila, loosening the bola at hissaddle.

“Remove your furs,” heinstructed his two girls.

Immediately they did so and, inspite of the brisk, bright chillyafternoon, they stood in the grass,clad Kajir,

They would run for us.Kamchak raced his kaiila over to

the edge of the crowd, entering intoswift negotiation with a warrior,one whose wagon followed ours inthe march of the Tuchuks. Indeed, ithad been from that warrior thatKamchak had rented the girls whohad dragged Elizabeth Cardwellabout the wagons, teaching herGorean with thong and switch. Isaw a flash of copper, perhaps atarn disk from one of the distant

cities, and one of the warrior’sgirls, an attractive Turian wench,Tuka, began to remove her fur.

She would run for one of theKassars, doubtless Conrad.

Tuka, I knew, hated Elizabeth,and Elizabeth, I knew, reciprocatedthe emotion with vehemence. Tuka,in the matter of teaching Elizabeththe language, had been especiallycruel. Elizabeth, bound, could notresist and did she try, Tuka’scompanions, the others of herwagon, would leap upon her withtheir switches flailing. Tuka, for herpart, understandably had reason toenvy and resent the young American

slave. Elizabeth Cardwell, at leastuntil now, had escaped, as Tuka hadnot, the brand, the nose ring andcollar. Elizabeth was clearly somesort of favourite in her wagon.Indeed, she was the only girl in thewagon. That alone, though of courseit meant she would work very hard,was regarded as a most enviabledistinction. Lastly, but perhaps notleast, Elizabeth Cardwell had beengiven for he1r garment the pelt of alarl, while she, Tuka, must go aboutthe camp like all the others, cladKajir.

I feared that Tuka would not runwell, thus losing us the match, that

she would deliberately allowherself to be easily snared.

But then I realized that this wasnot true. If Kamchak and her masterwere not convinced that she had runas well as she might, it would notgo easily with her. She would havecontributed to the victory of aKassar over a Tuchuk. That night,one of the hooded members of theClan of Torturers would have cometo her wagon and fetched her away,never to be seen again. She wouldrun well, hating Elizabeth or not.She would be running for her life.

Kamchak wheeled his kaiila andjoined us. He pointed his lance to

Elizabeth Cardwell. “Remove yourfurs,” he said.

Elizabeth did so and stood beforeus in the pelt of the larl, with theother girls.

Although it was late in theafternoon the sun was still bright.The air was chilly. There was a bitof wind moving the grass.

A black lance was fixed in theprairie about four hundred yardsaway. A rider beside it, on a kaiila,marked its place. It was notexpected, of course, that any of thegirls would reach the lance. If onedid, of course, the rider woulddecree her safe. In the run the

important thing was time, thedispatch and the skill with whichthe thing was accomplished. Tuchukgirls, Elizabeth and Tuka, wouldrun for the Kassars; the two Kassargirls would run for Kamchak andmyself; naturally each slave doesher best for her master, attemptingto evade his competitor.

The time in these matters isreckoned by the heartbeat of astanding kaiila. Already one hadbeen brought. Near the animal, onthe turf, a long bosk whip was laidin a circle, having a diameter ofsomewhere between eight and tenfeet. The girl begins her run from

the circle. The object of the rider isto effect her capture, secure her andreturn her, in as little time aspossible, to the circle of the whip.

Already a grizzled Tuchuk hadhis hand, palm flat, on the silkenside of the standing kaiila.

Kamchak gestured and Tuka,barefoot, frightened, stepped intothe circle.

Conrad freed his bola from thesaddle strap. He held in his teeth aboskhide thong, about a yard inlength. The saddle of the kaiila, likethe tarn saddle, is made in such away as to accommodate, boundacross it, a female captive, rings

being fixed on both sides throughwhich binding fibre or thong may bepassed. On the other hand, I knew,in this sport no time would be takenfor such matters; in a few heartbeatsof the kaiila the girl’s wrists andankles would be lashed togetherand she would be, withoutceremony, slung over the pommel ofthe saddle, it the stake, her body thering.

“Run,” said Conrad quietly.Tuka sped from the circle. The

crowd began to cry out, to cheer,urging her on. Conrad, the thong inhis teeth, the bola quiet at his side,watched her. She would receive a

start of fifteen beats of the greatheart of the kaiila, after which shewould be about half way to thelance.

The judge, aloud, was counting.At the count of ten Conrad began

to slowly spin the bola. It would notreach its maximum rate ofrevolution until he was in fullgallop, almost on the quarry.

At the count of fifteen, making nosound, not wanting to warn the girl,Conrad spurred the kaiila in pursuit,bola swinging.

The crowd strained to see.The judge had begun to count

again, starting with one, the second

counting, which would determinethe rider’s time.

The girl was fast and that meanttime for us, if only perhaps a beat.She must have been counting toherself because only an instant or soafter Conrad had spurred after hershe looked over her shoulder,seeing him approaching.

She must then have counted aboutthree beats to herself, and then shebegan to break her running pattern,moving to one side and the other,making it difficult to approach herswiftly.

“She runs well,” said Kamchak.Indeed she did, but in an instant I

saw the leather flash of the bola,with its vicious, beautiful almostten-foot sweep, streak toward thegirl’s ankles, and I saw her fall.

It was scarcely ten beats andConrad had bound the struggling,scratching Tuka, slung her about thepommel, raced back, kaiilasquealing, and threw the girl, wriststied to her ankles, to the turf insidethe circle of the boskhide whip.

“Thirty,” said the judge.Conrad grinned.Tuka, as best she could,

squirmed in the bonds, fightingthem. Could she free a hand or foot,or even loosen the thong, Conrad

would be disqualified.After a moment or two, the judge

said, “Stop,” and Tuka obedientlylay quiet. The judge inspected thethongs. “The wench is secured,” heannounced.

In terror Tuka looked up atKamchak, mounted on his kaiila.

“You ran well,” he told her.She closed her eyes, almost

fainting with relief.She would live.A Tuchuk warrior slashed apart

the thongs with his quiva and Tuka,only too pleased to be free of thecircle, leaped up and ran quickly tothe side of her master. In a few

moments, panting, covered withsweat, she had pulled on her furs.

The next girl, a lithe Kassar girl,stepped into the circle andKamchak unstrapped his bola. Itseemed to me she ran excellentlybut Kamchak, with his superb skill,snared her easily. To my dismay, ashe returned racing toward the circleof the boskhide whip the girl, a finewench, managed to sink her teethinto the neck of the kaiila causing itto rear squealing and hissing, thenstriking at her. By the time Kamchakhad cuffed the girl from theanimal’s neck and struck thekaiila’s snapping jaws from her

twice-bitten leg and returned to thecircle, he had used thirty-five beats.

He had lost.When the girl was released, her

leg bleeding, she was beaming withpleasure.

“Well done,” said Albrecht, hermaster, adding with a grin, “— fora Turian slave.”

The girl looked down, smiling.She was a brave girl. I admired

her. It was easy to see that she wasbound to Albrecht the Kassar bymore than a length of slave chain.

At a gesture from KamchakElizabeth Cardwell stepped into thecircle of the whip.

She was now frightened. She,and I as well, had supposed thatKamchak would be victorious overConrad. Had he been so, even wereI defeated by Albrecht, as I thoughtlikely, the points would have beenev1en. Now, if I lost as well, shewould be a Kassar wench.

Albrecht was grinning, swingingthe bola lightly, not in a circle butin a gentle pendulum motion, besidethe stirrup of the kaiila.

He looked at her. “Run,” he said.Elizabeth Cardwell, barefoot, in

the larl’s pelt, streaked for theblack lance in the distance.

She had perhaps observed the

running of Tuka and the Kassar girl,trying to watch and learn, but shewas of course utterly inexperiencedin this cruel sport of the men of thewagons. She had not, for example,timed her counting, for long hours,under the tutelage of a master,against the heartbeat of a kaiila, hekeeping the beat but not informingher what it was, until she had calledthe beat. Some girls of the WagonPeoples in fact, incredible though itseems, are trained exhaustively inthe art of evading the bola, and sucha girl is worth a great deal to amaster, who uses her in wagering.One of the best among the wagons I

had heard was a Kassar slave, aswift Turian wench whose namewas Dina. She had run in actualcompetition more than two hundredtimes; almost always she managedto interfere with and postpone herreturn to the circle; and forty times,an incredible feat, she had managedto reach the lance itself.

At the count of fifteen, withincredible speed, Albrecht, bolanow whirling, spurred silently afterthe fleeing Elizabeth Cardwell. Shehad misjudged the heartbeat or hadnot understood the swiftness of thekaiila, never having beforeobserved it from the unenviable

point of view of a quarry, becausewhen she turned to see if her hunterhad left the vicinity of the circle, hewas upon her and as she cried outthe bola struck her in an instantbinding her legs and throwing her tothe turf. It was hardly more thanfive or six beats, it seemed, beforeElizabeth, her wrists lashed cruellyto her ankles, was thrown to thegrass at the judge’s feet.

“Twenty-five!” announced thejudge.

There was a cheer from thecrowd, which, though largelycomposed of Tuchuks, relished asplendid performance.

Weeping Elizabeth jerked andpulled at the thongs restraining her,helpless.

The judge inspected the bonds.“The wench is secured,” he said.

Elizabeth moaned.“Rejoice, Little Barbarian,” said

Albrecht, “tonight in Pleasure Silkyou will dance the Chain Dance forKassar Warriors.”

The girl turned her head to oneside, shuddering in the thongs. Acry of misery escaped her.

“Be silent,” said Kamchak.Elizabeth was silent and, fighting

her tears; lay quietly waiting to befreed.

I cut the thongs from her wristsand ankles.

“I tried,” she said, looking up atme, tears in her eyes. “I tried.”

“Some girls,” I told her, “haverun from the bola more than ahundred times. Some are trained todo so.”

“Do you concede?” Conradasked Kamchak.

“No,” said Kamchak. “Mysecond rider must ride.”

“He is not even of the WagonPeoples,” said Conrad.

“Nonetheless,” said Kamchak,“he will ride.”

“He will not beat twenty-five,”

said Conrad.~Kamchak shrugged. I knew

myself that twenty-five was aremarkable time. Albrecht was afine rider and skilled in this sportand, of course, this time, his quarryhad been only an untrainedbarbarian slave, indeed, a girl whohad never before run from the bola.

“To the circle,” said Albrecht, tothe other Kassar girl.

She was a beauty.She stepped to the circle quickly,

throwing her head back, breathingdeeply.

She was an intelligent lookinggirl.

Black-haired.Her ankles, I noted, were a bit

sturdier than are thought desirablein a slave girl. They had withstoodthe shock of her body weight manytimes I gathered, in quick turnings,in leaps.

I wished that I had seen her runbefore, because most girls willhave a running pattern, even in theirdodging which, if you have seen it,several times, you can sense.Nothing simple, but something that,somehow, you can anticipate, ifonly to a degree. It is probably theresult of gathering, from theirrunning, how they think; then one

tries to think with them and thusmeet them with the bola. She wasnow breathing deeply, regularly.Prior to her entering the circle I hadseen her moving about in thebackground, running a bit, looseningher legs, speeding the circulation ofher blood.

It was my guess that this was notthe first time she had run from thebola.

“If you win for us,” Albrecht saidto her, grinning down from thesaddle of the kaiila, “this night youwill be given a silver bracelet andfive yards of scarlet silk.”

“I will win for you, Master,” she

said.I thought that a bit arrogant for a

slave.Albrecht looked at me. “This

wench,” he said, “has never beensnared in less than thirty-twobeats.”

I noted a flicker pass through theeyes of Kamchak, but he seemedotherwise impassive.

“She is an excellent runner,” Isaid.

The girl laughed.Then, to my surprise, she looked

at me boldly, though wearing theTurian collar; though she wore thenose ring; though she were only a

branded slave clad Kajir.“I wager,” she said, “that I will

reach the lance.”This irritated me. Moreover, I

was not insensitive to the fact thatthough she were slave and I a freeman, she had not addressed me, asthe custom is, by the title of Master.I had no objection to the omissionitself, but I did object to the affronttherein implied. For some reasonthis wench seemed to me ratherarrogant, rather contemptuous.

“I wager that you do not,” I said.“Your terms!” she challenged.“What are yours?” I asked.She laughed. “If I win,” she said,

“you give me your bola, which Iwill present to my master.”

“Agreed,” I said. “And if Ishould win?”

“You will not,” she said.“But if so?”“Then,” said she, “I will give

you a golden ring and a silver cup.”“How is it that a slave has such

riches?” I asked.She tossed her head in the air, not

deigning to respond.“I have given her several such

things,” said Albrecht.I now gathered that the girl facing

me was not a typical slave, and thatthere must be a very good reason

why she should have such things.“I do not want your golden ring

and silver cup,” I said.“What then could you want?”

asked she.“Should I win,” I said, “I will

claim as my prize the kiss of aninsolent wench.”

“Tuchuk sleen!” she cried, eyesflashing.

Conrad and Albrecht laughed.Albrecht said to the girl, “It ispermitted.”

“Very well, he-tharlarion,” saidthe girl, “your bola against a kiss.”Her shoulders were trembling withrage. “I will show you how a

Kassar girl can run!”“You think well of yourself,” I

remarked. “You are not a Kassargirl — you are only a Turian slaveof Kassars.”

Her fists clenched.In fury she looked at Albrecht

and Conrad. “I will run as I havenever run before,” she cried.

My heart sank a bit. I recalledAlbrecht had said that the girl hadnever been snared in less thanthirty-two beats. Then she haddoubtless run from the bola severaltimes before, perhaps as many asten or fifteen.

“I gather,” I said to Albrecht,

casually, “that the girl has runseveral times.”

“Yes,” said Albrecht, “that istrue.” Then he added, “You mayhave heard of her. She is Dina ofTuria.”

Conrad and Albrecht slappedtheir saddles and laugheduproariously. Kamchak laughed,too, so hard tears ran down thescarred furrows of his face. Hepointed a finger at Conrad. “WilyKassar!” he laughed. This was ajoke. Even I had to smile. TheTuchuks were commonly called theWily Ones. But, though the momentmight have been amusing to those of

the Wagon Peoples, even toKamchak, I was not prepared tolook on the event with such goodhumour. It might have been a goodtrick, but I was in no state of mindto relish it. How cleverly Conradhad pretended to mock Albrechtwhen he had bet two girls againstone. Little did we know that one ofthose girls was Dina of Turia, who,of course, would run not for theskilled Kamchak, but for hisawkward friend, the clumsy TarlCabot, not even of the WagonPeoples, new to the kaiila and bola!Conrad and Albrecht had perhapseven come to the camp of the

Tuchuks with this in mind.Undoubtedly! What could they lose?Nothing. The best that we mighthave hoped for was a tie, hadKamchak beaten Conrad. But he hadnot; the fine little Turian wenchwho had been able to bite the neckof the kaiila, thereby risking her lifeincidentally, had seen to that.Albrecht and Conrad had come fora simple purpose, to best a Tuchukand, in the process, pick up a girl ortwo; Elizabeth Cardwell, of course,was the only one we had on hand.

Even the Turian girl, Dina,perhaps the best slave among all thewagons in this sport, was laughing,

hanging on the stirrup of Albrecht,looking up at him. I noted that hiskaiila was within the whip circle,within which the girl stood. Herfeet were off the ground and she hadthe side of her head pressed againsthis furred boot.

“Run,” I said.She cri1ed out angrily, as did

Albrecht, and Kamchak laughed.“Run, you little fool,” shoutedConrad. The girl had released thestirrup and her feet struck theground. She was off balance butrighted herself and with an angrycry she sped from the circle. Bysurprising her I had gained perhaps

ten or fifteen yards.I took the binding thong from my

belt and put it in my teeth.I began to swing the bola.To my amazement, as I swung the

bola in ever faster circles, nevertaking my eyes off her, she brokethe straight running pattern onlyabout fifty yards from the whipcircle, and began to dodge, movingalways, however, toward the lance.This puzzled me. Surely she had notmiscounted, not Dina of Turia. Asthe judge counted aloud I observedthe pattern, two left, then a longright to compensate, moving towardthe lance; two left, then right; two

left, then right.“Fifteen!” called the judge, and I

streaked on kailla back from thecircle of the boskhide whip.

I rode at full speed, for there wasnot a beat to lose. Even if by goodfortune I managed to tie Albrecht,Elizabeth would still belong to theKassars, for Conrad had a clearwin over Kamchak. It is dangerous,of course, to approach any but anaive, straight-running, perhapsterrified, girl at full speed, forshould she dodge or move to oneside, one will have to slow thekaiila to turn it after her, lest one becarried past her too rapidly, even at

the margins of bola range. But Icould judge Dina’s run, two left,one right, so I set the kaiila runningat full speed for what would seemto be the unwilling point ofrendezvous between Dina and theleather of the bola. I was surprisedat the simplicity of her pattern. Iwondered how it could be that sucha girl had never been taken in lessthan thirty-two beats, that she hadreached the lance forty times.

I would release the bola inanother beat as she took her secondsprint to the left.

Then I remembered theintelligence of her eyes, her

confidence, that never had she beentaken in less than thirty-two beats,that she had reached the lance fortytimes. Her skills must be subtle, hertiming marvellous.

I released the bola, risking all,hurling it not to the expectedrendezvous of the second left but toa first right, unexpected, the firstbreak in the two-left, one-rightpattern. I heard her startled cry asthe weighted leather straps flashedabout her thighs, calves and ankles,in an instant lashing them togetheras tightly as though by binding fibre.Hardly slackening speed I sweptpast the girl, turned the kaiila to

face her, and again kicked it into afull gallop. I briefly saw a look ofutter astonishment on her beautifulface. Her hands were out, tryinginstinctively to maintain herbalance; the bola weights were stillsnapping about her ankles in tiny,angry circles; in an instant shewould fall to the grass; racing past Iseized her by the hair and threw herover the saddle; scarcely did shecomprehend what was happeningbefore she found herself myprisoner, while yet the kaiila didstill gallop, bound about thepommel of the saddle. I had nottaken even the time to dismount.

Only perhaps a beat or two beforethe kaiila leapt into the circle had Ifinished the knots that confined her.I threw her to the turf at the judge’sfeet.

The judge, and the crowd,seemed speechless.

“Time!” called Kamchak.The judge looked startled, as

though he could not believe what hehad seen. He took his hand from theside of the standing kaiila.

“Time!” called Kamchak.The judge looked at him.

“Seventeen,” he whispered.The crowd was silent, then,

suddenly, as unexpectedly as a clap

of thunder, they began to roar andcheer

Kamchak was thumping a verydespondent looking Conrad andAlbrecht on the shoulders.

I looked down at Dina of Turia.Looking at me in rage, she began topull and squirm in the thongs,twisting in the grass.

The judge allowed her to do sofor perhaps a few Ihn, maybe thirtyseconds or so, then he inspected herbonds. He stood up a smile on hisface. “The wench is secured,” hesaid.

There was another great cry andcheer from the crowd. They were

mostly Tuchuks, and were highlypleased with what they had seen,but I saw, too, that even the Kassarsand the one or two Paravaci presentand the Kataii were unstinting intheir acclaim. The crowd had gonemad.

Elizabeth Cardwell was leapingup and down clapping her hands.

I looked down at Dina, who layat my feet, now no longerstruggling.

I removed the bola from her legs.With my quiva I slashed the thong

on her ankles, permitting her tostruggle to her feet.

She stood facing me, clad Kajir,

her wrists still thonged behind her.I refastened the bola at my

saddle. “I keep my bola, it seems,”I said.

She tried to free her wrists, butcould not, of course, do so.

Helpless she stood waiting forme.

I then took Dina of Turia in myarms and, at some length, and with acertain admitted satisfaction,collected my winnings. Because shehad annoyed me the kiss that washers was that of master to a slavegirl; yet was I patient because thekiss itself was not enough; I was notsatisfied until, despite herself, I

read in my arms her body’s sudden,involuntary admission that I hadconquered. “Master,” she said, hereyes glazed, too weak to struggleagainst the thongs that encircled herwrists. With a cheerful slap I spedher back to Albrecht, who, angry,with the tip of his lance, severed thebonds that had confined her.Kamchak was laughing, and Conradas well. And, too, many in thecrowd. Elizabeth Cardwell,however, to my surprise, seemedfurious. She had pulled on her furs.When I looked at her, she lookedaway, angrily.

I wondered what was the matter

with her.Had I not saved her?Were not the points between

Kamchak and I, and Conrad andAlbrecht even?

Was she not safe and the match atan end?

“The score is tied,” saidKamchak, “and the wager isconcluded. There is no winner.”

“Agreed,” said Conrad.“No,” said Albrecht.We looked at him.“Lance and tospit,” he said.“The match is at an end,” I said.“There is no winner,” protested

Albrecht.

“That is true,” said Kamchak.“There must be a winner,” said

Albrecht.“I have ridden enough for

today1,” said Kamchak.“I, too,” said Conrad. “Let us

return to our wagons.”Albrecht pointed his lance at me.

“You are challenged,” he said.“Lance and tospit.”

“We have finished with that,” Isaid.

“The living wand!” shoutedAlbrecht.

Kamchak sucked in his breath.Several in the crowd shouted out,

“The living wand!”

I looked at Kamchak. I saw in hiseyes that the challenge must beaccepted. In this matter I must beTuchuk.

Save for armed combat, lanceand tospit with the living wand isthe most dangerous of the sports ofthe Wagon Peoples.

In this sport, as might beexpected, one’s own slave muststand for one. It is essentially thesame sport as lancing the tospitfrom the wand, save that the fruit isheld in the mouth of a girl, who isslain should she move or in anyway withdraw from the lance.

Needless to say many a slave girl

has been injured in this cruel sport.“I do not want to stand for him!”

cried out Elizabeth Cardwell.“Stand for him, Slave,” snarled

Kamchak.Elizabeth Cardwell took her

position, standing sideways, thetospit held delicately between herteeth.

For some reason she did notseem afraid but rather, to my mind,incomprehensibly infuriated. Sheshould have been shuddering withterror. Instead she seemedindignant.

But she stood like a rock andwhen I thundered past her the tip of

my lance had been thrust through thetospit.

The girl who had bitten the neckof the kaiila, and whose leg hadbeen torn by its teeth, stood forAlbrecht.

With almost scornful ease heraced past her lifting the tospit fromher mouth with the tip of his lance.

“Three points for each,”announced the judge.

“We are finished,” I said toAlbrecht. “It is a tie. There is nowinner.”

He held his saddle on his rearingkaiila. “There will be a winner!” hecried. “Facing the lance!”

“I will not ride,” I said.“I claim victory and the woman”

shouted Albrecht.“It will be his,” said the judge,

“if you do not ride.”I would ride.Elizabeth, unmoving, faced me,

some fifty yards away.This is the most difficult of the

lance sports. The thrust must bemade with exquisite lightness, thelance loose in the hand, the hand notin the retaining thong, but allowingthe lance to slip back, then whenclear, moving it to the left and,hopefully, past the living wand. Ifwell done, this is a delicate and

beautiful stroke. If clumsily donethe girl will be scarred, or perhapsslain.

Elizabeth stood facing me, notfrightened, but seemingly rather putupon. Her fists were even clenched.

I hoped that she would not beinjured. When she had stoodsideways I had favoured the left, sothat if the stroke was in error, thelance would miss the tospitaltogether; but now, as she facedme, the strok1e must be made forthe centre of the fruit; nothing elsewould do.

The gait of the kaiila was swiftand even.

A cry went up from the crowd asI passed Elizabeth, the tospit on thepoint of the lance.

Warriors were pounding on thelacquered shields with their lances.Men shouted. I heard the thrilledcries of slave girls.

I turned to see Elizabeth waver,and almost faint, but she did not doso.

Albrecht the Kassar, angry,lowered his lance and set out forhis girl.

In an instant he had passed her,the tospit riding the lance tip.

The girl was standing perfectlystill, smiling.

The crowd cheered as well forAlbrecht.

Then they were quiet, for thejudge was rushing to the lance ofAlbrecht, demanding it.

Albrecht the Kassar, puzzled,surrendered the weapon.

“There is blood on the weapon,”said the judge.

“She was not touched,” criedAlbrecht.

“I was not touched!” cried thegirl.

The judge showed the point ofthe lance. There was a tiny stain ofblood at its tip, and too there was asmear of blood on the skin of the

small yellowish-white fruit.“Open your mouth, slave,”

demanded the judge.The girl shook her head.“Do it,” said Albrecht.She did so and the judge, holding

her teeth apart roughly with hishands, peered within. There wasblood in her mouth. The girl hadbeen swallowing it, rather thanshow she had been struck.

It seemed to me she was a brave,fine girl.

It was with a kind of shock that Isuddenly realized that she, and Dinaof Turia, now belonged to Kamchakand myself.

The two girls, while ElizabethCardwell looked on angrily, kneltbefore Kamchak and myself,lowering their heads, lifting andextending their arms, wristscrossed. Kamchak, chuckling,leaped down from his kaiila andquickly, with binding fibre, boundtheir wrists. He then put a leatherthong on the neck of each and tiedthe free ends to the pommel of hissaddle. Thus secured, the girls kneltbeside the paws of his kaiila. I sawDina of Turia look at me. In hereyes, soft with tears, I read thetimid concession that I was hermaster.

“I do not know what we needwith all these slaves,” ElizabethCardwell was saying.

“Be silent,” said Kamchak, “oryou will be branded.”

Elizabeth Cardwell, for somereason, looked at me in fury, ratherthan Kamchak. She threw back herhead, her little nose in the air, herbrown hair bouncing on hershoulders.

Then for no reason I understood,I took binding fibre and bound herwrists before her body, and, asKamchak had done with the othergirls, put a thong on her neck andtied it to the pommel of my saddle.

It was perhaps my way ofreminding her, should she forget,that she too was a slave.

“Tonight, Little Barbarian,” saidKamchak, winking at her, “you willsleep chained under the wagon.”

Elizabeth stifled a cry of rage.Then Kamchak and I, on kaiila-

back, made our way back to ourwagon, leading the bound girls.

“The Season of Little Grass isupon us,” said Kamchak.“Tomorrow the herds will movetoward Turia.”

I nodded. The Wintering wasdone. There would now be the thirdphase of the Omen Year, the Return

to Turia. It was now, perhaps, Ihoped, that I might learn the answerto the riddles which had not ceasedto disturb me, that I might learn theanswer to the mystery of themessage collar, perhaps the answerto the numerous mysteries whichhad attended it, and perhaps, at last,find some clue, as I had not yet withthe wagons, to the whereabouts orfate of the doubtless goldenspheroid that was or had been thelast egg of Priest-Kings.

“I will take you to Turia,” saidKamchak.

“Good,” I said.I had enjoyed the Wintering, but

now it was done. The bosk weremoving south with the coming of thespring. I and the wagons would gowith them.

Chapter 9APHRIS OF TURIAThere was little doubt that I, in

the worn, red tunic of a warrior,and Kamchak, in the black leatherof the Tuchuks, seemed somewhatout of place at the banquet ofSaphrar, merchant of Turia.

“It is the spiced brain of theTorian vulo,” Saphrar wasexplaining.

It was somewhat surprising to methat Kamchak and I, being in ourway ambassadors of the WagonPeoples, were entertained in thehouse of Saphrar, the merchant,rather than in the palace of PhaniusTurmus, Administrator of Turia.Kamchak’s explanation wasreasonably satisfying. There wereapparently two reasons, the officialreason and the real reason. Theofficial reason, proclaimed byPhanius Turmus, the Administrator,and others high in the government,was that those of the WagonPeoples were unworthy to beentertained in the administrative

palace; the real reason, apparentlyseldom proclaimed by anyone, wasthat the true power in Turia layactually with the Caste ofMerchants, chief of whom wasSaphrar, as it does in many cities.The Administrator, however, wouldnot be uninformed. His presence atthe banquet was felt in the person ofhis plenipotentiary, Kamras, of theCaste of Warriors, a captain, saidto be Champion of Turia.

I shot the spiced vulo brain intomy mouth on the tip of a goldeneating prong, a utensil, as far as Iknew, unique to Turia. I took alarge swallow of fierce Paga,

washing it down as rapidly aspossible. I did not much care for thesweet, syrupy wines of Turia,flavoured and sugared to the pointwhere one could almost leave one’sfingerprint on their surface.

It might be mentioned, for thoseunaware of the fact, that the Casteof Merchants is not considered oneof the traditional five High Castesof Gor — the Initiates, Scribes,Physicians, Builders and Warriors.Most commonly, and doubtlessunfortunately, it is only members ofthe five high castes who occupypositions on the High Councils ofthe cities. Nonetheless, as might be

expected, the gold of merchants, inmost cities, exercises its notimponderable influence, not alwaysin so vulgar a form as bribery andgratuities, but more often in thedelicate matters of extending orrefusing to extend credit inconnection with the projects,desires or needs of the HighCouncils. There is a saying on Gor,“Gold has no caste.” It is a sayingof which the merchants are fond.Indeed, 1secretly amongthemselves, I have heard, theyregard themselves as the highestcaste on Gor, though they would notsay so for fear of rousing the

indignation of other castes. Therewould be something, of course, tobe said for such a claim, for themerchants are often indeed in theirway, brave, shrewd, skilled men,making long journeys, venturingtheir goods, risking caravans,negotiating commercial agreements,among themselves developing andenforcing a body of Merchant Law,the only common legalarrangements existing among theGorean cities. Merchants also, ineffect, arrange and administer thefour great fairs that take place eachyear near the Sardar Mountains. Isay “in effect” because the fairs are

nominally under the direction of acommittee of the Caste of Initiates,which, however, largely contentsitself with its ceremonies andsacrifices, and is only too happy todelegate the complex managementof those vast, commercialphenomena, the Sardar Fairs, tomembers of the lowly, much-despised Caste of Merchants,without which, incidentally, thefairs most likely could not exist,certainly not at any rate in theircurrent form.

“Now this,” Saphrar themerchant was telling me, “is thebraised liver of the blue, four-

spired Cosian wingfish.”This fish is a tiny, delicate fish,

blue, about the size of a tarn diskwhen curled in one’s hand; it hasthree or four slender spines in itsdorsal fin, which are poisonous; itis capable of hurling itself from thewater and, for brief distances, on itsstiff pectoral fins, gliding throughthe air, usually to evade the smallersea-tharlarions, which seem to beimmune to the poison of the spines.This fish is also some timesreferred to as the songfish because,as a portion of its courtship rituals,the males and females thrust theirheads from the water and utter a

sort of whistling sound.The blue, four-spired wingfish is

found only in the waters of Cos.Larger varieties are found fartherout to sea. The small blue fish isregarded as a great delicacy, and itsliver as the delicacy of delicacies.

“How is it,” I asked, “that here inTuria you can serve the livers ofwingfish?”

“I have a war galley in PortKar,” said Saphrar the merchant,“which I send to Cos twice a yearfor the fish.”

Saphrar was a short, fat, pinkishman, with short legs and arms; hehad quick bright eyes and a tiny,

roundish red-lipped mouth; uponoccasion he moved his small, pudgyfingers, with rounded scarlet nails,rapidly, as though rubbing the glossfrom a tarn disk or feeling thetexture of a fine cloth; his head, likethat of many merchants, had beenshaved; his eyebrows had beenremoved and over each eye fourgolden drops had been fixed in thepinkish skin; he also had two teethof gold, which were visible whenhe laughed, the upper canine teeth,probably containing poison;merchants are seldom trained in theuse of arms. His right ear had beennotched, doubtless in some

accident. Such notching, I knew, isusually done to the ears of thieves;a second offence is normallypunished by the loss of the righthand; a third offence by the removalof the left hand and both feet. Thereare few thieves, incidentally, onGor. I have heard, though, there is aCaste of Thieves in Port Kar, astrong caste which naturallyprotects its members from suchindignities as ear notching. InSaphrar’s case, of course, he beingof the Caste of Merchants, thenotching of the ear would be acoincidence, albeit one that musthave caused him some

embarrassment. Saphrar was apleasant, gracious fellow, a bitindolent perhaps, save for the eyesand rapid fingers. He was surely anattentive and excellent host. I wouldnot have cared to know him better.

“How is it,” I asked,1 “that amerchant of Turia has a war galleyin Port Kar.”

Saphrar reclined on the yellowcushions, behind the low tablecovered with wines, fruits andgolden dishes heaped with delicateviands.

“I did not realize Port Kar wason friendly terms with any of theinland cities,” I said.

“She is not,” said Saphrar.“Then how?” I asked.He shrugged. “Gold has no

caste,” he said.I tried the liver of the wingfish.

Then another swig of Saga.Saphrar winced.“Perhaps,” he suggested, “you

would like a piece of roasted boskmeat?”

I replaced the golden eatingprong in its rack beside my place,shoved back the glittering dish inwhich lay several theoreticallyedible objects, carefully arrangedby a slave to resemble a bouquet ofwild flowers sprouting from a rock

outcropping. “Yes,” I said, “I thinkso.”

Saphrar conveyed my wishes tothe scandalized Feast Steward, andhe, with a glare in my direction,sent two young slaves scamperingoff to scour the kitchens of Turia fora slice of bosk meat.

I looked to one side and sawKamchak scraping another plateclean, holding it to his mouth,sliding and shoving the carefullystructured design of viands into hismouth.

I glanced at Saphrar, who wasnow leaning on his yellowcushions, in his silken pleasure

robes, white and gold, the coloursof the Caste of Merchants. Saphrar,eyes closed, was nibbling on a tinything, still quivering, which hadbeen impaled on a coloured stick.

I turned away and watched a fireswallower perform to the leapingmelodies of the musicians.

“Do not object that we areentertained in the house of Saphrarof the Merchants,” Kamchak hadsaid, “for in Turia power lies withsuch men.”

I looked down the table a bit atKamras, plenipotentiary of PhaniusTurmus, Administrator of Turia. Hewas a large-wristed strong man

with long, black hair. He sat as awarrior, though in robes of silk.Across his face there were two longscars, perhaps from their delicacythe scars of quiva wounds. He wassaid to be a great warrior, indeed,to be champion of Turia. He had notspoken with us nor acknowledgedour presence at the feast.

“Besides,” Kamchak had toldme, nudging me in the ribs, “thefood and the entertainment is betterin the house of Saphrar than in thepalace of Phanius Turmus.”

I would still, I told myself, settlefor a piece of bosk meat.

I wondered how the stomach of

Kamchak could sustain thedelightful injuries he was heapinginto it with such gusto. To be sure,it had not. The Turian feast usuallyconsumes the better part of a nightand can have as many as a hundredand fifty courses. This would beimpractical, naturally, save for thedetestable device of the goldenbowl and tufted banquet stick,dipped in scented oils, by means ofwhich the diner may, when hewishes, refresh himself and returnwith eagerness to the feast. I had notmade use of this particular tool, andhad contented myself with merelytaking a bite or two, to satisfy the

requirements of etiquette, from eachcourse.

The Turians, doubtless, regardedthis as a hopelessly barbarianinhibition on my part.

I had, perhaps, however, dru1nktoo much Paga.

This afternoon Kamchak and I,leading four pack kaiila, hadentered the first gate of nine-gatedTuria.

On the pack animals werestrapped boxes of precious plate,gems, silver vessels, tangles ofjewellery, mirrors, rings, combs,and golden tarn disks, stamped withthe signs of a dozen cities. These

were brought as gifts to the Turians,largely as a rather insolent gestureon the part of the Wagon Peoples,indicating how little they cared forsuch things, that they would givethem to Turians. Turian embassiesto the Wagon Peoples, when theyoccurred, naturally strove to equalor surpass these gifts. Kamchak toldme, a sort of secret I gather, thatsome of the things he carried hadbeen exchanged back and forth adozen times. One small, flat box,however, Kamchak would not turnover to the stewards of PhaniusTurmus, whom he met at the firstgate. He insisted on carrying that

box with him and, indeed, it restedbeside his right knee at the tablenow.

I was very pleased to enterTuria, for I have always beenexcited by a new city.

I found Turia to match myexpectations. She was luxurious.Her shops were filled with rare,intriguing paraphernalia. I smelledperfumes that I had never smelledbefore. More than once weencountered a line of musiciansdancing single file down the centreof the street, playing on their flutesand drums, perhaps on their way toa feast. I was pleased to see again,

though often done in silk, thesplendid varieties of caste coloursof the typical Gorean city, to hearonce more the cries of peddlers thatI knew so well, the cake sellers, thehawkers of vegetables, the winevendor bending under a double verrskin of his vintage. We did notattract as much attention as I hadthought we would, and I gatheredthat every spring, at least, visitorsfrom the Wagon Peoples must cometo the city. Many people scarcelyglanced at us, in spite of the factthat we were theoretically bloodfoes. I suppose that life in high-walled Turia, for most of its

citizens, went on from day to day inits usual patterns oblivious of theusually distant Wagon Peoples. Thecity had never fallen, and had notbeen under siege in more than acentury. The average citizenworried about the Wagon Peoples,customarily, only when he wasoutside the walls. Then, of course,he worried a great deal, and, I granthim, wisely.

One disappointment to me intrekking through the streets of Turiawas that a crier advanced before us,calling to the women of the city toconceal themselves, even thefemale slaves. Thus, unfortunately,

save for an occasional furtive pairof dark eyes peering from behind aveil in a recessed casement, wesaw in our journey from the gate ofthe city to the House of Saphrarnone of the fabled, silken beautiesof Turia.

I mentioned this to Kamchak andhe laughed loudly.

He was right, of course. Amongthe Wagons, clad in a brief bit ofcord and leather, branded, wearingnose ring and Turian collar, couldbe found many of the beauties ofTuria. Indeed, to the annoyance ofElizabeth Cardwell, who had spenther nights under the wagon in the

last weeks, there were two such inour own wagon, the girl Dina,whom I had snared in the contestsof the bola, and her companion, thefine wench who had bitten the neckof Kamchak’s kaiila and hadattempted to conceal her injury bythe lance of Albrecht, Tenchika, aTuchuk corruption of her Turianname, Tendite; she struggled toserve Kamchak well, but it wasclear that she lamented herseparation from Albrecht of theKassars; he had, surprisingly, twicetried to buy his little slave back, butKamchak was holding out for ahigher price; Dina, on the other

hand, served me skilfully anddevotedly; once Albrecht, having abola match planned, tried1 to buyher back, as well as Tenchika, but Ihad demurred.

“Does it mean,” Dina had askedme that night, head to boot, “thatDina’s master is pleased with her?”

“Yes,” I said, “it does.”“I am happy,” she had said.“She has fat ankles,” Elizabeth

Cardwell had observed.“Not fat,” I said, “— strong,

sturdy ankles.”“If you like fat ankles,” Elizabeth

had said, turning about, perhapsinadvertently revealing the

delightful slimness of her ownankles, and leaving the wagon.

Suddenly I became aware againof the banquet of Saphrar of Turia.

My piece of bosk meat, roasted,had arrived. I picked it up andbegan to chew on it. I liked it bettercooked over the open-fires on theprairie, but it was good bosk. I sankmy teeth into the juicy meat, tearingit and chewing on it.

I observed the banquet tables,laid out in an open-ended rectangle,permitting slaves to enter at theopen end, facilitating the serving,and, of course, allowingentertainers to perform among the

tables. To one side there was asmall altar to Priest-Kings, wherethere burned a small fire. On thisfire, at the beginning of the feast thefeast steward had scattered somegrains of meal, some coloured salt,some drops of wine. “Ta-Sardar-Gor,” he had said, and this phrasehad been repeated by the others inthe room. “To the Priest-Kings ofGor.” It had been the generallibation for the banquet. The onlyone in the room who did notparticipate in this ceremony wasKamchak, who thought that such alibation, in the eyes of the sky,would not have been fitting. I

partook of the libation out ofrespect for Priest-Kings, for one inparticular, whose name was Misk.

A Turian sitting a few feet fromme noted that I had partaken of thelibation. “I see,” he said, “that youwere not raised among thewagons.”

“No,” I said.“He is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba,”

Saphrar had remarked.“How is it,” I asked, “that you

know my name?”“One hears of such things,” he

said.I would have questioned him on

this matter, but he had turned to a

man behind him and was talkingwith him, some matter I gatheredpertaining to the feast.

I forgot about it.If there had been no women for

us to view in the streets of Turin,Saphrar, merchant of the city, haddetermined to make that omissiongood at his banquet. There wereseveral women present at thetables, free women, and severalothers, slaves, who served. Thefree women, shamelessly to themind of the rather prudishKamchak, lowered their veils andthrew back the hoods of their Robesof Concealment, enjoying the feast,

eating with much the same Goreangusto as their men. Their beauty andthe sparkle of their eyes, theirlaughter and conversation, to mymind, immeasurably improved theevening. Many were swift-tongued,witty wenches, utterly charming anduninhibited. I did think, however,that it was somewhat unusual thatthey should appear in publicunveiled, particularly withKamchak and myself present. Thewomen in bondage present, whoserved us, each wore four goldenrings on each ankle and each wrist,locked on, which clashed as theywalked or moved, adding their

sound to the slave bells that hadbeen fixed on their Turian collars,and that hung from their hair; theears of each, too, hal1l beenpierced and from each ear hung atiny slave bell. The single garmentof these women was the Turiancamisk. I do not know particularlywhy it is referred to as a camisk,save that it is a simple garment for afemale slave. The common camiskis a single piece of cloth, abouteighteen inches wide, thrown overthe girl’s head and worn like aponcho. It usually falls a bit abovethe knees in the front and back andis belted with cord or chain. The

Turian camisk, on the other hand, ifit were to be laid out on the floor,would appear somewhat like aninverted “T” in which the bar of the“T” would be bevelled on eachside. It is fastened with a singlecord. The cord binds the garment onthe girl at three points, behind theneck, behind the back, and in frontat the waist. The garment itself, asmight be supposed, fastens behindthe girl’s neck, passes before her,passes between her legs and is thenlifted and, folding the two sides ofthe T’s bar about her hips, ties infront. The Turian camisk, unlike thecommon camisk, will cover a girl’s

brand; on the other hand, unlike thecommon camisk, it leaves the backuncovered and can be tied, and is,snugly, the better to disclose thegirl’s beauty.

We had been treated toexhibitions of juggling, fireswallowing, and acrobats. Therehad been a magician, whoparticularly pleased Kamchak, anda man who, whip in hand, guided adancing sleen through its paces.

I could pick up snatches ofconversation between Kamchak andSaphrar, and I gathered from whatwas said that they were negotiatingplaces of meeting for the exchange

of goods. Then, later in the evening,when I was drunker on Paga than Ishould have permitted myself tobecome, I heard them discussdetails which could only havepertained to what Kamchak hadcalled the games of Love War,details having to do withspecifications of time, weapons andjudges, and such. Then I heard thesentence, “If she is to participate,you must deliver the goldensphere.”

Abruptly, it seemed, I cameawake, no longer half asleep, morethan half drunk. It seemed suddenlyI was shocked awake and sober. I

began to tremble, but held the table,and, I believe, betrayed no sign ofmy inward excitement.

“I can arrange that she is chosenfor the games,” Saphrar was saying,“but it must be worth my while.”

“How can you determine that sheis selected?” Kamchak was asking.

“My gold can determine that,”Saphrar was saying, “and furtherdetermine that she is ill defended.”

Out of the corner of my eye Icould see Kamchak’s black eyesgleaming.

Then I heard the feast stewardcall out, his voice silencing all else,all conversation, even the

musicians. The acrobats who wereat the moment performing fled frombetween the tables. The feaststeward’s voice was heard, “TheLady Aphris of Turia.”

I and all others turned our eyes toa wide, swirling marble stairway inthe back and to the left of the loftybanquet hall in the house of Saphrarthe merchant.

Down the stairway, slowly, intrailing white silk bordered withgold, the colours of the Merchants,there regally descended the girlwho was Aphris of Turia.

Her sandals were of gold and shewore matching gloves of gold.

Her face could not be seen, for itwas veiled, a white silken veiltrimmed with gold, nor even herhair, for it was hidden in the foldsof the free woman’s Robes ofConcealment, in her case, of course,done in the colours of themerchants.

Aphris o1f Turia, then, was ofthe caste of merchants.

I recalled Kamchak had spokenof her once or twice.

As the woman approached Isuddenly became aware again ofSaphrar speaking. “Behold myward,” he was saying, indicatingthe approaching girl.

“The richest woman in allTuria,” Kamchak said.

“When she reaches her majority,”Saphrar remarked.

Until then, I gathered, her meanswere in the doubtless capable handsof Saphrar the merchant.

This supposition was laterconfirmed by Kamchak. Saphrarwas not related to the girl, but hadbeen appointed by the Turianmerchants, on whom he undoubtedlyexercised considerable influence,the guardian of the girl followingthe death of her father in a Paravacicaravan raid several years before.The father of Aphris of Turia,

Tethrar of Turia, had been therichest merchant in this city, itselfone of the richest cities of Gor.There had been no surviving maleheir and the considerable wealth ofTethrar of Turia was now that of hisdaughter, Aphris, who wouldassume control of these remarkablefortunes upon attaining her majority,which event was to occur thisspring.

The girl, not unaware I am sureof the eyes upon her, stopped on thestairway and loftily surveyed thescene of the banquet. I could sensethat she had almost immediatelyseen myself and Kamchak, strangers

at the tables. Something in hercarriage suggested that she might beamused.

I heard Saphrar whisper toKamchak, whose eyes glowed asthey rested on the figure in whiteand gold on the distant stairway.

“Is she not worth the goldensphere?” asked the merchant.

“It is hard to tell,” said Kamchak.“I have the word of her serving

slaves,” insisted Saphrar. “She issaid to be marvellous.”

Kamchak shrugged, his wilyTuchuk trading shrug. I had seenhim use it several times whilediscussing the possible sale of little

Tenchika to Albrecht in the wagon.“The sphere is actually not of

much value, Saphrar was saying, “itis not truly of gold — but onlyappears so.”

“Still,” Kamchak said, “theTuchuks are fond of it.”

“I would only wish it as acuriosity,” Saphrar was saying.

“I must think on the matter,”Kamchak was saying, not taking hiseyes from Aphris of Turia.

“I know where it is,” Saphrarwas saying, his lips pulled back,revealing the golden canines, “Icould send men for it.”

Pretending not to listen I was, of

course, as attentive as possible totheir conversation. But few in thatroom would have noted my interesthad I displayed it openly. All eyes,it seemed, were on the girl on thestairs, slim, said to be beautiful,veiled, clad in Robes ofConcealment of white and gold.Even I was distracted by her. EvenI, in spite of my preoccupation withthe conversation of Kamchak andSaphrar, would have found itdifficult, had I wished, to take myeyes from her. Now she descendedthe last three stairs and, stopping tonod her head and grace an eagerfellow here and there along the

tables with a word or gesture, shebegan to approach the head of thetable. The musicians, at a signalfrom the feast steward, took up theirinstruments again and the acrobatsrushed back among the tables,tumbling and leaping about.

“It is in the wagon ofKutaituchik,” Saphrar was saying.“I could send mercenary tarnsmenfrom the north, but I would prefernot to have war.”

Kamchak was still watchingAphris of Turia.

My heart was beating with greatrapidity. I had learned now, ifSaphrar was correct, that the golden

sphere, undoubtedly the last egg ofPriest-Kings, was in the wagon ofKutaituchik, said to be Ubar of theTuchuks. At last, if Saphrar wascorrect, I knew its location.

I barely noticed, as Aphris ofTuria made her way toward thehead of the table, that she did notspeak to nor acknowledge in anyway any of the women present,though their robes suggested theymust be of wealth and position. Shegave them no sign that sherecognized their existence. To aman here and there, however, shewould nod her head or exchange aword or two. I thought perhaps

Aphris was unwilling toacknowledge unveiled free women.Her own veil, of course, had notbeen lowered. Over the veil I couldnow see two black, deep, almond-shaped eyes; her skin, what I couldsee of it, was lovely and clear; hercomplexion was not so light as thatof Miss Cardwell, but was lighterthan that of the girl Hereena, of theFirst Wagon.

“The golden sphere for Aphris ofTuria,” Saphrar whispered toKamchak.

Kamchak turned to the small, fatmerchant and his scarred, furrowedface broke into a grin, bearing

down on the round, pinkish face ofthe merchant. “The Tuchuks,” hesaid, “are fond of the goldensphere.”

“Very well,” snapped Saphrar,“then you will not obtain the woman— I shall see to that — andsomehow I shall have the sphere —understand that!”

Kamchak now turned to watchAphris of Turia.

The girl now approached us,behind the tables, and Saphrarleaped to his feet and bowed low toher. “Honoured Aphris of Turia,whom I love as my own daughter,”he said.

The girl inclined her head to him,“Honoured Saphrar,” she said.

Saphrar gestured to two of thecamisk-clad girls in the room, whobrought cushions and a silken matand placed them between Saphrarand Kamchak.

Aphris nodded her head to thefeast steward and he sent theacrobats running and tumbling fromthe room and the musicians began toplay soft, honeyed melodies. Theguests at the banquet returned totheir conversation and repast.

Aphris looked about her.She lifted her head, and I could

see the lovely line of her nose

beneath the veil of white silktrimmed with gold. She sniffedtwice. Then she clapped her littlegloved hands two times and thefeast steward rushed to her side.

“I smell bosk dung,” she said.The feast steward looked

startled, then horrified, thenknowledgeable, and then bowedand spread his hands. He smiledingratiatingly, apologetically. “I’msorry, Lady Aphris,” said he, “butunder the circumstances —”

She looked about, and then itseemed she saw Kamchak.

“Ah!” she said, “I see — aTuchuk — of course.”

Kamchak, though sitting cross-legged, seemed to bounce twice onthe cushions, slapping the smalltable, rattling dishes for a dozenfeet on either side. He was roaringwith laughter.

“Superb!” he cried.“Please, if you wish, Lady

Aphris, join us,” wheezed Saphrar.Aphris of Turia, pleased with

herself, assumed her place betweenthe merchant and Kamchak,kneeling back on her heels in theposition of the Gorean free woman.

Her back was very straight andher head high, in the Goreanfashion.

She turned to Kamchak. “It seemswe have met before,” she said.

“Two years ago,” said Kamchak,“in such a place at such a time —you recall it was then you called mea Tuchuk sleen.”

“I seem to recall,” said Aphris,as though trying very hard to do so.

“I had brought you a five-beltnecklace of diamonds,” saidKamchak, “for I had heard youwere beautiful.”

“Oh,” said Aphris, “yes — Igave it to one of my slaves.”

Kamchak slapped the table inmerriment again.

“It was then,” he said, “that you

turned away, calling me a Tuchuksleen.”

“Oh, yes!” laughed Aphris.“And it was then,” said

Kamchak, still laughing, “that Ivowed I would make you myslave.”

Aphris stopped laughing.Saphrar was speechless.There was no sound at the tables.Kamras, Champion of the City of

Turia, rose to his feet. Headdressed Saphrar. “Permit me,” hesaid, “to fetch weapons.”

Kamchak was now swilling Pagaand acted as though he had notheard the remark of Kamras.

“No, no, no!” cried Saphrar.“The Tuchuk and his friend areguests, and ambassadors of theWagon Peoples — they must notcome to harm!”

Aphris of Turia laughed merrilyand Kamras, embarrassed, returnedto his seat.

“Bring perfumes!” she called tothe feast steward, and he sent forththe camisk-clad slave who carriedthe tiny tray of exotic Turianperfumes. She took one or two ofthese small bottles and held themunder her nose, and then sprinkledthem about the table and cushions.Her actions delighted the Turians,

who laughed.Kamchak now was still smiling,

but he no longer laughed.“For that,” he said, smiling, “you

will spend your first night in thedung sack.”

Again Aphris laughed merrilyand was joined by those of thebanquet.

The fists of Kamras wereclenched on the table.

“Who are you?” asked Aphris,looking at me.

I was pleased to see that she, atleast, did not know my name.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said, “— ofthe city of Ko-ro-ba.”

“It is in the far north,” she said.“Even beyond Ar.”

“Yes,” I said.“How comes it,” asked she, “that

a Koroban rides in the stinkingwagon of a Tuchuk sleen?”

“The wagon does not stink,” Isaid, “and Kamchak of the Tuchuksis my friend.”

“You are an outlaw of course,”she said.

I shrugged.She laughed.The girl turned to Saphrar.

“Perhaps the barbarians would careto be entertained,” she suggested.

I was puzzled at this, for

throughout much of the eveningthere had been entertainment, thejugglers, the acrobats, the fellowwho swallowed fire to music, themagician, the man with the dancingsleen.

Saphrar was looking down. Hewas angry. “Perhaps,” he said. Isupposed Saphrar was still irritatedat Kamchak’s refusal to give up, orarrange the transfer, of the goldensphere. I did not clearly understandKamchak’s motivations in thismatter — unless, of course, heknew the true nature of the goldensphere, in which case, naturally, hewould recognize it as priceless. I

gathered he did not understand itstrue value, seeing that he haddiscussed its exchange with someseriousness earlier in the evening— only that, apparently, he wantedmore than Saphrar was offering,even though that might be Aphris ofTuria herself.

Aphris now turned to me. Shegestured to the ladies at the tables,with their escorts. “Are the womenof Turia not beautiful?” she asked.

“Indeed,” I admitted, for therewere none present who were not, intheir own ways, beautiful.

She laughed, for some reason.“In my city,” I said, “free women

would not permit themselves to beseen unveiled before strangers.”

The girl laughed merrily oncemore and turned to Kamchak. “Whatthink you, my colourful bit of boskdung?” she asked.

Kamchak shrugged. “It is wellknown,” he said, “the women ofTuria are shameless.”

“I think not,” snapped the angryAphris of Turia, her eyes flashingabove the golden border of herwhite silicon veil.

“I see them,” said Kamchak,spreading his hands to both sides,grinning.

“I think not,” said the girl.

Kamchak looked puzzled.Then, to my surprise, the girl

clapped her hands sharply twiceand the women about the tablestood, and together, from bothsides, moved swiftly to standbefore us between the tables. Thedrums and flutes of the musicianssounded, and to my amazement thefirst girl, with a sudden, gracefulswirl of her body lifted away herrobes and flung them high over theheads of the guests to cries ofdelight. She stood facing us,beautiful, knees flexed, breathingdeeply, arms lifted over her head,ready for the dance. Each of the

women I had thought free did thesame, until each stood before us, acollared slave girl clad only thediaphanous, scarlet dancing silks ofGor. To the barbaric music theydanced.

Kamchak was angry.“Did you truly think,” asked

Aphris of Turia arrogantly, “that aTuchuk would be permitted to lookupon the face of a free woman ofTuria?”

Kamchak’s fists were clenchedon the table, for no Tuchuk likes tobe fooled,

Kamras was laughing loudly andeven Saphrar was giggling among

the yellow cushions.No Tuchuk, I knew, cares to be

the butt of a joke, especially aTurian joke.

But Kamchak said nothing.Then he took his goblet of Paga

and drained it, watching the girlsswayin1g to the caress of Turianmelodies.

“Are they not delightful?”spurred Aphris, after a time.

“We have many girls among thewagons quite as good,” saidKamchak.

“Oh?” asked Aphris.“Yes,” said Kamchak, “Turians

— slaves — such as you will be.”

“You are aware, of course,” shesaid, “that if you were not anambassador of the Wagon Peoplesat this time I would order youslain.”

Kamchak laughed. “It is one thingto order the death of a Tuchuk,” hesaid. “It is another to kill him.”

“I’m sure both could bearranged,” remarked Aphris.

Kamchak laughed. “I shall enjoyowning you,” he said.

The girl laughed. “You are afool,” she said. Then she added,unpleasantly, “But beware — for ifyou cease to amuse me — you willnot leave these tables alive.”

Kamchak was swilling downanother bolt of Paga, part of itrunning out at the side of his mouth.

Aphris then turned to Saphrar.“Surely our guests would enjoyseeing the others” she suggested.

I wondered what she meant.“Please, Aphris,” said Saphrar,

shaking his fat, pinkish head,sweating. “No trouble, no trouble.”

“Ho!” cried Aphris of Turia,summoning the feast steward to her,through the turning bodies of thegirls dancing among the tables.“The others!” ordered Aphris, “—for the amusement of our guests!”

The feast steward turned a wary

eye toward Saphrar, who, defeated,nodded his head.

The feast steward then clappedhis hands twice, dismissing thegirls, who rushed from the room;and then he clapped his hands twicemore, paused a moment, then twicemore.

I heard the sound of slave bellsattached to ankle rings, to lockedwrist bracelets, to Turian collars.

More girls approached rapidly,their feet taking small running stepsin a turning line that sped forth froma small room in the back and to theright.

My hand clenched on the goblet.

Aphris of Turia was bold indeed. Iwondered if Kamchak would rise todo war in the very room.

The girls that now stood beforeus, barefoot, in swirling PleasureSilks, belled and collared, werewenches of the Wagon Peoples,now, as could be determined evenbeneath the silks they wore, thebranded slaves of Turians. Theirleader, to her surprise, seeingKamchak, fell in shame to her kneesbefore him, much to the fury of thefeast steward; the others did so aswell.

The feast steward was handed aslave whip and stood towelling

over the leader of the girls.His hand drew back but the blow

never fell, for with a cry of pain hereeled away, the hilt of a quivapressed against the inside of hisforearm, the balance of the bladeemerging on the other side.

Even I had not seen Kamchakthrow the knife, Now, to mysatisfaction, another of the bladeswas poised in his finger tips.Several of the men had leaped frombehind the tables, includingKamras, but they hesitated, seeingKamchak so armed. I, too, was onmy feet. “Weapons,” said Kamras,“are not permitted at the banquet.”

“Ah,” said Kamchak, bowing tohim, “I did not know.”

“Let us sit down and enjoyourselves, recommended Saphrar.“If the Tuchuk does not wish to seethe girls, let us dismiss them.”

“I wish to see them perform,”said Aphris of Turia, though shestood within arm’s reach ofKamchak’s quiva.

Kamchak laughed, looking at her.Then, to my relief, and doubtless tothe relief of several at the table, hethrust the quiva in his sash and satback down.

“Dance,” ordered Aphris.The trembling girl before her did

not move.“Dance!” screamed Aphris,

rising to her feet.“What shall I do?” begged the

kneeling girl of Kamchak. Shelooked not too unlike Hereena, andwas perhaps a similar sort of girl,raised and trained much the same.Like Hereena, of course, she worethe tiny golden nose ring.

Kamchak spoke to her, verygently. “You are slave,” he said.“Dance for your masters.”

The girl looked at him gratefullyand she, with the others, rose to herfeet and to the astounding barbarityof the music performed the savage

love dances of the Kassars, theParavaci, the Kataii, the Tuchuks.

They were magnificent.One girl, the leader of the

dancers, she who had spoken toKamchak, was a Tuchuk girl, andwas particularly startling, vital,uncontrollable, wild.

It was then clear to me why theTurian men so hungered for thewenches of the Wagon Peoples.

At the height of one of herdances, called the Dance of theTuchuk Slave Girl, Kamchak turnedto Aphris of Turia, who waswatching the dance, eyes bright, asastounded as I at the savage

spectacle. “I will see to it,” saidKamchak, “when you are my slave,that you are taught that dance.”

The back and head of Aphris ofTuria was rigid with fury, but shegave no sign that she had heard him.

Kamchak waited until the girls ofthe Wagon Peoples had performedtheir dances and then, when theyhad been dismissed, he rose to hisbooted feet. “We must go” he said.

I nodded, and struggled to myfeet, well ready to return to hiswagon.

“What is in the box?” askedAphris of Turia, as she sawKamchak pick up the small black

box which, throughout the banquet,he had kept at his right knee. Thegirl was clearly curious, female.

Kamchak shrugged.I remembered that two years

before, as I had learned, he hadbrought Aphris of Turia a five-string diamond necklace, which shehad scorned, and had, according toher report at least, given to a slave.It had been at that time that she hadcalled him a Tuchuk sleen,presumably because he had daredpresent her with a gift.

But, I could see, she wasinterested in the box. Indeed, atcertain times during the evening, I

had seen her casting furtive glancesat it.

“It is nothing,” said Kamchak,“only a trinket.”

“But is it for someone?” sheasked.

“I had thought,” said Kamchak,“that I might give it to you.”

“Oh?” asked Aphris, clearlyintrigued.

“But you would not like it,” hesaid.

“How do you know,” she said,rather airily, “I have not seen it.”

“I will take it home with me,”said Kamchak.

“If you wish,” she said.

“But you may have it if youwish,” he said.

“Is it other,” she asked, “than amere necklace of diamonds?”Aphris of Turia was no fool. Sheknew that the Wagon Peoples,plunderers of hundreds of caravans,occasionally possessed objects andriches as costly as any on Gor.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “it is otherthan a necklace of diamonds.”

“Ah!” she said. I then suspectedthat she had not actually given thefive-string diamond necklace to aslave. Undoubtedly it still reposedin one of her several chests ofjewellery.

“But you would not like it,” saidKamchak, diffidently.

“Perhaps I might,” she said.“No,” said Kamchak, “you would

not like it.”“You brought it for me, did you

not?” she said.Kamchak shrugged and looked

down at the box in his hand. “Yes,”he said, “I brought it for you.”

The box was about the size inwhich a necklace, perhaps on blackvelvet, might be displayed.

“I want it,” said Aphris of Turia.“Truly?” asked Kamchak. “Do

you want it?”“Yes,” said Aphris. “Give it to

me!”“Very well,” said Kamchak, “but

I must ask to place it on youmyself.”

Kamras, the Champion of Turia,half rose from his position. “BoldTuchuk sleen!” he hissed.

“Very well,” said Aphris ofTuria. “You may place it on meyourself.”

So then Kamchak bent down towhere Aphris of Turia knelt, herback straight, her head very high,before the low table. He steppedbehind her and she lifted her chindelicately. Her eyes were shiningwith curiosity. I could see the

quickness of her breath marked inthe soft silk of her white and goldveil.

“Now,” said Aphris.Kamchak then opened the box.When Aphris heard the delicate

click of the box lid it was all shecould do not to turn and regard theprize that was to be hers, but shedid not do so. She remained lookingaway, only lifting her chin a bitmore.

“Now!” said Aphris of Turia,trembling with anticipation.

What happened then was donevery swiftly. Kamchak lifted fromthe box an object indeed intended to

grace the throat of a girl. But it wasa round metal ring, a Turian collar,the collar of a slave. There was afirm snap of the heavy lock in theback of the collar and the throat ofAphris of Turia had been encircledwith slave steel! At the same instantKamchak lifted her startled to herfeet and turned her to face him, withboth hands tearing the veil from herface! Then, before any of thestartled Turians could stop him, hehad purchased by his audacity abold kiss from the lips of theastounded Aphris of Turia! Then hehurled her from him across andover the low table until she fell to

the floor where Tuchuk slaves haddanced for 1her pleasure. Thequiva, appearing as if by magic inhis hand, warned back those whowould press in upon him to revengethe daughter of their city. I stoodbeside Kamchak, ready to defendhim with my life, yet as startled asany in the room at what had beendone.

The girl now had struggled to herknees tearing at the collar. Her tinygloved fingers were locked in it,pulling at it, as though by bruteforce she would tear it from herthroat.

Kamchak was looking at her.

“Beneath your robes of white andgold,” he said, “I smelled the bodyof a slave girl.”

“Sleen! Sleen! Sleen!” she cried.“Replace your veil!” ordered

Saphrar.“Remove the collar

immediately,” commanded Kamras,plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus,Administrator of Turia.

Kamchak smiled. “It seems,” hesaid, “that I have forgotten the key.”

“Send for one of the Caste ofMetal Workers!” cried Saphrar.

There were cries on all sides,“Slay the Tuchuk sleen!” “Torturefor him!” “The oil of tharlarions!”

“Leech plants!” “Impalement!”“Tongs and fire!” But Kamchakseemed unmoved. And none rushedupon him, for in his hand, and hewas Tuchuk, there gleamed thequiva.

“Slay him!” screamed Aphris ofTuria, “Slay him!”

“Replace your veil,” repeatedSaphrar to the girl. “Have you noshame?”

The girl attempted to rearrangethe folds of the veil, but could onlyhold it before her face, forKamchak had ripped away the pinsby which it was customarilyfastened.

Her eyes were wild with furyand tears.

He, a Tuchuk, had looked uponher face.

I was pleased, though I would nothave admitted it, at Kamchak’sboldness, for it was a face forwhich a man might risk much, evendeath in the torture dungeons ofTuria, utterly beautiful though now,of course, transformed with rage,far more beautiful than had beenthat of the most beautiful of theslave girls who had served us orgiven us of the beauty of theirdances.

“You recall, of course,”

Kamchak was saying, “that I am anambassador of the Wagon Peoplesand am entitled to the courtesies ofyour city.”

“Impale him!” cried a number ofvoices.

“It is a joke,” cried out Saphrar.“A joke! A Tuchuk joke!”

“Slay him!” screamed Aphris ofTuria.

But no one would move againstthe quiva.

“Now, gentle Aphris,” Saphrarwas purring, “you must be calm —soon one from the Caste of MetalWorkers will appear to free you —all will be well — return to your

own chambers.”“No!” screamed Aphris. “The

Tuchuk must be slain!”“It is not possible, my dear,”

wheezed Saphrar.“You are challenged!” said

Kamras, spitting to the floor atKamchak’s booted feet.

For an instant I saw Kamchak’seyes gleam and thought he might atthe very table at which he stoodaccept the challenge of theChampion of Turia, but instead, heshrugged and grinned. “Why shouldI fight?” he asked.

It1 did not sound like Kamchakspeaking.

“You are a coward!” criedKamras.

I wondered if Kamras knew themeaning of the word which he haddared to address to one who worethe Courage Scar of the WagonPeoples.

But to my amazement, Kamchakonly smiled. “Why should I fight?”he asked.

“What do you mean?” demandedKamras.

“What is to be gained?” inquiredKamchak.

“Aphris of Turia!” cried the girl.There were cries of horror, or

protest, from the men crowded

about.“Yes!” cried Aphris of Turia. “If

you will meet Kamras, Champion ofTuria, I — Aphris of Turia — willstand at the stake in Love War!”

Kamchak looked at her. “I willfight,” he said.

There was a silence in the room.I saw Saphrar, a bit in the

background, close his eyes and nodhis head. “Wily Tuchuk,” I heardhim mutter. Yes, I said to myself,wily Tuchuk. Kamchak had, bymeans of the very pride of Aphrisof Turia, of Kamras, and theoffended Turians, brought the girlby her own will to the stake of Love

War. It was something he would notbuy with the golden sphere fromSaphrar the merchant; it wassomething he was clearly capableof arranging, with Tuchuk cunning,by himself. I supposed, naturally,however, that Saphrar, guardian ofAphris of Turia, would not permitthis to occur.

“No, my dear,” Saphrar wassaying to the girl, “you must notexpect satisfaction for this frightfulinjury which has been wrought uponyou — you must not even think ofthe games — you must forget thisunpleasant evening — you must trynot to think of the stories that will

be told of you concerning thisevening — what the Tuchuk did andhow he was permitted to escapewith impunity.”

“Never!” cried Aphris. “I willstand, I tell you! I will! I will!”

“No,” said Saphrar, “I cannotpermit it — it is better that thepeople laugh at Aphris of Turia —and perhaps, in some years, theymay forget.”

“I demand to be permitted tostand,” cried the girl. Then shecried, “I beg of you Saphrar —permit me!”

“But in a few days,” saidSaphrar, “you will attain your

majority and receive your fortunes— then you may do as you wish.”

“But it will be after the games!”cried the girl.

“Yes,” said Saphrar, as thoughthinking, “that is true.”

“I will defend her,” said Kamras.“I will not lose.”

“It is true you have never lost,”wavered Saphrar.

“Permit it!” cried several ofthose present.

“Unless you permit this,” weptAphris, “my honour will be foreverstained.”

“Unless you permit it,” saidKamras sternly, “I may never have

an opportunity to cross steel withthis barbaric sleen.”

It then occurred to me, suddenly,that, following Gorean civic law,the properties and titles, assets andgoods of a given individual who isreduced to slavery areautomatically regarded as havingbeen transferred to the nearest malerelative — or nearest relative if noadult male1 relative is available —or to the city — or to, if pertinent, aguardian. Thus, if Aphris of Turia,by some mischance, were to fall toKamchak, and surely slavery, herconsiderable riches would beimmediately assigned to Saphrar,

merchant of Turia. Moreover, toavoid legal complications and freethe assets for investment andmanipulation, the transfer isasymmetrical, in the sense that theindividual, even should hesomehow later recover his freedom,retains no legal claim whatsoeveron the transferred assets.

“All right,” said Saphrar, hiseyes cast down, as though making adecision against his betterjudgment, “I will permit my ward,the Lady Aphris of Turia, to stand atthe stake in Love War.”

There was a cry of delight fromthe crowd, confident now that the

Tuchuk sleen would be fittinglypunished for his bold use of therichest daughter of Turia.

“Thank you, my guardian,” saidAphris of Turia, and with one lastvicious look at Kamchak threwback her head and with a swirl ofher white gown, bordered withgold, walked regally from betweenthe tables.

“To see her walk,” remarkedKamchak, rather loudly, “onewould hardly suspect that she wearsthe collar of a slave.”

Aphris spun to face him, her rightfist clenched, her left hand mufflingher veil about her face, her eyes

flashing. The circle of steelgleamed on the silk at her throat.

“I meant only, little Aphris,” saidKamchak, “— that you wear yourcollar well.”

The girl cried out in helplessrage and turned, stumbling andclutching at the banister on thestairs. Then she ran up the stairs,weeping, veil disarranged, bothhands jerking at the collar. With acry she disappeared.

“Have no fear, Saphrar ofTuria,” Kamras was saying, “I shallslay the Tuchuk sleen — and I shalldo so slowly.”

Chapter 10LOVE WARIt was early in the morning,

several days after Saphrar’sbanquet, that Kamchak and myself,among some hundreds of others ofthe Four Wagon Peoples, came thePlains of a Thousand Stakes, somepasangs distant from lofty Turia.

Judges and craftsmen from Ar,hundreds of pasangs away, acrossthe Cartius, were already at thestakes, inspecting than andpreparing the ground between them.These men, as in every year, Ilearned, had been guaranteed safe

passage across the southern plainsfor this event. The journey, even so,was not without its dangers, butthey had been well recompensed,from the treasure chests of bothTuria and the Wagon Peoples.Some of the judges, now wealthy,had officiated several times at thegames. The fee for even one of theiraccompanying craftsmen wassufficient to support a man for ayear in luxurious Ar.

We moved slowly, walking thekaiila, in four long lines, theTuchuks, the Kassars, the Kataii,the Paravaci, some two hundred orso warriors of each. Kamchak rode

near the head of the Tuchuk line.The standard bearer, holding alofton a lance a representation of thefour bosk horns, carved from wood,rode near us. At the head of ourline, on a huge kaiila, rodeKutaituchik, his eyes closed, hishead nodding, his body swayingwith the stately movement of theanimal, a half-chewed string ofkanda dangling from his mouth.

Beside him, but as Ubars, rodethree other men, whom I took to bechief among the Kassars, the Kataii,the Paravaci I could se1e,surprisingly near the forefront oftheir respective lines, the other

three men I had first seen on comingto the Wagon Peoples, Conrad ofthe Kassars, Hakimba of the Kataiiand Tolnus of the Paravaci. These,like Kamchak, rode rather near theirrespective standard bearers. Thestandard of the Kassars is that of ascarlet, three-weighted bola, whichhangs from a lance; the symbolicrepresentation of a bola, threecircles joined at the centre by lines,is used to mark their bosk andslaves; both Tenchika and Dinawore that brand; Kamchak had notdecided to rebrand them, as is donewith bosk; he thought, rightly, itwould lower their value; also, I

think he was pleased to have salvesin his wagon who wore the brand ofKissers, for such night lie taken asevidence of the superiority ofTuchuks to Kassars, that they hadbested them and taken their slaves;similarly Kamchak was pleased tohave in his herd bosk, and he hadseveral, whose first brand was thatof the three-weighted bola; thestandard of the Kataii is a yellowbow, bound across a black lance;their brand is also that of a bow,facing to the left; the Paravacistandard is a large banner of jewelsbeaded on golden wires, formingthe head and horns of a bosk its

value is incalculable; the Paravacibrand is a symbolic representationof a bosk head, a semicircle restingon an inverted isosceles triangle.

Elizabeth Cardwell, barefoot, inthe larl’s pelt, walked besideKamchak’s stirrup. NeitherTenchika nor Dina would be withus. Yesterday afternoon, for anincredible forty pieces of gold, fourquivas and the saddle of a kaiila,Kamchak had sold Tenchika back toAlbrecht. It was one of the highestprices ever paid among the wagonsfor a slave and I judged thatAlbrecht had sorely missed hislittle Tenchika; the high price he

was forced to pay for the girl wasmade even more intolerable byKamchak’s amusement at hisexpense, roaring with laughter andslapping his knee because only tooobviously Albrecht had allowedhimself to care for the girl, and sheonly slave! Albrecht, while bindingher wrists and putting his thong onher neck, had angrily cuffed her twoor three times, calling her worthlessand good for nothing; she waslaughing and leaping beside hiskaiila, weeping with joy; I last sawher running beside his stirrup, tryingto press her head against his furboot. Dina, though she was slave, I

had placed on the saddle before me,her legs over the left forequarters ofthe animal; and had ridden with herfrom the wagons, until in thedistance I could see the gleaming,white walls of Turia. When I hadcome to this place I set her on thegrass She looked up at me, puzzled.

“Why have you brought mehere?” she had asked.

I pointed into the distance. “It isTuria,” I said, “your city.”

She looked up at me. “Is it yourwish,” she asked, “that I run for thecity?”

She referred to a cruel sport ofthe young men of the wagons who

sometimes take Turian slave girls tothe sight of Turia’s walls and then,loosening bola and thong, bid themrun for the city.

“No,” I told her, “I have broughtyou here to free you.”

The girl trembled.She dropped her head. “I am

yours so much yours,” she said,looking at the grass. “Do not becruel.”

“No,” I said, “I have brought youhere to free you.”

She looked up at me. She shookher head.

“It is my wish,” I said.“But why?” she asked.

“It is my wish,” I said.“Have I not pleased you?” she

asked.“You have pleased me very

much,” I told her.“Why do you not sell me?” she

asked.“It is not my wish,” I said.“But you would sell a bosk or

kaiila,” she said.“Yes,” I said.“Why not Dina?” she asked.“It is not my wish,” I said.“I am valuable,” said the girl.

She simply stated a fact.“More valuable than you know,”

I told her.

“I do not understand,” she said.I reached into the pouch at my

belt and gave her a piece of gold.“Take this,” I said, “and go to Turiafind your people and be free.”

Suddenly she began to shake withsobs and fell to her knees at thepaws of the kaiila, the gold piece inher left hand. “If this is a Tuchukjoke,” she wept, “kill me swiftly.”

I sprang from the saddle of thekaiila and kneeling beside her heldher in my arms, pressing her headagainst my shoulder. “No,” I said,“Dina of Turia. I do not jest. Youare free.”

She looked at me tears in her

eyes. “Turian girls are neverfreed,” she said. “Never.”

I shook her and kissed her. “You,Dina of Turia,” I said, “are free.”Then I shook her again. “Do youwant me to ride to the walls andthrow you over?” I demanded.

She laughed through her tears.“No,” she said, “no.”

I lifted her to her feet and shesuddenly kissed me. “Tarl Cabot!”she cried. “Tarl Cabot!”

It seemed like lightning to us boththat she had cried my name as mighthave a free woman. And indeed itwas a free woman who cried thosewords, Dina, a free woman of

Turia.“Oh, Tarl Cabot,” she wept.Then she regarded me gently.

“But keep Dina a moment longeryours,” she said.

“You are free,” I said.“But I would serve you,” she

said.I smiled. “There is no place,” I

said.“Ah, Tarl Cabot,” she chided,

“there is all the Plains of Turia.”“The Land of the Wagon Peoples,

you mean.”She laughed. “No,” she said, “the

Plains of Turia.”“Insolent wench,” I observed.

But she was kissing me and bymy arms was being lowered to thegrasses of the spring prairie.

When I had lifted her to her feet Inoted, in the distance, a bit of dustmoving from one of the gates of thecity towards us, probably two orthree warriors mounted on hightharlarion.

The girl had not yet seen them.She seemed to me very happy andthis, naturally, made me happy aswell. Then suddenly her eyesclouded and her face wastransformed with distress. Herhands moved to her face, coveringher mouth.

“Oh!” she said.“What’s wrong?” I as1ked.“I cannot go to Turia!” she cried.“Why not?” I asked.“I have no veil!” she cried.I cried out in exasperation,

kissed her, turned her about by theshoulders and with a slap, hardlybefitting a free woman, started heron the way to Turia.

The dust was now nearing.I leaped into the saddle and

waved to the girl, who had run afew yards and then turned. Shewaved to me. She was crying.

An arrow swept over my head.I laughed and wheeled the kaiila

and raced from the place, leavingthe riders of the ponderoustharlarion far behind.

They circled back to find a girl,free though still clad Kajir,clutching in one hand a piece ofgold, waving after a departedenemy, laughing and crying.

When I had returned to the wagonKamchak’s first words to me hadbeen, “I hope you got a good pricefor her.”

I smiled.“Are you satisfied?” he asked.I recalled the Plains of Turia.

“Yes,” I said, “I am well satisfied.”Elizabeth Cardwell, who had

been fixing the fire in the wagon,had been startled when I hadreturned without Dina, but had notdared to ask what had been donewith her. Now her eyes were onme, wide with disbelief. “You soldher?” she said, uncomprehendingly.“Sold?”

“You said she had fat ankles,” Ireminded her.

Elizabeth regarded me withhorror. “She was a person” saidElizabeth, “a human person”

“No!” said Kamchak, giving herhead a shake. “An animal! Aslaver” Then he added, giving herhead another shake, “Like

yourself!”Elizabeth looked at him with

dismay.“I think” said Kamchak, “I will

sell you.”Elizabeth’s face suddenly

seemed terrified. She threw a wild,pleading look at me.

Kamchak’s words had disturbedme as well.

I think it was then, perhaps thefirst time since her first coming tothe Wagon Peoples, that she fullyunderstood her plight for Kamchakhad, on the whole, been kind to herhe had not put the Tuchuk ring in hernose, nor had he clothed her Kajir,

nor put the brand of the bosk hornson her thigh, nor even enclosed herlovely throat with the Turian collar.Now, again, Elizabeth, visiblyshaken, ill, realized that she might,should it please Kamchak’s whims,be sold or exchanged with the sameease as a saddle or a hunting sleen.

She had seen Tenchika sold.Now she assumed that thedisappearance of Dina from thewagon was to be similarlyexplained. She looked at medisbelievingly, shaking her head.

For my part I did not think itwould be a good idea to tell her thatI had freed Dina. What good would

that information do her? It mightmake her own bondage seem morecruel, or perhaps fill her withfoolish hopes that Kamchak, hermaster, might someday bestow onher the same beautiful gift offreedom. I smiled at the thought.Kamchak, Free a slaver And, I toldmyself, even if I myself ownedElizabeth, and not Kamchak, I couldnot free her for what would it be tofree her? If she approached Turiashe would fall slave to the firs1tpatrol that leashed and hooded her;if she tried to stay among thewagons, some young warrior,sensing she was undefended and not

of the Peoples, would have hischain on her before nightfall. hand Imyself did not intend to stay amongthe wagons. I had now learned, ifthe information of He that thegolden sphere, doubtless the egg ofPriest-Kings, lay in the wagon ofKutaituchik. I must attempt to obtainit and return it to the Sardar. This, Iknew, might well cost me my life.No, it was best that ElizabethCardwell believe I had callouslysold the lovely Dina of Turia. Itwas best that she understand herselffor what she was, a barbarian slavegirl in the wagon of Kamchak of theTuchuks.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “I think Iwill sell her.”

Elizabeth shook with terror andput her head to the rug atKamchak’s feet. “Please,” she said,in a whisper, “do not sell me,Master.”

“What do you think she wouldbring?” asked Kamchak.

“She is only a barbarian,” I said.I did not wish Kamchak to sell her.

“Perhaps I could have hertrained” mused Kamchak.

“It would considerably improveher price,” I admitted. I also knew agood training would take months,though much can be done with an

intelligent girl in only a few weeks.“Would you like to learn,” asked

Kamchak of the girl, “to wear silkand bells, to speak, to stand, towalk, to dance to drive men madwith the desire to own and masteryou?”

The girl said nothing butshuddered.

“I doubt if you could learn,” saidKamchak.

Elizabeth said nothing, her headdown.

“You are only a little barbarian,”said Kamchak wearily.

Then he winked at me. “But,”said he, “she is a pretty little

barbarian, is she not?”“Yes,” I said, “She is that

indeed.”I saw Miss Cardwell’s eyes

close and her shoulders shake withshame. Her hands then covered hereyes.

I followed Kamchak out of thewagon. Once outside, to myastonishment, he turned to me andsaid, “You were a fool to free Dinaof Turia.”

“How do you know I freed her?”I asked.

“I saw you put her on your kaiilaand ride toward Turia,” he said.“She was not even running beside

the kaiila bound.”He grinned. “And I know that you

liked her that you would not wagerfor her and,” he added, noddingtoward the pouch at my belt, “yourpouch is no heavier now than whenyou left.”

I laughed.Kamchak pointed to the pouch.

“You should have forty pieces ofgold in that pouch,” he said. “Thatmuch for her at least maybe morebecause she was skilled in thegames of the bola.” He chuckled.“A girl such as Dina of Turia isworth more than a kaiila,” he said.“And, too,” he added, “she was a

beauty!” Kamchak laughed.“Albrecht was a fool,” he said, “butTarl Cabot was a bigger one!”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“Any man who permits himself to

care for a slave girl,” saidKamchak, “is a fool.”

“Perhaps someday,” I said, “evenKamchak of the Tuchuks will carefor a slave girl.”1p>

At this Kamchak threw back hishead and roared, and then bent overslapping his knee.

“Then,” I said, determinedly, “hemay know how it feels.”

At this Kamchak lost all controlover himself and he leaned over

backward slapping his thighs withthe palms of his hands, laughing asthough he were demented. He evenreeled about roaring as though hewere drunk and slapped the wheelof a neighbour’s wagon for a minuteor two until his laughter turned intospasmodic gasps and, makingstrange noises, he wheezinglyfought to get a mouthful or two ofair under his shaking ribs. I wouldnot have much minded if he hadasphyxiated himself on the spot.

“Tomorrow,” I said, “you fighton the Plains of a ThousandStakes.”

“Yes,” he said, “so tonight I will

get drunk.”“It would be better,” I said, “to

get a good night’s sleep.”“Yes,” said Kamchak, “but I am

Tuchuk so I will get drunk.”“Very well,” I said, “then I, too,

shall get drunk.”We then spat to determine who

would bargain for a bottle of Paga.By starting from the side and turninghis head quickly, Kamchak bestedme by some eighteen inches. In thelight of his skill my own effortseemed depressingly naive, quitesimple-minded, unimaginative andstraightforward. I had not knownabout the head-twisting trick. The

wily Tuchuk, of course, had had mespit first.

Now this morning we had cometo the Plains of a Thousand Stakes.

For all his uproarious stompingabout the wagon last night, Pagabottle in hand, singing gusty Tuchuksongs, half frightening MissCardwell to death, he seemed ingood spirits, looking about,whistling, occasionally pounding alittle rhythm on the side of hissaddle. I would not tell MissCardwell but the rhythm was thedrum rhythm of the Chain Dance. Igathered Kamchak had his mind onAphris of Turia, and was,

perilously to my mind, counting hiswenches before he had won them.

I do not know if there are, bycount, a thousand stakes or not onthe Plains of a Thousand Stakes, butI would suppose that there are thatmany or more. The stakes, flat-topped, each about six and half feethigh and about seven or eight inchesin diameter, stand in two long linesfacing one another in pairs. The twolines are separated by about fiftyfeet and each stake in a line isseparated from the stake on its leftand right by about ten yards. Thetwo lines of stakes extended formore than four pasangs across the

prairie. One of these lines is closestto the city and the other to theprairies beyond. The stakes hadrecently been, I observed, brightlypainted, each differently, in adelightful array of colours; further,each was trimmed and decoratedvariously, depending on the whimof the workman, sometimes simply,sometimes fancifully, sometimesornately. The entire aspect was oneof colour, good cheer, lightheartedness and gaiety. There wassomething of the sense of carnivalin the air. I was forced to remindmyself that between these two linesof stakes men would soon fight and

die.I noted some of the workmen still

affixing small retaining rings tosome of the stakes, bolting them oneon a side, usually about five feet tofive and a half feet from the ground.A workman sprang a pair shut, andthen opened them with a key, whichhe subsequently hung from a tinyhook near the top of the stake.

I heard some musicians, come outearly from Turia, playing a lighttune behind the Turian stak1es,about fifty yards or so away.

In the space between the twolines of stakes, for each pair offacing stakes, there was a circle of

roughly eight yards in diameter.This circle, the grass having beenremoved, was sanded and raked.

Moving boldly now among theWagon Peoples were vendors fromTuria, selling their cakes, theirwines and meats, even chains andcollars.

Kamchak looked at the sun,which was now about a quarter ofthe way up the sky.

“Turians are always late,” hesaid.

From the back of the kaiila Icould now see dust from Turia.“They are coming,” I said.

Among the Tuchuks, though

dismounted, I saw the young manHarold, he whom Hereena of theFirst Wagon had so sorely insultedat the time of the wagering withConrad and Albrecht. I did not,however, see the girl. The youngman seemed to me a strong, finefellow, though of course unscarred.He had, as I mentioned, blond hairand blue eyes, not unknown amongthe Tuchuks, but unusual. Hecarried weapons. He could not, ofcourse, compete in these contests,for there is status involved in thesematters and only warriors of reputeare permitted to participate. Indeed,without the Courage Scar one could

not even think of proposing oneselffor the competition. It might bementioned, incidentally, thatwithout the Courage Scar one maynot, among the Tuchuks, pay courtto a free woman, own a wagon, orown more than five bosk and threekaiila. The Courage Scar thus hasits social and economic, as well asits martial, import.

“You’re right,” said Kamchak,rising in the stirrups. “First thewarriors.”

On long lines of tharlarion Icould see warriors of Turiaapproaching in procession thePlains of a Thousand Stakes.

The morning sun flashed fromtheir helmets, their long tharlarionlances, the metal embossments ontheir oval shields, unlike therounded shields of most Goreancities. I could hear, like thethrobbing of a heart, the beating ofthe two tharlarion drums that set thecadence of the march. Beside thetharlarion walked other men-at-arms, and even citizens of Turia,and more vendors and musicians,come to see the games.

On the heights of distant Turiaitself I could see the flutter of flagsand pensions. The walls werecrowded, and I supposed many

upon them used the long glasses ofthe Caste of Builders to observe thefield of the stakes.

The warriors of Turia extendedtheir formation about two hundredyards from the stakes until in ranksof four or five deep they werestrung out in a line as long as theline of stakes itself. Then theyhalted. As soon as the hundreds ofponderous tharlarion had beenmarshalled into an order, a lance,carrying a fluttering pennon, dippedand there was a sudden signal onthe tharlarion drums. Immediatelythe lances of the lines lowered andthe hundreds of tharlarion, hissing

and grunting, their riders shouting,the drums beating, began to boundrapidly towards us.

“Treachery!” I cried.There was nothing living on Gor

I knew that could take the impact ofa tharlarion charge.

Elizabeth Cardwell screamed,throwing her hands before her face.

To my astonishment the warriorsof the Wagon Peoples seemed to bepaying very little attention to thebestial avalanche that was eventhen hurtling down upon them. Somewere haggling with the vendors,others were talking amongthemselves.

I1 wheeled the Kaiila, lookingfor Elizabeth Cardwell, who, afoot,would be slain almost before thetharlarion had crossed the lines ofthe stakes. She was standing facingthe charging tharlarion, as thoughrooted to the earth, her hands beforeher face. I bent down in the saddleand tensed to kick the kaiilaforward to sweep her to the saddle,turn and race for our lives.

“Really,” said Kamchak.I straightened up and saw that the

lines of the tharlarion lancers had,with much pounding and tramplingof the earth, with shouting, with thehissing of the great beasts, stopped

short, abruptly, some fifteen yardsor so behind their line of stakes.

“It is a Turian joke,” saidKamchak. “They are as fond of thegames as we, and do not wish tospoil them.”

I reddened. Elizabeth Cardwell’sknees seemed suddenly weak butshe staggered back to us.

Kamchak smiled at me. “She is apretty little barbarian, isn’t she, hesaid.

“Yes,” I said, and looked away,confused.

Kamchak laughed.Elizabeth looked up at us,

puzzled.

I heard a cry from the Turiansacross the way. “The wenches!” hecried, and this shout was taken upby many of the others. There wasmuch laughing and pounding oflances on shields.

In a moment, to a thunder ofkaiila paws on the turf, racingbetween the lines of stakes,scattering sand, there came a greatnumber of riders, their black hairswirling behind them, who pulledup on their mounts, rearing andsquealing, between the stakes, andleaped from the saddle to the sand,relinquishing the reins of theirmounts to men among the Wagon

Peoples.They were marvellous, the many

wild girls of the Wagons, and I sawthat chief among them was theproud, beauteous Hereena, of theFirst Wagon. They wereenormously excited, laughing. Theireyes shone. A few spit and shooktheir small fists at the Turiansacross the way, who reciprocatedwith good-natured shouts andlaughter.

I saw Hereena notice the youngman Harold among the warriors andshe pointed her finger imperiouslyat him, gesturing him to her.

He approached her. “Take the

reins of my kaiila, Slave,” she saidto him, insolently throwing him thereins.

He took them angrily and, to thelaughter of many of the Tuchukspresent, withdrew with the animal.

The girls then went to minglewith the warriors. There werebetween a hundred and a hundredand fifty girls there from each of thefour Wagon Peoples.

“Hah!” said Kamchak, seeingnow — the lines of tharlarion partfor a space of perhaps forty yards,through which could be seen thescreened palanquins of Turiandamsels, borne on the shoulders of

chained slaves, among themundoubtedly men of the WagonPeoples.

Now the excitement of the throngseemed mostly to course among thewarriors of the Wagon Peoples asthey rose in their stirrups to seebetter the swaying, approachingpalanquins, each reputedly bearinga gem of great beauty, a fit prize inthe savage contests of Love War.

The institution of Love War is anancient one among the Turians andthe Wagon Peoples, according tothe Year Keepers antedating eventhe Omen Year. The games of LoveWar, of course, are celebrated

every spring between, so to speak,the city and the plains, whereas theOmen Year occurs only ev1erytenth year. The games of Love War,in themselves, do not constitute agathering of the Wagon Peoples, fornormally the herds and the freewomen of the peoples do notapproach one another at these times;only certain delegations ofwarriors, usually about twohundred from a people, are sent inthe spring to the Plains of aThousand Stakes.

The theoretical justification ofthe games of Love War, from theTurian point of view, is that they

provide an excellent arena in whichto demonstrate the fierceness andprowess of Turian warriors, thusperhaps intimidating or, at the veryleast, encouraging the oftenoverbold warriors of the WagonPeoples to be wary of Turian steel.The secret justification, I suspect,however, is that the Turian warrioris fond of meeting the enemy andacquiring his women, particularlyshould they be striking little beasts,like Hereena of the First Wagon, asuntamed and savage as they arebeautiful; it is regarded as a greatsport among Turian warriors tocollar such a wench and force her

to exchange riding leather for thebells and silks of a perfumed slavegirl. It might also be mentioned thatthe Turian warrior, in his opinion,too seldom encounters the warriorof the Wagon Peoples, who tends tobe a frustrating, swift and elusivefoe, striking with great rapidity andwithdrawing with goods andcaptives almost before it isunderstood what has occurred. Ionce asked Kamchak if the WagonPeoples had a justification for thegames of Love War. “Yes,” he hadsaid. And he had then pointed toDina and Tenchika, clad Kajir, whowere at that time busy in the wagon.

“That is the justification,” saidKamchak. And he had then laughedand pounded his knee. It was onlythen that it had occurred to me thatboth girls might have been acquiredin the games; as a matter of fact, Ihowever, I later learned that onlyTenchika had been so

wenches!” he cried, and this sandThe wagon girls, watching this,

some of them chewing on fruit orstalks of grass, jeered.

One by one, clad in the proudarrays of resplendent silks, each inthe Robes of Concealment, thedamsels of Turia, veiled andstraight-standing, emerged from

their palanquins, scarcelyconcealing their distaste for thenoise and clamour about them.

Judges were now circulating,each with lists, among the WagonPeoples and the Turians.

As I knew, not just any girl, anymore than just any warrior, couldparticipate in the games of LoveWar. Only the most beautiful wereeligible, and only the most beautifulof these could be chosen.

A girl might propose herself tostand, as had Aphris of Turia, butthis would not guarantee that shewould be chosen, for the criteria ofLove War are exacting and, as much

as possible, objectively applied.Only the most beautiful of the mostbeautiful could stand in this harshsport.

I heard a judge call, “First Stake!Aphris of Turial”

“Hah!” yelled Kamchak, slappingme on the back, nearly knocking mefrom the back of my kaiila.

I was astonished. The Turianwench was beautiful indeed, thatshe could stand at the first stake.This meant that she was quitepossibly the most beautiful womanin Turia, certainly at least amongthose in the games this year.

In her silks of white and gold, on

cloths thrown before her, Aphris ofTuria stepped disdainfully forward,guided by a judge, to the first of thestakes on the side of the WagonPeoples. The girls of the WagonPeoples, on the other hand, wouldstand at the stakes nearest Turia. Inthis way the Turian girls can seetheir city and their warriors, and thegirls o1f the Wagons can see theplains and the warriors of theWagon Peoples. I had also beeninformed by Kamchak that thisplaces the girl farther from her ownpeople. Thus, to interfere, a Turianwould have to cross the spacebetween the stakes, and so, too,

would one of the Wagon Peoples,thus clearly calling themselves tothe attention of the judges, thoseofficials supervising the Games.

The judges were now callingnames, and girls, both of the WagonPeoples and of Turia, were comingforward.

I saw that Hereena, of the FirstWagon, stood Third Stake, though,as far as I could note, she was noless beautiful than the two Kassargirls who stood above her.

Kamchak explained that therewas a slight gap between two of herteeth on the upper right hand side inthe back.

“Oh,” I said.I noted with amusement that she

was furious at having been chosenonly third stake. “I, Hereena of theFirst Wagon, am superior,” she wascrying, “to those two Kassar she-kaiila!”

But the judge was already fourstakes below her.

The selection of the girls,incidentally, is determined byjudges in their city, or of their ownpeople, in Turia by members of theCaste of Physicians who haveserved in the great slave houses ofAr; among the wagons by themasters of the public slave wagons,

who buy, sell and rent girls,providing warriors and slaverswith a sort of clearing house andmarket for their femininemerchandise. The public slavewagons, incidentally, also providePaga. They are a kind ofcombination Paga tavern and slavemarket. I know of nothing elseprecisely like them on Gor.Kamchak and I had visited one lastnight where I had ended upspending four copper tarn disks forone bottle of Paga. I hauledKamchak out of the wagon beforehe began to bid on a chained-uplittle wench from Port Kar who had

taken his eye.I looked up and down the lines of

stakes. The girls of the WagonPeoples stood proudly before theirstakes, certain that their champions,whoever they were to be, would bevictorious and return them to theirpeoples; the girls of the city ofTuria stood also at their stakes, butwith feigned indifference.

I supposed, in spite of theirapparent lack of concern, the heartsof most of the Turian girls werebeating rapidly. This could not befor them an ordinary day.

I looked at them, veiled andbeautiful in their silks. Yet I knew

that beneath those Robes ofConcealment many wore theshameful Turian camisk, perhapsthe only time the hated garmentwould touch their bodies, forshould their warrior lose this matchthey knew they would not bepermitted to The stake in the robesin which they came. They wouldaway as free women.

To myself, wondering if Aphrisof Turia, standing first stake, worebeneath the robes of while of aslave girl. I guessed not. She wouldwench?

Egg his kaiila through the crownHe leaned down from the saddle.

“Good morning, little Aphris,” hesaid cheerily.

She stiffened, and did not eventurn to regard him. “Are youprepared to die, Sleen?” sheinquired.

“No,” Kamchak said.I heard her laugh softly beneath

the white veil, trimmed with silk.“I see you no longer wear your

collar,” observed Kamchak.She lifted her head and did not

deign to respond.“I have another,” Kamchak

assured her.She spun to face him, her fists

clenched. Those lovely almond

eyes, had they been weapons,would have slain him in the saddlelike a bolt of lightning.

“How pleased I shall be,” hissedthe girl, “to see you on your kneesin the sand begging Kamras of Turiato finish you!”

“Tonight, little Aphris,” saidKamchak “as I promised you, youshall spend your first night in thedung sack.”

“Sleen!” she cried. “Sleen!Sleen!”

Kamchak roared with laughterand turned the kaiila away.

“Are the women at stake?” calleda judge.

Prom down the long lines, fromother judges, came the confirmingcry. “They are at stake.”

“Let the women be secured,”called the first judge, who stood ona platform near the beginning of thestake lines, this year on the side ofthe Wagon Peoples.

Aphris of Turia, at the request ofone of the minor judges, irritablyremoved her gloves, of silk-linedwhite verrskin, trimmed with gold,and placed them in a deep fold ofher robes.

“The retaining rings,” promptedthe judge.

“It is not necessary,” responded

Aphris. “I shall stand quietly hereuntil the sleen is slain.”

“Place your wrists in the rings,”said the judge, “or it shall be donefor you.”

In fury the girl placed her handsbehind her head, in the rings, one oneach side of the stake. The judgeexpertly lipped them shut andmoved to the next stake.

Aphris, not very obviously,moved her hands in the rings, fed towithdraw them. She could not, ofcourse, do so. I ought I saw hertremble for just an instant, realizingherself cured, but then she stoodquietly, looking about herself as

though bored. The key to the ringshung, of course, on a small hook,about two inches above her head.

“Are the women secured?”called the first judge, he on theplatform.

“They are secured,” was relayedup and down the long lines.

I saw Hereena standinginsolently at her stake, but herbrown wrists, of course, werebound to it by steel.

“Let the matches be arranged,”called the judge.

I soon heard the other judgesrepeating his cry.

All along the lines of stakes I

saw Turian warriors and those ofthe Wagon Peoples press into thearea between the stakes.

The girls of the wagons, as usual,were unveiled. Turian warriorswalked along the line of stakes,examining them, stepping backwhen one spit or kicked at him. Thegirls jeered and cursed them, whichcompliment they received withgood humour and pointedobservations on the girls’ real orimaginary flaws.

At the request of any warrior ofthe Wagon Peoples, a judge wouldremove the pins of the face veil of aTurian girl and push back the hood

of her robes of concealment, inorder that her head and face mightbe seen.

This aspect of the games wasextremely humiliating for the Turiangirls, but they understood itsnecessity; few men, especiallybarbarian warriors, care to fight fora woman on whose face they havenot even looked1.

“I would like to take a look atthis one,” Kamchak was saying,jerking a thumb in the direction ofAphris of Turia.

“Certainly,” remarked the nearestjudge.

“Can you not remember, Sleen,”

asked the girl, “the face of Aphrisof Turia?”

“My memory is vague,” saidKamchak. “There are so manyfaces.”

The judge unpinned her whiteand gold veil and then, with a gentlehand, brushed back her hoodrevealing her long, lovely blackhair.

Aphris of Turia was anincredibly beautiful woman.

She shook her hair as well as shecould, bound to the, “Perhaps nowyou can remember?” she queriedacidly.

“It’s vague,” muttered Kamchak,

wavering, “I had in mind I think theface of a slave there was, as Irecall, a collar”

“You tharlarion,” she said. “Yousleety”

“What do you think?” askedKamchak.

“She is marvellously beautiful,” Isaid.

“She must be plain indeed,”remarked Kamchak, looking closelyagain at Aphris.

“No,” said the judge, “it isbecause she is defended by Kamras,Champion of Turia.”

“Oh, no!” cried Kamchak,throwing his fist to his forehead in

mock despair.“Yes,” said the judge, “he.”“Surely you recall?” laughed

Aphris merrily.“I had had much Paga at the

time,” admitted Kamchak.“You need not meet him if you

wish.” said the judge.I thought that a humane

arrangement that two men mustunderstand who it is they facebefore entering the circle of sand. Itwould indeed be unpleasant if onesuddenly, unexpectedly, foundoneself facing a superb, famedwarrior, say, a Kamras of Turia.

“Meet him!” cried Aphris.

“If no one meets him,” said thejudge, “the Kassar girl will be hisby forfeit.”

I could see that the Kassar girl, abeauty, at the stake opposite Aphrisof Turia was distressed, andunderstandably so. It appeared shewas to depart for Turia without somuch as a handful of sand kickedabout on her behalf.

“Meet him, Tuchuk!” she cried.“Where are your Kassars?”

asked Kamchak.I thought it an excellent question.

I had seen Conrad about, but he hadpicked out a Turian wench to fightfor some six or seven stakes away.

Albrecht was not even at the games.I supposed he was home withTenchika.

“They are fighting elsewhere!”she cried. “Please, Tuchuk!” shewept.

“But you are only a Kassarwench,” pointed out Kamchak.

“Please!” she cried.“Besides,” said Kamchak, “you

might look well in Pleasure Silk.”“Look at the Turian wench!”

cried the girl. “Is she not beautiful?Do you not want her?”

Kamchak looked at Aphris ofTuria.

“I suppose,” he said, “she is no

worse than the rest.”“Fight for met” cried Aphris of

Turia“All right,” said Kamchak. “I

will.”The Kassar girl put her back

against the stake, trembling withrelief.

“You are a fool,” said Kamras ofTuria.

I was a bit startled, not realizinghe was so close. I looked at him.He was indeed an impressivewarrior. He seemed strong and fast.His long black hair was now tiedbehind his head. His large wristshad been wrapped in boskhide

straps. He wore a helmet andcarried the Turian shield, which isoval. In his right hand there was aspear. Over his shoulder was slungthe sheath of a short sword.

Kamchak looked up at him. Itwas not that Kamchak wasparticularly short, but rather thatKamras was a very large man.

“By the sky,” said Kamchak,whistling, “you are a big fellowindeed.”

“Let us begin,” proposedKamras.

At this word the judge called out-to clear the space between thestakes of Aphris of Turia and the

lovely Kassar wench. Two men,from Ar, I took it, came forwardwith rakes and began to smooth thecircle of sand between the stakes,for it had been somewhat disturbedin the inspection of the girls.

Unfortunately for Kamchak, Iknew that this was the year in whichthe Turian foeman might proposethe weapon of combat. Fortunately,however, the warrior of the WagonPeoples could withdraw from thecombat any time before his namehad actually been officially enteredin the lists of the games. Thus ifKamras chose a weapon with whichKamchak did not feel at ease, the

Tuchuk might, with some grace,decline the combat, in this forfeitingonly a Kassar girl, which I was surewould not overly disturb thephilosophical Kamchak.

“Ah, yes, weapons,” Kamchakwas saying, “what shall it be thekaiila lance, a whip and bladedbola perhaps the quiva?”

“The sword,” said Kamras.The Turian’s decision plunged

me into despair. In all my timeamong the wagons I had not seenone of the Gorean short swords, sofierce and swift and common aweapon among those of the cities.The warrior of the Wagon Peoples

does not use the short sword,probably because such a weaponcould not be optimally used fromthe saddle of the kaiila; the sabre,incidentally, which would besomewhat more effective fromkaiilaback, is almost unknown onGor; its role, I gather, is more thanfulfilled by the lance, which may beused with a delicacy and addresscomparable to that of a blade,supplemented by the seven quiva,or saddle knives; it might further bepointed out that a sabre wouldbarely reach to the saddle of thehigh tharlarion; the warrior of theWagon Peoples seldom approaches

an enemy more closely than isrequired to bring him down with thebow, or, if need be, the lance; thequiva itself is regarded, on thewhole, as more of a missile weaponthan a hand knife. I gather that theWagon Peoples, if they wantedsabres or regarded them asvaluable, would be able to acquirethem, in spite of the fact that theyhave no metalworking of their own;there might be some attempt toprevent them from falling into thehands of the Wagon Peoples, butwhere there are gold and jewelsavailable merchants, in Ar andelsewhere, would see that they

were manufactured and reached thesouthern plains. Most quivas,incidentally, are wrought in thesmithies of Ar. The fact that thesabre is not a common weapon ofWagon Peoples is a reflection ofthe style, nature and conditions ofwarfare to 1which they areaccustomed, a matter of choice ontheir part rather than the result ofeither ignorance or technologicallimitation. The sabre, incidentally,is not only unpopular among theWagon Peoples but among thewarriors of Gor generally; it isregarded as being too long andclumsy a weapon for the close,

sharp combat so dear to the heart ofthe warrior of the cities; further it isnot of much use from the saddle of atarn or tharlarion. The importantpoint, however, in thecircumstances was that Kamras hadproposed the sword as the weaponof his encounter with Kamchak, andpoor Kamchak was almost certainto be as unfamiliar with the swordas you or I would be with any of themore unusual weapons of Gor, say,the whip knife of Port Kar or thetrained varts of the caves of Tyros.

Incidentally, Turian warriors, inorder to have the opportunist to slaya foe, as wed as acquire his

woman, customarily choose as theweapon of combat in theseencounters, buckler and dagger, axeand buckler, dagger and whip, axeand net, or the two daggers, with thereservation that the quiva, if used,not be thrown. Kamras, however,appeared adamant on the point.“The sword,” he repeated.

“But I am only a poor Tuchuk,”wailed Kamchak.

Kamras laughed. “The sword,”he said, yet again.

I thought, all things considered,that the stipulation of Kamrasregarding weapons was cruel andshameful.

“But how would I, a poorTuchuk,” Kamchak was moaning,“know anything of the sword?”

“when withdraw,” said Kamras,loftily, “and I will take this Kassarwench slave to Turia.

The girl moaned.Kamras smiled with contempt.

“You see,” he said, “I amChampion of Turia and I have noparticular wish to stain my bladewith the blood of an urt.”

The urt is a loathsome, hornedGorean rodent; some are quitelarge, the size of wolves or ponies,but most are very small, tiny enoughto be held in the palm of one hand.

“Well,” said Kamchak, “Icertainly would not want that tohappen either.”

The Kassar girl cried out indistress.

“Fight him, filthy Tuchuk”screamed Aphris of Turia, pullingagainst the retaining rings.

“Do not be uneasy, gentle Aphrisof Turia,” said Kamras.

“Permit him to withdraw brandedbraggart and coward. Let him livein his shame, for so much the richerwill be your vengeance.”

But the lovely Aphris was notconvinced. “I want him slain,” shecried, “cut into tiny pieces, the

death of a thousand cuts!”“Withdraw,” I advised Kamchak.“Do you think I should,” he

inquired.“Yes,” I said, “I do.”Kamras Divas regarding Aphris

of Turia. “If it is truly your wish,”he said, “I will permit him tochoose weapons agreeable to usboth.”

“It is my wish,” she said, “that hebe slain!”

Kamras shrugged. “All right,” hesaid, “I will kill him.” He thenturned to Kamchak. “All rightTuchuk,” he said, “I will permit youto choose weapons agreeable to us

both.”“But perhaps I will not fight,”

said Kamchak warily.Kamras clenched his fists. “Very

well,” he said, “as you wish.”“But then again,” mused

Kamchak, “perhaps I shall.”Aphris of Turia cried out in rage

and the Kassar wench in distress.“I will fight,” announced

Kamchak.Both girls cried out in pleasure.The judge now entered the name

of Kamchak of the Tuchuks on hislists.

“What weapon do you choose?”asked the judge. “Remember,”

cautioned the judge, “the weapon orweapons chosen must be mutuallyagreeable.”

Kamchak seemed lost in thoughtand then he looked up brightly. “Ihave always wondered,” he said,“what it would be like to hold asword.”

The judge nearly dropped thelist.

“I will choose the sword,” saidKamchak.

The Kassar girl moaned.Kamras looked at Aphris of

Turia, dumbfounded. The girlherself was speechless. “He ismad,” said Kamras of Turia.

“Withdraw,” I urged Kamchak.“It is too late now,” said the

judge.“It is too late now,” said

Kamchak, innocently.Inwardly I moaned, for in the

past months I had come to respectand feel an affection for the shrewd,gusty brawny Tuchuk.

Two swords were brought,Gorean short swords, forged in Ar.

Kamchak picked his up as thoughit were a wagon lever, used forloosening the wheels of miredwagons.

Kamras and I both winced.Then Kamras, and I give him

credit, said to Kamchak,“withdraw.” I could understand hisfeelings. Kamras was, after all, awarrior, and not a butcher.

“A thousand cuts!” cried thegentle Aphris of Turia. “A piece ofgold to Kamras for every cull” shecried.

Kamchak was running his thumbon the blade. I saw a sudden, brightdrop of blood on his thumb. Helooked up.

“Sharp,” he said.“Yes,” I said in exasperation. I

turned to the judge. “May I fight forLima” I demanded.

“It is not permitted,” said the

judge.“But,” said Kamchak, “it was a

good idea.”I seized Kamchak by the

shoulders. “Kamras has no realwish to kill you,” I said. “It isenough for him to shame you.Withdraw.”

Suddenly the eyes of Kamchakgleamed. “Would you see meshamed?” he asked.

I looked at him, “Better, myfriend,” I said, “that than death.”

“No,” said Kamchak, and hiseyes were like steel, “better deaththan shame.”

I stepped back. He was Tuchuk. I

would sorely miss my friend, theribald, hard-drinking, stomping,dancing Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

In the last moment I cried out toKamchak, “For the sake of Priest-Kings, hold the weapon thus” tryingto teach him the simplest of thecommoner grips for the hilt of theshort sword, permitting a largedegree of both1 retention andflexibility. But when I steppedaway he was now holding it like aGorean angle saw.

Even Kamras closed his eyesbriefly, as though to shut out thespectacle. I now realized Kamrashad only wished to drive Kamchak

from the field, a chastened andhumiliated man. He had little morewish to slay the clumsy Tuchuk thanhe would have a peasant or a potmaker.

“Let the combat begin,” said thejudge.

I stepped away from Kamchakand Kamras approached him, bytraining, cautiously.

Kamchak was looking at the edgeof his sword, turning it about,apparently noting with pleasure theplay of sunlight on the blade.

“Watch out!” I cried.Kamchak turned to see what I had

in mind and to his great good

fortune, as he did so, the sun flashedfrom the blade into the eyes ofELamras, who suddenly threw hisarm up, blinking and shaking hishead, for the instant blinded.

“Turn and strike now!” Iscreamed

“What?” asked Kamchak.“Watch out!” I cried, for now

Kamras had recovered, and wasonce again approaching.

Kamras, of course, had the sun athis back, using it as naturally as thetarn to protect his advance.

It had been incredibly fortunatefor Kamchak that the blade hadflashed precisely at the time it had

in the way it had.It had quite possibly saved his

life.Kamras lunged and it looked like

Kamchak threw up his arm at thelast instant as though he had lostbalance, and indeed he was nowtottering on one boot. I scarcelynoticed the blow had been smartlyparried. Kamras then began tochase Kamchak about the ring ofsand. Kamchak was nearlystumbling over backward and kepttrying to regain his balance. In thischase, rather undignified, Kamrashad struck a dozen times and eachtime, astoundingly, the off-balance

Kamchak, holding his sword DOWlike a physician’s pestle, hadmanaged somehow to meet theblow.

“Slay him!” screamed Aphris ofTuria.

I was tempted to cover my eyes.The Kassar girl was wailing.Then, as though weary, Kamchak,

puffing, sat down in the sand. Hissword was in front of his face,apparently blocking his vision.With his boots he kept rotatingabout, always facing Kamras nomatter from which direction hecame Each time the Turian struckand I would have thought Kamchak

slain, somehow, incomprehensibly,at the last instant, nearly causing myheart to stop, with a surprisedweary little twitch, the blade of theTuchuk would slide the Turian steelharmlessly to the side. It was onlyabout this time that it dawned on methat for three or four minutesKamchak had been the object of theever-more-furious assault ofTuria’s champion and was, to thisinstant, unscratched.

Kamchak then struggled wearilyto his feet.

“Die, Tuchuk!” cried Kamrasnow enraged, rushing upon him. Formore than a minute, while I scarcely

dared to breathe and there wassilence all about save for the ring ofsteel, I watched Kamchak standthere, heavy in his boots, his headseeming almost to sit on hisshoulders, his body hardly movingsave for the swiftness of a wrist andthe turn of a hand.

Kamras, exhausted, scarcely ableto lift his arm, staggered backward.

Once again, expertly, the sunflashed from the sword of Kamchakin his eyes.

In terror Kamras blinked andshook his head, thrashing aboutwearily with his sword.

Then, foot by booted foot,

Kamchak advanced toward him. Isaw the first blood leap front thecheek of Kamras, and then againfrom his left arm, then from thethigh, then from an ear.

“Kill him!” Aphris of, Turia wasscreaming. “Kill him!”

But now, almost like a drunkman, Kamras was fighting for hislife and the Tuchuk, like a bear,scarcely moving more than arm andwrist, followed him about, shufflingthrough the sand after him, touchinghim again and again with the blade.

“Slay him!” howled Aphris ofTuria!

For perhaps better than fifteen

minutes, patiently, not hurrying,Kamchak of the Tuchuks shuffledafter Kamras of Turia, touching himonce more and ever again, eachtime leaving a quick, bright stain ofblood on his tunic or body Andthen, to my astonishment, and that ofthe throng who had gathered towitness the contest, I saw Kamras,Champion of Turia, weak from theloss of blood, fall to his kneesbefore Kamchak of the Tuchuks.Kamras tried to lift his sword butthe boot of Kamchak pressed it intothe sand, and Kamras lifted his eyesto look dazed into the scarred,inscrutable countenance of the

Tuchuk. Kamchak’s sword was athis throat. “Six years,” saidKamchak, “before I was scarredwas I mercenary in the guards ofAr, learning the walls and defencesof that city for my people. In thattime of the guards of Ar I becameFirst Sword.”

Kamras fell in the sand at the feetof Kamchak, unable even to beg formercy.

Kamchak did not slay him.Rather he threw the sword he

carried into the sand and though hethrew it easily it slipped throughalmost to the hilt.

He looked at me and grinned.

“An interesting weapon,” he said,“but I prefer lance and quiva.”

There was an enormous roarabout us and the pounding of lanceson leather shields. I rushed toKamchak and threw my arms abouthim laughing and hugging him. Hewas grinning from ear to ear, sweatglistening in the furrows of hisscars.

Then he turned and advanced tothe stake of Aphris of Turia, whostood there, her wrists bound insteel, regarding him, speechlesswith horror.

Chapter 11

BELLS AND COLLARKamchak regarded Aphris of

Turia.“Why is a slave,” he asked,

“masquerading in the robes of afree woman?”

“Please, no, Tuchuk,” she said.“Please, no!”

And in a moment the lovelyAphris of Tuna stood at the stakerevealed to the eyes of her master.

She threw back her head andmoaned, wrists still locked in theretaining rings.

She had not, as I had suspected,deigned to wear the shamefulcamisk beneath her robes of white

and gold.The Kassar wench, who had been

bound across from her to theopposing stake, had now been freedby a judge and she strode to whereAphris was still confined.

“Well done, Tuchuk!” said thegirl, sal1uting Kamchak.

Kamchak shrugged.Then the girl, with vehemence,

spat in the face of the lovelyAphris. “Slave girl!” hissed thegirl. “Slave! Slave girl!”

She then turned and strode away,looking for warriors of the Kassars.

Kamchak laughed loudly.“Punish her!” demanded Aphris.

Kamchak suddenly cuffed Aphrisof Turia. Her head snappedsideways and there was a streak ofblood at the corner of her mouth.The girl looked at him in suddenfear.

It might have been the first timeshe had ever been struck.

Kamchak had not hit her hard, butsharply enough to instruct her. “Youwill take what abuse any freeperson of the Wagon Peoples caresto inflict-upon you,” he said.

“I see,” said a voice, “you knowhow to handle slaves.”

I turned to see, only a few feetaway, on the shoulders of slaves

standing on the bloodied sand, theopen, bejewelled, cushionedpalanquin of Saphrar of the Caste ofMerchants.

Aphris blushed from head to toe,enfolded transparent in the crimsonflag of her shame

Saphrar’s round, pinkish facewas beaming with pleasure, thoughI would have thought this day atragic one for him. The tiny red-lipped mouth was spread wide withbenign satisfaction. I saw the tips ofthe two golden canines.

Aphris suddenly pulled at theretaining rings, trying to rush to him,now oblivious of the riches of her

beauty revealed even to the slaveswho carried his palanquin. To them,of course, she was now no morethan they, save perhaps that herflesh would not be used to bear thepoles of palanquins, to carry boxesnor dig in the earth, but would beappointed even more pleasing thantheirs to a master. “Saphrar!” shecried. “Saphrar!”

Saphrar looked on the girl. Hetook from a silken pouch lyingbefore him on the palanquin a smallglass, with glass petal edges like aflower, mounted on a silver stemabout which curled silver leaves.Through this he looked on her more

closely.“Aphris!” he cried, as though

horrified, but yet smiling.“Saphrar,” she wept, “free me!”“How unfortunate!” wailed

Saphrar. I could still see the tips ofthe golden teeth.

Kamchak had his arm about myshoulder, chuckling.

“Aphris of Turia,” he said, “hasa surprise coming.”

Aphris turned her head toKamchak. “I am the richest womanin all Turia,” she said. “Name yourprice!”

Kamchak looked at me. “Do youthink five gold pieces would be too

much?” he asked.I was startled.Aphris nearly choked. “Sleep,”

she wept. Then she turned toSaphrar. “Buy me!” she demanded.“If necessary, use all my resources,all! Free me!”

“But Aphris,” Saphrar waspurring, “I am in charge of yourfunds and to barter them and allyour properties and goods for oneslave would be a most unwise andabsurd decision on my part,irresponsible even.”

its own tasks, lighter and moresuitable. doubtless

Aph1ris suddenly looked at him,

dumbfounded.“It is or was true that you were

the richest woman in all Turia,”Saphrar was saying, “but yourriches are not yours I to manage butmine not, that is, until you wouldhave reached your majority, somedays from now I believe.”

“I do not wish to remain a slavefor even a day!” she cried.

“Is its over,” his eyes rising,“that you would upon reaching yourI majority transfer your entirefortunes to a Tuchuk, merely toobtain your freedom.”

“Of course” she wept.“How fortunate then,” observed

Saphrar, “that such a transaction isprecluded by law.”

“I don’t understand,” saidAphris.

Kamchak squeezed my shoulderand rubbed his nose.

“Surely you are aware,” saidSaphrar, “that a slave cannot ownproperty any more than a kaiila, atharlarion or sleep.”

“I am the richest woman inTuria!” she cried.

Saphrar reclined a bit more onhis cushions. His little roundpinkish face shone. He pursed hislips and then smiled.

He poked his head forward and

said, very quickly, “You are aslaver” He then giggled.

Aphris of Turia threw-back herhead and screamed.

“your wardrobes and jewels,your investments and assets,chattels and lands, became mine.”

Aphris was weepinguncontrollably at the stake. Thenshe lifted her head to him, her eyesbright with tears. “I beg you, nobleSaphrar,” she wept, “I beg of you Ibeg of you to free me. Please!Please! Please!”

Saphrar smiled at her. He thenturned to Kamchak, “What, Tuchuk,did you say her price was?”

“I have lowered it,” saidKamchak. “I will let you have herfor one copper tarn disk.”

Saphrar smiled. “The price is toohigh,” he said.

Aphris cried out in distress.Saphrar then again lifted the tiny

glass through which he hadregarded her, and examined herwith some care. Then he shruggedand gestured for his slaves to turnthe palanquin.

“Saphrar” cried out the girl onelast time.

“I do not speak to slaves,” saidhe, and the merchant, on thepalanquin, moved away toward the

walls of distant Turia.Aphris was looking after him,

numbly, her eyes red, her cheeksstained with tears.

“It does not matter,” saidKamchak soothingly to the girl.

“Even had Saphrar been a worthyman you would not now be free.”

She turned her beautiful head tostare at him, blankly.

“No,” said Kamchak, taking herhair and giving her head a friendlyshake, “I would not have sold youfor all the gold in Turia.”

“But why?” she whispered.“Do you recall,” asked Kamchak,

“one night two years ago when you

spurned my gift and called mesleep?”

The girl nodded, her eyesfrightened.

“It was o1n that night,” saidKamchak, “that I vowed to makeyou my slave.”

She dropped her head.“And it is for that reason,” said

Kamchak, “that I would not sell youfor all the gold of Turia.”

She looked up, red-eyed.“It was on that night, little

Aphris,” said Kamchak, “that Idecided I wanted you, and wouldhave you, slave.”

The girl shuddered and dropped

her head.The laugh of Kamchak of the

Tuchuks was loud.He had waited long to laugh that

laugh, waited long to see his fairenemy thus before him, thus boundand shamed, his, a slave.

In short order then Kamchak tookthe key over the head of Aphris ofTuria and sprang open the retainingrings. He then led the numb,unresisting Turian maiden to hiskaiila.

There, beside the paws of theanimal, he made her kneel.

“Your name is Aphris of Turia,”he said to her, giving her a name.

“My name is Aphris of Turia,”she said, accepting her name at hishands.

“Submit,” ordered Kamchak.Trembling Aphris of Turia,

kneeling, lowered her head andextended her arms, wrists crossed.Kamchak quickly and tightlythonged them together.

She lifted her head. “Am I to bebound across the saddle?” sheasked numbly.

“No,” said Kamchak, “there is nohurry.”

“I don’t understand,” said thegirl.

Already Kamchak was placing a

thong on her neck, the loose end ofwhich he looped several timesabout the pommel of his saddle.“You will run alongside,” heinformed her.

She looked at him in disbelief.Elizabeth Cardwell, unbound,

had already taken her position onthe other side of F~teak’s kaiila,beside his right

It might have been the first timeship

Kamchak had not hit her hard, butship

To be sure there might have beensome doubt that the miserablewench thonged behind Kamchak’s

kaiila could have been first stake.She was gasping and stumbling; herbody glistened with perspiration;her legs were black with wet dust;her hair was tangled and thick withdust; her feet and ankles werebleeding; her calves were scratchedand speckled with the red bites offennels. When Kamchak reached hiswagon, the poor girl, gasping forbreath, legs trembling, fellexhausted to the grass, her entirebody shaking with the ordeal of herrun. I supposed that Aphris of Turiahad done little in her life that wasmore strenuous than stepping in andout of a scented bath. Elizabeth

Cardwell, on the other hand, I waspleased to see, ran well, breathingevenly, showing few signs offatigue. She had, of course, in hertime with the wagons, become usedto this form of exercise. I had rathercome to admire her. The life in theopen air, the work, had apparentlybeen good for her. She was trim,vital, buoyant. I wondered howmany of the girls in her New Yorkoffice could have run as she besidethe stirrup of a Tuchuk warrior.

Kamchak leaped down from thesaddle of the kaiila, puffing a bit.

“Here, here!” he cried cheerily,hauling the exhausted Aphris to her

knees “1There is work to be done!”She looked up at him, the thong

still on her neck, her wrists bound.Her eyes seemed dazed.

“There are bosk to be groomed,”he informed her, “and their hornsand hoofs must be polished there isfodder to be fetched and dung to begathered the wagon must be wipedand the wheels greased and there iswater to be brought from the streamsome four pasangs. away and meatto hammer and cook for supper!hurry! hurry, Lazy Girl!”

Then he leaned back and laughedhis Tuchuk laugh, slapping histhighs.

Elizabeth Cardwell wasremoving the thong from the girl’sneck and unbinding her wrists.“Come along,” she said, kindly. “Iwill show you.”

Aphris stood up, wobbling, stilldazed. She turned her eyes onElizabeth, whom she seemed to seethen for the first time.

“Your accent,” said Aphris,slowly. “You are barbarian.” Shesaid it with a kind of horror.

She turned in fury and followedElizabeth Cardwell away.

After this Kamchak and I left thewagon and wandered about,stopping at one of the slave wagons

for a bottle of Paga, which, whilewandering about, we killedbetween us.

This year, as it turned out, theWagon Peoples had doneexceedingly well in the games ofLove War a bit of news we pickedup with the Paga and about seventypercent of the Turian maidens hadbeen led slave from the stakes towhich they had been manacled. Insome years I knew the percentageswere rather the other way about. Itapparently made for zestfulcompetition. We also heard that thewench Hereena, of the First Wagon,had been won by a Turian officer

representing the house of Saphrar ofthe Merchants, to whom, for a fee,he presented her. I gathered that shewould become another of hisdancing girls. “A bit of perfume andsilk will be good for that wench,”stated Kamchak. It seemed strangeto think of her, so wild and insolent,arrogant on the back of her kaiila,now a perfumed, silken slave ofTurians. “She could use a bit ofwhip and steel, that wench,”Kamchak muttered betweenswallows of Paga, pretty muchdraining the bottle. It was too bad, Ithought, but at least I supposed therewould be one fellows among the

wagons, the young man Harold, hewhom the girl had so abused, hewho had not yet won the CourageScar, who would be just as pleasedas not that she, with all hercontempt and spleen, was nowdelightfully salted away in banglesand bells behind the high, thickwalls of a Turian’s pleasuregarden.

Kamchak had circled around andwe found ourselves back at theslave wagon.

We decided to wager to see whowould get the second bottle of Paga.

“What about the flight of birds?”asked Kamchak.

“Agreed,” I said, “but I have firstchoice.”

“Very well,” he said.I knew, of course, that it was

spring and, in this hemisphere, mostbirds, if there were any migrating,would be moving south. “South,” Isaid.

“North,” he said.We then waited about a minute,

and I saw several birds river gullsflying north.

“Those are Vosk gulls,” saidKamchak, “In the spring, when theice breaks in the Vosk, they flynorth.”

I fished some coins out of my

pouch for the Paga.“The first southern migrations of

meadow kites,” he said, “havealready taken place. The migrationsof the forest hurlit and the hornedaim do not take place until later inthe spring. This is the time that theVosk gulls fly.”

“Oh,” I said.Singing Tuchuk songs, we

managed to make it back to thewagon.

Elizabeth had the meat roasted,though it was now considerablyoverdone.

“The meat is overdone,” saidKamchak.

“They are both stinking drunk,”said Aphris of Turia.

I looked at her. Both of themwere beautiful. “No,” I correctedher, “gloriously inebriated.”

Kamchak was looking closely atthe girls, leaning forward,squinting.

I blinked a few Ames.“Is anything wrong?” asked

Elizabeth Cardwell.I noted that there was a large

welt on the side of her face, that herhair was ripped up a bit and thatthere were five long scratches onthe left side of her face.

“No,” I said.

Aphris of Turia appeared in evenworse shape. She had surely lostmore than one handful of hair.There were teeth marks in her leftarm and, if I was not mistaken, herright eye was ringed anddiscoloured.

“The meat is overdone,”grumbled Kamchak. A master takesno interest in the squabbles ofslaves, it being beneath him. He ofcourse would not have approvedhad one of the girls been maimed,blinded or disfigured.

“Have the bosk been tended?”asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” said Elizabeth firmly.

Kamchak looked at Aphris.“Have the bosk been tended?” heasked.

She looked up suddenly, her eyesbright with tears. She cast an angrylook at Elizabeth. “Yes,” she said,“they have been tended.”

“Good,” said Kamchak, “good.”Then he pointed at the meat. “It isoverdone,” he said.

“You were hours late,” saidElizabeth.

“Hours,” repeated Aphris.“It is overdone,” said Kamchak.“I shall roast fresh meat,” said

Elizabeth, getting up, and she didso. Aphris only sniffed.

When the meat was readyKamchak ate his fill, and drankdown, too, a flagon of bosk milk; Idid the same, though the milk, atleast for me, did not sit too wellwith the Paga of the afternoon.

Kamchak, as he often did, wassitting on what resembled a greyrock, rather squarish, except that thecorners tended to be a bit rounded.When I had first seen this thing,heaped with other odds and ends inone corner of the wagon, some ofthe odds and ends being tankards ofjewels and small, heavy chestsfilled with golden tarn disks, I hadthought it merely a rock. Once,

when rummaging through his things,Kamchak had kicked it across therug for me to look at. I wassurprised at the way it bounced onthe rug and, when I picked it up, Iwas interested to see how light itwas. It was clearly not a rock. Itwas rather leathery and had arained surface. I was a bit remindedof some of the loose, tumbled rocksI had once glimpsed in certainabandoned portions of the place ofPriest-Kings, far beneath theSardar. Among such 1rocks itwould not have been noticed.

“What do you make of it?”Kamchak asked.

“Interesting,” I observed.“Yes,” said he, “I thought so.”

He held out his hands and I tossedthe object back. “I have had it forsome time,” he said. “It was givento me by two travellers.”

“Oh,” I said.When Kamchak had finished his

freshly roasted meat and his flagonof bosk milk, he shook his head andrubbed his nose.

He looked at Miss Cardwell.“Tenchika and Dina are gone,” saidhe. “You may sleep once more inthe wagon.”

Elizabeth cast a grateful look athim. I gathered that the ground

under the wagon was hard.“Thank you,” she said.“I thought he was your master,”

remarked Aphris.“Master,” added Elizabeth, with

a withering look at Aphris, whosmiled.

I now began to understand whythere were often problems in awagon with more than one girl.Still, Tenchika and Dina had notquarrelled very much. Perhaps thiswas because Tenchika’s heart waselsewhere, in the wagon ofAlbrecht of the Kassars.

“Who, may I ask,” asked Aphris,“were Tenchika and Dina?”

“Slaves, Turian wenches,” saidKamchak.

“They were sold,” Elizabethinformed Aphris.

“Oh,” said Aphris. Then shelooked at Kamchak. “I do notsuppose I shall be fortunate enoughto be sold?”

“She would probably bring ahigh price,” pointed out Elizabeth,hopefully.

“Higher than a barbarian surely,”remarked Aphris.

“Do not fret, Little Aphris,” saidKamchak, “when I am finished withyou I shall if it pleases me put youon the block in the public slave

wagon.”“I shall look forward to the day,”

she said.“On the other hand,” said

Kamchak, “I may feed you to thekaiila.”

At this the Turian maidentrembled slightly, and looked down.

“I doubt that you are good formuch,” Kamchak said, “but kaiilafeed.”

Aphris looked up angrily.Elizabeth laughed and clapped

her hands.“You,” said Kamchak, glaring at

Elizabeth, “you stupid littlebarbarian you cannot even dance!”

Elizabeth looked down,confused, rather shamed. It wastrue, what Kamchak had said.

The voice of Aphris was timidand quiet. “I can’t either,” she said.

“What!” howled Kamchak.“No,” cried Aphris, “I never

learned!”“Kaiila feed!” cried Kamchak.“I’m sorry,” said Aphris, now a

bit irritated, “I just never plannedon becoming a slave.”

“You should have learnedanyway,” cried the disappointedKamchak.

“Nonsense,” said Aphris.“It will cost money,” grumbled

Kamchak, “but you will learn, Iwill have you taught.”

Aphris sniffed and looked away.Elizabeth was looking at me.

Then she turned to Kamchak. To myastonishment, she asked, “Could I,too, be taught?”

“Why?” he asked.She looked down, blushing.“She is only a barbarian,” said

Aphris, “All knees and elbows shecould never learn.”

“Hah!” laughed Kamchak. “TheLittle Barbarian does not wish tobecome second girl in the wagon!”He gave Elizabeth’s head a rough,affectionate shake. “You will fight

for your place! Excellent!”“She can be first girl if she

wishes,” sniffed Aphris. “I shallescape at the first opportunity andreturn to Turia.”

“Beware of the herd sleep,” saidKamchak.

Aphris turned white.“If you attempt to leave the

wagons at night they will sense youout and rip my pretty little slave girlin pieces.”

“It is true,” I warned Aphris ofTuria.

“Nonetheless,” said Aphris, “Iwill escape.”

“But not tonight!” guffawed

Kamchak.“No,” said Aphris acidly, “not

tonight.” Then she looked aboutherself, disdainfully at the interiorof the wagon. Her gaze rested for amoment on the kaiila saddle whichhad been part of the spoils whichKamchak had acquired forTenchika. In the saddle, in theirsheaths, were seven quivas.

Aphris turned again to faceKamchak. “This slave,” she said,indicating Elizabeth, “would notgive me anything to eat.”

“Kamchak must eat first, Slave,”responded Elizabeth.

“Well,” said Aphris, “he has

eaten.”Kamchak then took a bit of meat

that was left over from the fresh-roasted meat that Miss Cardwellhad prepared. He held it out in hishand. “Eat,” he said to Aphris, “butdo not touch it with your hands.”

Aphris looked at him in fury,-butthen smiled. “Certainly,” she saidand the proud Aphris of Turia,kneeling, bent forward, to eat themeat held in the hand of her master.

Kamchak’s laugh was cut shortwhen she sank her fine white teethinto his hand with a savage bite.

“Aiii!” he howled, jumping upand sticking his bleeding hand into

his mouth, sucking the blood fromthe wound.

Elizabeth had leaped up and sohad I.

Aphris had sprung to her feet andran to the side of the wagon wherethere lay the kaiila saddle with itsseven sheathed quivas. She jerkedone of the quivas from its saddlesheath and stood with the bladefacing us. She was bent over withrage.

Kamchak sat down again, stillsucking his hand. I also sat down,and so, too, did ElizabethCardwell.

We left Aphris standing there,

clutching the knife, breathingdeeply.

“Sleep!” cried the girl. “I have aknife!”

Kamchak paid her no attentionnow but was looking at his hand.He seemed satisfied that the woundwas not serious, and picked u1p thepiece of meat which he haddropped, which he tossed toElizabeth, who, in silence, ate it.He then pointed at the remains ofthe overdone roast, indicating thatshe might eat it.

“I have a knife!” cried Aphris infury.

Kamchak was now picking his

teeth with a fingernail.“Bring wine,” he said to

Elizabeth, who, her mouth filledwith meat; went and fetched a smallskin of wine and a cup, which shefilled for him. When Kamchak haddrunk the cup of wine he lookedagain at Aphris. “For what you havedone,” he said, “it is common tocall for one of the Clan ofTorturers.”

“I will kill myself first,” criedAphris, posing the quiva over herheart.

Kamchak shrugged.The girl did not slay herself.

“NO,” she cried, “I will slay you.”

“Much better,” said Kamchak,nodding. “Much better.”

“I have a knife!” cried outAphris.

“Obviously,” said Kamchak. Hethen got up and walked ratherheavily over to one wall of thewagon and took a slave whip fromthe wall.

He faced Aphris of Turia.“Sleep!” she wept. She threw

back her hand with the knife to rushforward and thrust it into the heartof Kamchak but the coil of the whiplashed forth and I saw its stingingtip wrap four times about the wristand forearm of the Turian girl who

cried out in sudden pain andKamchak had stepped to the sideand with a motion of his hand hadthrown her off balance and then bythe whip dragged her rudely overthe rug to his feet. There he steppedon her wrist and removed the knifefrom her open hand. He thrust it inhis belt.

“Slay me!” wept the girl. “I willnot be your slave!”

But Kamchak had hauled her toher feet and then flung her back towhere she had stood before. Dazed,holding her right arm, on whichcould be seen four encircling blazesof scarlet, she regarded him.

Kamchak then removed the quivafrom his belt and hurled it acrossthe room until it struck in one of thepoles of the frame supporting thewagon hides, two inches in thewood, beside the throat of the girl.

“Take the quiva,” said Kamchak.The girl shook with fear.“Take it,” ordered Kamchak.She did so.“Now,” he said, “replace it.”Trembling, she did so.“Now approach me and eat,”

said Kamchak. Aphris of Turia didso, defeated, kneeling before himand turning her head delicately totake the meat from his hand.

“Tomorrow,” said Kamchak, “youwill be permitted after I have eatento feed yourself.”

Suddenly Elizabeth Cardwellsaid, perhaps unwisely. “You arecruel”

Kamchak looked at her insurprise. “I am kind,” he said.

“How is that?” I asked.“I am permitting her to live,” he

said.“I think,” I said, “that you have

won this night but I warn you thatthe girl from Turia will think againof the quiva and the heart of aTuchuk warrior.”

“Of course,” smiled Kamchak,

feeding Aphri1s, “she is superb.”The girl looked at him with

wonder.“For a Turian slave,” he added.

He fed her another piece of meat.“Tomorrow, Little Aphris,” said he,“I will give you something towear.”

She looked at him gratefully.“Bells and collar,” said he.Tears appeared in her eyes.“Can I trust you?” he asked.“No,” she said.“Bells and collar,” said he. “But

I shall wind them about with stringsof diamonds that those who see willknow that your master can well

afford the goods you will dowithout.”

“I hate you,” she said.“Excellent,” said Kamchak.

“Excellent.”When the girl had finished and

Elizabeth had given her a dipper ofwater from the leather bucket thathung near the door, Aphris extendedher wrists to Kamchak.

The Tuchuk looked puzzled.“Surely,” she said, “you will

lock me in slave bracelets andchain me tonight?”

“But it is rather early,” pointedout Kamchak.

The girl’s eyes showed a moment

of fear but then she seemedresolved. “You have made me yourslave,” she said, “but I am stillAphris of Turia. You may, Tuchuk,slay Aphris of Turia if it pleasesyou, but know that she will neverserve your pleasure never.”

“Well,” said the Tuchuk, “tonightI am pretty drunk.”

“Never,” said Aphris of Turia.“I note,” said Kamchak, “that you

have never called me Master.”“I call no man Master,” said the

girl.“I am tired tonight,” said

Kamchak, yawning. “I have had ahard day.”

Aphris trembled in anger, herwrists still forward.

“I would retire,” she said.“Perhaps then,” said Kamchak, “I

should have sheets of crimson silkbrought, and the furs of the mountainlarl.”

“As you wish,” said the girl.Kamchak clapped her on the

shoulders. “Tonight,” he said, “Iwill not chain you nor put you in thebracelets.”

Aphris was clearly surprised. Isaw her eyes furtively dart towardthe kaiila saddle with its sevenquivas.

“As Kamchak wishes,” she said.

“Do you not recall,” askedKamchak, “banquet of Saphrar?”

“Of course,” she said, warily.“Do you not recall,” asked

Kamchak, “the affair of the tinybottles of perfume and the smell ofbosk dung how nobly you attemptedto rid the banquet hall of that mostunpleasant and distasteful odour?”

“Yes,” said the girl, very slowly.“Do you not recall,” asked

Kamchak, “what I then said to youwhat I said at that time?”

“Nor” cried the girl leaping up,but Kamchak had jumped towardher, scooped her up and threw 1herover his shoulder.

She squirmed and struggled onhis shoulder, kicking and poundingon his back. “Sleep!” she cried.“Sleep! Sleen! Sleen!”

I followed Kamchak down thesteps of the wagon and, blinkingand still sensible of the effects ofthe Paga, gravely held open thelarge dung sack near the rear leftwheel of the wagon. “No, Master!”the girl wept.

“You call no man Master,”Kamchak was reminding her.

And then I saw the lovely Aphrisof Turia pitched head first into thelarge, leather sack, screaming andsputtering, threshing Shout.

“Master!” she cried. “Master!Master!”

Sleepily I could see the sides ofthe sack bulging out wildly here andthere as she squirmed about.

Kamchak then tied shut the end ofthe leather sack and wearily stoodup. “I am tired,” he said. “I havehad a difficult and exhausting day.”

I followed him into the wagonwhere, in a short time, we had bothfallen asleep.

Chapter 12THE QUIVAIn the next days I several times

wandered into the vicinity of thehuge wagon of Kutaituchik, calledUbar of the Tuchuks. More thanonce I was warned away by guards.I knew that in that wagon, if thewords of Saphrar were correct,there lay the golden sphere,doubtless the egg of Priest-Kings,which he had, for some reason,seemed so anxious to obtain.

I realized that I must, somehow,gain access to the wagon and findand carry away the sphere,attempting to return it to the Sardar.I would have given much for a tarn.Even on my kaiila I was certain Icould be outdistanced by numerous

riders, each leading, in the Tuchukfashion, a string of fresh mounts.Eventually my kaiila would tire andI would be brought down on theprairie by pursuers. The trailingwould undoubtedly be done bytrained herd sleen.

The prairie stretched away forhundreds of pasangs in alldirections. There was little cover.

It was possible, of course, that Imight declare my mission toKutaituchik or Kamchak, and seewhat would occur but I knew thatKamchak had said to Saphrar ofTuria that the Tuchuks were fond ofthe golden sphere and I had no

hopes that I might make them partwith it, and surely I had no richescomparable to those of Saphrarwith which to purchase it andSaphrar’s own attempts to win thesphere by purchase, I remindedmyself, had failed.

Yet I was hesitant to make thestrike of a thief at the wagon ofKutaituchik for the Tuchuks, in theirbluff way, had made me welcome,and I had come to care for some ofthem, particularly the gruff,chuckling, wily Kamchak, whosewagon I shared. It did not seem tome a worthy thing to betray thehospitality of Tuchuks by attempting

to purloin an object whichobviously they held to be of greatvalue. I wondered if any in thecamp of the Tuchuks realized howactually great indeed was the valueof that golden sphere, containingundoubtedly the last hope of thepeople called Priest-Kings.

In Turia I had learned nothing,unfortunately, of the answers to themystery of the message collar or tothe appearance of Miss ElizabethCardwell on the southern plains ofGor. I had, however, inadvertently,learned the location of the goldensphere, and that Saphrar, a man ofpower in Turia, was also interested

in obtaining it. Thes1e bits ofinformation were acquisitions notnegligible in their value.

I wondered if Saphrar himselfmight be the key to the mysteriesthat confronted me. It did not seemimpossible.

How was it that he, a merchant ofTuria, knew of the golden sphere?How was it that he, a man ofshrewdness and intelligence,seemed willing to barter volumes ofgold for what he termed merely acuriosity? There seemed to besomething here at odds with therational avarice of mercantilecalculation, something extending

even beyond the often irresponsiblezeal of the dedicated collectorwhich he seemed to claim to be.Yet I knew that whatever Saphrar,merchant of Turia, might be, he wasno fool. He, or those for whom heworked, must have some inkling orperhaps know of the nature of thegolden sphere. If this was true, andI thought it likely, I realized I mustobtain the egg as rapidly aspossible and attempt to return it tothe Sardar.

There was no time to lose. Andyet how could I succeed?

I resolved that the best time tosteal the egg would be during the

days of the Omen Taking. At thattime Kutaituchik and other high menamong the Tuchuks, doubtlessincluding Kamchak, would beafield, on the rolling hillssurrounding the Omen Valley, inwhich on the hundreds of smokingaltars, the haruspexes of the fourpeoples would be practicing theirobscure craft, taking the omens,trying to determine whether or notthey were favourable for theelection of a Ubar San, a One Ubar,who would be Ubar of all theWagons. If such were to be elected,I trusted, at least for the sake of theWagon Peoples, that it would not be

Kutaituchik. Once he might havebeen a great man and warrior butnow, somnolent and fat, he thoughtof little save the contents of agolden kanda box. But, I remindedmyself, such a choice, if choicethere must be, might be best for thecities of Gor, for under Kutaituchikthe Wagons would not be likely tomove northward, nor even to thegates of Turia.

But, I then reminded myself evenmore strongly, there would be nochoice there had been no Ubar Sanfor a hundred years or more theWagon Peoples, fierce andindependent, did not wish a Ubar

San.I noted, following me, as I had

more than once, a masked figure,one wearing the hood of the Clan ofTorturers. I supposed he wascurious about me, not a Tuchuk, nota merchant or singer, yet among theWagons. When I would look at him,he would turn away. Indeed,perhaps I only imagined hefollowed me. Once I thought to turnand question him, but he haddisappeared.

I turned and retraced my steps tothe wagon of Kamchak.

I was looking forward to theevening.

The little wench from Port Kar,whom Kamchak and I had seen inthe slave wagon when we hadbought Paga the night before thegames of Love War, was this nightto perform the chain dance. Irecalled that he might have, had itnot been for me, even purchased thegirl. She had surely taken his eyeand, I shall admit, mine as well.

Already a large, curtainedenclosure had been set up near theslave wagon. For a fee, theproprietor of the wagon wouldpermit visitors. These arrangementsirritated me somewhat, forcustomarily the chain dance, the

whip dance, the love dance of thenewly collared slave girl, the branddance, and so on, are performedopenly by firelight in the evening,for the delight of any who care towatch. Indeed, in the spring, withthe results of caravan raids alreadyaccumulating, it is a rare night onwhich one cannot see one or moresuch dances performed. I gatheredthat the little wench from Port Karmust be superb. Kamchak, not aman to part easily with a tarn disk,had apparently received insideword on the matter. I resolved notto wager with him to see whowould pay the admission.

When I returned to the wagon Isaw the bosk had already beentended, though it was early in theday, and that there was a kettle onan outside fire boiling. I also notedthat the dung sack was quite full.

I bounded up the stairs andentered the wagon.

The two girls were there, andAphris was kneeling behindElizabeth, combing Elizabeth’shair.

Kamchak, as I recalled, hadrecommended a thousand strokes aday.

The pelt of the larl whichElizabeth wore had been freshly

brushed.Both girls had apparently washed

at the stream some four pasangsaway, taking the opportunity to doso while fetching water.

They seemed rather excited.Perhaps Kamchak would permitthem to go somewhere.

Aphris of Turia wore bells andcollar, about her neck the Turiancollar hung with bells, about eachwrist and ankle, locked, a doublerow of bells. I could hear themmove as she combed Elizabeth’shair. Aside from the bells andcollar she wore only several stringsof diamonds wrapped about the

collar, some dangling from it, withthe bells.

“Greetings, Master,” said bothgirls at the same time.

“Ow!” cried Elizabeth asAphris’ comb apparently suddenlycaught in a snarl in her hair.

“Greetings,” I said. “Where isKamchak?”

“He is coming,” said Aphris.Elizabeth turned her head over

her shoulder. “I will speak withhim,” she said. “I am First Girl.”

The comb caught in Elizabeth’shair again and she cried out.

“You are only a barbarian,” saidAphris sweetly.

“Comb my hair, Slave,” saidElizabeth, turning away.

“Certainly slave,” said Aphris,continuing her work.

“I see you are both in a pleasantmood,” I said. Actually, as a matterof fact, both were. Each seemedrather excited and happy, theirbickering notwithstanding.

“Master,” said Aphris, “is takingus tonight to see a Chain Dance, agirl from Port Karl”

I was startled.“Perhaps I should not go,”

Elizabeth was saying, “I would feeltoo sorry for the poor girl.”

“You may remain in the wagon,”

said Aphris.“If you see her,” I said, “I think

you will not feel sorry for her.” Ididn’t really feel like tellingElizabeth that no one ever feelssorry for a wench from Port KarlThey tend to be superb, feline,vicious, startling. They are famedas dancers throughout all the citiesof Gor.

I wondered casually whyKamchak was taking the girls, forthe proprietor of the slave wagonwould surely want his fee for themas well as us.

“Ho!” cried Kamchak, stompinginto the wagon. “Meat!” he cried.

Elizabeth and Aphris leaped upto tend the pot outside.

He then settled down cross-legged on the rug, not far from thebrass and copper grating.

He looked at me shrewdly and, tomy surprise, drew a tospit out of hispouch, that yellowish-white, bitterfruit, looking something like apeach but about the size of a plum.

He threw me the tospit.“Odd or even?” he asked.I had resolved not to wager with

Kamchak, but this was indeed anopportunity to gain a certain amountof vengeance which, on my part,would be sorely appreciated.

Usually, in guessing tospit seeds,one guesses the actual number, andusually both guessers opt for an oddnumber. The common tospit almostinvariably has an odd number ofseeds. On the other hand the rare,long-stemmed tospit usually has aneven number of seeds. Both fruitsare indistinguishable outwardly.

I could see that, perhaps byaccident, the tospit which Kamchakhad thrown me had had the stemtwisted off. It must be then, Isurmised, the rare, long-stemmedtospit.

“Even,” I said.Kamchak looked at me as though

pained. “Tospits almost alwayshave an odd number of seeds,” hesaid.

“Even,” I said.“Very well,” said he, “eat the

tospit and see.”“Why should I eat it?” I asked.

The tospit, after all, is quite bitter.And why shouldn’t Kamchak eat it?He had suggested the wager.

“I am a Tuchuk,” said Kamchak,“I might be tempted to swallowseeds.”

“Let’s cut it up,” I proposed.“One might miss a seed that

way,” said Kamchak.“Perhaps we could mash the

slices,” I suggested.“But would that not be a great

deal of trouble,” asked Kamchak,“and might one not stain the rug?”

“Perhaps we could mash them ina bowl,” I suggested.

“But then a bowl would have tobe washed,” said Kamchak.

“That is true,” I admitted.“All things considered,” said

Kamchak, “I think the fruit shouldbe eaten.”

“I guess you are right,” I said.I bit into the fruit

philosophically. It was indeedbitter.

“Besides,” said Kamchak, “I do

not much care for tospit.”“I am not surprised,” I said.“They are quite bitter,” said

Kamchak.“Yes,” I said.I finished the fruit and, of course,

it had seven seeds.“Most tospits,” Kamchak

informed me, “have an odd numberof seeds.”

“I know,” I said.“Then why did you guess even?”

he asked.“I supposed,” I grumbled, “that

you would have found a long-stemmed tospit.”

“But they are not available,” he

said, “until late in the summer.”“Oh,” I said.“Since you lost,” pointed out

Kamchak, “I think it only fair thatyou pay the admission to theperformance.”

“All right,” I said.“The slaves,” mentioned

Kamchak, “will also be coming.”“Of course,” I said, “naturally.”I took out some coins from my

pouch and handed them to Kamchakwho slipped them in a fold of hissash. As I did so I gloweredsignificantly at the tankards ofjewels and chests of golden tarndisks in the corner of the wagon.

“Here come the slaves,” saidKamchak.

Elizabeth and Aphris entered,carrying the kettle-between them,which they sat on the brass andcopper grating over the fire bowl inthe wagon.

“Go ahead and ask him,”prompted Elizabeth, “Slave.”

Aphris seemed frightened,confused.

“Meat!” said Kamchak.After we had eaten and the girls

had eaten with us, there not beingthat night much time for observingthe amenities, Elizabeth pokedAphris, “Ask him,” she said.

Aphris lowered her head andshook it.

Elizabeth looked at Kamchak.“One of your slaves,” she said,“would like to ask you something.”

“Which one?” inquired Kamchak.“Aphris;” said Elizabeth firmly.“No,” said Aphris, “no, Master.”“Give him Ka-la-na wine,”

prompted Elizabeth.Aphris got up and fetched not a

skin, but a bottle, of wine, Ka-la-nawine, from the Ka-la-na orchards ofgreat Ar itself.

She also brought a black, red-trimmed wine crater from the isle ofCos.

“May I serve you?” she asked.Kamchak’s eyes glinted. “Yes,”

he said.She poured wine into the crater

and replaced the bottle.Kamchak had watched her hands

very carefully. She had had to breakthe seal on the bottle to open it. Thecrater had been upside down whenshe had picked it up. If she hadpoisoned the wine she had certainlydone so deftly.

Then she knelt before him in theposition of the Pleasure Slave and,head down, arms extended, offeredhim the crater.

He took it and sniffed it and then

took a wary sip.Then he threw back his head and

drained the crater.“Hah!” said he when finished.Aphris jumped;“Well,” said Kamchak, “what is

it that a Turian wench would craveof her master?”

“Nothing,” said Aphris.“If you do not ask him, I shall,”

said Elizabeth.“Speak, Slave!” shouted

Kamchak and Aphris went whiteand shook her head.

“She found something today,”said Elizabeth, “that someone hadthrown away.”

“Bring it!” said Kamchak.Timidly Aphris rose and went to

the thin rep-cloth blanket that washer bedding near the boots ofKamchak. Hidden in the blanketthere was a faded yellow piece ofcloth, which she had folded verysmall.

She brought it to Kamchak andheld it out to him.

He took it and whipped it out. Ifwas a worn, stained Turian camisk,doubtless one that had been wordby one of the Turian maidensacquired in Love War.

Aphris had her head to the rug,trembling.

When she looked up at Kamchakthere were tears in her eyes. Shesaid, very softly, “Aphris of Turia,the slave girl, begs her master thatshe might clothe herself.”

“Aphris of Turia,” laughedKamchak, “begs to be permitted towear a camisk”

The girl nodded and swiftly puther head down.

“Come here, Little Aphris,” saidKamchak.

She came forward.He put his hands in the strings of

diamonds on her throat.“Would you rather wear

diamonds or the camisk?” he asked.

“Please, Master,” she said, “thecamisk.”

Kamchak jerked the diamondsfrom her collar and threw them tothe side of the room. Then hewithdrew from his pouch the key toher collar and bells and, lock bylock, removed them from her. Shecould hardly believe her eyes.

“You were very noisy,”Kamchak said to her, sternly.

Elizabeth clapped her hands withpleasure and began to consider thecamisk.

“A slave girl is grateful to hermaster,” said Aphris, tears in hereyes.

“Properly so,” agreed Kamchak.Then, delighted, Aphris, assisted

by Elizabeth Cardwell, donned theyellow camisk. Against her darkalmond eyes and long black hair theyellow camisk was exceedinglylovely.

“Come here,” commandedKamchak, and Aphris ran lightly tohim, timidly.

“I will show you how to wear acamisk,” said Kamchak, taking thecord and adjusting it with two orthree pulls and jerks that just abouttook the wind out of the Turian girl.He then tied it tightly about herwaist. “There,” he said, “that is

how a camisk is worn.” I saw thatAphris of Turia would bemarvellously attractive in thegarment.

Then, to my surprise, she walkeda bit in the wagon and twirled twicebefore Kamchak. “Am I not pretty,Master?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, nodding.She laughed with delight, as

proud of the worn camisk as shemight have been once of robes ofwhite and gold.

“For a Turian slave,” addedKamchak.

“Of course,” she laughed, “for aTurian slave!”

“We will be late for theperformance,” said Elizabeth, “ifwe do not hurry.”

“I thought you were staying in thewagon,” said Aphris.

“No,” said Elizabeth, “I havedecided to come.”

Among them even some Kassarsand Paravaci, and one of the rareKataii, seldom seen in theencampments of the other peoples.The Tuchuks, of course, were mostin evidence, sitting cross-legged incircles rather about a large fire nearthe centre of the enclosure. Theywere in good humour and werelaughing and moving their hands

about as they regaled one anothe1rwith accounts of their recent deeds,of which there were plainly a greatmany, it being the most activeseason for caravan raiding. Thefire, I was pleased to note, was notof boskdung but wood, timber andplanking, I was less pleased to note,torn and splintered from amerchant’s wagon.

To one side, across a clearingfrom the fire, a bit in thebackground, was a group of ninemusicians. They were not as yetplaying, though one of them wasabsently tapping a rhythm on asmall hand drum, the kaska; two

others, with stringed instruments,were tuning them, putting their earsto the instruments. One of theinstruments was an eight-stringedczehar, rather like a large flatoblong box; it is held across the lapwhen sitting cross-legged and isplayed with a horn pick; the otherwas the kalika, a six-stringedinstrument; it, like the czehar, isflat-bridged and its strings areadjusted by means of small woodencranks; on the other hand, it lessresembles a low, flat box andsuggests affinities to the banjo orguitar, though the sound box ishemispheric and the neck rather

long; it, too, of course, like theczehar, is plucked; I have neverseen a bowed instrument on Gor;also, I Night mention, I have neveron Gor seen any written music; I donot know if a notation exists;melodies are passed on from fatherto son, from master to apprentice.There was another kalika player, aswell, but he was sitting thereholding his instrument, watching theslave girls in the audience. Thethree flutists were polishing theirinstruments and talking together; itwas shop talk I gathered, becauseone or the other would stop toillustrate some remark by a passage

on his flute, and then one of theothers would attempt to correct orimprove on what he had done;occasionally their discussion grewheated. There was also a seconddrummer, also with a kaska, andanother fellow, a younger one, whosat very seriously before whatappeared to me to be a pile ofobjects; among them was a notchedstick, played by sliding a polishedem-wood stick across its surface;cymbals of various sorts; what wasobviously a tambourine; andseveral other instruments of apercussion variety, bits of metal onwires, gourds filled with pebbles,

slave bells mounted on hand rings,and such. These various things,from time to time, would be usednot only by himself but by others inthe group, probably the secondkaska player and the third flutist.

Among Gorean musicians,incidentally, czehar players havethe most prestige; there was onlyone in this group, I noted, and hewas their leader; next follow theflutists and then the players of thekalika; the players of the drumscome next; and the farthest fellowdown the list is the man who keepsthe bag of miscellaneousinstruments, playing them and

parcelling them out to others asneeded. Lastly it might bementioned, thinking it is of someinterest, musicians on Gor are neverenslaved; they may, of course, beexiled, tortured, slain and such; it issaid, perhaps truly, that he whomakes music-must, like the tarn andthe Vosk gull, be free.

Inside the enclosure, over againstone side, I saw the slave wagon.The bosk had been unhitched andtaken elsewhere. It was open andone could go in and purchase abottle of Paga if one cared to do so.

“One is thirsty,” said Kamchak.“I’ll buy the Paga,” I said.

Kamchak shrugged. He had, afterall, bought the admissions.

When I returned with the bottle Ihad to step through, over, and onceor twice on, Tuchuks. Fortunatelymy clumsiness was not construed asa challenge. One fellow I steppedon was even polite enough to say,“Forgive me for sitting where youare stepping.” In Tuchuk fashion, Iassured him that I had taken nooffence, and, sweating, I at 1lastmade my way to Kamchakâ™ side.He had rather good seats, whichhadnâ™ been there before,obtained by the Tuchuk method offinding two individuals sitting

closely together and then sittingdown between them. He had alsoparked Aphris on his right andElizabeth on his left. I bit out thecork in the Paga and passed it pastElizabeth to Kamchak, as courtesydemanded.

About a third of the bottle wasmissing when Elizabeth, lookingfaint at having smelled thebeverage, returned it to me.

I heard two snaps and I saw thatKamchak had put a hobble onAphris. The slave hobble consistsof two rings, one for a wrist, theother for an ankle, joined by aboutseven inches of chain. In a right-

handed girl, such as either Aphrisor Elizabeth, it locks on the rightwrist and left ankle. When the girlkneels, in any of the traditionalpositions of the Gorean woman,either slave or free, it is notuncomfortable.

In spite of the hobble, Aphris, inthe yellow camisk, black hairflowing behind her, was kneelingalertly by Kamchakâ™ side,looking about her with greatinterest. I saw several of theTuchuks present eye her withadmiration. Female slaves on Gor,of course, are used to being eyedboldly. They expect this and relish

it. Aphris, I discovered, to mydelight, was no exception.

Elizabeth Cardwell also had herhead up, kneeling very straight,obviously not unconscious that sheherself was the object of a look ortwo.

I noted that, in spite of the factthat Aphris had now been in thewagon for several days, Kamchakhad not yet called for the IronMaster. The girl had neither beenbranded nor had the Tuchuk nosering been affixed. This seemed tome of interest. Moreover, after thefirst day or two he had hardly-cuffed the girl, though he had once

beaten her rather severely when shehad dropped a cup. Now I saw that,though she had been only a fewdays his slave, already he waspermitting her to wear the camisk. Ismiled rather grimly to myself andtook a significant swallow of Paga.âœily Tuchuk, eh?âI thought tomyself.

Aphris, for her part, though thequivas were still available,seemed, shortly after having begunto sleep at Kamchakâ™ boots, forsome reason to have thought thebetter of burying one in his heart. Itwould not have been wise, ofcourse, for even were she

successful, her consequent hideousdeath at the hands of the Clan ofTorturers would probably, allthings considered, have made heract something of a bad bargain.

On the other hand she may havefeared that Kamchak would simplyturn around and seize her. After all,it is difficult to sneak up on a manwhile wearing collar and bells.Also, she may have feared morethan death that if she failed in anattempt to slay him she would beplunged in the sack again which layever ready near the back, left wheelof the wagon.

That seemed to be an experience

which she, no more than ElizabethCardwell, was not eager to repeat.

Well did I recall the first dayfollowing the first night of Aphrisas the slave of Kamchak. We hadslept late that day and finally whenKamchak managed to be up andaround, after a late breakfast servedrather slowly by Elizabeth, and hadrecollected Aphris and had openedthe end of her sleeping quarters andshe had crawled out backward andhad begged, head to boot, to beallowed to draw water for the bosk,though it was early, it seemedevident to all that the lovely wenchfrom Turia would not, could she

help it, spend a night again similarto her first in the encampment ofTuchuks. âœhere will you sleeptonight, Slave?âKamchak haddemanded. âœf my master willpermit,âsaid the girl, with greatapparent sincerity, âœt hisfeet.âKamchak laughed.

âœet up, Lazy Girl,âsaid he,âœhe bosk needwatering.âGratefully Aphris ofTuria had taken up the leatherbuckets and hurried away to fetchwater.

I heard a bit of chain and lookedup. Kamchak tossed me the otherhobble. âœecure the barbarian,âhe

said.This startled me, and startled

Elizabeth as well.How was it that Kamchak would

have me secure his slave?She was his, not mine. There is a

kind of implicit claim of ownershipinvolved in putting a wench in slavesteel. It is seldom done save by amaster.

Suddenly Elizabeth was kneelingterribly straight, looking ahead,breathing very quickly.

I reached around and took herright wrist, drawing it behind herbody. I locked the wrist ring abouther wrist. Then I took her left ankle

in my hand and lifted it a bit,slipping the open ankle ring underit. Then I pressed the ring shut. Itclosed with a small, heavy click.

Her eyes suddenly met mine,timid, frightened.

I put the key in my pouch andturned my attention to the crowd.Kamchak now had his right armabout Aphris.

âœn a short time,âhe was tellingher, âœou will see what a realwoman can do.â/p>

âœhe will be only a slave suchas I,âAphris was responding.

I turned to face Elizabeth. Shewas regarding me, it seemed, with

incredible shyness. âœhat does itmean,âshe asked, âœhat you havechained me?â/p>

âœothing,âI said.Her eyes dropped. Without

looking up, she said, âœe likesher.â/p>

âœphris the Slave?âI asked.âœill I be sold?âshe asked.I saw no reason to hide this from

the girl. âœt is possible,âI said.She looked up, her eyes suddenly

moist. âœarl Cabot,âshe said,whispering, âœf I am to be sold buyme.â/p>

I looked at her with incredulity.âœhy?âI asked.

Kamchak reached acrossElizabeth and dragged the Pagabottle out of my hand. Then he waswrestling with Aphris and had herhead back, fingers pinching hernose, the neck of the bottle thrustbetween her teeth. She wasstruggling and laughing and shakingher head. Then she had to breatheand a great draught of Paga burnedits way down her throat making hergasp and cough. I doubt that she hadever before experienced a drinkstronger than the syrupy wines ofTuria.

She was now gasping andshaking her head and Kamchak was

pounding her on the back.âœhy?âI again asked Elizabeth.But Elizabeth, with her free left

hand had seized the Paga bottlefrom Kamchak, and, to hisamazement, had thrown back herhead and taken, without realizingthe full import of her action, aboutfive lusty, guzzling swallows ofPaga. Then, as I rescued the bottle,her eyes opened very wide and thenblinked about ten times. Sheexhaled slowly as if fire might besizzling out instead of breath andthen she shook, a delayed reaction,as if she had been thumped fivetimes and then began to cough

spasmodically and painfully until I,fearing she might suffocate,pounded her several times on theback. At last, bent over, gasping forbreath, she seemed to be comingaround. I held her by the shouldersand suddenly she turned herself inmy hands and, as I was sittingcross-legged, threw herself on herback across my lap, her right wriststill chained to her left ankle. Shestretched insolently, as well as shecould. I was astounded. She lookedup at me. “Because I am better thanDina and Tenchika,” she said.

“But not better than Aphris,”called Aphris.

“Yes,” said Elizabeth, “betterthan Aphris.”

“Get up, Little She-Sleen,” saidKamchak, amused, “or to preservemy honour I must have youimpaled.”

Elizabeth looked up at me.“She’s drunk,” I told Kamchak.“Some men might like a

barbarian girl,” Elizabeth said.I hoisted Elizabeth back up on

her knees. “No one will buy me,”she wailed.

There were immediate offersfrom three or four of the Tuchuksgathered about, and I was afraidthat Kamchak might, if the bids

improved, part with Miss Cardwellon the spot.

“Sell her,” advised Aphris.“Be quiet, Slave,” said

Elizabeth.Kamchak was roaring with

laughter.The Paga had apparently hit Miss

Cardwell swiftly and hard. Sheseemed barely able to kneel and, atlast, I permitted her to lean againstme, and she did, her chin on myright shoulder.

“You know,” said Kamchak, “theLittle Barbarian wears your chainwell.”

“Nonsense,” I said.

“I saw,” said Kamchak, “how atthe games when you thought the menof Turia charging you wereprepared to rescue the wench.”

“I wouldn’t have wanted yourproperty Kamchak,” I said.

“You like her,” announcedKamchak.

“Nonsense,” I said to him.“Nonsense,” said Elizabeth,

sleepily.“Sell her to him,” recommended

Aphris, hiccupping.“You only want to be First Girl,”

said Elizabeth.“I’d give her away myself,” said

Aphris. “She is only a barbarian.”

Elizabeth lifted her head from myshoulder and regarded me. Shespoke in English. “My name is MissElizabeth Cardwell, Mr. Cabot,”she said, “would you like to buyme?”

“No,” I said, in English.“I didn’t think so,” she said,

again in English, and put her headback on my shoulder.

“Did you not observe,” askedKamchak, “how she moved andbreathed when you locked the steelon her?”

I hadn’t thought much about it. “Iguess not,” I said.

“Why do you think I let you chain

her?” asked Kamchak.“I don’t know,” I said.“To see,” he said. “And it is as I

thought your steel kindles her.”“Nonsense,” I said.“Nonsense.” said Elizabeth.1p>“I suppose,” said Elizabeth, “I

could hop all the way on one foot.”I myself doubted that this would

be feasible, particularly In hercondition.

“You probably could,” saidAphris, “you have muscular legs”

I did not regard Miss Cardwell’slegs as muscular. She was,however, a good runner.

Miss Cardwell lifted her chin

from my shoulder. “Slave,” shesaid.

“Barbarian,” retorted Aphris.“Release her,” said Kamchak.I reached into the pouch at my

belt to secure the key to the hobble.“No,” said Elizabeth, “I will

stay.”“If Master permits,” added

Aphris.“Yes,” said Elizabeth,

glowering, “if Master permits.”“All right,” said Kamchak.“Thank you, Master,” said

Elizabeth politely, and once moreput her head on my shoulder.

“You should buy her” said

Kamchak.“No,” I said.“I will give you a good price,”

he said.Oh, yes, I said to myself, a good

price, and ho, ho, ho.“No,” I said.“Very well,” said Kamchak.I breathed more easily.About that time the black-clad

figure of a woman appeared on thesteps of the slave wagon. I heardKamchak hush up Aphris of Turiaand he gave Elizabeth a poke in theribs that she might bestir herself.“Watch, you miserable cooking-potwenches,” he said, “and learn a

thing or two!”A silence came over the crowd.

Almost without meaning to, Inoticed, over to one side, a hoodedmember of the Clan of Torturers. Iwas confident it was he who hadoften followed me about the camp.

But this matter was dismissedfrom my mind by the performancewhich was about to begin. Aphriswas watching intently, her lipsparted. Kamchak’s eyes weregleaming.

Even Elizabeth had lifted herhead now from my shoulder andwas rising on her knees a bit for aclearer view.

The figure of the woman,swathed in black, heavily veiled,descended the steps of the slavewagon. Once at the foot of the stairsshe stopped and stood for a longmoment. Then the musicians began,the hand-drums first, a rhythm ofheartbeat and flight.

To the music, beautifully, itseemed the frightened figure ranfirst here and then there,occasionally avoiding imaginaryobjects or throwing up her arms,ran as though through the crowds ofa burning city alone, yet somehowsuggesting the presence about her ofhunted others. Now, in the

background, scarcely to be seen,was the figure of a warrior inscarlet cape. He, too, in his way,though hardly seeming to move,approached, and it seemed thatwherever the girl might flee therewas found the warrior. And then atlast his hand was upon her shoulderand she threw hack her and liftedher hands and it seemed her entirehotly was wretchedness anddespair. He turned the figure to henand, with both hands, brushed awayhood and veil.

There was a cry of delight fromthe crowd.

The girl’s face was fixed in the

dancer’s stylized moan of terror,but she was beautiful. I had seen herbefore, of course, as had Kamchak,but it was startling still to see herthus in the firelight her hair waslong and silken black, her eyesdark, the colour of her skin tarnish.

She seemed to plead with thewarrior but he did not move.

She seemed to writhe in miseryand try to escape his grip but shedid not.

Then he removed his hands fromher shoulders and, as the crowdcried out, she sank in abject miseryat his feet and performed theceremony of submission, kneeling,

lowering the head and lifting andextending the arms, wrists crossed.

The warrior then turned from herand held out one hand.

Someone from the darknessthrew him, coiled, the chain andcollar.

He gestured for the woman torise and she did so and stood beforehim, head lowered.

He pushed up her head and then,with a click that could be heardthroughout the enclosure, closed thecollar a Turian collar about herthroat. The chain to which the collarwas attached was a good deallonger than that of the Sirik,

containing perhaps twenty feet oflength.

Then, to the music, the girlseemed to twist and turn and moveaway from him, as he played out thechain, until she stood wretchedsome twenty feet from him at thechain’s length. She did not movethen for a moment, but stoodcrouched down, her hands on thechain.

I saw that Aphris and Elizabethwere watching fascinated.

Kamchak, too, would not take hiseyes from the woman.

The music had stopped.Then with a suddenness that

almost made me jump and thecrowd cry out with delight-themusic began again but this time as abarbaric cry of rebellion and rageand the wench from Port Kar wassuddenly a chained she-larl bitingand tearing at the chain and she hadcast her black robes from her andstood savage revealed indiaphanous, swirling yellowPleasure Silk. There was now afrenzy and hatred in the dance, afury even to the baring of teeth andsnarling. She turned within thecollar, as the Turian collar isdesigned to permit. She circled thewarrior like a captive moon to his

imprisoning scarlet sun, always atthe length of the chain.

Then he would take up a fist ofchain, drawing her each time inchescloser. At times he would permither to draw back again, but never tothe full length of the chain, and eachtime he permitted her to withdraw,it was less than the last.

The dance consists of severalphases, depending on the generalorbit allowed the girl by the chain.Certain of these phases are veryslow, in which there is almost nomovement, save perhaps the turningof a head or the movement of ahand; others ate defiant and swift;

some are graceful and pleading;some stately, some simple; someproud, some piteous; but each time,as the common thread, she is drawncloser to the caped warrior. At lasthis fist was within the Turian collaritself and he drew the girl, piteousand exhausted, to his lips, subduingher with his kiss, and then her armswere about his neck and unresisting,obedient, her head to his chest, shewas lifted lightly in his arms andcarried from the firelight.

Kamchak and I, and others, threwcoins of gold into the sand near thefire.

“She was beautiful,” cried out

Aphris of Turia.“I never knew a woman,” said

Elizabeth, her eyes blazing,showing few signs of the Paga,“could be so beautiful!”

“She was marvellous,” I said.“And I,” howled Kamchak, “have

only miserable cooking-potwenches!”

Kamchak and I were standing up.Aphris suddenly put her head to histhigh, looking down. “Tonight,” shewhispered, “make me a slave.”

Kamchak put his fist in her hairand lifted her head to stare up athim. Her lips were parted.

“You have been my slave for

days,” said he.“Tonight,” she begged, “please,

Master, tonight!”With a roar of triumph Kamchak

swept her up and slung her, hobbledas she was, over his shoulder andshe cried out and he, singing aTuchuk song, was stomping awaywith her from the curtainedenclosure.

At the exit he stopped brieflyand, Aphris over his shoulder,turned and faced Elizabeth andmyself. He threw up his right handin an expansive gesture. “For thenight,” he cried, “the LittleBarbarian is yours!” Then he turned

again and, singing, disappearedthrough the curtain.!

I laughed.Elizabeth Cardwell was staring

after him. Then she looked up at me.“He can do that, can’t he?” sheasked.

“Of course,” I said.“Of course,” she said, numbly.

“Why not?” Then suddenly shejerked at the hobble but could notrise and nearly fell, and poundedher left fist into the dirt before her.“I don’t want to be a slaver” shecried. “I don’t want to be a slave!”

“I’m sorry,” I said.She looked up at me. There were

tears in her eyes. “He has no right!”she cried.

“He has the right,” I said.“Of course,” she wept, putting

her head down. “It is like a book, achair, an animal. She is yours! Takeher! Keep her until tomorrow!Return her in the morning when youare finished with her!”

Head down she laughed andsobbed.

“I thought you wished,” I said,“that I might buy you.” I thought itwell to jest with her.

“Don’t you understand?” sheasked. “It could have been anyoneto whom I was given, not just to

you, but to anyone, anyone!”“That is true,” I said.“To anyone!” she wept.

“Anyone! Anyone!”“Do not be distraught,” I said.She shook her head, and looked

up at me, and through the tearssmiled.

“It seems, Master,” she said,“that for the hour I am yours.”

“It would appear so,” I said.“Will you carry me over your

shoulder to the wagon;” she asked,lightly, “like Aphris of Turia?”

“I’m sorry,” I said.I bent to the girl’s shackles and

removed them.

She stood up and faced me.“What are you going to do withme?” she asked. She smiled.“Master?”

I1 smiled. “Nothing,” I told her.“Do not fear.”

“Oh?” she asked, one eyebrowrising sceptically. Then shedropped her head. “Am I truly sougly?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “you are not ugly.”“But you do not want me?” she

asked.“No,” I said.She looked at me boldly,

throwing back her head. “Whynot?” she asked.

What could I tell her? She waslovely, but yet in her conditionpiteous. I felt moved on her behalf.The little secretary, I thought tomyself, so far from her pencils, thetypewriter, the desk calendars andsteno pads so far from her world sohelpless, so much at Kamchak’smercy and this night, should Ichoose, at mine.

“You are only a little barbarian,”I said to her. Somehow I thought ofher still as the frightened girl in theyellow shift caught up in games ofwar and intrigue beyond hercomprehension and, to a greatextent, mine. She was to be

protected, sheltered, treated withkindness, reassured. I could notthink of her in my arms nor of herignorant, timid lips on mine for shewas always and would remain onlythe unfortunate Elizabeth Cardwell,the innocent and unwitting victim ofan inexplicable translocation and anunexpected, unjust reduction toshameful bondage. She was of Earthand knew not the flames which herwords might have evoked in thebreast of a Gorean warrior nor didshe understand herself truly nor therelation in which she, slave girl,stood to-a free man to whom shehad been for the hour given I could

not tell her that another warriormight at her-very glance, havedragged her helpless to the darknessbetween the high wheels of theslave wagon itself. She was gentle,not understanding, naive, in her wayfoolish a girl of Earth but not onEarth not a woman of Gor femaleon her own barbaric world shewould always be of Earth thebright, pretty girl with thestenographer’s pad like many girlsof Earth, not men but not yet daringto be woman. “But,” I admitted toher, giving her head a shake, “youare a pretty little barbarian.”

She looked into my eyes for a

long moment and then suddenlydropped her head weeping. Igathered her into my arms tocomfort her but she pushed meaway, and turned and ran from theenclosure.

I looked after her, puzzled.Then, shrugging, I too left the

enclosure, thinking that perhaps Ishould wander among the wagonsfor a few hours, before returning.

I recalled Kamchak. I was happyfor him. Never before had I seenhim so pleased. I was, however,confused about Elizabeth, for itseemed to me she had behavedstrangely this night. I supposed that,

on the whole, she was perhapsdistraught because she feared shemight soon be supplanted as firstgirl in the wagon; indeed, that shemight soon be sold.

To be sure, having seen Kamchakwith his Aphris, it did not seem tome that either of these possibilitieswere actually unlikely. Elizabethhad reason to fear. I might, ofcourse, and would, encourageKamchak to sell her to a goodmaster, but Kamchak, cooperativeto a point, would undoubtedly havehis eye fixed most decisively on theprice to be obtained. I might, ofcourse, if I could find the money,

buy her myself and attempt to findher a kind master. I thought perhapsConrad of the Kassars might be ajust Master. He had, however, I,knew recently won a Turian girl inthe games.

Moreover, not every man wantsto own an untrained barbarianslave, for much, even if given tothem, must be fed

crawl under the rope that joinedthem, my assailant was gone. All Ireceived for my trouble were theangry shouts of the man leading thekaiila string. Indeed, one of thevicious beasts even snapped at me,ripping the sleeve on my shoulder.

Angry I returned to the wagonand drew the quiva from theboards.~

By this time the owner of thewagon, who was naturally curiousabout the matter, was beside me. Heheld a small torch, lit from the firebowl within the wagon. He wasexamining, not happily, the cut inhis planking. “A clumsy throw,” heremarked, I thought a bit ill-humoredly.

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“But,” he added, turning and

looking at me, “I suppose under thecircumstances it was just as well.”

“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”

I found the Paga bottle: and notedthat there was a bit of liquid left init, below the neck of the bottle. Iwiped off the neck and handed it tothe man. He took about half of it andthen wiped his mouth and handed itback. I then finished the bottle. Iflung it into a refuse hole, dug andperiodically cleaned by maleslaves.

“It is not bad Paga,” said theman.

“No,” I said, “I think it is prettygood.”

“May I see the quiva?” asked theman.

“Yes,” I said.

“Interesting,” said he.“What?” I asked.“The quiva,” said he.“But what is interesting about

it?” I asked.“It is Paravaci,” he said.

Chapter 13THE ATTACKIn the morning, to my dismay,

Elizabeth Cardwell was not to befound.

Kamchak was beside himselfwith fury. Aphris, knowing theways of Gor and the temper ofTuchuks, was terrified, and said

almost nothing.“Do not release the hunting

sleep,” I pleaded with Kamchak.“I shall keep them leashed,” he

responded grimly.With misgivings I observed the

two, six-legged, sinuous, tawnyhunting sleen on their chain leashes.Kamchak was holding Elizabeth’sbedding a rep-cloth blanket forthem to smell. Their ears began tolay back against the sides of theirtriangular heads; their long,serpentine bodies trembled; I sawclaws emerge from their paws,retract, emerge again and thenretract; they lifted their heads,

sweeping them from side to side,and then thrust their snouts to theground and began to whimperexcitedly; I knew they would firstfollow the scent to the curtainedenclosure within which last nightwe had observed the dance.

“She would have hidden amongthe wagons last night,” Kamchaksaid.

“I know,” I said, “The herdsleep.” They would have torn thegirl to pieces on the prairie in thelight of the three Gorean moons.

“She will not be far,” saidKamchak.

He hoisted himself to the saddle

of his kaiila, a prancing andtrembling hunting sleen on each sideof the animal, the chains running to1the pommel of the saddle.

“What will you do to her?” Iasked.

“Cut off her feet,” said Kamchak,“and her nose and ears, and blindher in one eye, then release her tolive as she can among the wagons.”

Before I could remonstrate withthe angry Tuchuk the hunting sleensuddenly seemed to go wild,rearing on their hind legs,scratching in the air, draggingagainst the chains. It was allKamchak’s kaiila could do to brace

itself against their sudden madness.“Hah!” cried Kamchak.I spied Elizabeth Cardwell

approaching the wagon, two leatherwater buckets fastened to a woodenyoke she carried over hershoulders. Some water was spillingfrom the buckets.

Aphris cried out with delight andran to Elizabeth, to myastonishment, to kiss her and helpwith the water.

“Where have you been?” askedKamchak.

Elizabeth lifted her headinnocently and gazed at him frankly.“Fetching water,” she said.

The sleen were trying to get ather and she had backed awayagainst the wagon, watching themwarily. “They are vicious beasts,”she observed.

Kamchak threw back his headand roared with laughter.

Elizabeth did not so much as lookat me.

Then Kamchak seemed sober andhe said to the girl. “Go into thewagon. Bring slave bracelets and awhip. Then go to the wheel.”

She looked at him, but did notappear afraid. “Why?” she asked.

Kamchak dismounted. “You wereoverly long in fetching water,” he

said.Elizabeth and Aphris had gone

into the wagon.“She was wise to return,” said

Kamchak.I agreed with him but would not

say so. “It seems she was fetchingwater,” I pointed out.

“You like her, don’t you?” askedKamchak.

“I feel sorry for her,” I said.“Did you enjoy her yesterday?”

asked Kamchak.“I did not see her after she left

the enclosure of the dance,” I said.“If I had known that,” said

Kamchak, “I would have had the

sleen out last night.”“Then,” I said, “it is fortunate for

the girl that you did not know it.”“Agreed,” smiled Kamchak.

“Why did you not make use of her?”he inquired.

“She is only a girl,” I said.“She is a woman,” said

Kamchak, “with blood.”I shrugged.By this time Elizabeth had

returned with the whip andbracelets, and had handed them toKamchak. She then went to stand bythe left, rear wheel of the wagon.There Kamchak braceleted herwrists thigh over her head about the

rim and over one of the spokes. Shefaced the wheel.

“There is no escape from thewagons,” he said.

Her head was high. “I know,” shesaid.

“You lied to me,” he said,“saying you went to fetch water.”

“I was afraid,” said Elizabeth.“Do you know who fears to tell

the truth?” he asked.“No,” she said.“A slave,” said Kamchak.He ripped the larl’s pelt from her

and I gathered that she would wearthe garment no longer.

She stood well, her eyes closed,

her right cheek pressed against theleather rim of the wheel. Tearsburst from between the tightlypressed lids of her eyes but she wassuperb, restraining her cries.

She had still uttered no soundwhen Kamchak, satisfied, hadreleased her, but fastening herwrists before her body with thebracelets. She stood trembling, herhead down. Then he took herbraceleted hands and with one handraised her hands over her head. Shestood so, her knees slightly flexed,head down.

“You think,” said Kamchak tome, “she is only a girl.”

I said nothing.“You are a fool, Tarl Cabot,”

said he.I did not respond.Coiled, in his right hand,

Kamchak still held the slave whip.“Slave,” said Kamchak.Elizabeth looked at him.“Do you wish to serve men?” he

asked.Tears in her eyes she shook her

head, no, no, no. Then her head fellagain to her breast.

“Observe,” said Kamchak to me.Then, before I could realize what

he intended, he had subjected MissCardwell to what, among slavers, is

known as the Whip Caress. Ideallyit is done, as Kamchak had,unexpectedly, taking the girlunawares. Elizabeth suddenly criedout throwing her head to one side. Iobserved to my amazement thesudden, involuntary, uncontrollableresponse to the touch. The WhipCaress is commonly used amongSlavers to force a girl to betrayherself.

“She is a woman,” saidKamchak. “Did you not see thesecret blood of her? That she iseager and ready that she is fit prizefor the steel of a master that she isfemale, and,” he added, “slave?”

“Nor” cried Elizabeth Cardwell.“Nor” But Kamchak was pullingher by the bracelets toward anempty sleen cage mounted on a lowcart near the wagon, into which,still braceleted, he thrust her, thenclosing the door, locking it.

She could not stand in the low,narrow cage, and knelt, wristsbraceleted, hands on the bars. “It isnot truer” she screamed.

Kamchak laughed at her. “Femaleslave,” he said. She buried her headin her hands and wept. She knew, aswell as we, that she had showedherself that her blood had leapedwithin her and its memory must now

mock the hysteria of her denial thatshe had acknowledged tows and toherself, perhaps for the first time,the incontrovertible splendour ofher beauty and its meaning.

Her response had been that of anutter woman.

“It’s not true!” she whisperedover and over, sobbing as she hadnot from the cruel strokes of thewhip. “It’s not truer”

Kamchak looked at me.“Tonight,” lie said, “I shall call theIron Master.”

“Don’t,” I said.“I shall,” he said.“Why?” I asked.

He smiled at me grimly. “Shewas too long in fetching water.”

I said nothing. Kamchak, for aTuchuk, was not unkind.

The punishment of a runawayslave is often grievous, sometimesculminating in death. He would dono more to Elizabeth Cardwell thanwas commonly done to femaleslaves among the wagons, eventhose who had never dared to speakback or disobey in the leastparticular. Elizabeth, in her way,was fortunate. As Kamchak mighthave said, he was permitting her tolive. I did not think she would betempted to run away again.

I saw Aphris sneaking to the cageto bring Elizabeth a dipper ofwater. Aphris was crying.

Kamchak, if he saw, did not stopher. “Come along,” he said. “Thereis a new kaiila I want to see nearthe wagon of Yachi of the LeatherWorkers’ Clan.”

It was a busy day for Kamchak.He did not buy the kaiila near the

wagon of Yachi of the LeatherWorkers though it was apparently asplendid beast.

At one point, he wrapped a heavyfur and leather robe-about his leftarm and struck the beast suddenlyon the snout with his right hand. It

had not struck back at him swiftlyenough to please him, and therewere only four needle likescratches in the arm guard beforeKamchak had managed to leap backand the kaiila, lunging against itschain, was snapping at him.

“Such a slow beast,” saidKamchak, “might in battle cost aman his life.” I supposed it true.The kaiila and its master fight inbattle as one unit, seemingly asingle savage animal, armed withteeth and lance. After looking at thekaiila Kamchak visited a wagonwhere he discussed the crossing ofone of his cows with the owner’s

bull, in exchange for a similarfavour on his own part. This matterwas arranged to their mutualsatisfaction. At another wagon hehaggled over a set of quiva, forgedin Ar, and, obtaining his price,arranged to have them, with a newsaddle, brought to his wagon on themorrow. We lunched on dried boskmeat and Paga and then he troopedto the wagon of Kutaituchik, wherehe exchanged pleasantries with thesomnolent figure on the robe of greyboskhide, about the health of thebosk, the sharpness of quivas andthe necessity of keeping wagonaxles greased, and certain other

matters. While near Kutaituchik’swagon, on the dais, he alsoconferred with several other highmen among the Tuchuks. Kamchak,as I had learned before, held aposition of some importance withthe Tuchuks. After seeingKutaituchik and the others,Kamchak stopped by an IronMaster’s wagon, and, to myirritation, arranged for the fellow tocome by the wagon that very night.“I can’t keep her in a sleen cageforever,” Kamchak said. “There iswork to be done about the wagon.”Then, to my delight, Kamchak,borrowing two kaiila, which he

seemed to have no difficulty doingfrom a Tuchuk warrior I had noteven seen before rode with me tothe Omen Valley.

Coming over a low, rolling hill,we saw a large number of tentspitched in a circle, surrounding alarge grassy area. In the grassyarea, perhaps about two hundredyards in diameter, there wereliterally hundreds of small, stonealtars. There was a large circularstone platform in the centre of thefield.

On the top of this platform was ahuge, four-sided altar which wasapproached by steps on all four

sides. On one side of this altar Isaw the sign of the Tuchuks, and onthe others; that of the Kassars, theKataii and the Paravaci. I had notmentioned the matter of theParavaci quiva whi1ch had almoststruck me last night, having been inthe morning disturbed about thedisappearance of ElizabethCardwell and in the afternoon busyfollowing Kamchak about in hisrounds. I resolved to mention thematter to him sometime but not thisevening for I was convinced thiswould not be a good evening foranyone in the wagon, exceptperhaps for Kamchak, who seemed

pleased about the arrangements hehad made with the herder pertainingto crossing livestock and thebargain, it seemed, he hadcontracted with the fellow with thequivas and saddle.

There were a large number oftethered animals about the outeredge of the circle, and, beside them,stood many haruspexes. Indeed, Isupposed there must be oneharuspex at least for each of themany altars in the field. Among theanimals I saw many verrs; somedomestic tarsks, their tuskssheathed; cages of flapping vulos,some sleen, some kaiila, even some

bosk; by the Paravaci haruspexes Isaw manacled male slaves, if suchwere to be permitted; commonly, Iunderstood from Kamchak, theTuchuks, Kassars and Kataii ruleout the sacrifice of slaves becausetheir hearts and livers are thought tobe, fortunately for the slaves,untrustworthy in registeringportents; after all, as Kamchakpointed out, who would trust aTurian slave in the kes with amatter so important as the electionof a Ubar San; it seemed to me goodlogic and, of course, I am sure theslaves, too, were taken with thecogency of the argument. The

animals sacrificed, incidentally, arelater used for food, so the OmenTaking, far from being a waste ofanimals, is actually a time offeasting and plenty for the WagonPeoples, who regard the OmenTaking, provided it results that noUbar San is to be chosen, as anoccasion for gaiety and festival. AsI may have mentioned, no Ubar Sanhad been chosen for more than ahundred years.

As yet the Omen Taking had notbegun. The haruspexes had notrushed forward to the altars. On theother hand on each altar thereburned a small bosk-dung fire into

which, like a tiny piece of kindling,had been placed — an incensestick.

Kamchak and I dismounted and,from outside the circle, watched thefour chief haruspexes of the WagonPeoples approach the huge altar inthe centre of the field. Behind themanother four haruspexes, one fromeach People, carried a largewooden cage, made of sticks lashedtogether, which contained perhaps adozen white vulos, domesticatedpigeons.

This cage they placed on thealtar. I then noted that each of thefour chief haruspexes carried, about

his shoulder, a white linen sack,somewhat like a peasant’s rep-clothseed bag.

“This is the first Omen,” saidKamchak, “The Omen to see if theOmens are propitious to take theOmens.”

“Oh,” I said.Each of the four haruspexes then,

after intoning an involved entreatyof some sort to the sky, which at thetime was shining beneficently,suddenly cast a handful ofsomething doubtless grain to thepigeons in the stick cage.

Even from where I stood I couldsee the pigeons pecking at the grain

in reassuring frenzy.The four haruspexes turned then,

each one facing his own minorharuspexes and anyone else whomight be about, and called out, “It ispropitious!”

There was a pleased cry at thisannouncement from the throng.

“This part of the Omen Takingalways goes well,” I was informedby Kamchak.

“Why is that?” I asked.“I don’t know,” he said. Then he

looked at me. “Perhaps,” heproposed1, “it is because the vulosare not fed for three days prior tothe taking of the Omen.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted.“I,” said Kamchak, “would like a

bottle of Paga.”“I, too,” I admitted.“Who will buy?” he asked.I refused to speak.“We could wager,” he suggested.“I’ll buy it,” I said.I could now see the other

haruspexes of the peoples pouringwith their animals toward the altars.The Omen Taking as a whole lastsseveral days and consumeshundreds of animals. A tally is kept,from day to day. One haruspex, aswe left, I heard cry out that he hadfound a favourable liver.

Another, from an adjoining altarhad rushed to his side. They wereengaged in dispute. I gathered thatreading the signs was a subtlebusiness, calling for sophisticatedinterpretation and the utmostdelicacy and judgment. Even as wemade our way back to the kaiila Icould hear two more haruspexescrying out that they had found liversthat were clearly unfavourable.Clerks, with parchment scrolls,were circulating among the altars,presumably, I would guess, notingthe names of haruspexes, theirpeoples, and their findings The fourchief haruspexes of the peoples

remained at the huge central altar,to which a white bosk was beingslowly led.

It was toward dark whenKamchak and I reached the slavewagon to buy our bottle of Paga.

On the way we passed a girl, agirl from Cos taken hundreds ofpasangs away in a raid on a caravanbound for Ar. She had been boundacross a wagon wheel lying on theground, her body over its hub. Herclothing had been removed. Freshand clean on her burned thigh wasthe brand of the four bosk horns.She was weeping. The Iron Masteraffixed the Turian collar. He bent to

his tools, taking up a tiny, opengolden ring, a heated metal awl, apair of pliers. I turned away. Iheard her scream.

“Do not Korobans brand andcollar slaves?” asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I admitted, “they do.”I could not rid my mind of the

image of the girl from Cos weepingbound on the wheel. Such tonight,or on another night, would be thelovely Elizabeth Cardwell. I threwdown a wild swallow of Paga. Iresolved I would somehow releasethe girl, somehow protect her fromthe cruelty of the fate decreed forher by Kamchak.

“You do not much speak,” saidKamchak, taking the bottle, puzzled.

“Must the Iron Master be called,”I asked, “to the wagon ofKamchak.”

Kamchak looked at me. “Yes,”he said.

I glared down at the polishedboards of the wagon floor.

“Have you no feeling for thebarbarian?” I asked.

Kamchak had never been able topronounce her name, which beregarded as of barbarian length andcomplexity. “E-liz-a-beth-card-vella” he would try to say, addingthe “a” sound because it is a

common ending of feminine nameson Gor. He could never, like mostnative speakers of Gorean, properlyhandle the “w” sound, for it isextremely rare in Gorean, existingonly in certain unusual words ofobviously barbarian origin. The“w” sound, incidentally, is acomplex one, and, like many suchsounds, is best learned only duringthe brief years of childhood when achild’s lingu1istic flexibility is atits maximum those years in which itmight be trained to speak any of thelanguages of man with nativefluency a capacity which is, formost individuals at least, lost long

prior to attaining their majority. Onthe other hand, Kamchak could saythe sound I have represented as“vella” quite easily and would uponoccasion use this as Elizabeth’sname. Most often, however, he andI simply referred to her as the LittleBarbarian. I had, incidentally, afterthe first few days, refused to speakEnglish to her, thinking it would bemore desirable for her to learn tospeak, think and hear in Gorean asrapidly as possible. She could nowhandle the language rather well. Shecould not, of course, read it. Shewas illiterate.

Kamchak was looking at me. He

laughed and leaned over andslapped me on the shoulder. “She isonly a slaver” he chuckled.

“Have you no feeling for her?” Idemanded.

He leaned back, serious for amoment. “Yes,” he said, “I am fondof the Little Barbarian.”

“Then why?” I demanded.“She ran away,” said Kamchak.I did not deny it.“She must be taught.”I said nothing.“Besides,” said Kamchak, “the

wagon grows crowded and shemust be readied for sale.”

I took back the Paga bottle and

threw down another swallow.“Do you want to buy her?” he

asked.I thought of the wagon of

Kutaituchik and the golden sphere.The Omen Taking had now begun. Imust attempt this night or someother in the near future to purlointhe sphere, to return it somehow tothe Sardar. I was going to say,“No,” but then I thought of the girlfrom Cos, bound on the wheel,weeping. I wondered if I couldmeet Kamchak’s price. I looked up.

Suddenly Kamchak lifted hishand, alert, gesturing for silence.

I noted, too, the other Tuchuks in

the wagon. Suddenly they were notmoving.

Then I too heard it, the windingof a bosk horn in the — distance,and then another.

Kamchak leaped to his feet. “Thecamp is under attack!” he cried.

Chapter 14TARNSMANOutside, as Kamchak and I

bounded down the steps of the slavewagon, the darkness was filled withhurrying men, some with torches,and running kaiila, already withtheir riders.

War lanterns, green and blue andyellow, were already burning onpoles in the darkness, signalling therallying grounds of the Oralus, theHundreds, and the Oralus, theThousands.

Each warrior of the WagonPeoples, and that means each able-bodied man, is a member of an Or,or a Ten; each ten is a member of anOralus, or Hundred; each Oralus isa member of an Oralus, a Thousand.Those who are unfamiliar with theWagon Peoples, or who know themonly from the swift raid, sometimesthink them devoid of organization,sometimes conceive of them as mad

hordes or aggregates of wildwarriors, but such is not the case.Each man knows his position in hisTen, and the position of his Ten inthe Hundred, and of the Hundred inthe Thousand. During the day therapid move-meets of theseindividually ma1noeuvrable unitsare dictated by bosk horn andmovements of the standards; at nightby the bosk horns and the warlanterns slung on high poles carriedby riders.

Kamchak and I mounted thekaiila we had ridden and, as rapidlyas we could, pressed through thethrongs toward our wagon.

When the bosk horns sound thewomen cover the fires and preparethe men’s weapons, bringing fortharrows and bows, and lances. Thequivas are always in the saddlesheaths. The bosk are hitched upand slaves, who might otherwisetake advantage of the tumult, arechained.

Then the women climb to the topof the high sides on the wagons andwatch the war lanterns in thedistance, reading them as well asthe men. Seeing if the wagons mustmove, and in what direction.

I heard a child screaming itsdisgust at being thrust in the wagon.

In a short time Kamchak and Ihad reached our wagon.

Aphris had had the good sense tohitch up the bosk. Kamchak kickedout the fire at the side of the wagon.“What is it?” she cried.

Kamchak took her roughly by thearm and shoved her stumblingtoward the sleen cage where,holding the bars, frightened, kneltElizabeth Cardwell. Kamchakunlocked the cage and thrust Aphrisinside with Elizabeth. She wasslave and would be secured, thatshe might not seize up a weapon ortry to fight or burn wagons.“Please!” she cried, thrusting her

hands through the bars. But alreadyKamchak had slammed shut thedoor and twisted the key in the lock.

“Master!” she cried. It wasbetter, I knew, for her to be securedas she was rather than chained inthe wagon, or even to the wheel.The wagons, in Turian raids, areburned.

Kamchak threw me a lance, and aquiver with forty arrows and abow. The kaiila I rode already had,on the saddle, the quivas,-the ropeand bola. Then he bounded from thetop step of the wagon onto the backof his kaiila and sped toward thesound of the bosk horns. “Master!” I

heard Aphris cry.Of their ranks with a swiftness

and precision that was incredible,long, flying columns of warriorsflowed like rivers between thebeasts.

I rode at Kamchak side and in aninstant it seemed we had passedthrough the bellowing, startled herdand had emerged on the plainbeyond. In the light of the Goreanmoons we saw slaughtered bosk,some hundreds of them, and, sometwo hundred yards away,withdrawing, perhaps a thousandwarriors mounted on tharlarion.

Suddenly, instead of giving

pursuit, Kamchak drew his mount toa halt and behind him the rushingcavalries of the Tuchuks snarledpawing to a halt, holding theirground. I saw that a yellow lanternwas halfway up the pole below thetwo red lanterns.

“Give pursuit!” I cried.“Wait!” he cried. “We are fools!

Fools!”I drew back the reins on my

kaiila to keep the beast quiet.“Listen!” said Kamchak,

agonized.In the distance we heard a sound

like a thunder of wings and then,against the three white moons of

Gor, to my dismay, we sawtarnsmen pass overhead, strikingtoward the camp. There wereperhaps eight hundred to a thousandof them. I could hear the notes of thetarn drum above controlling theflight of the formation.

“We are fools!” cried Kamchak,wheeling his kaiila In an instant wewere hurtling through ranks of1 menback toward the camp. When wehad passed through the ranks, whichhad remained still, those thousandsof warriors simply turned theirkaiila, the last of them now first,and followed us.

“Each to his own wagon and

war!” cried Kamchak.I saw two yellow lanterns and a

red lantern on the high pole.I was startled by the appearance

of tarnsmen on the south em plains.The nearest tarn cavalries as far asI knew were to be found in distantAr.

Surely great Ar was not at warwith the Tuchuks of the southernplains.

They must be mercenaries!Kamchak did not return to his

own wagon but now raced hiskaiila, followed by a hundred men,toward the high ground on whichstood the standard of the four bosk

horns; on which stood the hugewagon of Kutaituchik, called Ubarof the Tuchuks.

Among the wagons the tarnsmenwould have found only slaves,women and children, but not awagon had been burned or looted.,

We heard a new thunder of wingsand looking overhead saw thetarnsmen, like a black storm, drumbeating and tarns screaming, streakby overhead.

A few arrows from those whofollowed us looped weakly up afterthem, falling then among thewagons.

The sewn, painted boskhides that

had covered the domed frameworkover the vast wagon of Kutaituchikhung slashed and rent from thejoined em-wood poles of theframework.

Where they were not torn I sawthat they had been pierced as thougha knife had been driven throughthem again and again, only inchesapart.

There were some fifteen ortwenty guards slain, mostly byarrows. They lay tumbled about,several on the dais near the wagon.In one body there were six arrows.

Kamchak leaped from the back ofhis kaiila and, seizing a torch from

an iron rack, leaped up the stairsand entered the wagon.

I followed him, but then stopped,startled at what I saw.

Literally thousands of arrows hadbeen fired through the dome into thewagon. One could not step withoutbreaking and snapping them. Nearthe centre of the wagon, alone, hishead bent over, on the robe of greyboskhide, sat Kutaituchik, perhapsfifteen or twenty arrows imbeddedin his body. At his right knee wasthe golden kanda box. I lookedabout. The wagon had been looted,the only one that had been as far as Iknew.

Kamchak had gone to the body ofKutaituchik and sat down acrossfrom it, cross-legged, and had puthis head in his hands.

I did not disturb him.Some others pressed into the

wagon behind us, but not many, andthose who did remained in thebackground.

I heard Kamchak moan. “Thebosk are doing as well as might beexpected,” he said. “The quivas Iwill try to keep them sharp. I willsee that the axles of the wagons aregreased.” Then he bent his headdown and sobbed, rocking back andforth.

Aside from his weeping I couldhear only the crackle of I the torchthat lit the interior of the rent dome.I saw here and there, among therugs and polished wood bristlingwith white arrows, overturnedboxes, loose jewels scattered, tornrobes and tapestries. I did not seethe golden sphere. If it had beenthere, it was now gone.

At last Kamchak stood up.He turned to face me. I could still

see tears in his eyes.“He was once a great warrior,”

he said.I nodded.Kamchak looked about himself,

and picked up one of the arrowsand snapped it.

“Turians are responsible forthis,” he said.

“Saphrar?” I asked.“Surely,” said Kamchak, “for

who could hire tarnsmen butSaphrar of Turia or arrange for thediversion that drew fools to theedge of the herds.”

I was silent.“There was a golden sphere,”

said Kamchak. “It was that whichhe wanted.”

I said nothing.“Like yourself, Tarl Cabot,”

added Kamchak.

I was startled.“Why else,” asked he, “would

you have come to the WagonPeoples?”

I did not respond. I could not.“Yes,” I said, “it is true I want it

for Priest-Kings. It is important tothem.”

“It is worthless,” said Kamchak.“Not to Priest-Kings,” I said.Kamchak shook his head. “No,

Tarl Cabot,” said he, “the goldensphere is worthless.”

The Tuchuk then looked aroundhimself, sadly, and then again gazedon the sitting, bent-over figure ofKutaituchik.

Suddenly tears seemed to burstfrom Kamchak’s eyes and his fistswere clenched. “He was a greatman!” cried Kamchak. “Once hewas a great man.”

I nodded. I knew Kutaituchik, ofcourse, only as the huge, somnolentmass of man who sat cross-leggedon a robe of grey boskhide, his eyesdreaming.

Suddenly Kamchak cried out inrage and seized up the golden kandabox and hurled it away.

“There will now have to be anew Ubar of the Tuchuks,” I said,softly.

Kamchak turned and faced me.

“No,” he said.“Kutaituchik,” I said, “is dead.”Kamchak regarded me evenly.

“Kutaituchik,” he said, “divas notUbar of the Tuchuks.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“He was called Ubar of the

Tuchuks,” said Kamchak, “but hewas not Ubar.”

“How can this be?” I asked.“We Tuchuks are not such fools

as Turians would believe,” saidKamchak. “It was for such a nightas this that Kutaituchik waited in theWagon of the Ubar.”

I shook my head in wonder.“He wanted it this way,” said

Kamchak. “He would have it noother.” Kamchak wiped his armacross his eyes. “He said it wasnow all he was good for, for thisand for nothing else.”

It was a brilliant strategy.“Then the true Ubar of the

Tuchuks is not slain,” I said.“No,” said Kamchak.“Who knows who the Ubar truly

is?” I as1ked.“The Warriors know,” said

Kamchak. “The warriors.”“Who is Ubar of the Tuchuks?” I

asked.“I am,” said Kamchak.

Chapter 15HAROLDTuria, to some extent, now lay

under sedge, though the Tuchuksalone could not adequately investthe city. The other Wagon Peoplesregarded the problem of the slayingof Kutaituchik and the despoiling ofhis wagon as one best left to theresources of the people of the fourbosk. It did not concern, in theiropinion, the Kassars, the Kataii orthe Paravaci. There had beenKassars who had wanted to fightand some Kataii, but the calm headsof the Paravaci had convinced them

that the difficulty lay between Turiaand the Tuchuks, not Turia and theWagon Peoples generally. Indeed,envoys had flown on tarnback to theKassars, Kataii and Paravaci,assuring them of Turia’s lack ofhostile intentions towards them,envoys accompanied by rich gifts.

The cavalries of the Tuchuks,however, managed to maintain areasonably effective blockade ofland routes to Turia. Four timesmasses of tharlarion cavalry hadcharged forth from the city but eachtime the Hundreds withdrew beforethem until the charge had beenenveloped in the swirling kaiila,

and then its riders were broughtdown swiftly by the flashing arrowsof the Tuchuks, riding in closely,almost to lance range and firingagain and again until striking home.

Several times also, hosts oftharlarion had attempted to protectcaravans leaving the city, oradvanced to meet scheduledcaravans approaching Turia, buteach time in spite of this support,the swift, harrying, determinedriders of the Tuchuks had forced thecaravans to turn back, or man byman, beast by beast, left themscattered across pasangs of prairie.

The mercenary tarnsmen of Turia

were most feared by the Tuchuks,for such could, with relativeimpunity, fire upon them from thesafety of their soaring height, buteven this dread weapon of Turiacould not, by itself, drive theTuchuks from the surroundingplains. In the field the Tuchukswould counter the tarnsmen bybreaking open the Hundreds intoscattered Tens and presenting onlyerratic, swiftly moving targets; it isdifficult to strike a rider or beast ata distance from tarnback when he iswell aware of you and ready toevade your missile; did thetarnsman approach too closely, then

he himself and his mount wereexposed to the return fire of theTuchuks, in which case ofproximity, the Tuchuk could use hissmall bow to fierce advantage. Thearchery of tarnsmen, of course, ismost effective against massedinfantry or clusters of the ponderoustharlarion. Also, perhaps notunimportantly, many of Turia’smercenary tarnsmen foundthemselves engaged in the time-consuming, distasteful task ofsupplying the city from distantpoints, often bringing food andarrow wood from as far away asthe valleys of the eastern Cartius. I

presume that the mercenaries, beingtarnsmen a proud, headstrong breedof men made the Turians pay highlyfor the supplies they carried, theindignities of bearing burdens beinglessened somewhat by thecompensating weight of golden tarndisks.

There was no problem of waterin the city, incidentally, for Turia’swaters are supplied by deep, tile-lined wells, some of them hundredsof feet deep; there are also siegereservoirs, Bled with the meltedsnows of the winter, the rains of thespring.

Kamchak, on kaiilaback, would

sit in fury regarding the distant,white walls of Turia. He could no1tprevent the supplying of the city byair. He lacked siege engines, andthe men, and the skills, of thenorthern cities. He stood as anomad, in his way baffled at thewalls raised against him.

“I wonder,” I said, “why thetarnsmen have not struck at thewagons with fire arrows why theydo not attack the bosk themselves,slaying them from the air, forcingyou to withdraw to protect thebeasts.”

It seemed to be a simple,elementary strategy. There was,

after all, no place on the prairies tohide the wagons or the bosk, andtarnsmen could easily reach themanywhere within a radius of severalhundred pasangs.

“They are mercenaries,” growledKamchak.

“I do not understand yourmeaning,” I said.

“We have paid them not to burnthe wagons nor slay the bosk,” saidhe.

“They are being paid by bothsides?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Kamchak,irritably.

For some reason this angered me,

though, naturally, I was pleased thatthe wagons and boss; were yet safe.I suppose I was angered because Imyself was a tarnsman, and itseemed somehow improper forwarriors astride the mighty tarns tobarter their favours indiscriminatelyfor gold to either side.

“But,” said Kamchak, “I think inthe end Saphrar of Turia will meettheir price and the wagons will befired and the bosk slain” He grittedhis teeth. “He has not yet met it,”said Kamchak, “because we havenot yet harmed him nor made himfeel our presence.”

I nodded.

“We will withdraw,” saidKamchak. He turned to asubordinate. “Let the wagons begathered,” he said, “and the boskturned from Turia.”

“You are giving up?” I asked.Kamchak’s eyes briefly gleamed.

Then he smiled. “Of course,” hesaid.

I shrugged.I knew that I myself must

somehow enter Turia, for in Turianow lay the golden sphere. I mustsomehow attempt to seize it andreturn it to the Sardar. Was it notfor this purpose that I had come tothe Wagon Peoples? I cursed the

fact that I had waited so long evento the time of the Omen Taking forthereby had I lost the opportunity totry for the sphere myself in thewagon of Kutaituchik. Now, to mychagrin, the sphere lay not in aTuchuk wagon on the open prairiebut, presumably, in the House ofSaphrar, a merchant stronghold,behind the high, white walls ofTuria.

I did not speak to Kamchak of myintention, for I was confident that hewould have, and quite properly,objected to so foolish a mission,and perhaps even have attempted toprevent my leaving the camp.

Yet I did not know the city. Icould not see how I might enter. Idid not know how I might evenattempt to succeed in so dangerousa task as that which I had setmyself.

The afternoon among the wagonswas a busy one, for they werepreparing to move. Already theherds had been eased westward,away from Turia toward Thassa,the distant sea.

There was much grooming ofwagon bosk, checking of harnessand wagons, cutting of meat to bedried hanging from the sides of themoving wagons in the sun and wind.

In the morning the wagons, in theirlong lines, would follow the slowlymoving herds away from Turia.Meanwhile the Omen I Taking, evenwith the participation of the Tuchukharuspexes, 1continued for theharuspexes of the people wouldremain behind until even the finalreadings had been completed. I hadheard, from a master of huntingsleen, that the Omens weredeveloping predictably, several toone against the choice of a UbarSan. Indeed, the difficulty of theTuchuks with the Turians hadpossibly, I guessed, exerted itsinfluence on an omen or two in

passing. One could hardly blamethe Kassars, the Kataii andParavaci for not wanting to be ledby a Tuchuk against Turia or for notwanting to acquire the Tuchuktroubles by uniting with them in anyfashion. The Paravaci wereparticularly insistent on maintainingthe independence of the peoples

Since the death of Kutaituchik,Kamchak had turned ugly in manner.Now he seldom drank or joked orlaughed. I missed his hithertofrequent proposals of contests,races and wagers. He now seemeddour, moody, consumed with hatredfor Turia and Turians. He seemed

particularly vicious with Aphris.She was Turian. When he returnedthat night from the wagon ofKutaituchik to his own wagon hestrode angrily to the sleen cagewhere he had confined Aphris withElizabeth during the putative attack.He unlocked the door and orderedthe Turian maiden forth,commanding her to stand beforehim, head down. Then, withoutspeaking, to her consternation hetore swiftly away the yellowcamisk and fastened slave braceletson her wrists. “I should whip you,”he said. The girl trembled. “Butwhy, Master?” she asked.

“Because you are Turian,” hesaid. The girl looked at him withtears in her eyes. Roughly Kamchaktook her by the arm and thrust herinto the sleen cage beside themiserable Elizabeth Cardwell. Heshut the door and locked it.“Master?” questioned Aphris.“Silence, Slave,” he said. The girldared not speak. “There both of youwill wait for the Iron Master,” hesnarled, and turned abruptly, andwent to the stairs to the wagon. Butthe Iron Master did not come thatnight, or the next, or the next. Inthese days of siege and war therewere more important matters to

attend to than the branding andcollaring of female slaves. “Let himride with his Hundred,” Kamchaksaid. “They will not run away letthem wait like she-sleep in theircage not knowing on which day theiron will come.” Also, perhaps forno reason better than his suddenlyfound hatred for Aphris of Turia, heseemed in no hurry to free the girlsfrom their confinement.

“Let them crawl out,” he snarled,“begging for a brand.”

Aphris, in particular, seemedutterly distraught by Kamchak’sunreasoning cruelty, his calloustreatment of herself and Elizabeth

perhaps most by his sudden,seeming indifference to her. Isuspected, though the girl would nothave dreamed of making theadmission, that her heart as well asher body might nova rightfully havebeen claimed as his by the cruelUbar of the Tuchuks. ElizabethCardwell refused to meet my eyes,and would not so much as speak tome. “Go away!” she would cry.“Leave me!” Kamchak, once a day,at night, the hour in which sleen arefed, would throw the girls bits ofbosk meat and fill a pan of waterkept in the cage. I remonstrated withhim frequently in private but he was

adamant. He would look at Aphrisand then return to the wagon and sitcross-legged, not speaking, forhours, staring at the side of thewagon. Once he pounded the rug onthe polished floor in front of himand cried out angrily, as though toremind himself of some significantand inalterable fact, “She is Turian!Turian!” The work of the wagonwas done by Tuka and another girl,whom Kamchak hired for thepurpose. When the wagons were tomove, Tuka was to walk beside thecart of the sleen cage, drawn by asingle bosk, and with a bosk stickguide the animal. I once spoke

harshly to her when I saw hercruelly poke Elizabeth Cardwellthrough the bars with the bosk stick.Neve1r did she do so again when Iwas nearby. She seemed to leavethe distressed, red-eyed Aphris ofTuria alone, perhaps because shewas Turian, perhaps because shehad no grievance against her.âœhere now is the pelt of the redlarl, Slave?âTuka would tauntElizabeth, threatening her with thebosk stick. âœou will look prettywith a ring in your nose!âshe wouldcry. âœou will like your collar!Wait until you feel the iron, Slavelike Tuka!âKamchak never

reproved Tuka, but I would silenceher when I was present. Elizabethendured the insults as though payingno attention, but sometimes at nightI could hear her sobbing.

I searched among the wagonslong before I found, sitting cross-legged beneath a wagon, wrappedin a worn bosk robe, his weapons athand folded in leathers the youngman whose name was Harold, theblond-haired, blue-eyed fellowwho had been so victimized byHereena, she of the First Wagon,who had fallen spoils to Turia inthe games of Love War.

He was eating a piece of bosk

meat in the Tuchuk fashion, holdingHe meat in his left hand andbetween his teeth, and cuttingpieces from it with a quiva scarcelya quarter inch from his lips, thenchewing the severed bite and thenagain holding the meat in his handand teeth and cutting again.

Without speaking I sat down nearhim and watched him eat. He eyedme warily, and neither did hespeak. After a time I said to him,âœow are the bosk?â/p>

âœhey are doing as well as nightbe expected,âhe said.

âœre the quivas sharp?âIinquired.

âœe try to keep them thatway,âhe said.

âœt is important,âI observed,âœo keep the axles of wagonsgreased.â/p>

âœes,âhe said, ✠think so.â/p>He handed me a piece of meat

and I chewed on it.âœou are Tarl Cabot, the

Koroban,âhe said.âœes,âI said, âœnd you are

Harold the Tuchuk.â/p>He looked at me and smiled.

âœes,âhe said, ✠am Harold theTuchuk.â/p>

✠am going to Turia,âI said.âœhat is interesting,âsaid

Harold, âœ, too, am going toTuria.â/p>

âœn an important matter?âIinquired.

âœo,âhe said.âœhat is it you think to do?âI

asked.âœcquire a girl,âhe said.âœh,âI said.âœhat is it you wish in

Turia?âinquired Harold.âœothing important,âI remarked.✠woman?âhe asked.âœo,âI said, ✠golden

sphere.â/p>✠know of it,âsaid Harold, âœt

was stolen from the wagon of

Kutaituchik.âHe looked at me. âœtis shill to lie worthless.â/p>

âœerhaps,âI admitted, âœut Ithink I shall go to Turia and lookabout for it. Should I chance to seeit I might pick it up and bring itback with me.â/p>

âœhere do you think this goldensphere will be lying about?âaskedHarold.

✠expect,âI said âœt might befound here or there in the House ofSaphrar, a merchant of Turia.â/p>

âœhat is interesting,âsaidHarold, âœor I had thought I mighttry chain luck in the PleasureGardens of a Turian merchant

named Saphrar.â/p>âœhat is interesting indeed,âI

said, âœerhaps it is the same.â/p>âœt is possible,âgranted Harold.

âœs he the smallish fellow, ratherfat, with two yellow teeth.â/p>

âœes,âI said.âœhen I shall attempt not to he

hitter,âI said.✠think that is a good

idea,âgranted Harold.Then we sat there together for a

time, not speaking further, he eating,I watching while he cut and chewedthe meat that was his supper. Therewas a fire nearby, but it was not hisfire. The wagon over his head was

not his wagon. There was no kaiilatethered at hand. As far as I couldgather Harold had little more thanthe clothes on his back, a boskhiderobe, his weapons and his supper.

âœou will be slain in Turia,âsaidHarold, finishing his meat andwiping his mouth in Tuchuk fashionon the back of his right sleeve.

âœerhaps,âI admitted.âœou do riot even know how to

enter the city,âhe said.âœhat is true,âI admitted.✠can enter Turia when I

wish,âhe said. ✠know a way.â/p>âœerhaps,âI suggested, ✠might

accompany you.â/p>

âœerhaps,âhe granted, carefullywiping the quiva on the back of hisleft sleeve.

âœhen are you going to Turia?âIasked.

âœonight,âhe said.I looked at him. âœhy have you

not gone before?âI asked.He smiled. âœamchak,âhe said,

âœold me to wait for you.â/p>Chapter 16I FIND THE GOLDEN

SPHEREIt was not a pleasant path to

Turia that Harold the Tuchukshowed to me, but I followed him.

âœan you swim?âhe asked.âœes,âI said. Then I inquired,

âœow is it that you, a Tuchuk, canswim?âI knew few Tuchuks could,though some had learned in theCartius.

✠learned in Turia,âsaidHarold, âœn the public baths whereI was once a slave.â/p>

The baths of Turia were said tobe second only to those of Ar intheir luxury, the number of theirpools, their temperatures, the scentsand oils.

âœach night the baths wereemptied and cleaned and I was oneof many who attended to this

task,âhe said. ✠was only sixyears of age when I was taken toTuria, and I did not escape the cityfor eleven years.âHe smiled. âœcost my master only eleven coppertarn disks,âhe said, âœnd so I thinkhe had no reason to be ill satisfiedwith his investment.â/p>

âœre the girls who attend to thebaths during the day as beautiful asit is said?âI inquired. The bath girlsof Turia are almost as famous asthose of Ar.

âœerhaps,âhe said, ✠neversaw them during the day I and theother male slaves were chained in adarkened chamber that we might

sleep and preserve our strength forthe work of the night.” Then headded, “Sometimes one of the girls,to discipline her, would be thrownamongst us but we had no way ofknowing if she were beautiful ornot.”

“How is it,” I asked, “that youmanaged to escape?”

“At night, when cleaning thepools, we would be unchained, inorder to protect the chain fromdampness and rust we were thenonly roped together by the neck, Ihad not been put on the rope untilthe age of fourteen, at which time Isuppose my master adjudged it wise

prior to that I had been free a bit tosport in the pools before they weredrained and sometimes to runerrands for the Master of the Bathsit was during those years that Ilearned how to swim and alsobecame familiar with the streets ofTuria one night in my seventeenthyear I found myself last man on therope and I chewed through it andran, I hid by seizing a well rope anddescending to the waters belowthere was movement in the water atthe foot of the well and I dove to thebottom and found a cleft, throughwhich I swam underwater andemerged in a shallow pool, the

well’s feed basin I again swamunderwater and this time emergedin a rocky tunnel, through whichflowed an underground streamfortunately in most places therewere a few inches between thelevel of the water and the roof ofthe tunnel it was very long, Ifollowed it.”

“And where did you follow itto?” I asked.

“Here,” said Harold, pointing toa cut between two rocks, only abouteight inches wide, through whichfrom some underground source aflow of water was emerging,entering and adding to the small

stream at which, some four pasangsfrom the wagons, Aphris andElizabeth had often drawn water forthe wagon bosk.

Not speaking further, Harold, aquiva in his teeth, a rope and hookon his belt, squeezed through anddisappeared. I followed him, armedwith quiva and sword.

I do not much care to recall thatjourney. I am a strong swimmer butit seemed we must confront andconquer the steady press of flowingwater for pasangs and indeed wedid so. At last, at a given point inthe tunnel, Harold disappearedbeneath the surface and I followed

him. Gasping, we emerged in thetiny basin area fed by theunderground stream. Here, Harolddisappeared again under the waterand once more I followed him.After what seemed to me anuncomfortably long moment weemerged again, this time at thebottom of a tile-lined well. It was arather wide well, perhaps aboutfifteen feet in width. A foot or soabove the surface hung a huge,heavy drum, now tipped on its side.It would contain literally hundredsof gallons-of water when filled.Two ropes led to the drum, a smallrope to control its filling, and a

large one to support it; the largerope, incidentally, has a core ofchain; the rope itself, existingprimarily to protect the chain, istreated with a waterproof gluemade from the skins, bones andhoofs of bosk, secured by tradewith the Wagon Peoples. Even sothe rope and chain must be replacedtwice a year. I judged that the top ofthe well might lie eight or ninehundred feet above us.

I heard Harold’s voice in thedarkness, sounding hollow againstthe tiled walls and over the water.“The tiles must be periodicallyinspected,” he said, “and for this

purpose there are foot knots in therope.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It isone thing to descend a long ropeand quite another, even in the lessergravity of Gor, to climb oneparticularly one as long as thatwhich I now saw dimly above me.

The foot knots were done withsubsidiary rope but worked into thefibre of th1e main rope and gluedover so as to be almost one with it.They were spaced about every tenfeet on the rope. Still, even restingperiodically, the climb was anexhausting one. More disturbing tome was the prospect of bringing the

golden sphere down the rope andunder the water and through theunderground stream to the placewhere we had embarked on thisadventure. Also, I was not clearhow Harold, supposing him to besuccessful in his shopping amongstthe ferns and flowers of Saphrar’sPleasure Gardens, intended toconduct his squirming prize alongthis unscenic, difficult andimprobable route.

Being an inquisitive chap, Iasked him about it, some two orthree hundred feet up the rope “Inescaping,” he informed me, “weshall steal two tarns and make

away.”“I am pleased to see,” I said,

“that you have a plan.”“Of course,” he said, “I am

Tuchuk.”“Have you ever ridden a tarn

before?” I asked him.“No,” he said, still climbing

somewhere above me.“Then how do you expect to do

soy” I inquired, hauling myself upafter him.

“You are a tarnsman, are younot?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.“Very well,” said he, “you will

teach me.”

“It is said,” I muttered, “that thetarn knows who is a tarnsman andwho is not and that it slays him whois not.”

“Then,” said Harold, “I mustdeceive it.”

“How do you expect to do that?”I asked.

“It will be easy,” said Harold. “Iam a Tuchuk.”

I considered lowering myselfdown the rope and returning to thewagons for a bottle of Paga. Surelytomorrow would be as propitious aday as any for my mission. Yet I didnot care to pursue again thatunderground stream nor,

particularly, on some new trip toTuria, to swim once more against it.It is one thing to roll about in apublic bath or splash about in somepool or stream, but quite another tostruggle for pasangs against acurrent in a tunnel channel with onlya few inches between the water andthe roof of the tunnel.-

“It should be worth the CourageScar,” said Harold from above,“don’t you thinly so?”

“What?” I asked.“Stealing a wench from the

House of Saphrar and returning on astolen tarn.”

“Undoubtedly,” I grumbled. I

found myself wondering if theTuchuks had an Idiocy Scar. If so, Imight have nominated the youngman hoisting himself up the ropeabove me as a candidate for thedistinction.

Yet, in spite of my betterjudgment, I found myself somehowadmiring the confident youngfellow.

I suspected that if anyone couldmanage the madness on his mind itwould surely be he, or someonesuch as he, someone quite ascourageous, or daft.

On the other hand, I remindedmyself, my own probabilities of

success and survival were hardlybetter and here I was, his criticclimbing up the drum rope, wet,cold, puking, a stranger to the cityof Turia, intending to Steal anobject the egg of Priest-Kingswhich was undoubtedly, by now, aswell guarded as the Home Stone ofthe city itself. I decided that I wouldnominate both Harold and myselffor an Idiocy Scar and let theTuchuks take their pic1k.

It was with a feeling of relief thatI finally got my arm over thecrossbar of the windlass and drewmyself up. Harold bad alreadytaken up a position, looking about,

near the edge of the well. TheTurian wells, incidentally, have noraised wall, but are, save for a rimof about two inches in height, flatwith the level. I joined Harold. Wewere in an inclosed well yard,surrounded by walls of aboutsixteen feet in height, with adefender’s catwalk about the inside.The walls provide a means fordefending the water and also, ofcourse, considering the number ofwells in the city, some of which, bythe way, are fed by springs, providea number of defensible enclavesshould portions of the city fall intoenemy hands. There was an

archway leading from the circularwell yard, and the two halts of thetimbered, arched gate were swungback and fastened on both sides. Itwas necessary only to walk throughthe archway and find ourselves onone of the streets of Turia. I had notexpected the entry to the city to beso easy so to speak.

“The last time I was here,” saidHarold, “was over five years ago.”

“Is it far to the House ofSaphrar?” I asked.

“Rather far,” he said. “But thestreets are dark.”

“Good,” I said. “Let us be on ourway.” I was chilly in the spring

night and my clothes, of course,were soaked. Harold did not seemto notice or mind thisinconvenience. The Tuchuks, to myirritation, tended on the whole notto notice or mind such things. I waspleased the streets were dark andthat the way was long.

“The darkness,” I said, “willconceal somewhat the wetness ofour garments and by the time wearrive we may be rather dry.”

“Of course,” said Harold. “Thatwas 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, arethey not?” I asked.

“No,” said he, “not until thetwentieth hour.” That was midnightof the Gorean day.

“Why do you wish to stop by thebaths?” I asked.

“I was never a customer,” hesaid, “and I often wondered likeyourself apparently if the bath girlsof Turia are as lovely as it is said.”

“That is all well and good,” Isaid, “but I think it would be betterto strike out for the House ofSaphrar.”

“If you wish,” said Harold.“After all, I can always visit I 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 thewagons will withdraw in themorning. 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 willpay your way to the baths.”

“We could always wager,” hesuggested.

“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 ofSaphrar late, rather than poss1iblybefore the twentieth hour. In themeantime it seemed reasonable towhile away some time and the bathsof Turia seemed as good a place asany to do so.

Arm in arm, Harold and I strodeunder the archway leading from thewell yard.

We had scarcely cleared theportal and set foot in the streetwhen we heard a swift rustle ofheavy wire and, startled, lookingup, saw the steel net descend on us.

Immediately we heard the soundof several men leaping down to the

street and the draw cords on thewire net probably of the sort oftenused for snaring sleen began totighten. Neither Harold nor myselfcould move an arm or hand and,locked in the net, we stood likefools until a guardsman kicked thefeet out from under us and werolled, entrapped in the wire, at hisfeet.

“Two fish from the well,” said avoice.

“This means, of course,” saidanother voice, “that others know ofthe 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 ofSaphrar,” said the first man.

I twisted around as well as Icould. “Was this,” I asked Harold,“a part of your plan?”

He grinned, pressing against thenet, 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 witha collar at each end and, behind thecollar, manacles which fasten theprisoner’s hands behind his neck.

We knelt before a low dais,covered with rugs and cushions, onwhich reclined Saphrar of Turia.The merchant wore his pleasureRobes of white and gold and hissandals, too, were of white leatherbound with golden straps. Histoenails, as well as the nails of hishands, were carmine in colour. Hissmall, fat hands moved with delightas he observed us. The goldendrops above his eyes rose and fell.He was smiling and I could see thetips of the golden teeth which I hadfirst noticed on the night of thebanquet.

Beside him, on each side, cross-

legged, sat a warrior. The warrioron his right wore a robe, much asone might when emerging from thebaths. His head was covered by ahood, such as is worn by membersof the Clan of Torturers. He wastoying with a Paravaci quiva. Irecognized him, somehow in thebuild and the way he held his body.It was he who had hurled the quivaat me among the wagons, whowould have been my assassin savefor the sudden flicker of a shadowon a lacquered board. On the left ofSaphrar there sat another warrior,in the leather of a tarnsman, savethat he wore a jewelled belt, and

about his neck, set with diamonds,there hung a worn tarn disk from thecity of Ar.

Beside him there rested, lying onthe dais, spear, helmet and shield.

“I am pleased that you havechosen to visit us, Tarl Cabot ofKo-ro-ba,” said Saphrar. “Weexpected that you would soon try,but we did not know that you knewof the Passage Well.”

Through the metal bar I felt areaction on the part of Harold. Hehad apparently when fleeing yearsago, stumbled on a route in and outof the city which had not beenunknown to certain of the Turians. I

recalled that the Turians, because ofthe baths, are almost all swimmers.

The fact that the man with theParavaci quiva wore the robe nowseemed to be significant.

“Our friend,” said Saphrar,gesturing to his right, “with thehood preceded you tonight in thePassage Well. Since we have beenin touch with him and haveinformed him of the well, wedeemed it wise to mount a guardnearby fortunately, as it seems.”

“Who is the traitor to the WagonPeoples?” 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 onthe quiva, and I feared he mightleap to his feet and thrust the quivato its hilt in the breast of the Tuchukyouth.

“I have often wondered,” saidHarold, “where the Paravaciobtained their riches.”

With a cry of rage the hoodedfigure leaped to his feet, quivaraised.

“Please,” said Saphrar, lifting hissmall fat hand. “Let there be no illwill among friends.”

Trembling with rage, the hooded

figure resumed his place on thedais.

The other warrior, a strong, gauntman, scarred across the leftcheekbone, with shrewd, dark eyes,said nothing, but watched us,considering us, as a warriorconsiders an enemy.

“I would introduce our hoodedfriend,” explained Saphrar, “buteven I do not know his name norface only that he stands high amongthe Paravaci and accordingly hasbeen of great use to me.”

“I know him in a way,” I said.“He followed me in the camp of theTuchuks and tried to kill me.”

“I trust,” said Saphrar, “that weshall have better fortune.”

I said nothing.“Are you truly of the Clan of

Torturers?” asked Harold of thehooded man.

“You shall find out,” he said.“Do you think,” asked Harold,

“you will be able to make me cryfor 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 receivedgold from the Tuchuks?”

“Of course,” said Ha-Keel.“You think perhaps,” said

Saphrar, chuckling, “that I mightobject and that thus you might sowdiscord amongst us, your enemies.But know, Tarl Cabot, that I am amerchant and understand men andthe meaning of gold, I no moreobject to Ha-Keel dealing withTuchuks than I would to the fact thatwater freezes and fire burns andthat no one ever leaves the YellowPool of Turia alive.”

I did not follow the reference tothe Yellow Pool of Turia.

I glanced, however, at Harold,and it seemed he had suddenlypaled.

“How is it,” I asked, “that Ha-Keel of Port Kar wears about hisneck a tarn disk from the city ofAr?”

“1I was once of Ar,” saidscarred Ha-Keel. “Indeed, I canremember you, though as Tarl ofBristol, from the siege of Ar.”

“It was long ago,” I said.“Your swordplay with Pa-Kur,

Master of the Assassins, wassuperb.”

A nod of my head acknowledgedhis compliment.

“You may ask,” said Ha-Keel,“how it is that I, a tarnsman of Ar,ride for merchants and traitors onthe southern plains?”

“It saddens me,” I said, “that asword that was once raised indefence of Ar is raised now only bythe beck and call of gold.”

“About my neck,” he said, “yousee a golden tarn disk of gloriousAr. I cut a throat for that tarn-disk,to buy silks and perfumes for awoman. But she had fled withanother. I, hunted, also fled. Ifollowed them and in combat slew

the warrior, obtaining my scar. Thewench I sold into slavery. I couldnot return to Glorious Ar.” Hefingered the tarn disk.

“Sometimes,” said he, “it seemsheavy.”

“Ha-Keel,” said Saphrar,“wisely went to the city of PortKar, whose hospitality to such as heis well known. It was there we firstmet.”

“Ha!” cried Ha-Keel. “The littleurt was trying to pick my pouch!”

“You were not always amerchant, then?” I asked Saphrar.

“Among friends,” said Saphrar,“perhaps we can speak frankly,

particularly seeing that the tales wetell will not be retold. You see, Iknow 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 dayleft the shop it seems inadvertentlywith some pounds of the nectar oftalenders concealed beneath mytunic in a bladder and for that myear was notched and I was exiledfrom the city. I found my way toPort Kar, where I livedunpleasantly for some time on

garbage floating in the canals andsuch other tidbits as I could findabout.”

“How then are you a richmerchant?” I asked.

“A man met me,” said Saphrar,“a tall man rather dreadful actuallywith a face as grey as stone andeyes like glass.”

I immediately recalledElizabeth’s description of the manwho had examined her for fitness towear the message collar on Earth

“I have never seen that man,”said Ha-Keel. “I wish that I mighthave.”

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, “itwas he who arranged my fortunesand sent me, some years ago, toTuria.”

“What is your city?” I demandedHe smiled. “I think,” he said,

“Port Karl”That told me what I wanted to

know. Though raised in Tyros andsuccessful in Turia, Saphrar themerchant thought of himself as oneof Port Karl Such a city, I thought,could stain the soul of a man.

“That explains,” I1 said, “how itis that you, though in Turia, canhave a galley in Port Karl”

“Of course,” said he.“Also,” I cried, suddenly aware,

“the rence paper in the messagecollar, 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, “thoughthe poor thing was anesthetized atthe time and unaware of the honourbestowed upon her.” Saphrarsmiled.

“In a way,” he said, “it was awaste I would not have minded

keeping her in my Pleasure Gardensas a slave.”

Saphrar shrugged and spread hishands. “But he would not hear of it,it must be she!”

“Who is ‘he’?” I demanded.“The grey 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 offence butarranged his robes and smiled.

“He paid very well,” he said.“Why,” I asked, “did he not

permit you to keep the girl as aslave?”

“She spoke a barbarous tongue,”said Saphrar, “like yourselfapparently. The plan was, it seems,that the message would be read, andthat the Tuchuks would then use thegirl to find you and when they hadthey would kill you. But they didnot do so.”

“No,” I said.“It doesn’t matter now,” said

Saphrar.

I wondered what death he mighthave in mind for me.

“How was it,” I asked, “that you,who had never seen me, knew meand spoke my name at the banquet?”

“You had been well described tome by the grey fellow,” saidSaphrar. “Also, I was certain therecould not have been two among theTuchuks with hair such as yours.”

I bristled slightly. For no rationalreason I am sometimes angeredwhen enemies or strangers speak ofmy hair. I suppose this dates back tomy youth when my flaming hair,perhaps a deplorably outrageousred, was the object of dozens of

derisive comments, eachcustomarily engendering its ownrebuttal, both followed often by animble controversy, adjudicated bybare knuckles. I recalled, with acertain amount of satisfaction, evenin the House of Saphrar, that I hadmanaged to resolve most of these inmy favour.

My aunt used to examine myknuckles each evening and whenthey were skinned which was notseldom, I trooped away to bed withhonour rather than supper.

“It was an amusement on mypart,” smiled Saphrar, “to speakyour name at that time to see what

you would do, to give yousomething, so to speak, to stir inyour wine.”

It was a Turian saying. They usedwines in which, as a matter of fact,things could be and were, uponoccasion, stirred mostly spices andsuga1rs.

“Let us kill him,” said theParavaci.

“No one has spoken to you,Slave,” remarked Harold.

“Let me have this one,” beggedthe Paravaci of Saphrar, pointingthe tip of his quiva at Harold.

“Perhaps,” said Saphrar. Thenthe little merchant stood up and

clapped his hands twice. From aside, from a portal which had beenconcealed behind a hanging, twomen-at-arms came forth, followedby two others. The first two carrieda platform, draped in purple. Onthis platform, nestled in the folds ofthe purple, I saw the object of myquest what I had come so far to findthat for which I had risked and,apparently, lost my Life, the goldensphere.

It was clearly an egg. Its longestaxis was apparently about eighteeninches. 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 Saphrarkindly. “Surely he is entitled to aglimpse of our precious prize.”

“Kutaituchik was killed for it,” Isaid.

“Many more than he,” saidSaphrar, “and perhaps in the endeven more will die.”

“Do you know what it is?” Iasked.

“No,” said Saphrar, “but I knowit is important to Priest-Kings.” Hestood 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 wishwith such an egg?”

“Who knows?” asked Ha-Keel.“It. was this, was it not,” asked

Saphrar, looking at me, “that youcame to Turia to find?”

“Yes,” I admitted. “That is what Icame 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,” hesaid.

“No,” cried the Paravaci, “let mehave him as well as the other.”

“No,” said Saphrar firmly. “Theyare both mine.”

Ha-Keel angrily rammed hissword back into the sheath.

He had clearly wanted to kill mehonourably, swiftly. Clearly he hadlittle stomach for whatever gamesthe Paravaci or Saphrar might havein mind. Ha-Keel might have been acutthroat and a thief but, too he was

of Ar and a tarnsman.“You have secured the object,” I

inquired, “to give it to the greyman?”

“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 Ireceive my gold and the gold willperhaps make me the richest man onGor 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 elsewould he dare to use the name of

Priest-Kings on the message in themessage collar?”

I knew, of course, that the manwas not a Priest-King. But I couldnow see that Saphrar had no ideawho he was or for whom, if anyone,he was working. I was confidentthat the man was the same as hewho had brought ElizabethCardwell to this world he who hadseen her in New York and decidedshe would play her role in hisperilous sports and that thus he hadat his disposal an advancedtechnology certainly to the level ofat least space flight. I did not know,of course, if the technology at his

disposal was his own, or that of hiskind, or if it were furnished byothers unknown not seen who hadtheir own stake in these games oftwo worlds, perhaps more. Hemight well be, and I supposed ittrue, merely an agent but for whom,or what? Something that wouldchallenge even Priest-Kings blat, itmust be, I something that fearedPriest-Kings, or it would naturallyhave I struck this world, or Earthsomething that wanted Priest-Kingsto die that the one world, or two, orperhaps even the system of our sun,would be freed for their taking.

“How did the grey man know

where the golden sphere was?” Iasked.

“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, tosome extent, understand or sense thepolitics, the needs and policies ofthe remote denizens of the Sardar— they were probably notaltogether unaware of the businessof Priest-Kings, particularly notnow, following the recent War of

Priest-Kings, after which manyhumans had escaped the Place ofPriest-Kings and now wanderedfree, if scoffed at and scorned forthe tales they might bear possiblyfrom these, or from spies or traitorsin the Nest itself, the Others hadlearned the Others, I was sure,would neither jeer nor scoff at thestories told by vagabonds of Priest-Kings.

They could have learned of thedestruction of much of thesurveillance equipment of theSardar, of the substantial reductionin the technological capabilities ofPriest-Kings, at least for a short

time and, most importantly, that theWar had been fought, in a way, overthe succession of dynasties thuslearning that generations of Priest-Kings might be in the offing. If therehad been rebels those wanting anew generation there must havebeen the seeds of that generation.

But in a Place of Priest-Kingsthere is only one bearer of young,the Mother, and she had diedshortly before the War.

Thus, the Others might well inferthat there was one, or more,concealed eggs, hidden away,which must now be secured that thenew generation might be

inaugurated, but hidden away quitepossibly not in the Place of Priest-Kings itself, but elsewhere, out ofthe home of Priest-Kings, beyondeven the black Sardar itself. Andthey might have learned, as well,that I had been in the War of Priest-Kings a lieutenant to Misk, the FifthBorn, Chief of the Rebels, and that Ihad now made my way to thesouthern plains, to the land of theWagon Peoples. It would not thenhave required great intelligence tosuspect that I might have come tofetch the egg or eggs of Priest-Kings.

If they had reaso1ned thus, then

their strategy would seem likely tohave been, first, to see that I did notfind the egg, and, secondly, tosecure it for themselves. They couldguarantee their first objective, ofcourse, by slaying me. The matter ofthe message collar had been aclever way of attempting to gainthat end but, because of theshrewdness of! Tuchuks, whoseldom take anything at its facevalue, it had failed; they had thenattempted to bring me down amongthe wagons with a Paravaci quiva,but that, too, had failed; I grimlyreminded myself, however, that Iwas now in the power of Saphrar of

Turia. The second objective, that ofobtaining the egg for themselves,was already almost accomplished;Kutaituchik had been killed and ithad been stolen from his wagon;there was left only to deliver it tothe grey man, who would, in turn,deliver it to the Others whoever orwhatever they might be. Saphrar, ofcourse, had been in Turia for years.This suggested to me that possiblythe Others had even followed themovements of the two men ‘whohad’ brought the egg from theSardar to the Wagon Peoples.

Perhaps they had now struckmore openly and quickly employing

Gorean tarnsmen fearing that I mightmyself seize the egg first and returnit to the Sardar. The attempt on mylife took place one night and theraid on Kutaituchik’s wagon thenext. Saphrar, too, I remindedmyself, had known that the goldensphere was in the wagon ofKutaituchik. I was puzzled a bit thathe had had this information.Tuchuks do not make good spies,for they tend to be, albeit fierce andcruel, intensely loyal; and there arefew strangers allowed in the wagonof a Tuchuk Ubar. It occurred to methat perhaps the Tuchuks had madeno secret of the presence of the

golden sphere in Kutaituchik’swagon. That puzzled me. On theother hand they may well not haveunderstood its true value. Kamchakhimself had told me the goldensphere was worthless poor Tuchuk!But now, I said to myself, poorCabot! However it came about andI could not be sure Others thanPriest-Kings had now entered thegames of Gor and these Othersknew of the egg and wanted It and,it seemed, would have it. In timePriest-Kings, those remaining,would die. Their weapons anddevices would rust and crumble inthe Sardar. And then, one day, like

the pirates of Port Kar in their longgalleys, unannounced, unexpected,Others would cross the seas ofspace and bring their craft to rest onthe shores and sands of Gor.

“Would you like to fight for yourlife?” asked Saphrar of Turia.

“Of course,” I said.“Excellent,” said Saphrar. “You

may do so in the Yellow Pool ofTuria.”

Chapter 17THE YELLOW POOL OF

TURIAAt the edge of the Yellow Pool

of Turia Harold and I stood, nowfreed of the slave bar, but withwrists tied behind our backs. I hadnot been given back my sword butthe quota I had carried was nowthrust in my belt.

The pool is indoors in a spaciouschamber in the House of Saphrarwith a domed ceiling of some eightyfeet in height. The pool itself,around which there is a marblewalkway some seven or eight feetin width, is roughly circular inshape and has a diameter of perhapssixty or seventy feet.

The room itself is very lovelyand might have been one of the

chambers in the renowned baths ofTuria. It was decorated withnumerous exotic floral designs,done primarily in greens andyellows, representing the vegetationof a tropical river, perhaps thetropical belt of the Cartius, orcertain of its tributaries far to thenorth and west. Besides the designsthere w1ere also, growing fromplanting areas recessed here andthere in the marble walkway,broad-leafed, curling plants; vines;ferns; numerous exotic flowers; itwas rather beautiful, but in anoppressive way, and the room hadbeen heated to such an extent that it

seemed almost steamy; I gatheredthe temperature and humidity in theroom were desirable for theplantings, or were supposed tosimulate the climate of the tropicalarea represented.

The light in the room came,interestingly, from behind atranslucent blue ceiling, probablybeing furnished by energy bulbs.Saphrar was a rich man indeed tohave energy bulbs in his home; fewGoreans can afford such a luxury;and, indeed, few care to, forGoreans, for some reason, are fondof the light of flame, lamps andtorches and such; flames must be

made, tended, watched; they aremore beautiful, more alive.

Around the edge of the pool therewere eight large columns, fashionedand painted as though the trunks oftrees, one standing at each of theeight cardinal points of the Goreancompass; from these, stretchingoften across the pool, were vines,so many that the ceiling could beseen only as a patchwork of bluethrough vinous entanglements. Someof the vines hung so low that theynearly touched the surface of thepool. A slave, at a sort of panelfused with wires and levers, stoodat one side. I was puzzled by the

manner in which the heat andhumidity were introduced to theroom, for I saw no vents norcauldrons of boiling water, ordevices for releasing drops ofwater on heated plates or stones. Ihad been in the room for perhapsthree or four minutes before Irealized that the steam rose from thepool itself. I gathered that it washeated. It seemed calm. I wonderedwhat I was expected to meet in thepool. I would have at least thequiva.

I noted that the surface of thepool, shortly after we had entered,began to tremble slightly, and it was

then once again calm. I supposedsomething, sensing our presence,had stirred in its depths, and wasnow waiting. Yet the motion hadbeen odd for it was almost as if thepool had lifted itself, rippled, andthen subsided.

Harold and I, though bound, wereeach held by two men-at-arms, andanother four, with crossbows, hadaccompanied us.

“What is the nature of the beast inthe pool?” I asked.

“You will learn,” Saphrarlaughed.

I conjectured it would be a wateranimal. Nothing had yet broken the

surface. It would probably be a sea-tharlarion, or perhaps several such;sometimes the smaller sea-tharlarion, seemingly not muchmore than teeth and tail, puttering inpacks beneath the waves, are evenmore to be feared than their largerbrethren, some of whom in whosejaws an entire galley can be raisedfrom the surface of the sea andsnapped in two like a handful ofdried reeds of the rence plant. Itmight, too, be a Vosk turtle. Someof them are gigantic, almostimpossible to kill, persistent,carnivorous. Yet, if it had been atharlarion or a Vosk turtle, it might

well have broken the surface forair. It did not. This reasoning alsoled me to suppose that it would notbe likely to be anything like a watersleen or a giant urt from the canalsof Port Karl These two, even beforethe tharlarion or the turtle, would bynow, presumably, have surfaced tobreathe.

Therefore whatever lay in wait inthe pool must be truly aquatic,capable of absorbing its oxygenfrom the water itself. It might begilled, like Gorean sharks, probablydescendants of Earth sharks placedexperimentally in Thassa millenniaago by Priest-Kings, or it might

have the gurdo, the layered, ventralmembrane, shielded by porousplating, of several of the marinepredators perhaps native to Gor,perhaps brou1ght to Gor by Priest-Kings from some other, moredistant world than Earth. Whateverit was, I would soon learn.

“I do not care to watch this,” Ha-Keel said, “so with yourpermission, I shall withdraw.”

Saphrar looked pained, but notmuch more so than was required bycourtesy. He benignly lifted hissmall fat hand with the carminefingernails and said, “By all means,my dear Ha-Keel, withdraw if you

so wish.”Ha-Keel nodded curtly and

turned abruptly and angrily strodefrom the room.

“Am I to be thrown bound intothe pool?” I asked.

“Certainly not,” said Saphrar.“That would hardly be fair.”

“I am pleased to see that you areconcerned with such matters,” Isaid.

“Such matters are very importantto me,” said Saphrar.

The expression on his face wasmuch the same as that I had seen atthe banquet, when he had preparedto eat the small, quivering thing

impaled on the coloured stick.I heard the Paravaci, behind the

hood, snicker.“Fetch the wooden shield,”

commanded Saphrar. Two of themen-at-arms left the room.

I studied the pool. It wasbeautiful, yellow, sparkling asthough filled with gems. Thereseemed to be wound through itsfluids ribbons and filaments and itwas dotted here and there withsmall spheres of various colours. Ithen became aware that the steamthat rose from the pool did soperiodically, rather thancontinuously. There seemed to be a

rhythm in the rising of the steamfrom the pool. I noted, too, that thesurface of the pool licking at themarble basin in which it lay trappedseemed to rise slightly and then fallwith the discharge of the steam.

This train of observation wasinterrupted by the arrival ofSaphrar’s two men-at-arms bearinga wooden barrier of sorts, aboutfour and a half feet high and twelvefeet wide, which they set betweenmyself and my captors, andSaphrar, the Paravaci and thosewith the crossbow. Harold and hiscaptors, as well, were not behindthe barricade. It was, like the

curving wall of the room, decoratedin exotic floral patterns.

“What is the shield for?” I asked.“It is in case you might feel

tempted to hurl the quiva at us,”said Saphrar.

That seemed foolish to me, but Isaid nothing. I certainly had nothingin mind so ridiculous as to hurl atenemies the one weapon whichmight mean life or death to me inmy struggle in the Yellow Pool ofTuria.

I turned about, as well as I could,and examined the pool again. I stillhad seen nothing break the surfaceto breathe, and now I was

determined that my unseen foe mustindeed be aquatic. I hoped it wouldbe only one thing. And, too, largeranimals usually move more slowlythan smaller ones If it were aschool of fifteen-inch Gorean pike,for example, I might kill dozens andyet die half eaten within minutes.

“Let me be sent first to the pool,”said Harold.

“Nonsense,” said Saphrar. “Butdo not be impatient for your turnwill come.”

Though it might have been myimagination it seemed that thepool’s yellow had now becomeenriched and that the shifting fluid

hues that confronted me hadachieved new ranges of brilliance.Some of the filamentous streamersbeneath the surface now seemed toroil beneath the1 surface and thecolours of the spheres seemed topulsate. The rhythm of the steamseemed to increase in tempo and Icould now detect, or thought Icould, more than simple moisture inthat steam, perhaps some othersubtle gas or fume, perhaps hithertounnoticed but now increasing in itsvolume.

“Let him be untied,” saidSaphrar.

While two men-at-arms

continued to hold me, another undidthe bonds on my wrists. Three men-at-arms, with crossbows, stoodready, the weapons trained on myback.~

“If I succeed in slaying orescaping the monster in the pool,” Isaid, casually, “I take it that I amthen, of course, free.”

“That is only fair,” said Saphrar.“Good,” I said.The Paravaci, in the hood, threw

back his head and laughed. Thecrossbowmen also smiled.

“None has, of course,” saidSaphrar, “ever succeeded in doingeither.”

“I see,” I said.I now looked across the surface

of the pool. Its appearance was nowtruly remarkable. It was almost as ifit were lower in the centre and theedges higher near the marble basin,inching as high as they couldtoward our sandals. I took it thatthis was an optical illusion of somesort. The pool was now, it seemed,literally coruscating, glistening witha brilliance of hues that wasphenomenal, almost like handslifting and spilling gems in sunlitwater. The filamentous strandsseemed to go mad with movementand the spheres of various colours

were almost phosphorescent,pulsating beneath the surface. Thesteam rhythm was now swift, andthe gases or fumes mixed with thatmoisture, noxious. It was almost asthough the pool itself respired.

“Enter the pool,” commandedSaphrar.

Feet first, quiva in hand, Iplunged into the yellow fluid.

To my surprise the pool, at leastnear the edge, was not deep. I stoodin the fluid only to my knees. I tooka few more steps out into the pool.It became deeper toward the centre.About a third of the way toward thecentre I was entered into the pool to

my waist.I looked about, searching for

whatever it was that would attackme. It was difficult to look into thefluid because of the yellow, theglistening brilliance of the surfacetroubled by my passage.

I noted that the steam, and gas orfumes, no longer rose from the pool.It was quiet.

The filamentous threads did notapproach me, but now seemedquiet, almost as if content. Thespheres, too, seemed quiescent.Some of them, mostly whitish,luminescent ones, had seemed tofloat nearer, and hovered slightly

beneath the surface, in a ring aboutme, some ten feet away. I took astep towards the ring and thespheres, doubtless moved by thefluids displaced in my step, seemedto slowly disperse and move away.The yellow of the pool’s fluid,though rich, no longer seemed toleap and startle me with itsvibrance.

I waited for the attack of themonster.

I stood so, in the fluid to mywaist, for perhaps two or threeminutes.

Then, angrily, thinking perhapsthe pool was empty, or had been

made fool of, I cried out to Saphrar.“When is it that I meet themonster?”

Over the surface I heard Saphrar,standing behind the wooden shield,laugh. “You have met it,” he said.

“You lie!” I cried.“No,” he responded, amused,

“you have met it.”“What is the monster?” I cried.“The pool!” he shouted.“The pool?” I asked.“Yes,” said Saphrar, gleefully.

“It is alive!”

Chapter 18

THE PLEASUREGARDENS

At the very instant that Saphrarhad called out there was a greatblast of steam and fumes thatseemed to explode from the fluidabout me as though the monster inwhich I found myself had now, itsprey satisfactorily entrapped, daredto respire and, at the same time, Ifelt the yellow fluid about my bodybegin to thicken and yell. I cried outsuddenly in alarm horrified at mypredicament and struggled to turnback and wade to the edge of themarbled-basin that was the cage ofthe thing in which I was, but the

fluid, tightening about me, DOWseemed to have the consistency of arich yellow, hot mud and then, bythe time I had reached a levelwhere it rose to a point midwaybetween my knees and waist thefluid had become as resistant aswet, yellow cement and I couldmove no further. My legs began totingle and sting, and I could feel theskin beginning to be etched andpicked by the corrosive elementsnow attacking them.

I heard Saphrar remark, “Itsometimes takes hours to be fullydigested.”

Wildly, with the useless quiva, I

began to slash and pick at the damp,thick stud about me. The bladewould sink in fully, as though in atub of wet cement, leaving a mark,but when it was withdrawn themark would be erased by thematerial flowing in to fill theaperture

“Some men,” said Saphrar,“those who do not struggle havelived for as much as three hourslong enough in some cases to see,”

I saw one of the vines hangingnear me. My heart leaped wildly atthis chance. If I could but reach it!With all my strength I movedtowards it an inch and then another

inch my fingers stretched, my armsand back aching, until in anotherinch I might have grasped it andthen, to my horror, as I reached inagony for the vine, it rustled andlifted itself just beyond my reach. Imoved toward it again, and again itdid this. I howled with rage. I wasgoing to try again when I saw theslave I had noticed earlier watchingme, his hands on certain of thelevers in the panel on the curvingwall. I stood in the coagulating,tightening fluid, held fast a prisoner,and threw back my head in despair.He had, of course, controlled themovement of the vine from the

panel, undoubtedly by wires.“Yes, Tarl Cabot,” wheezed

Saphrar, giggling, “and yet youwill, in an hour or so, when you aremad with pain and fear, try yetagain and again to touch and grasp avine, knowing that you will notsucceed but yet again and againtrying, believing that once somehowyou will be successful.”

“But you will not!” Saphrar nowgiggled uncontrollably. “I haveeven seen them reach for vines aspear’s length above their head andthink they could reach them!”Saphrar’s two golden teeth, likeyellow fangs, showed as he put

back his head and howled withpleasure, his fat little handspounding on the wood of the shield.

The quiva had turned itself in myhand and my arm flew back, that Imight take with me in my death thetormentor, Saphrar of Turia.

“Beware!” cried the Paravaciand Saphrar suddenly stoppedlaughing and observed me warily.

If my arm should fly forward hewould have time to leap below thewooden frame.

Now he was putting his chin onthe wooden shield and watching meagain, once more giggling.

“Many have used the quiva

before now,” he said, “but usuallyto plunge it into their own heart.”

I looked at the blade.“Tarl Cabot,” I said, “does not

slay himself.”“I did not think so,” said Saphrar.

“And that is why you werepermitted to keep the quiva.” Thenhe threw back his head and laughedagain.

“You fat, filthy urt!” criedHarold, struggling in his bonds withthe two men-at-arms who held him.

“Be patient,” giggled Saphrar.“Be patient, my impetuous youngfriend. Your turn will come!”

I stood as still as I could. My feet

and legs felt cold and yet as if theywere burning presumably the acidsof the pool were at work. As nearlyas I could determine the pool wasthick, rubbery, gelatinous, only inthe area near to my body. I couldsee it rippling, and splashing a bitagainst the edge of the marbledbasin. Indeed, it was even lowertoward the edge now, and hadhumped itself in my vicinity, asthough in time it might climb mybody and, in some hours perhaps,engulf me. But doubtless by then Iwould have been half digested,much of me little more than a creamof fluids and proteins then mixing

with and nourishing the substance ofmy devourer the Yellow Pool ofTuria.

I pushed now, with all my might,not toward the edge of the marbledbasin, but rather toward the deepestpart of the pool. To my satisfactionI found that I could move, thoughbarely, in this direction. The poolwas content that I should enter itmore deeply, perhaps it evendesired that I do so, that its mealmight be even more readilyobtained.

“What is he doing?” cried theParavaci.

“He is mad,” said Saphrar.

Half inch I moved toward thecentre of the pool my journeybecame easier. Then suddenly, theyellow, encircling cement likesubstance had oozed from my limbsand I could take two or three freesteps. The fluid was now, however,to my armpits. One of theluminescent, white spheres floatedby, quite close to me. To my horrorI saw it change its shade as itneared the surface, more closelyapproaching the light.

As it had risen toward thesurface, just beneath which it nowrested, its pigmentation had changedfrom a luminescent white to a rather

darkish grey. It was clearlyphotosensitive. I reached out andslashed at it with the quiva, cuttingit, and it withdrew suddenly, rollingin the fluid, and the pool itselfseemed suddenly to churn withsteam and light. Then it was quietagain. Yet somehow I knew now thepool, like all forms of life, hadsome level of irritability. More ofthe luminescent, white orbs nowfloated about me, circling me, butnone of them now approachedclosely enough to allow me to usethe quiva.

I splashed across the centre ofthe pool, literally swimming. As

soon as I had crossed the centre Ifelt the fluids of the pool once againbegin to yell and tighten. By thetime I had reached the level of mywaist on the opposite side I could,once again, no longer move towardthe edge of the pool. I tried thistwice more, in different directions,with identically the same result.Always, the luminescent,photosensitive orbs seemed tofl1oat behind me and around me inthe fluid. Then I was swimmingfreely in the yellow fluid at thecentre of the pool. Beneath me,vaguely, several feet under thesurface, I could see a collection,

almost like threads and granules ina transparent bag, of intertwined,writhing filaments and spheres,imbedded in a darkish yellow jelly,walled in by a translucentmembrane.

Quiva in my teeth I dove towardthe deepest part of the Yellow Poolof Turin, where glowed thequickness and substance of theliving thing in which I swam.

Almost instantly as I submergedthe fluid beneath me began to jell,walling me away from the glowingmass at the bottom of the pool but,hand over hand, pulling at it andthrusting my way, I forced my way

deeper and deeper into it.Finally I was literally digging in

it feet below the surface. My lungsbegan to scream for air. Still I dugin the yellow fluid, hands andfingernails bleeding, and then, whenit seemed my lungs would burst anddarkness was engulfing me and Iwould lose consciousness, I felt aglobular, membranous tissue, wetand slimy, recoil spasmodicallyfrom my touch.

Upside down, locked in thegelling fluid, I took the quiva frommy mouth and, with both hands,pressed down with the bladeagainst that twitching, jerking,

withdrawing membrane.It seemed that the living,

amorphous globe of matter which Istruck began to move away,slithering away in the yellow fluids,but I pursued it, one hand in the tornmembrane and continued to slashand tear at it. Crowded about mybody now were entangling filamentsand spheres trying, like hands andteeth, to tear me from my work, butI struck and tore again and againand then entered the secret worldbeneath the membrane slashing tothe left and right and suddenly thefluid began to loosen and withdrawabove me and within the

membranous chamber it began tosolidify against me and push me out,I stayed as long as I could but, lungswrenching, at last permitted myselfto be thrust from the membranouschamber and hurled into the loosefluid above. Now below me thefluid began to yell swiftly almostlike a rising floor and it loosenedand withdrew on all sides andsuddenly my head broke the surfaceand I breathed. I now stood on thehardened surface of the YellowPool of Turia and saw the fluids ofthe sides seeping into the massbeneath me and hardening almostinstantly. I stood now on a warm,

dry globular mass, almost like ahuge, living shell. I could not havescratched the surface with thequiva.

“Kill him!” I heard Saphrar cry,and there was suddenly the hiss of acrossbow quarrel which streakedpast me and shattered on the curvingwall behind me. Standing now onthe high, humped dried thing, loftyon that protective coating I leapedeasily up and seized one of the lowhanging vines and climbed rapidlytoward the blue ceiling of thechamber; I heard another hiss andsaw a bolt from the crossbowshatter through the crystalline blue

substance. One of the crossbowmenhad leaped to the now dry floor ofthe manic basin and stood almostbeneath me, his crossbow raised. Iknew I would not be able to eludehis quarrel. Then suddenly I heardhis agonized cry and saw thatbeneath me, once again, thereglistened the yellow fluids of-thepool, moving about him, for thething perhaps thermotropic hadagain, as rapidly as it had hardened,liquefied and swirled about him, theluminescent spheres and filamentsvisible beneath its surface. Thecrossbow bolt went wild, againshattering the blue surface of the

dome. I heard the wild, eerie cry ofthe luckless man beneath me andthen, with my fist, broke the bluesurface and climbed through,grasping the iron of a reticulatedframework supporting numerousenergy bulbs.

Far off, it seemed, I co1uld hearSaphrar screeching for moreguards.

I ran over the iron frameworkuntil, judging by the distance andcurve of the dome, I had reached apoint above where Harold and I hadwaited at the edge of the pool.

There, quiva in hand, uttering thewar cry of Ko-ro-ba, feet first, I

leaped from the framework andshattered through the blue surfacelanding among my startled enemiesThe crossbowmen were eachwinding their string tight for a newquarrel. The quiva had sought andfound the heart of two before eventhey realized I was upon them. Thenanother fell. Harold, wrists stillbound behind his back, hurledhimself against two men and,screaming, they pitched backwardinto the Yellow Pool of Turia.Saphrar cried out and darted away.

The remaining two guardsmen,who had no crossbows,simultaneously whipped out their

swords. Behind them, quiva poisedin his fingertips, I could see thehooded Paravaci.

I shielded myself from the flightof the Paravaci quiva by rushingtowards the two guardsmen. Butbefore I reached them my quiva,with the underhand hilt cast, hadstruck the guardsman on my left. Imoved to his right and from hisstrengthless hand, even before hefell, tore his weapon.

“Down!” cried Harold, and I fellto the floor barely sensible of thesilverish quiva of the Paravacispeeding overhead. I took the attackof the second guardsman by rolling

on my back and flinging up myblade in defence. Four times hestruck and each time I parried andthen I had regained my feet. He fellback from my blade, turned onceand fell into the glistening, livingliquid of the Yellow Pool of Turia.

I spun to face the Paravaci but he,weaponless, with a curse, turnedand from the room.

From the breast of the firstguardsman I removed the quiva,wiping it on his tunic.

I stepped to Harold and with onemotion severed the bonds thatconstrained 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 ofTuria.

“Hurry!” I cried.Together we ran ate-out the

perimeter of the pool until we cameto a tangle of vines depending fromthe ceiling, up which we climbed,broke through the blue substance,and cast wildly about for an avenueof escape. There would be such, forthe ceiling had been unbroken by adoor or panel, and there must surelybe some provision for the

rearrangement and replacement ofenergy bulbs. We quickly found theexit, though it was only a panelsome two feet by two feet, of a sizefor slaves to crawl through. It waslocked but we kicked it open,splintering the bolt from the wood,and emerged on a narrow, unrailedbalcony.

I had the guardsman’s sword andmy quiva, Harold his quiva alone.

He had, running swiftly, climbedup the outside of a dome concentricto the one below, and was therelooking about.

“There it is!” he cried.“What?” I demanded. “Tarns!

Kaiila!”“No,” he cried, “Saphrar’s

Pleasure Gardens!” anddisappeared down the other side ofthe dome.

“Come back!” I cried.But he was gone.Angry, I sped about the dome, not

wishing to silhouette my1selfagainst the sky on its curve, lestthere be enemy bowmen withinrange.

About a hundred and fifty yardsaway, over several small roofs anddomes, all within the vastcompound that was the House ofSaphrar of Turia, I saw the high

walls of what was undoubtedly aPleasure Garden. I could see, hereand there, on the inside, the tops ofgraceful flower trees.

-I could also see Haroldbounding 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 aTuchuk neck.

I now saw him leap to the walland, scarcely looking about, runalong and then leap to the swayingtrunk of one of the flower trees anddescend swiftly into the darkness ofthe gardens.

In a moment I followed him.

Chapter 19HAROLD FINDS A

WENCHI had no difficulty finding

Harold. Indeed, coming down thesegmented trunk of the dower tree, Ialmost landed on top of him. Hewas sitting with his back to the tree,puffing, resting.

“I have formed a plan,” he saidto me.

“That is good news indeed,” Iresponded. “Does it include someprovision for escaping?”

“I have not yet formed that part ofit,” he admitted.

I leaned back against the tree,breathing heavily. “Would it nothave been a good idea to reach thestreets immediately?” I asked.

“The streets will be searched,”puffed Harold, “Immediately by allthe guardsmen and men-at-arms inthe city.” He took two or three deepbreaths. “It will never occur to themto search the Pleasure Gardens,” hesaid. “Only fools would try to hidethere.”

I closed my eyes briefly. I feltready to concede his last point.

“You are aware, of course,” I

mentioned, “that the PleasureGardens of so rich a man asSaphrar of Turia may contain alarge number of female slaves notall of whom might be trusted tokeep silent and some of whom willundoubtedly notice something asunusual as two strange warriorswandering about among the shrubsand ferns?”

“That is true,” said Harold, “but Ido not expect to be here bymorning.” He picked up a stalk of apatch of violet grass, one of severalhues used in such gardens, andbegan to chew on it. “I think,” saidhe, “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. “Theirmovements will undoubtedly becoordinated in the house of Saphrarand some tarns and their riders, ifonly messengers or officers willsurely be available.”

Suddenly there seemed to me areal possibility in Harold’s plan.Undoubtedly tarnsmen, mounted,would come from time to timeduring the night to the House ofSaphrar.

“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 yetcontain a provision for escape.”

“At the time,” he said, “it did notbut 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 Houseof Saphrar, merchant of Turia. I

looked at the lovely, dangling loopsof interwoven blossoms which hungfrom the curved branches of thetree. I knew that the clusters offlowers which, cluster upon cluster,graced those linear, hanging stems,would each be a bouquet in itself,for the trees are so bred that theclustered flowers emerge in subtle,delicate patterns of shades andhues. Besides several of the flowertrees there were also some Ka-la-na trees, or the yellow wine trees ofGor; there was one large-bunked,reddish Tur tree, about whichcurled its assemblage of Tur-Pah, avine like tree parasite with curled,

scarlet, ovate leaves, rather lovelyto look upon; the leaves of the Tur-Pah incidentally are edible andfigure in certain Gorean dishes,such as sullage, a kind of soup; longago, I had heard, a Tur tree wasfound on the prairie, near a spring,planted perhaps long before bysomeone who passed by; it wasfrom that Tur tree that the city ofTuria took its name; there was also,at one side of the garden, against thefar wall, a grove of em-wood,linear, black, supple. Besides thetrees there were numerous shrubsand plantings, almost all flowered,sometimes fantastically; among the

trees and the coloured grasses therewound curved, shaded walks. Hereand there I could hear the Rowingof water, from miniature artificialwaterfalls and fountains. Fromwhere I sat I could see two lovelypools, in which lotus like plantsfloated; one of the pools was largeenough for swimming; the other, Isupposed, was stocked with tiny,bright fish from the various seasand lakes of Gor.

Then I became aware of theflickerings and reflections of lightfrom over the wall, against some ofthe higher buildings about. I alsoheard the running of feet, the sound

of arms. I could hear someoneshouting. 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 nowbe back to work.

I, too, got to my feet.He had no binding fibre, no slave

hood, no tarn. Yet this absence ofequipment did not deter him, nordid he seem to regard hisdeprivations in these particulars asworthy of note.

“It may take a moment to pick outone I like,” he apologized.

“That is all right,” I assured him,“take your time.”

I then followed Harold along oneof the smooth, stone paths leadingamong the trees, brushing our waythrough the clusters of blossoms,skirting the edge of the nearer bluepool. I could see the three moons ofGor rejected in its surface. Theywere beautiful shining among thegreen and white blossoms on thewater.

The masses of flowers andvegetation in Saphrar’s PleasureGardens filled the air with mingled,heavy sweet fragrances.

Also the fountains had beenscented and the pools.

Harold left the walk and stepped

carefully to avoid trampling a patchof talenders, a delicate yellowflower, often associated in theGorean mind with love and beauty.He made his way across some darkblue and yellowish orange grassand came to the buildings setagainst one wall of the gardens.Here we climbed several low,broad marble steps and passeddown a columned porch and enteredthe central building, findingourselves in a dim, lamp-lit hall,bestrewn with carpets and cushionsand decorated, here and there, withcarved, reticulated white screening.

There were seven or eight girls,

clad in Pleasure Silks, sleeping inthis hall, scattered about, curled upon cushions.

Harold inspected them, but didnot seem satisfied. I looked themover nod would have thought thatany one of them would have been aprize, presuming it could be safelytransported somehow to the wagonsof the Tuchuks. One poor girl sleptnaked on the tiles by the fountain.About her neck was a thick metalcollar to which a heavy iron chainhad been fastened; the chain itselfwas attached to a large iron ringplaced in the floor. I supposed shewas being disciplined.

I immediately began to worry thatthat girl would be the one whowould strike Harold’s eye. To myrelief, he examined her briefly andpassed on.

Soon Harold had left the centralhall and was making his way downa long, carpeted, lamp-hungcorridor. He entered various roomsoff this corridor and, after, Isuppose, inspecting their contents,always emerged and trekked offagain.

We then examined othercorridors and other rooms, andfinally returned to the main hall andstarted off down another way, again

encountering corridors and rooms;this we did four times, until wewere moving down one of the lastcorridors, leading from one of thefive main corridors off the centralhall. I had not kept count but wemust have passed by more thanseven or eight hundred girls, andstill, among all these riches ofSaphrar, he could not seem to findthe one for which he searched.Several times, one girl or another,would roll over or shift in hersleep, or throw out an arm, and myheart would nearly stop, but none ofthe wenches awakened and wewould troop on to the next room.

-At last we came to a largishroom, but much smaller than themain hall, in which there weresome seventeen beauties strewnabout, all in Pleasure Silk. The lightin the room was furnished by asingle tharlarion-oil lamp whichhung from the ceiling. It wascarpeted by a large red rug onwhich were several cushions ofdifferent colours, mostly yellowsand oranges. There was no fountainin the room but, against one wall,there were some low tables withfruits and drinks upon them. Haroldlooked the girls over and then hewent to the low table and poured

himself a drink, Ka-la-na wine bythe smell of it. He then picked up ajuicy, red larma fruit, biting into itwith a sound that seemed partlycrunching as he went through theshell, partly squishing as he bit intothe fleshy, segmented en1docarp.He seemed to make a great deal ofnoise. Although one or two of thegirls stirred uneasily, none, to myrelief, awakened.

Harold was now fishing about,still chewing on the fruit, in awooden chest at one end of thetable. He drew out of the chestsome four silken scarves, afterrejecting since others which did not

sufficiently please him.Then he stood up and went to

where one of the girls lay curled onthe thick red carpet.

“I rather like this one,” he said,taking a bite out of the fruit, spittingsome seeds to the rug.

She wore yellow Pleasure Silk,and, beneath her long black hair, onher throat, I glimpsed a silverishTurian collar. She lay with herknees drawn up and her headresting on her left elbow. Her skincolour was tarnish, not too unlikethe girl I had seen from Port Karl Ibent more closely. She was abeauty, and the diaphanous Pleasure

Silk that was the only garmentpermitted her did not, by design,conceal her charms. Then, startled,as she moved her head a bit,restlessly on the rug, I saw that inher nose was the tiny golden ring ofa 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 fruitinto a corner of the room andwhipped one of the scarves fromhis belt.

He then gave the girl a short,swift kick, not to hurt her, but

simply, rather rudely, to startle herawake.

“On your feet, Slave Girl,” hesaid.

Hereena struggled to her feet, hertrend down, but Harold had steppedbehind her, pulling her wrists blindher back and tying then with thescarf 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 freeherself. When she saw him her eyeswere as wide as larma fruit and hermouth flew open.

“It is I,” said Harold, “Haroldthe Tuchuk.”

“No!” she said. “Not you!”“Yes,” he said, “I,” turning her

about once again, routinelychecking the knots that bound herwrists, taking her wrists in hishands, trying to separate them,examining the knots for slippage;there was none. He permitted her toturn and face him again.

“How did you get in here?” shedemanded.

“I chanced by,” said Harold.She was trying to free herself.

After an instant she realized that shecould not, that she had been bound

by a warrior.Then she acted as though she had

not noticed that she had beenperfectly secured, that she was hisprisoner, the prisoner of Harold ofthe Tuchuks. She squared her smallshoulders and glared up at him.

“What are you doing here?” shedemanded.

“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,” sh1e cried,

“of the First Wagon!”I feared the girl’s voice might

awaken the others, but they seemedstill to sleep.

“You are only a little Turianslave girl,” said Harold, “who hastaken 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 teethon the upper right.

Hereena was trying to saysomething. It is perhaps just as wellshe 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’shands separating her jaws.

“I have seen kaiila with betterteeth,” he said.

Hereena made an angry noise. Ihoped that the girl would not burst ablood vessel. Then Harold removedhis hands deftly, narrowly missingwhat would have been a mostsavage bite.

“Sleen!” she hissed.“On the other hand,” said Harold,

“all things considered, she is a notunattractive little wench.”

“Sleen! Sleen!” cursed the girl.

“I shall enjoy owning you,” saidHarold, patting her head.

“Sleep! Sleen! Sleen!” cursed thegirl.

Harold turned to me. “She is, isshe not all things considered apretty little wench?” I could nothelp but regard the angry, collaredHereena, furious in the swirlingPleasure Silk.

“Yes,” I said, “very.”“Do not fret, little Slave Girl,”

said Harold to Hereena.“You will soon be able to serve

me and I shall see that you shall doso superbly.”

Irrationally, like a terrified,

vicious little animal, Hereenastruggled again to free herself.

Harold stood by, patiently,making no attempt to interfere.

At last, trembling with rage, sheapproached him, her back to him,holding her wrists to him. “Yourjest 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 toprevent it?”

“I have a plan,” she said.“Of course,” he said, “you are

Tuchuk.” He looked at hernarrowly. “What is your plan?”

“It is a simple one,” sheresponded.

“Of course,” said Harold,“though you are Tuchuk, you arealso female.”

One of Hereena’s e1yebrowsrose sceptically. “The simplestplans,” she remarked, “are often thebest.”

“Upon occasion,” grantedHarold. “What is your plan?”

“I shall simply scream,” she said.Harold thought for a moment.

“That is an excellent plan,” headmitted.

“So,” said Hereena, “free me andI will give you ten Ihn to flee foryour lives.”

That did not seem to me likemuch time. The Gorean Ihn, orsecond, is only a little longer thanthe Earth second.

Regardless of the standardemployed, it was clear that Hereenawas not being particularlygenerous.

“I do not choose to do so,”remarked Harold.

She shrugged. “Very well,” shesaid.

“I gather you intend to put yourplan into effect,” said Harold.

“Yes,” she said.“Do so,” said Harold.She looked at him for a moment

and then put back her head andsucked in air and then, her mouthopen, prepared to utter a wildscream.

My heart nearly stopped butHarold, at the moment just beforethe girl could scream, popped oneof the scarves into her mouth,

wadding it Up and shoving itbetween her teeth.

Her scream was only a mufflednoise, hardly more than escapingair.

“I, too,” Harold informed her,“had a plan a counter-plan.”

He took one of the two remainingscarves and bound it across hermouth holding the first scarf wellinside her mouth.

“My plan,” said Harold, “which Ihave now put into effect, wasclearly superior to yours.”

Hereena made some mufflednoises. Her eyes regarded himwildly over the coloured scarf and

her entire body began to squirmsavagely.

“Yes,” said Harold, “clearlysuperior.”

I was forced to concede hispoint. Standing but five feet away Icould barely hear the tiny, angrynoises she made.

Harold then lifted her from herfeet and, as I winced, simplydropped her on the floor. She was,after all, a slave.

She said something that soundedlike “Ooof,” when she hit the floor.He then crossed her ankles, andbound them tightly with theremaining scarf.

She glared at him in pained furyover the coloured scarf.

He scooped her up and put herover his shoulder. I was forced toadmit that he had handled the wholeaffair rather neatly.

In n short while Harold, carryingthe struggling Hereena, and I hadretraced our steps to the central halland descended the steps of theporch and returned by means of thecurving walks between the shrubsand pools to the flower tree bymeans of which we had originallyentered the Pleasure Gardens ofSaphrar of Turia.

Chapter 20THE KEEP“By now,” said Harold,

“guardsmen will have searched theroofs, so it should be safe toproceed across them to ourdestination.”

“And where is that?” I asked.“Wherever the tarns happen to

be,” he responded.“Probably,” I said, “on the

highest roof of the highest buildingin the House of Saphrar.”

“That would be,” suggestedHarold, “the keep.”

I agreed with him. The keep, in

the private houses of Goreans, ismost often a round, stone tower,built for defence, containing waterand food. It is difficult to fire fromthe outside, and the roundness likethe roundness of Gorean towers ingeneral tends to increase the amountof oblique hits from catapult stones.

Making our way up the Dowertree with Hereena, who fought likea young she-larl, was not easy. Iwent part way up the tree and washanded the girl, and then Haroldwould go up above me and I wouldhoist her up a way to him, and then Iwould pass him, and so on.Occasionally, to my irritation, we

became entangled in the trailing,looped stems of the tree, each withits richness of clustered flowers,whose beauty I was no loner in amood to appreciate. At lust we gotHereena to the top of the tree.

“Perhaps,” puffed Harold, “youwould like to go back and getanother wench one for yourself?”

“No,” I said.“Very well,” he said.Although the wall was several

feet from the top of thetree~managed, by springing on oneof the curved branches, to build upenough spring pressure to leap towhere I could get my fingers over

the edge of the wall. I slipped withone hand and hung there, feetscraping the wall, some fifty feetfrom the ground, for a nastymoment, but then managed to getboth hands on the edge of the walland hoist myself up.

“Be careful,” advised Harold.I was about to respond when I

heard a stifled scream of horror andsaw that Harold had hurled Hereenain my direction, across the spacebetween the tree and the wall. Imanaged to catch her. She was nowcovered with a cold sweat and wastrembling with terror. Perched onthe wall, holding the girl with one

hand to prevent her tumbling off, Iwatched Harold springing up anddown and then he was leapingtowards me. He, too, slipped, as Iwas not displeased to note, but ourhands met and he was drawn tosafety.

“Be careful,” I advised him,attempting not to let a note oftriumph permeate my admonition.

“Quite right,” wheezed Harold,“as I myself earlier pointed out.”

I considered pushing him off thewall, but, thinking of the height, thelikelihood of breaking his neck andback and such, and consequentlythereby complicating our measures

for escape, I dismissed the notionas impractical, however tempting.

“Come along,” he said, flingingHereena across his shoulders like athigh of bosk meat, and startingalong the wall.

We soon came, to mysatisfaction, to an easily accessible,flat roof and climbed onto it.Harold laid Hereena down on theroof to one side and sat cross-legged for a minute, breathingheavily. I myself was almostwinded as well.

Then overhead in the darknesswe heard the beat of a tarn’s wingsand saw one of the monstrous birds

pass above us. In a short momentwe heard it flutter to alightsomewhere beyond. Harold and Ithen got up and, with Hereena underone of his arms, we circumspectlymade our way from roof to roofuntil we saw the keep, rising li1ke adark cylinder against one of Gor’sthree moons. It stood some seventyfeet from any of the other buildingsin the compound that was the Houseof Saphrar, but now, swaying,formed of rope and sticks, aremovable footbridge extendedfrom an open door in its side to aporch some several feet below us.The bridge permitted access to the

tower from the building on the roofof which we stood. Indeed, itprovided the only access, save ontarnback, for there are no doors atground level in a Gorean keep. Thefirst sixty feet or so of the towerwould presumably be solid stone,to protect the tower from forcedentrance or the immediate, efficientuse of battering rams.

The tower itself was some onehundred and forty feet in height andhad a diameter of about fifty feet. Itwas furnished with numerous portsfor the use of bowmen. The roof ofthe tower, which might have beenfortified with impaling spears and

tarn wire, was now clear, to permitthe descent of tarns and their riders.

On the roof, as we lay there, wecould hear, now and then, someonerun along the footbridge. Then therewas someone shouting. From timeto time a tarn would descend ortake flight from the roof of the keep.

When we were sure there were atleast two tarns on the roof of thekeep I leaped down from the roofand landed on the light bridge,struggling to retain my footing as itbegan to swing under my feet.Almost immediately I heard a shoutfrom the building. “There’s one ofthen!”

“Hurry!” I cried to Harold.He threw Hereena down to me

and I caught her on the bridge. I sawbriefly the wild, frightened look inher eyes, heard what might havebeen a muffled plea. Then Haroldhad sprung down beside me on thebridge, seizing the hand rope tokeep from tumbling off.

A guardsman had emerged,carrying a crossbow, framed in thelight of the threshold at the entranceto the bridge from the building.There was a quarrel on the guideand he threw the weapon to hisshoulder. Harold’s arm flashed pastme and the fellow stood suddenly

still, then his knees gave slowlyway beneath him and he fell to theflooring of the porch, a quiva hiltprotruding from his chest, thecrossbow clattering beside him.

“Go ahead,” I commandedHarold.

I could now hear more mencoming, running.

Then to my dismay I saw twomore crossbowmen, this time on anearby roof.

“I see them!” one of them cried.Harold sped along the bridge,

Hereena in his arms, anddisappeared into the keep.

Two swordsmen now rushed

from the building, leaping over thefallen crossbowman, and racedalong the bridge toward me. Iengaged them, dropping one andwounding the other. A quarrel fromone of the crossbowmen on the roofsuddenly shattered through thesticks of the bridge at my feet,splintering them not six inches fromwhere I stood. I backed rapidlyalong the bridge and another quarrelsped past me, striking sparks fromthe stone tower behind me.

Now I could see several moreguardsmen rushing toward thebridge. It would be eleven ortwelve seconds before the

crossbowmen would be ready tofire again. I turned and began tohack at the ropes that bound theswaying bridge to the tower. InsideI could hear a startled guarddemanding to know who Haroldwas.

“is it not obvious!” Harold wasyelling at him. “You see I have thegirl!”

“What girl?” the guard wasasking.

“A wench from the PleasureGardens of Saphrar, you fool!”Harold was crying at him.

“But why should you be bringingsuch a wench here?” the-guard was

asking.“You are dull, are you not!”

demanded Harold. “here take her!”“Very well,” said the guard.I then heard a sudden, sharp

crack, as of a fist meeting bone.The bridge began to rock and sag

on its ropes and several men fromthe building began to thunder acrosstowards me.

Then there was a horrified cry asone rope was cut and the flooring ofthe bridge suddenly pitched,throwing several of the guardsmento the ground below. A quarrel nowstruck the flooring of the tower atmy feet and skidded into the

building. I struck again and theother rope burst from my stroke andthe bridge swung rapidly backagainst the wall of the buildingopposite with a clatter of sticks andcries, knocking the remaining,clinging guardsmen from it,dropping them like wood senselessto the foot of the wall. I leapedinside the door of the keep andswung it shut. Just as I did so thebolt of a crossbow struck the doorand splintered through it, its headprojecting some six inches on myside. I then flung the two bars inposition, which locked the door,lest men on ladders from the ground

attempt to force it.The room in which I found

myself contained an unconsciousguard, but no further sign of Haroldor Hereena. I then climbed up awooden ladder to the next level,which was empty, and then anotherlevel and another, and another.

Then I emerged in the chamberbelow the roof of the keep and therefound Harold, sitting on the bottomrung of the last ladder, breathingheavily, Hereena lying squirming athis feet. “I have been waiting foryou,” said Harold, gasping.

“Let us proceed,” I said, “lest thetarns be flown from the roof and we

be isolated in the tower.”“My plan exactly,” said Harold,

“but first should you not teach me tomaster the tarn?”

I heard Hereena moan withhorror and she began to strugglemadly to free herself of the scarvesthat bound her.

“Normally,” I said, “it takesyears to become a skilledtarnsman.”

“That is all well nod good,”responded Harold, “but can, you notimpart certain importantinformation relating to the matter ina briefer span?”

“Come to the roof!” I cried

I preceded Harold up the ladderand thrust up the trap admitting us tothe roof. On the roof there were fivetarns.

One guard was even thenapproaching the trap. The other wasreleasing the tarns one by one.

I was ready to engage the firstguard, half on the ladder, butHarold’s head emerged from theopening behind me.

“Don’t fight,” he called to theguard. “It is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba, you fool!”

“Who is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba?” asked the guard, startled.

“I am,” I responded, not knowing

much what else to say.The fellow came running across

the roof. “Where is Kunrus?” heasked.

“Below,” Harold informed him.“Who are you?” asked th1e

guard. “What is going on here?”“I am Harold of the Tuchuks,”

responded Harold of the Tuchuks.“What are you doing here?”

asked the guard.“Are you not Ho-bar?” inquired

Harold. It was a common name inAr, whence many of themercenaries had come.

“I know of no Ho-bar,” said theman. “Is he Turian?”

“I hoped to find Ho-bar,” saidHarold, “but perhaps you will do.”

“I shall try,” said the guard.“Here,” said Harold. “Take the

wench.”Hereena shook her head violently

at the guard, protesting through themuffling folds of the scarf waddedin her mouth.

“What will I do with her?” askedthe guard.

“Just hold her,” said Harold.“Very well,” said the guard.I closed my eyes and it was over

in a second. Harold once more hadHereena over his shoulder and wasboldly approaching the tarns.

There were two of the great birdsleft on the roof, both finespecimens, huge, vicious, alert.Harold dropped Hereena to thefloor of the roof and strode to thefirst tarn. I shut my eyes as hevigorously struck-it once,authoritatively, across the beak. “Iam Harold of the Tuchuks,” he said,“I am a skilled tarnsman I haveridden over a thousand tarns, I havespent more time in the tarn saddlethan most men on their feet, I wasconceived on tarnback, I was bornon Tarnback, I eat tarns fear me! Iam Harold of the Tuchuks!”

The bird, if such emotions it

could have, was looking at him,askance and baffled. Any instant Iexpected it to pick Harold from theroof with its beak, bite him in twoand eat the pieces. But the birdseemed utterly startled, if possible,dumbfounded.

Harold turned to face me. “Howdo you ride a tarn?” he asked.

“Get into the saddle,” I said.“Yes!” he said, and climbed up,

missing one of the rungs of the ropeladder at the saddle and slipping hisleg through it. I then managed to gethim to the saddle and made sure hefastened the safety strap. As swiftlyas I could I then explained to him

the guidance apparatus, the mainsaddle ring and its six straps.

When I handed Hereena to himthe poor girl was shivering andmoaning in terror, uncontrollablytrembling. She, a girl of the plains,familiar with fierce kaiila, herself aproud, spirited wench, brave anddaring, was yet like many womenutterly for some reason terrified ofa tarn. I felt genuine pity for theTuchuk girl. On the other handHarold seemed quite pleased thatshe was beside herself with terror.

The slave rings on the tarn saddleare similar to those on the kaiilasaddle and in a trice Harold, using

the thongs streaming from the slaverings, one on each side of thesaddle, had bound the girl on herback across the saddle in front ofhim.

Then, without waiting, uttering agreat cry, he hauled on the one-strap. The tarn did not move but, Ithought, though it was undoubtedlynot the case, turned and regardedhim sceptically, reproachfully.

“What is the matter?” askedHarold.

“It is still hobbled,” I said.I bent to the tarn 1hobble and

opened it. Immediately the hugebird’s wings began to beat and it

sprang skyward.“Aiii!” I heard Harold cry, and

could well imagine what hadhappened to his stomach.

As quickly as I could I thenunhobbled the other bird andclimbed to the saddle, fastening thebroad safety strap. Then I hauled onthe one-strap and seeing Harold’sbird wheeling about in circlesagainst one of the Gorean moonssped to his side.

“Release the straps!” I called tohim. “The bird will follow thisone!”

“Very well,” I heard him call,cheerily.

And in a moment we werespeeding high over the city of Turia.I took one long turn, seeing thetorches and lights in the House ofSaphrar below, and then guided mybird out over the prairie in thedirection of the wagons of theTuchuks.

I was elated that we had managedto escape alive from the House ofSaphrar, but I knew that I mustreturn to the city, for I had notobtained the object for which I hadcome the golden sphere which stillresided in the merchant stronghold.

I must manage to seize it beforethe man with whom Saphrar had

had dealings the grey man with eyeslike glass could call for It anddestroy it or carry it away.

As we sped high over the prairieI wondered at how it was thatKamchak was withdrawing thewagons and bosk from Turia that hewould so soon abandon the siege.

Then, in the dawn, we saw thewagons below us, and the boskbeyond them. Already fires hadbeen lit and there was much activityin the camp of the Tuchuks, thecooking, the checking of wagons,the gathering and hitching up of thewagon bosk. This, I knew, was themorning on which the wagons

moved away from Turia, towarddistant Thassa, the Sea. Riskingarrows, I, followed by Harold,descended to alight among thewagons.

Chapter 21KAMCHAK ENTERS

TURIAI had now been in the city of

Turia some four days, havingreturned on foot in the guise of apeddler of small jewels. I had leftthe tarn with the wagons. I hadspent my last tarn disk to buy acouple of handfuls of tiny stones,

many of them of little or no value;yet their weight in my pouch gaveme some pretext for being in thecity.

I had found Kamchak, as I hadbeen told I would, at the wagon ofKutaituchik, which, drawn up on itshill near the standard of the fourbosk horns, had been heaped withwhat wood was at hand and filledwith dry grass. The whole was thendrenched in fragrant oils, and thatdawn of the retreat, Kamchak, byhis own hand, hurled the torch intothe wagon.

Somewhere in the wagon, fixedin a sitting position, weapons at

hand, was Kutaituchik, who hadbeen Kamchak’s friend, and whohad been called Ubar of theTuchuks. The smoke of the wagonmust easily have been seen from thedistant walls of Turia.~

Kamchak had not spoken but saton his kaiila, his face dark withresolve. He was terrible to lookupon and I, though his friend, didnot dare to speak to him. I had notreturned to the wagon I had sharedwith him, but had come immediatelyto the wagon of Kutaituchik, whereI had been informed he was to befound.

Clustered about the hill, in ranks,

on their kaiila, black lances in thestirrup, were several of the TuchukHundreds.

Angrily1 they watched the wagonburn.

I wondered that such men asKamchak and these others would sowillingly, abandon the siege ofTuria.

At last when the wagon hadburned and the wind moved aboutthe blackened beams and scatteredashes across the green prairie,Kamchak raised his right hand. “Letthe standard be moved,” he cried.

I observed a special wagon,drawn by a dozen bosk, being

pulled up the hill, into which thestandard, when uprooted, would beset. In a few minutes the great poleof the standard had been mountedon the wagon and was descendingthe hill, leaving on the summit theburned wood and the black ashesthat had been the wagon ofKutaituchik, surrendering them nowto the wind and the rain, to time andthe snows to come, and to the greengrass of the prairie.

“Turn the wagons!” calledKamchak.

Slowly, wagon by wagon, thelong columns of the Tuchuk retreatwere 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 couldsee the herds of bosk, and the dustfrom their hoofs stained the horizon.

Kamchak rose in his stirrups.“The Tuchuks ride from Turia!” hecried.

Rank by rank the warriors on thekaiila, dour, angry, silent, turnedtheir mounts away from the city andslowly went to find their wagons,save for the Hundreds that wouldflank the withdrawal and form itsrear guard.

Kamchak rode his kaiila up the

hill until he stood, that cold dawn,at the edge of the burned wood andashes of Kutaituchik’s wagon. Hestayed there for some time, and thenturned his mount away, and cameslowly down the hill.

Seeing me, he stopped. “I ampleased to see you live,” he said.

I dropped my head,acknowledging the bond he hadacknowledged. My heart feltgrateful to the stern, fierce warrior,though he had been in the past daysharsh and strange, half drunk withhatred for Turia. I did not know ifthe Kamchak I had known wouldever live again. I feared that part of

him perhaps that part I had lovedbest had died the night of the raid,when he had entered the wagon ofKutaituchik.~

Standing at his stirrup I lookedup. “Will you leave like this?” Iasked. “Is it enough?”

He looked at me, but I could readno expression on his face. “TheTuchuks ride from Turia,” he said.He then rode away, leaving mestanding on the hill.

Somewhat to my surprise I hadno difficulty the next morning, afterthe withdrawal of the wagons, inentering the city. Before leaving thewagons I had joined them briefly on

their march, long enough topurchase my peddler’s disguise andthe pound or so of stones whichwas to complete it. I purchasedthese things from the man fromwhom Kamchak had, on a happierafternoon, obtained a new saddleand set of quivas. I had seen manythings in the man’s wagon and I hadgathered, correctly it seems, that hewas himself a peddler of sorts. Ithen, on foot, following for a timethe tracks of the departing wagons,then departing from them, returnedto the vicinity of Turia. I spent thenight on the prairie and then, onwhat would have been the second

day of the retreat, entered the city atthe eighth hour. My hair wasconcealed in the hood of a thin,ankle-length rep-cloth garment, adirty white through which ran flecksof golden thread, a fit garment, inmy opinion, for an insignificantmerchant. Beneath my garment,concealed, I carried sword andqui1va.

I was hardly questioned byguards at the gates of Turia, for thecity is a commercial oasis in theplains and during a year hundredsof caravans, not to mentionthousands of small merchants, onfoot or with a single tharlarion

wagon, enter her gates. To my greatsurprise the gates of Turia stoodopen after the withdrawal of thewagons and the lifting of the siege.Peasants streamed through themreturning to their fields and alsohundreds of townsfolk for an outing,some of them to walk even as far asthe remains of the old Tuchuk camp,hunting for souvenirs. As I entered Iregarded the lofty double gates, andwondered how long it would take toclose them.

As I hobbled through the city ofTuria, one eye half shut, staring atthe street as though I hoped to find alost copper tarn disk among the

stones, I made my way toward thecompound of Saphrar of Turia. Iwas jostled in the crowds, andtwice nearly knocked down in theguard of Phanius Turmus, Ubar ofTuria.

I was vaguely conscious, fromtime to time, that I might befollowed. I dismissed thispossibility, however, for, glancingabout, I could find no one I mightfear. The only person I saw morethan once was a slip of a girl inRobes of Concealment and veil, amarket basket on her arm, who thesecond time passed me, not noticingme. I breathed a sigh of relief. It is

a nerve-wracking business, thenegotiation of an enemy city,knowing that discovery might bringtorture or sudden death, at bestperhaps an Impalement by sundownon the city’s walls, a warning to anyother who might be similarlytempted to transgress the hospitalityof a Gorean city.

I came to the ring of flat, clearedground, some hundred feet or sowide, which separates the walledcompound of buildings whichconstitutes the House of Saphrar ofTuria from all the surroundingstructures. I soon learned, to myirritation, that one could not

approach the high compound wallmore closely than ten spear lengths.

“Get away you!” cried a guardfrom the wall, with a crossbow.“There is no loitering here”

“But master!” I cried. “I havegems and jewels to show the nobleSaphrar!”

“Approach then the nearer gate!”he called. “And state yourbusiness.”

I found a rather small gate in thewall, heavily barred, and beggedadmittance to show my wares toSaphrar. I hoped to be ushered intohis presence and then, on the threatof slaying him, secure the golden

sphere and a tarn for escape.To my chagrin I was not admitted

into the compound, but my pitifulstock of almost worthless stoneswas examined outside the gate by asteward in the company of twoarmed warriors. It took him only afew moments to discover the valueof the stones and, when he did, witha cry of disgust, he hurled themaway from the gate into the dust,and the two warriors, while Ipretended fright and pain,belaboured me with the hilts oftheir weapons. “Be gone, Fool!”they snarled.

I hobbled after the stones, and

fell to my knees in the dust,scrabbling after them, moaning andcrying aloud.

I heard the guards laugh.I had just picked up the last stone

and tucked it back in my pouch andwas about to rise from my kneeswhen I found myself staring at thehigh, 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

Kam1ras of Turia, Champion of theCity, whom Kamchak had so sorelybested in the games of Love War.

I lunged forward seizing him bythe legs and upended him in the-dustand 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 TarlCabot of Ko-ro-ba! Stop him!”

I stumbled in the long robe of themerchant and cursed and leaped upand ran again. The bolt of acrossbow splattered into a brickwall on my right, gouging a cupfulof masonry loose in chips and dust.

I darted down a narrow street. Icould hear someone, probablyKamras, and then one or two othersrunning after me. Then I heard a girl

cry out, and scream, and two mencurse. I glanced behind me to seethat the girl who carried the marketbasket had inadvertently fallen infront of the warriors. She wascrying angrily at them and wavingher broken basket. They pushed herrudely to one side and-hurried on.By that time I had rounded a cornerand leaped to a window, pulledmyself up to the next window, andhauled myself up again and onto theflat roof of a shop. I heard therunning feet of the two warriors,and then of six more men, pass inthe street below. Then somechildren, screaming, ran after the

soldiers. I heard some speculativeconversation in the street below,between two or three passers-by,then it seemed quiet.

I lay there scarcely daring tobreathe. The sun on the flat roofwas hot. I counted five Gorean Ehn,or minutes. Then I decided I hadbetter move across the roofs in theopposite direction, find a shelteredroof, stay there until nightfall andthen perhaps try to leave the city. Imight go after the wagons, whichwould be moving slowly, obtain thetarn I had left with them, and thenreturn on tarnback to Saphrar’shouse. It would be extremely

dangerous, of course, to leave thecity in the near future. Certainlyword would be at the gates to watchfor me. I had entered Turia easily. Idid not expect I would leave aseasily as I had entered. But howcould I stay in the city untilvigilance at the gates might berelaxed, perhaps three or four daysfrom now? Every guardsman inTuria would be on the lookout forTarl Cabot, who unfortunately, wasnot difficult to recognize.

About this time I heard someonecoming along the street whistling atune. I had heard it. Then I realizedthat I had heard it among the

wagons of the Tuchuks. It was aTuchuk tune, a wagon tune,sometimes sung by the girls with thebosk sticks.

I picked up the melody andwhistled a few bars, and then theperson below joined me and wefinished the turn.

Cautiously I poked my head overthe edge of the roof. The street wasdeserted save for a girl, who wasstanding below, looking up towardthe roof. She was dressed in veiland Robes of Concealment. It wasshe whom I had seen before, when Ihad thought I might be followed. Itwas she who had inadvertently

detained my pursuers. She carried abroken market basket.

“You make a very poor spy, TarlCabot,” 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 andexchanged the robes of the merchantfor the yellow and brown tunic ofthe Bakers, to which caste herfather and two brothers hadbelonged.

Downstairs the wooden screensthat had separated the shop from thestreet had been splintered apart; thecounter had been broken and the

ovens ruined, their oval domesshattered, their iron doors twistedfrom their hinges; even the topstones o1n tile two grain mills hadbeen thrown to the floor andbroken.

At one time, I gathered fromDina, her father’s shop had been themost famed of the baking shops ofTuria, most of which are owned bySaphrar of Turia, whose interestsrange widely, though operatednaturally, as Gorean custom wouldrequire, by members of the Caste ofBakers. Her father had refused tosell the shop to Saphrar’s agents,and take his employment under the

merchant. Shortly thereafter someseven or eight ruffians, armed withclubs and iron ban, had attacked theshop, destroying its equipment. Inattempting to defend against thisattack both her father and her twoolder brothers had been beaten todeath. Her mother had died shortlythereafter of shock. Dina had livedfor a time on the savings of thefamily, but had then taken them,sewn in the lining of her roles, andpurchased a place on a caravanwagon bound for Ar, which caravanhad been ambushed by Kassars, inwhich raid she herself, of course,had fallen into their hands.

“Would you not like to hire menand reopen the shop?” I asked.

“I have no money,” she said.“I have very little,” I said, taking

the pouch and spilling the stones ina glittering if not very valuableheap on the small table in hercentral room.

She laughed and poked throughthem with her fingers. “I learnedsomething of jewels,” she said, “inthe wagons of Albrecht andKamchak and there is scarcely asilver tarn disk’s worth here.”

“I paid a golden tarn disk forthem,” I asserted.

“But to a Tuchuk” she said.

“Yes,” I admitted.“My dear Tarl Cabot,” she said,

“my sweet dear Tarl Cabot.” Thenshe looked at me and her eyessaddened.

“But,” said she, “even had I themoney to reopen the shop it wouldmean only that the men of Saphrarwould come again.”

I was silent. I supposed what shesaid was true.

“Is there enough there to buypassage to Ar?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “But I wouldprefer in any case to remain inTuria it is my home.”

“How do you live?” I asked.

“I shop for wealthy women,”said she, “for pastries and tarts andcakes things they will not trust theirfemale slaves to buy.”

In answer to her questions I toldher the reason for which I hadentered the city to steal an object ofvalue from Saphrar of Turia, whichhe himself had stolen from theTuchuks. This pleased her, as Iguessed anything would which wascontrary to the interests of theTurian merchant, for whom sheentertained the greatest hatred.

“Is this truly all you travel” sheasked, pointing at the pile of stones.

“Yes,” I said.

“Poor warrior,” said she, hereyes smiling over the veil, “you donot even have enough to pay for theuse of a skilled slave girl.”

“That is true,” I admitted.Slit laughed anti with an easy

motion dropped the veil from herface and shook her head, freeing herhair. She held out her hands. “I amonly a poor free woman,” said she,“but might I not do?”

I took her hands and drew her tome, and into my arms.

“You are very beautiful, Dina ofTuria,” I said to her.

For four days I remained with thegirl, and each day, once at noon and

once in the evening, we wouldstroll by one or more of the gates ofTuria, to see if the guards mightnow be less vigilant than they hadbeen the time before. To mydisappointment, they continued tocheck every outgoing person andwagon with great care, demandingproof of identity and business.When there was the least doubt, theindividual was detained forinterrogation by an officer of theguard. On the other hand I noted,irritably, that incoming individualsand wagons were waved aheadwith hardly a glance. Dina andmyself attracted little attention from

guardsmen or men-at-arms. My hair was now black;

I wore the tunic of the Bakers; and Iwas accompanied by a woman.

Several times criers had passedthrough the streets shouting that Iwas still at large and calling out mydescription.

Once two guardsmen came to theshop, searching it as I expect mostother structures in the city weresearched. During this time Iclimbed out a back window facinganother building, and hoisted myselfto the flat roof of the shop, returningby the same route when they hadgone.

I had, almost from the first inKamchak’s wagon, been truly fondof Dina, and I think she of me. Shewas truly a fine, spirited girl,quick-witted, warm-hearted,intelligent and brave. I admired herand feared for her. I knew, though Idid not speak of it with her, that shewas willingly risking her life toshelter me in her native city.Indeed, it is possible I might havedied the first night in Turia had itnot been that Dina had seen me,followed me and in my time of needboldly stood forth as my ally. Inthinking of her I realized howfoolish are certain of the Gorean

prejudices with respect to thematter of caste. The Caste of Bakersis not regarded as a high caste, towhich one looks for nobility andsuch; and yet her father and herbrothers, outnumbered, had foughtand died for their tiny shop; and thiscourageous girl, with a valour Imight not have expected of manywarriors, weaponless, alone andfriendless, had immediately, askingnothing in return, leaped to my aid,giving me the protection of herhome, and her silence, placing atmy disposal her knowledge of thecity and whatever resources mightbe hers to command.

When Dina was about her ownbusiness, shopping for her clients,usually in the early morning and thelate afternoon, I would remain inthe rooms above the shop. There Ithought long on the matter of the eggof Priest-Kings and the House ofSaphrar. In time I would leave thecity when I thought it safe and returnto the wagons, obtain the tarn andthen make a strike for the egg. I didnot give myself, however, muchhope of success in so desperate aventure. I lived in constant fear thatthe grey man he with eyes like glasswould come to Turia on tarnbackand acquire, before I could act, the

golden sphere for which so muchhad been risked, for whichapparently more than one man haddied.

Sometimes Dina and I, in ourwalking about the city, wouldascend the high walls and look outover the plains.

There was no objection to this onthe part of anyone, provided entryinto the guard stations was notattempted.

Indeed, the broad walk, somethirty feet wide, within the highwalls of Turia, with the view overthe plains, is a favourite promenadeof Turian couples. During times of

danger or siege, of course, none butmilitary personnel or civiliandefenders are permitted on thewalls.

“You seem troubled, TarlCabot,” sai1d Dina, by my side,looking with me out over theprairie.

“It is true, my Dina,” said I.“You fear the object you seek

will leave the city before you canobtain 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 thosewho would depart from Turia, butshe knew too, as I, that each day,each hour, I remained in Turiacounted against me.

“It is my hope that you will besuccessful,” she said.

I put my arm about her andtogether we looked out over theparapet.

“Look,” I said, “there comes asingle merchant wagon it must besafe now on the plains.”

“The Tuchuks are gone,” shesaid. And she added, “I shall missyou, 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. Itwas shortly before the tenth Goreanhour, or noon of the Gorean day.

We stood on the wall near themain gate of Turia, through which Ihad entered the city some four daysago, the morning after the departureof the Tuchuk wagons for thepastures this side of the Ta-ThassaMountains, beyond which lay thevast, gleaming Thassa itself.

I watched the merchant wagon,large and heavy, wide, withplanked sides painted alternatelywhite and gold, covered with a

white and gold rain canvas. It wasdrawn not by the draft tharlarionlike most merchant wagons but, likesome, 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 thestones some hundred feet below.

“It will take time,” she said, “andthe walls are patrolled closely aftersundown, and lit by torches.” Shelooked at me.

“And you will be on foot,” shesaid. “You know we have huntingsleen in Turia?”

“Yes,” I said, “I know.”“It is unfortunate,” she said, “that

you do not have a swift kaiila andthen you might, in-broad daylight,hurtle past the guards and makeyour way into the prairie.”

“Even could I steal a kaiila ortharlarion,” I said, “there aretarnsmen.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is true.”Tarnsmen would have little

difficulty in finding a rider andmount on the open prairie nearTuria. It was almost certain theywould be flying within minutes afteran alarm was sounded, even thoughthey need be summoned from the

baths, the Paga taverns, the gamingrooms of Turia, in which of late, thesiege over, they had been freelyspending their mercenary gold,much to the delight of Turians. In afew days, their recreationscomplete, I expected Ha-Keelwould weigh up his gold, marshalhis men and withdraw through theclouds from the city. I, of course,did not wish to wait a few days ormore or however long it might takeHa-Keel to rest his men, square hisaccounts with Saphrar and depart.

The heavy merchant wagon wasnear the main gate now and it wasbeing waved forward.

I looked out over the prairie, inthe direction that had been taken bythe Tuchuk wagons. Some five daysnow they had been gone. It hadseemed strange to me that Kamchak,the resolute, implacable Kamchakof the Tuchuks, had so soonsurrendered his assault on the citynot that I expected it would havebeen, if prolonged, successful.Indeed, I respected his wisdomwithdrawing in the face of asituation in which there was nothingto be gained and, considering thevulnerability of the wagons andbosk to tarnsmen, much to be lost.He had done the wise thing. But

how it must have hurt him, he,Kamchak, to turn the wagons andwithdraw from Turia, leavingKutaituchik unrevenged and Saphrarof Turia triumphant. It had been, inits way, a courageous thing for himto do. I would rather have expectedKamchak to have stood before thewalls of Turia, his kaiila saddled,his arrows at hand, until the windsand snows had at last driven him,the Tuchuks, the wagons and thebosk away from the gates of thebeleaguered city, the nine-gated,high-walled stronghold of Turia,inviolate and never conquered.

This train of thought was

interrupted by the sounds of analtercation below, the shouting ofan annoyed guardsman at the gate,the protesting cries of the driver ofthe merchant wagon. I looked downfrom the wall, and to myamusement, though I felt sorry forthe distraught driver, saw that theright, rear wheel of the wide, heavywagon had slipped the axle and thatthe wagon, obviously heavilyloaded, was now tilting crazily, andthen the axle struck the dirt,imbedding itself.

The driver had immediatelyleaped down and was gesticulatingwildly beside the wheel. Then,

irrationally, he put his shoulderunder the wagon box and began topush up, trying to right the wagon,surely an impossible task for oneman.

This amused several of theguards and some of the passers-byas well, who gathered to watch thedriver’s discomfiture. Then theofficer of the guard, nearly besidehimself with rage, ordered severalof his amused men to put theirshoulders to the wagon as well.Even the several men, together withthe driver, could not right thewagon, and it seemed that leversmust be sent for.

I looked away, across the prairie,bemused. Dina was still watchingthe broil below and laughing, forthe driver seemed so utterlydistressed and apologetic, cringingand dancing about and scrapingbefore the irate officer. Then Inoted across the prairie, hardlyremarking it, a streak of dust in thesky.

Even the guards and townsfolkhere and there on the wall seemednow to be watching the stalledwagon below.

I looked down again. The driverI noted was a young man, well built.He had blond hair. There seemed to

be something familiar about him.Suddenly I wheeled and gripped

the parapet. The streak of dust wasnow more evident. It wasapproaching the main gate of Turia.

I seized Dina of Turia in myarms.

“What’s wrong!” she said.I whispered to her, fiercely.

“Return to your home and lockyourself in. Do not go out into thestreets!”

“I do not understand,” said she.“What are you talking about?”

“Do not ask questions,” I orderedher. “Do as I say! Go home, bolt thedoor to your rooms, do not leave

the house!”“But, Tarl Cabot,” she said.“Hurry!” I said.“You’re hurting my arms,” she

cried.“Obey me!” I commanded.Suddenly she looked out over the

parapet. She, too, saw the dust. Herhand went to her mouth. Her eyeswidened in fear.

“You can do nothing,” I said.“Run!”

I kissed her savagely and turnedher about and thrust her a dozen feetdown the walkway inside the wall.She stumbled a few feet and turned.“What of you?” she cried.

“Run!” I commanded.And Dina of Turia ran down the

walkway, along the rim of the highwall of Turia.

Beneath the unbelted tunic of theBakers, slung under my left arm, itslineaments concealed largely by ashort brown cloak worn over theleft shoulder, there hung my swordand with it, the quiva. I now, nothurrying, removed the weaponsfrom my tunic, removed the cloakand wrapped them inside it.

I then looked once more over theparapet. The dust was closer now.In a moment I would be able to seethe kaiila, the flash of light from the

lance blades. Judging from the dust,its dimensions, its speed ofapproach, the riders, perhapshundreds of them the first wave,were riding in a narrow column, atfull gallop. The narrow column, andprobably the Tuchuk spacing, aHundred and then the space for aHundred, open, and then anotherHundred, and so on, tends tonarrow the front of dust, and thespaces between Hundreds givestime for some of the dust todissipate and also, incidentally, torise sufficiently so that the progressof the consequent Hundreds is in noway impeded or handicapped. I

could now see the first Hundred,five abreast, and then the openspace behind them, and then thesecond Hundred. They wereapproaching with great rapidity. Inow saw a sudden flash of light asthe sun took the tips of Tuchuklances.

Quietly, not wishing to hurry, Idescended from the wall andapproached the stalled wagon, theopen gate, the guards.

Surely in a moment someone onthe wall would give the alarm.

At the gate the officer was stillberating the blond-haired fellow.He had blue eyes, as I had known

he would, for I had recognized himfrom above.

“You will suffer for this!” thecommander of the guard was crying.“You dull fool!”

“Oh mercy, master!” whinedHarold of the Tuchuks.

“What is your name?” demandedthe officer.

At that moment there was a long,wailing cry of horror from the wallabove. “Tuchuks!” The guardssuddenly looked about themselvesstartled. Then two more people onthe wall took up the cry, pointingwildly out over the wall. “Tuchuks!Close the gates!”

The officer looked up in alarm,and then he cried out to the men onthe windlass platform. “Close thegates!”

“I think you will find,” saidHarold, “that my wagon is in theway.”

Suddenly understanding, theofficer cried out in rage andwhipped his sword from his sheathbut before he could raise his armthe young man had leaped to himand thrust a quiva into his heart.“My name,” he said, “is Harold ofthe Tuchuks!”

There was now screaming on thewalls, the rushing of guardsmen

toward the wagon. The men on thewindlass platform were slowlyswinging the great doub1le gatesshut as much as possible. Haroldhad withdrawn his quiva from thebreast of the officer. Two menleaped toward him with swordsdrawn and I leaped in front of himand engaged them, dropping oneand wounding the other.

“Well done, Baker,” he cried.I gritted my teeth and met the

attack of another man. I could nowhear the drumming of kaiila pawsbeyond the gate, perhaps no morethan a pasang away. The doublegate had closed now save for the

wagon wedged between the twoparts of the gate. The wagon bosk,upset by the running men, theshouting and the clank of arms aboutthem, were bellowing wildly andthrowing their heads up and down,stomping and pawing in the dust.

My Turian foe took the shortsword under the heart. I kicked himfrom the blade barely in time tomeet the attack of two more men.

I heard Harold’s voice behindme. “I suppose while the bread isbaking,” he was saying, “there islittle to do but stand about andimprove one’s swordplay.”

I might have responded but I was

hard pressed.“I had a friend,” Harold was

saying, “whose name was TarlCabot. By now he would have slainboth of them.”

I barely turned a blade from myheart.

“And quite some time ago,”Harold added.

The man on my left now began tomove around me to my left whilethe other continued to press mefrom the front. It should have beendone seconds ago. I stepped back,getting my back to the wagon, tryingto keep their steel from me.

“There is a certain resemblance

between yourself and my friendMarl Shot,” Harold was saying,“save that your sword is decidedlyinferior to his. Also he was of thecaste of warriors and would notpermit himself to be seen on hisfuneral pyre in the robes of so lowa caste as that of the Bakers.Moreover, his hair was red like alarl from the sun whereas yours is arather common and, if I may say so,a rather uninspired black.”

I managed to slip my bladethrough the ribs of one man andtwist to avoid the-thrust of theother. In an instant the position ofthe man I had felled was filled by

yet another guardsman.“It would be well to be vigilant

also on the right,” remarked Harold.I spun to the right just in time to

turn the blade of a third man.“It would not have been

necessary to tell Tarl Cabot that,”Harold said.

Some passers-by were nowfleeing past, crying out. The greatalarm bars of the city were nowringing, struck by iron hammers.

“I sometimes wonder where oldTarl Cabot is,” Harold saidwistfully.

“You Tuchuk idiot!” I screamed.Suddenly I saw the faces of the

men fighting me turn from rage tofear. They turned and ran from thegate.

“It would now be well,” saidHarold, “to take refuge under thewagon.” I then saw his body divepast, scrambling under the wagon. Ithrew myself to the ground androlled under with him.

Almost instantly there was a wildcry, the war cry of the Tuchuks, andthe first five kaiila leaped fromoutside the gate onto the top of thewagon, finding firm footing on whatI had taken to be simple raincanvas, but actually was canvasstretched over a load of rocks and

earth, accounting for the incredible1weight of the wagon, and thenbounded from the wagon, two toone side, two the other, and themiddle rider actually leaping fromthe top of the wagon to the dustbeyond the harnessed bosk. In aninstant another five and then anotherand another had repeated thismanoeuvre and soon, sometimeswith squealing of kaiila anddismounting of riders as one beastor another would be crowdedbetween the gates and the others, aHundred and then another Hundredhad hurtled howling into the city,black lacquered shields on the left

arms, lance seized in the right hand.About us there were the stampingpaws of kaiila, the crying of men,the sound of arms, and always moreand more Tuchuks striking the topof the wagon and bounding into thecity uttering their war cry.

Each of the Hundreds that enteredturned to its own destination, takingdifferent streets and turns, somedismounting and climbing tocommand the roofs with their smallbows. Already I could smell smoke.

Under the wagon with us,crouching, terrified, were threeTurians, civilians, a wine vendor, apotter and a girl. The wine vendor

and the potter were peepingfearfully from between the wheelsat the riders thundering into thestreets.

Harold, on his hands and knees,was looking into the eyes of the girlwho knelt, too, numb with terror. “Iam Harold of the Tuchuks,” he wastelling her. He deftly removed theveil pins and she scarcely noticed,so terrified was she. “I am notreally a bad fellow,” he wasinforming her. “Would you like tobe my slave?” She managed toshake her head, No, a tiny motion,her eyes wide with fear. “Ah,well,” said Harold, repinning her

veil. “It is probably just as wellanyway. I already have one slaveand two girls in one wagon if I hada wagon would probably bedifficult.” The girl nodded her headaffirmatively. “When you leave thewagon,” Harold told her, “youmight be stopped by Tuchuks nastyfellows who would like to put yourpretty little throat in a collar youunderstand?” She nodded, Yes. “Soyou tell them that you are alreadythe slave of Harold the Tuchuk,understand?”

She nodded again. “It will bedishonest on your part,” saidHarold apologetically, “but these

are hard times.” There were tears inher eyes. “Then go home and lockyourself in the cellar,” he said. Heglanced out. There were still riderspouring into the city. “But as yet,”he said, “you cannot leave.” Shenodded, Yes. He then unpinned herveil and took her in his arms,improving the time.

I sat cross-legged under thewagon, my sword across my knees,watching the paws and legs of theswirling kaiila bounding past. Iheard the hiss of crossbow quarrelsand one rider and his mountstumbled off the wagon top, fallingand rolling to one side, others

bounding over him. Then I heard thetwang of the small ham bows ofTuchuks. Somewhere, off on theother side of the wagon, I heard theheavy grunting of a tharlarion andthe squealing of a kaiila, themeeting of lances and shields. I sawa woman, unveiled, hair streamingbehind her, twisting, buffeted,among the kaiila, somehowmanaging to find her way amongthem and rush between twobuildings. The tolling of the alarmbars was now fearful throughout thecity. I could hear screaming somehundred yards away. The roof of abuilding on the left was afire and

smoke and sparks were beinghurled into the sky and swept by thewind across the adjoiningbuildings. Some dozen dismountedTuchuks were now at the greatwindlass on its platform slowlyopening the gates to their maximumwidth, and when they had done sothe Tuchuks, howling and wavingtheir lances, entered the city inranks of twenty abreast, thus onlyfive ranks to the Hundred. I couldnow see smoke down the longavenue leading from the gate, in adozen places. Already I saw aTuchuk with a dozen1 silver cupstied on a string to his saddle.

Another had a screaming woman bythe hair, running her beside hisstirrup. And still more Tuchuksbounded into the city. The wall of abuilding off the main avenuecollapsed flaming to the street. Icould hear in three or four placesthe clash of arms, the hiss of thebolts of crossbows, the answeringfeather swift flight of the barbedTuchuk war arrows. Another wall,on the other side of the avenue,tumbled downward, two Turianwarriors leaping from it, beingridden down by Tuchuks, leapingover the burning debris onkaiilaback, lance in hand.

Then in the clearing inside thegate, on his kaiila, lance in his rightfist, turning and barking orders, Isaw Kamchak of-the Tuchuks,waving men to the left and right,and to the roof tops. His lance pointwas red. The black lacquer of hisshield was deeply cut and scraped.The metal net that depended fromhis helmet had been thrown backand his eyes and face were fearfulto behold. He was flanked byofficers of the Tuchuks,commanders of Thousands, mountedas he was and armed. He turned hiskaiila to face the city and it rearedand he lifted his shield on his left

arm and his lance in his right fist. “Iwant the blood of Saphrar ofTuria,” he cried.

Chapter 22KAMCHAK’S FEASTIt had, of course, been the Tuchuk

turn.One makes a pretext of seriously

besieging a city, spending severaldays, sometimes weeks, in theendeavour, and then, apparently,one surrenders the sedge andwithdraws, moving away slowlywith the wagons and bosk for somedays in this case four and then, the

bosk and wagons removed fromprobable danger, swiftly, in a singlenight, under the cover of darkness,sweeping back to the city, taking itby surprise.

It had worked well.Much of Turia was in flames.

Certain of the Hundreds, delegatedthe task, had immediately, almostbefore the alarm bars could sound,seized many of the wells, granariesand public buildings, including thevery palace of Phanius Turmusitself. The Ubar, and Kamras, hishighest officer, had fallen captivealmost immediately, each to aHundred set that purpose. Most of

the High Council of Turia, too, nowreposed in Tuchuk chains. The citywas largely without leadership,though here and there brave Turianshad gathered guardsmen and men-at-arms and determined civiliansand sealed off streets, formingfortresses within the city against theinvaders. The compound of theHouse of Saphrar, however, had notfallen, protected by its numerousguardsmen and its high walls, norhad the tower elsewhere thatsheltered the tarn cots and warriorsof Ha-Keel, the mercenary fromPort Karl

Kamchak had taken up quarters in

the palace of Phanius Turmus,which, save for the looting and theripping down of tapestries, thewanton defacing of wall mosaics,was unharmed. It was from thisplace that he directed theoccupation of the city.

Harold, after the Tuchuks hadentered the city, insisted on squiringthe young woman home whom hehad encountered under the wagon,and, for good measure, the winevendor and potter as well. Iaccompanied him, stopping onlylong enough to rip away most of theupper portions of the baker’s tunicand rinse the dye from my hair in a

street fountain. I had no wish to bebrought down with a Tuchuk arrowin the streets as a Turian civilian.Also I knew many of the Tuchukswere familiar with my perhaps toored hair and might, seeing it,generously retain from firing on itsowner. It seemed to me that foronce my hair might actually proveuseful, a turnabout I contemplated1with pleasure. Do not take mewrong, I am rather fond, on thewhole, of my hair, it is merely thatone must, to be objective about suchmatters, recognize that it has, fromtime to time, involved me in variousdifficulties beginning about my

fourth year. Now, however, it mightnot hurt at all to be promptly andaccurately identified by means of it.

When I lifted my head from thefountain in the Turian street Haroldcried out in amazement, “Why youARE Tarl Cabot!”

“Yes,” I had responded.After we had taken the girl and

the potter and wine vendor towhatever safety their homes mightafford, we set out for the House ofSaphrar, where, after someexamination of the scene, Iconvinced myself there was nothingimmediately to be done. It wasinvested by better than two of the

Thousands. No assault of the placehad yet begun. Doubtless rocks andlarge pieces of building stone hadalready been piled behind the gates.I could smell tharlarion oil on thewalls, waiting to be fired andpoured on those who might attemptto dig at the walls or mount laddersagainst them.

Occasional arrows and crossbowbolts were exchanged. One thingtroubled me. The standing wallabout the compound kept the Tuchukbowmen far enough from the roof ofthe keep within that tarns might,without too great a danger, enterand leave the compound. Saphrar, if

he chose, could escape on tarnback.As yet, cut off, he probably had noway of knowing how serious hisdanger was. Within he undoubtedlyhad ample food and water towithstand a long siege. It seemed tome he could fly with safety when hechose, but that he had merely not yetchosen.

I then wished to proceedimmediately to the palace ofPhanius Turmus, where Kamchakhad set up his headquarters, toplace myself at his disposal, butHarold insisted rather on troopingabout the city, here and thereexamining pockets of Turian

resistance.“Why?” I asked.“We owe it to our importance,”

he said.“Oh,” I said.At last it was night and we were

malting our way through the streetsof Turia, sometimes betweenburning buildings.

We came to a high, walledstructure and began walking aboutit.

I could hear occasional shoutsinside. Also, at one point, thewailing of women carried to myears.

“What place is this?” I asked.

“The palace of Phanius Turmus,”he said.

“I heard the crying of women,” Isaid.

“Turian women,” said Harold,“taken by Tuchuks.” Then he added,“Much of the richest booty of Turialies behind these walls.”

I was astonished when, at thegate to the palace of PhaniusTurmus, the four Tuchuk guardssmote their lances three times ontheir leather shields. The lancestrikes the shield once for thecommander of a Ten; twice for thecommander of a Hundred; threetimes for the commander of a

Thousand. “Pass, Commanders,”said the chief of the four guards,and they stepped aside.

Naturally I inquired of Harold,shortly after entering, the meaningof the guards’ salutation. I hadexpected to be challenged and thenperhaps, if all went well, wrangledinside on some stratagem dreamedup by Harold on the spur of, themoment.

“It means,” remarked Harold,looking about the courtyard, “thatyou have the rank of a Commanderof a Tho1usand.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“It is a gift of Kamchak,” said

Harold. “I suggested it asappropriate in view of your manly,if somewhat clumsy, efforts at thegate.”

“Thank you,” I said.“I of course recommended the

same rank for myself,” said Harold,“inasmuch as I am the one whoreally carried the thing off.”

“Naturally,” I said.“You do not, of course, have a

Thousand to command,” pointed outHarold.

“Nonetheless,” I said, “there isconsiderable power in the rankitself.”

“That is true,” he said.

Indeed it was true, for the nextlevel beneath a Ubar among theWagon Peoples is that of theCommander of a Thousand.

“Why did you not tell me?” Iasked.

“It did not seem to meimportant,” remarked the youngman.

I clenched my fists andconsidered punching him in thenose, moderately hard.

“Korobans, though,” remarkedHarold, “are probably moreimpressed with such things thanTuchuks.”

By this time I had followed

Harold over to a corner of thecourtyard wall, which was heapedhigh, banked into the, corner, withprecious metals, plates, cups;bowls of jewels; necklaces andbracelets; boxes of coins and, inheavy, wooden crates, numerousstacked cubes of silver and gold,each; stamped with its weight, forthe palace of a Ubar is also the mintof a city, where its coins are struckone at a time by a hammer poundingon the flat-cap of a die.Incidentally, Gorean coins are notmade to be stacked andaccordingly, because of thepossible depth of the relief and the

consequent liberties accorded to theartist, the Gorean coin is almostalways more beautiful than themachine-milled, flat, uniform coinsof Earth. Some Gorean coins aredrilled, incidentally, to allowstringing, the coins of Tharna, forexample; Turian coins, and mostothers, are not.

Further on down the wall therewere great piles of cloth, mostlysilk; I recognized them as Robes ofConcealment.

Beyond them, again in a largeheap, were numerous weapons,saddles and harnesses. Beyondthem I saw numerous rugs and

tapestries, rolled, for transport fromthe city.

“As n commander,” said Harold,“you may take what you want of anyof this.”

I nodded.We now entered yet another

courtyard, an inner courtyard,between the palace and the insidewall of the outer courtyard.

Here I saw, along one wall, along line of Turian women,unclothed, who were kneeling,fastened together in various ways,some by chains, some by thongs.The wrists of each, however, werebound, one girl’s before her body

and the next behind her back,alternately. It was these womenwhom I had heard outside the wall.Some were sobbing, others wailing,but most were silent, numb withshock, staring at the ground. TwoTuchuk guards stood over them.One carried a slave whip and,occasionally, should the cries ofone of the girls grow too obtrusive,he would silence her with the lash.

“You are the commander of aThousand,” said Harold. “If one ofthe girls pleases you, let the guardknow and he will mark her foryou.”

“No,” I said. “Let us proceed

directly to Kamchak.”At that moment there was a

scream and commotion at the gate tothe inner courtyard and twoTuchuks, one laughing and with abloody shoulder, were dragging afiercely resisting, unveiled butclothed girl between them.

It was Dina of Turia!The laughing Tuchuk, he with the

bloody shoulder, hauled her beforeus.

“A beauty,” said he,“Commander!” He nodded to hisshoulder. “Marvellous! A fighter!”

Suddenly Dina stopped pullingand kicking and scratching.

She flung up her head and lookedat me, breathing hard, startled.

“Do not add her to the chain,” Isaid. “Neither remove her clothingnor put her in bonds. Permit her toveil herself if she wishes. She is tobe treated in all respects as a freewoman.

Take her back to her home andwhile we remain in the city, guardher with your lives.”

The two men were startled, butTuchuk discipline is relentless.“Yes, Commander!” they bothcried, releasing her.

“With our lives!”Dina of Turia looked at me,

gratitude in her eyes.“You will be safe,” I assured

her.“But my city burns,” she said.“I am sorry,” I said, and turned

swiftly away, to enter the palace ofPhanius Turmus.

I knew that while the Tuchuksremained in Turia there would be inall the city no woman more safethan lovely Dina, she only of theCaste of Bakers.

I sprang up the steps, followedby Harold, and we soon foundourselves in the marbled entry hallof the palace.

Kaiila were stabled there.

Directed by Tuchuks we soonmade our way to the throne room ofPhanius Turmus, where, to mysurprise, a banquet was in progress.At one end of the room, on thethrone of the Ubar, a purple robethrown over his black leather, satdour Kamchak of the Tuchuks, hisshield and lance leaning against thethrone, an unsheathed quiva on theright arm of the throne. At the lowtables, perhaps brought fromvarious places in the palace, theresat many Tuchuk officers, and evensome men without rank. With them,now freed of collars, wereexuberant Tuchuk girls bedecked in

the robes of free women. All werelaughing and drinking. OnlyKamchak seemed solemn. Nearhim, in places of honour, at a long,low table, above the bowls ofyellow and red salt, on each side,sat many of the high men of Turia,clad in their finest robes, their hairoiled, scented and combed for thebanquet. I saw among them Kamras,Champion of Turia, and another, onKamchak’s right hand, a heavy,swollen, despondent man, whocould only have been PhaniusTurmus himself. Behind them stoodTuchuk guards, quivas in their righthands. At a sign from Kamchak, as

the men well knew, their throatswould be immediately cut.

Kamchak turned to them. “Eat,”he said.

Before them had been placedlarge golden dishes heaped withdelicacies prepared by the kitchensof the Ubar, tall precious gobletsfilled with Turian wines, the smallbowls of spices and sugars withtheir stirring spoons at hand.

The tables were served by nakedTurian girls, from the highestfamilies of the city.

There were musicians presentand they, to the best of their abilityunder the circumstances, attempted

to provide music for the feast.Sometimes one of the serving

girls would be seized by an ankleor arm and dragged screaming tothe cushions among the tables, muchto the amusement of the men and theTuchuk girls.

“Eat,” ordered Kamchak.Obediently the captive Turians

began to put food in their mouths.“Welcome, Commanders,” said

Kamchak, turning and regarding us,inviting us to sit down.

“I did not expect to see you inTuria,” I said.

“Neither did the Turians,”remarked Harold, reaching over the

shoulder of one of the high councilof Turia and taking a candled verrchop.

But Kamchak was looking awaydisconsolately toward the rugbefore the throne, now stained withspilled beverages, cluttered withthe thrown garbage of the feast. Hehardly seemed aware of what wastaking place. Though this shouldhave been a night of triumph forhim, he did not seem pleased.

“The Ubar of the Tuchuks doesnot appear happy,” observed.

Kamchak turned and looked atme again.

“The city burns,” I said.

“Let it burn,” said Kamchak.“It is yours,” I said.“I do not want Turin,” he said.“What is it you seek?” I asked.“Only the blood of Saphrar,”

said he.“All this,” I asked, “is only to

avenge Kutaituchik?”“To avenge Kutaituchik,” said

Kamchak, “I would burn a thousandcities.”

“How is that?” I asked.“He was my father,” said

Kamchak, and turned away.During the meal, from time to

time, messengers, from variousparts of the city, and even from the

distant wagons, hours away byracing kaiila, would approachKamchak, speak with him andhastily depart.

More foods and wines wereserved, and even the high men ofTuria, at quiva point, were forcedto drink heavily and some began tomumble and weep, while thefeasters grew, to the barbaricmelodies of the musicians, evermore merry and, wild. At one pointthree Tuchuk girls, in swirling silks,switches in their hands, came intothe room dragging a wretched,stripped Turian girl. They hadfound a long piece of rope and tied

her hands behind her back and thenhad wound the same rope three orfour times about the girl’s waist,had-securely knotted it, and wereleading her about by it. “She wasour mistress!” cried one of theTuchuk girls; leading the Turiangirl, and struck her sharply with theswitch, at which information theTuchuk girls at the tables clappedtheir hands with delight. Then, twoor three other groups of Tuchukstruggled in, each lending somewretched wench who had but hoursbefore owned them.

These girls they forced to combtheir hair and wash their feet before

the tables, performing the duties ofserving slaves.

Later they made some of themdance for the men. Then one of theTuchuk girls pointed to her ex-mistress and cried out, “What am Ioffered for this slave!” and one ofthe men, joining in the sport, wouldcry out a price, some figur1e interms of copper tarn disks. TheTuchuk girls would shriek withdelight and each joined in incitingbuyers and auctioning theirmistresses. One beautiful Turiangirl was thrown, weeping andbound, into the arms of a leather-clad Tuchuk for only seven copper

tarn disks. At the height of suchfestivities, a distraught messengerrushed to Kamchak. The Ubar of theTuchuks listened impassively andthen arose. He gestured at thecaptive Turian men. “Take themaway,” he said, “put them in theKes and chain them put them towork.” Phanius lilrmus, Kamrasand the others were dragged fromthe tables by their Tuchuk guards.The feasters were now watchingKamchak. Even the musicians werenow silent.

“The feast is done,” saidKamchak.

The guests and the captives, led

by those who would claim them,faded from the room.

Kamchak stood before the throneof Phanius Turmus, the purple robeof the Ubar over one shoulder, andlooked at the overturned tables, thespilled cups, the remains of thefeast. Only he, Harold and Iremained in the great throne room.

“What is the matter?” I askedhim.

“The wagons and bosk are underattack,” he said.

“By whom?” cried Harold.“Paravaci,” said Kamchak.

Chapter 23

THE BATTLE AT THEWAGON

Kamchak had had his flyingcolumns followed by some twodozen of the wagons, mostlycontaining supplies. On one of thesewagons, with the top removed,were the two tarns Harold and I hadstolen from the roof of Saphrar’skeep.

They had been brought for us,thinking that they might be of use inthe warfare in the city or in thetransportation of goods or men. Atarn can, incidentally, withoutdifficulty, carry a knotted rope ofseven to ten men.

Harold and I, mounted on kaiila,rascal toward these wagons.Thundering behind each of us was aThousand, which would continue ontoward the main Tuchukencampment, several Ahn away.Harold and I would take a tarn eachand he would go to the Kassars andI to the Kataii, begging their help. Ihad little hope that either of these;peoples would come to the aid ofTuchuks. Then, on the path, to themain Tuchuk encampment, Haroldand I were each to join ourThousand, subsequently doing whatwe could to protect the bosk andwagons. Kamchak would

meanwhile marshal his forceswithin the city, preparing towithdraw, Kutaituchik unavenged,to ride back against the Paravaci.

I had learned to my surprise thatthe Ubars of the Kassars, Kataii andParavaci were, respectively,Conrad, Hakimba and Tolnus, thevery three I had first encounteredwith Kamchak on the plains ofTuria when first I came to theWagon Peoples. What I had taken tobe merely a group of four outridershad actually been a gathering ofUbars of the Wagon Peoples. Ishould have known that no fourcommon warriors of the four

peoples would have riddentogether.

Further, the Kassars, the Kataiiand the Paravaci did not revealtheir true Ubars with any greaterwillingness than the Tuchuks had.Bach people, as the Tuchuks had,had its false Ubar, its decoy toprotect the true Ubar from danger orassassination. But, Kamchak hadassured me, Conrad, Hakimba andTolnus were indeed the true Ubarsof their peoples.

I was nearly slain by arrowswhen I dropped the fern amidst thestartled blacks of the Kataii, bu1tmy black jacket with the emblem of

the four bosk horns, emblem of theTuchuk courier, soon proved itsworth and I was led to the dais ofthe Ubar of the Kataii. I waspermitted to speak directly toHakimba, when I made it clear tomy escort that I knew the identity oftheir true Ubar and that it was withhim I must speak.

As I expected, Haldmba’s browneyes and richly scarred countenanceshowed little interest in mypresentation of the plight of theTuchuks.

It was little to him, apparently,that the Paravaci should raid theherds and wagons of the Tuchuks

when most of the Tuchuk warriorswere engaged in Turia. He did not,on the other hand, approve of thefact that the raid had taken placeduring the Omen Year, which is atime of general truce among theWagon Peoples. I sensed, however,that he was angry when I spoke ofthe probable complicity of theParavaci with the Turians, strikingwhen and how they did, even duringthe Omen Year, presumably to drawthe Tuchuks away from Turia. Inshort, though Hakimba did notapprove of the Paravaci action andwas incensed at their presumedleague with the Turians, he did not

feel sufficiently strongly to investhis own men in a struggle that didnot seem to concern him directly.

“We have our own wagons,” saidHakimba, at last. “Our wagons arenot the wagons of the Tuchuks or ofthe Kassars or of the Paravaci. Ifthe Paravaci attack our wagons, wewill fight. We will not fight untilthen.”

Hakimba was adamant and it waswith a heavy heart that I climbedonce more to the saddle of my tarn.

In the saddle I said to him, “Ihave heard that the Paravaci arekilling bosk.”

Hakimba looked up. “Killing

bosk?” he asked, sceptically.“Yes,” I said, “and cutting out the

nose rings to sell In Turia after theTuchuks withdraw.”

“Will you help?” I asked.“We have our own wagons,” said

Hakiba. “We will watch our ownwagons.”

“What will you do,” I asked, “ifin another year the Paravaci and theTurians turn on the Kataii and killtheir bosk?”

“The Paravaci,” said Hakimbaslowly, “would like to be the onepeople and own the grass of all theprairie and all the bosk.”

“Will you not fight?” I

demanded.“If the Paravaci attack us,” said

Hakimba, “then we will fight.”Hakimba looked up. “We have ourown wagons,” he said. “We willwatch our own wagons.”

I drew on the one-strap and tookthe tarn into the air, striking outacross the prairie skies to interceptmy Thousand on its way to thewagons of the Tuchuks.

In my flight I could see at onepoint the Omen Valley, where theharuspexes were still workingabout their numerous, smokingaltars. I laughed bitterly.

In a few Ehn I had overtaken my

Thousand and given the tarn over tofive men, who would keep it untilits wagon I should, following thetracks of the riders, reach them.

Within perhaps the Ahn a grim,angry Harold brought his tarn downbetween the-two columns, that ofhis Thousand and of mine. It tookonly a moment for him to give thetarn into the keeping of some fivewarriors and leap on the back of hiskaiila. I had noted, to mysatisfaction, that he now handled thetarn rather well. He had apparently,in the past several days since ourescape from Saphrar’s keep, beenfamiliarizing h1imself with the

saddle straps and the bird’s habitsand responses. But he was notelated as he rode beside me nor didhe speak lightly.

Like my own mission to theKataii, Harold’s mission to theKassars had been fruitless. Formuch the same reasons as theKataii, Conrad was unwilling tocommit his forces to the defence ofTuchuk herds. Indeed, as we rodetogether, we wondered thatKamchak had even sent us on anerrand so unlikely of success, anerrand in its way, considering thetemper of the Wagon Peoples, sofoolish.

Our kaiila were spent when wereached the wagons of the Tuchuksand the herds, and we were onlytwo thousand.

Hundreds of the wagons wereburning and fighting was takingplace among them. We foundthousands of bosk slain in the grass,their throats cut, their flesh rotting,the golden nose rings chopped ortorn away.

The men behind us cried out withrage.

Harold took his Thousand intothe Wagons, engaging the Paravaciwherever he could find them. Iknew that in little more than fifteen

or twenty Ehn his forces would belost, dissipated among the wagons,and yet surely the Paravaci must bemet and fought there as well as onthe prairie. I swept with myThousand about the outskirts of theherds until we found some hundredor two hundred Paravaci engaged inthe grisly work of destroyingTuchuk bosk. These two hundred,stood, looking up with their quivasaxes, startled, screaming, wereridden down in a matter of an Ehn.But then we could see, forming onthe crest of a hill, thousands ofParavaci warriors, apparently heldin readiness in case reinforcements

should come. Already they weremounting their fresh, rested kaiila.We could hear the bosk hornsforming their Hundreds, see themovements of the sunlight on theirarms.

Raising my arm and shouting, Iled the Thousand toward them,hoping to catch them before theycould form and charge. Our boskhorns rang out and my braveThousand, worn in the saddle,weary, on spent kaiila, without amurmur or a protest, turned andfollowing my lead struck into thecentre of the Paravaci forces.

In an instant we were embroiled

among angry men the half-formed,disorganized Hundreds of theParavaci striking to the left andright, shouting the war cry of theTuchuks. I did not wish to remainon the crest of the hill long enoughto allow the left and right flanks ofthe Paravaci rapidly assembling tofold about my men and so, in lessthan four Ehn as their disorganized,astonished centre fell back our boskhorn sounded our retreat and ourmen, as one, withdrew to the herdsonly a moment before the left andright flanks of the Paravaci wouldhave closed upon us. We left themfacing one another, cursing, while

we moved slowly back through ourbosk, keeping them as a shield. Wewouldrennin chic cuough that smallparties would not be able toapproach the bosk with impunityagain. If they sent archers forth toslay the beasts, we could, fromwithin the herd, answer their fire,or, if we wished, open the herd andride forth, scattering the archers.

Among the bosk I ordered mymen to rest.

But the Paravaci neither sentforth small groups nor contingentsof archers, but formed and, enmasse, riding over the bodies oftheir fallen comrades, began to

approach the herd slowly, to movethrough it, slaying them as theywent, and; close with us.

Once again our bosk hornssounded and this time my Thousandbegan to cry out and jab the animalswith their lances, turning themtoward the Paravaci. Thousands ofanimals were already turned towardthe approaching enemy andbeginning to walk toward themwhen the Paravaci suddenlyreali1zed what was happening.Now the bosk began to move moreswiftly, bellowing and snorting.And then, as the, Paravaci boskhorns sounded frantically, our bosk

began to run, their mighty headswith the fearsome horns nodding upand down, and the earth began totremble and my men cried out moreand jabbed animals, riding with theflood and the Paravaci with cries ofhorror that coursed the length oftheir entire line tried to stop andturn their kaiila but the ranks behindthem pressed on and they weremilling there before us, confused,trying to make sense out of the wildsignals of their own bosk hornswhen the herd, horns down, nowrunning full speed, struck them.

It was the vengeance of the boskand the frightened, maddened

animals thundered into the Paravacilines goring and trampling bothkaiila and riders, and the Paravaciwho could manage turned theiranimals and rode for their lives.

In a moment, maintaining mysaddle in spite of the leaping andstumbling of my kaiila over theslain bosk, fallen kaiila andscreaming men, I gave orders toturn the bosk back and reform themnear the wagons. The escapingParavaci could now, on their kaiila,easily outdistance the herd and I didnot wish the animals to be strungout over the prairie, at the mercy ofthe Paravaci when they should at

last turn and take up the battleagain.

By the time the Paravaci hadreformed my Tuchuks had managedto swing the herd, slow it, get itmilling about and then drive it backto a perimeter about the wagons.

It was now near nightfall and Iwas confident the Paravaci, whogreatly outnumbered us, perhaps inthe order of ten or twenty to one,would wait until morning beforepressing the advantage of theirnumbers. When, on the whole, thelong-term balance of battle wouldseem to lie with them, there wouldbe little point in their undertaking

the risk of darkness.In the morning, however, they

would presumably avoid the herd,find a clear avenue of attack, andstrike, perhaps even rid through thewagons, pinning us against our ownherd.

That night I met with Harold,whose men had been, fightingamong the wagons. He had clearedseveral areas of Paravaci but theywere still, here and there, amongthe wagons. Taking council withHarold, we dispatched a rider toKamchak in Turia, informing him ofthe situation, and that we had littlehope of holding out.

“It will make little difference,”said Harold. “It will take the rider,if he gets through, seven Ahn toreach Turia and even if Kamchakrides with his full force the momentthe rider comes to the gates of thecity, it will be eight Ahn beforetheir vanguard can reach us and bythen it will be too late.”

It seemed to me that what Haroldsaid was true, and that there waslittle point in discussing it muchfurther. I nodded wearily.

Both Harold and I then spokewith our men, each issuing byorders that any man with us whowished might now withdraw from

the wagons and rejoin the mainforces in Turia.

Not a man of either Thousandmoved.

We set pickets and took what restwe could, in the open, the kaiilasaddled and tethered at hand.

In the morning, before dawn, weawakened and fed on dried boskmeat, sucking the dew from theprairie grass.

Shortly after dawn wediscovered the Paravaci forming intheir Thousands away from theherd, preparing to strike the wagonsfrom the north, pressing through,slaying all living things they might

encounter, save women, slave orfree. The latter would be drivenbefo1re the warriors through thewagons, both slave girls and freewomen stripped and bound togetherin groups, providing shields againstarrows and lance charges onkaiilaback for the men advancingbehind them.

Harold and I determined toappear to meet the Paravaci in theopen before the wagons and then,when they charged, to withdrawamong the wagons, and close thewagons on their attacking front,halting the charge, then at almostpoint blank range hopefully taking

heavy toll of their forces by ourarchers. It would be, of course, onlya matter of time before ourbarricade would be forced oroutflanked, perhaps from fivepasangs distant, in an undefendedsector.

The battle was joined at theseventh Gorean hour and, asplanned, as soon as the Paravacicentre was committed, the bulk ofour forces wheeled and retreatedamong the wagons, the rest of ourforces then turning and pushing thewagons together. As soon as ourmen were through the barricadethey leaped from their kaiila, bow

and quiver in hand, and took upprearranged positions under thewagons, between them, on them,and behind the wagon box planking,taking advantage of the arrow portstherein.

The brunt of the Paravaci chargealmost tipped and broke through thewagons, but we had lashed themtogether and they held. It was like aflood of kaiila and riders, weaponsflourishing, that broke and piledagainst the wagons, the rear rankspressing forward on those beforethem. Some of the rear ranksactually climbed fallen andstruggling comrades and leaped

over the wagons to the other side,where they were cut down byarchers and dragged from theirkaiila to be flung beneath the knivesof free Tuchuk women.

At a distance of little more than adozen feet thousands of arrowswere poured into the trappedParavaci and yet they pressedforward, on and over their brethren,and then arrows spent, we met themon the wagons themselves withlances in our hands, thrusting themback and down.

About a pasang distant we couldsee new forces of the Paravaciforming on the crest of a sweeping

gradient.The sound of their bosk horns

was welcome to us, signalling theretreat of those at the wagons.

Bloody, covered with sweat,gasping, we saw the living Paravacidraw back, falling back between thenewly forming lines on the gradientabove.

I issued orders swiftly andexhausted men poured from beneathand between the wagons to haul asmany of the fallen kaiila and ridersas possible from the wagons, thatthere might not be a wall of dyinganimals and men giving access tothe height of our wagons.

Scarcely had we cleared theground before the wagons when theParavaci bosk horns sounded againand another wave of kaiila andriders, lances set, raced towards us.Four times they charged thus andfour times we held them back.

My men and those of Harold hadnow been decimated and there werefew that had not lost blood. Iestimated that there was scarcely aquarter of those living who hadridden with us to the defence of theherds and wagons.

Once again Harold and I issuedour orders that any wishing todepart might now do so.

Again no man moved.“Look,” cried an archer, pointing

to the gradient.There we could see new

thousands forming, the standards ofHundreds and Thousands taking uptheir position.

“It is the Paravaci main body,”said Harold. “It is the end.”

I looked to the left and right overthe torn, bloody barricade ofwagons, at the remains of my men,wounded and exhausted, many ofthem lying on the barricade or onthe ground behind it, trying to gainbut a moment’s respite. Freewomen, and even some Turian

slave girls, went to and fro,bringing water and, here and there,where there was point in it, bindingwounds. Some of the Tuchuks beganto sing the Blue Sky Song, therefrain of which is that though I die,yet there will be the bosk, the grassand sky.

I stood with Harold on a plankedplatform fixed across the wagonbox of the wagon at our centre,whose domed frame work had beentorn away. Together we looked outover the field. We watched themilling of kaiila and riders in thedistance, the movement ofstandards.

“We have done well,” saidHarold.

“Yes,” I said, “I think so.”We heard the bosk horns of the

Paravaci signalling to theassembled Thousands.

“I wish you well,” said Harold.I turned and smiled at him. “I

wish you well,” I said.Then again we heard the bosk

horns and the Paravaci, in vastranks, like sweeping crescents, likesteel scythes of men and animalsand arms, far extending beyond ourown lines, began to move slowlytowards us, gaining steadily inmomentum and speed with each

traversed yard of stained prairie.Harold and I, and those of our

men that remained, stood with thewagons, watching the nearingwaves of warriors, observing themoment when the chain face guardsof the Paravaci helmets werethrown forward, the moment whenthe lances, like that of a single man,were levelled. We could now hearthe drumming of the paws of thekaiila, growing ever more rapid andintense, the squealing of animalshere and there along the line, therustle of weapons andaccoutrements.

“Listen!” cried Harold.

I listened, but seemed to hearonly the maddeningly intensifyingthunder of the Paravaci kaiilasweeping towards us, but then Iheard, from the far left and right, thesound of distant bosk horns.

“Bosk horns!” cried Harold.“What does it matter?” I asked.I wondered how many Paravaci

there could possibly be.I watched the nearing warriors,

lances ready, the swiftness of thecharge hurtling into full career.

“Look!” cried Harold, sweepinghis hand to the left and right.

My heart sank. Suddenly risingover the crest of rolling hills, like

black floods, from both the left andthe right, I saw on racing kaiilawhat must have been thousands ofwarriors, thousands uponthousands.

I unsheathed my sword. Isupposed it would he the last time Iwould do so.

“Look!” cried Harold.“I see,” I said, “what does it

matter?”“Look!” he screamed, leaping up

and down.And I looked and saw suddenly

and my heart stopped beating andthen I uttered a wild cry for fromthe left, riding with the Thousands

sweeping over the hills, I saw thestandard of the Yellow Bow, andon the right, flying forward with thehurtling Thousands, its leatherstreaming behind its pole, I saw thestandard of the Three-WeightedBola.

“Katain!” screamed Harold,hugging me. “Kassars!”

I stood dumbfounded on theplanking and saw the two greatwedges of the Kataii and theKassars close like tongs on thetrapped Paravaci, taking them in theunprotected flanks, crushing theranks before them with the weightof their charge. And even the sky

seemed dark for a moment as, fromthe left and right, thousands uponthousands of arrows fell like darkrain among the startled, stumbling,turning Paravaci.

“We might help,” remarkedHarold.

“Yes!” I cried.“Korobans are slow to think of

such matters,” he remarked.I turned to the men. “Open the

wagons!” I cried. “To youranimals!”

And in an instant it seemed thewagon lashing kind been cut byquivas and our hundreds ofwarriors, the pitiful remnant of our

two Thousands, swept forth uponthe Paravaci, riding as though theyhad been fresh rested and ready,shouting the wild war cry of theTuchuks.

It was not until late that afternoonthat I met with Hakimba of theKataii and Conrad of the Kassars.On the field we met and, ascomrades in arms, we embracedone another.

“We have our own wagons,” saidHakimba, “but yet we are of theWagon Peoples.”

“It is so, too, with us,” saidConrad, he of the Kassars.

“I regret only,” I said, “that I sent

word to Kamchak and even now hehas withdrawn his men from Turiaand is returning to the wagons.”

“No,” said Hakimba, “we sentriders to Turia even as we left ourown camp. Kamchak knew of ourmovements long before you.”

“And of ours,” said Conrad, “forwe too sent him word thinking itwell to keep him informed in thesematters.”

“For a Kataii and a Kassar,” saidHarold, “you two are not badfellows.” And then he added. “Seethat you do not ride off with any ofour bosk or women.”

“The Paravaci left their camp

largely unguarded,” said Hakimba.“Their strength was brought here.”

I laughed.“Yes,” said Conrad, “most of the

Paravaci bosk are now in the herdsof the Kataii and Kassars.”

“Reasonably evenly divided Itrust,” remarked Hakimba.

“I think so,” said Conrad. “If not,we can always iron matters out witha bit of bosk raiding.”

“That is true,” granted Hakimba,the yellow and red scars wrinklinginto a grin on his lean, black face.

“when the Paravaci those whoescaped us return to their wagons,”remarked Conrad, “they will find a

surprise in store for them.”“Oh?” I inquired.“We burned most of their wagons

those we could,” said Hakimba.“And their goods and women?”

inquired Harold.“Those that pleased us both of

goods and women,” remarkedConrad, “we carried off of goodsthat did not please us, we burnedthem of women that did not pleaseus, we left them stripped andweeping among the wagons.”

“This will mean war,” I said,“for many years among the WagonPeoples.”

“No,” said Conrad, “the Paravaci

will want back their bosk andwomen and perhaps they may havethem for a price.”

“You are wise,” said Harold.“I do not think they will slay

bosk or join with Turians again,”said Hakimba.

I supposed he was right. Later inthe afternoon the last of theParavaci had been cleared from theTuchuk wagons, wherever theymight be found. Harold and I sent arider back to Kamchak with newsof the victory. Following him, in afew hours, would be a Thousandeach from the Kataii and theKassars, to lend him what aid they

might in his work in, Turia.In the morning the warriors

remaining of the two Thousandswho had ridden with Harold and Iwould, with the help of otherTuchuks surviving among thewagons, move the wagons and thebosk the field. Already the boskwere growing uneasy at the smell ofdeath and already the grass aboutthe camp was rustling with themovements of the tiny brownprairie arts, scavengers, come tofeed. Whether, after we had movedthe wagons and bosk some pasangsaway, we should remain there, orproceed toward the pastures this

side of the Ta-Thassa Mountains, orreturn toward Turia, was notdecided. In the thinking of bothHarold and myself, that decisionwas properly Kamchak’s. TheKataii main force and the Kassarmain force camped separately somepasangs from the Tuchuk camp andthe field and would, in the morning,return to their own wagons. Eachhad exchanged riders who, fromtime to time, would report to theirown camp from that of the other.Each had also, as had the Tuchuks,set their own pickets. Neitherwished the other to withdrawsecretly and do for them what they

together had done for the Paravaci,and what the Paravaci hadattempted to do to the Tuchuks. Itwas not that they, on this night, trulydistrusted one another so much asthe fact that a lifetime of raiding andwar had determined each to be, as asimple matter of course, wary of theother.

I myself was anxious to return toTuria as soon as it could be wellmanaged. Harold, willingly enough,volunteered to remain in the campuntil the commander of a Thousandcould be sent from Turia to relievehim. I appreciated this very muchon his part, for I keenly wished to

return to Turia as soon as it wouldbe at all practical I had pressingand significant business yetunfinished behind its walls.

I would leave in the morning.That night I found Kamchak’s old

wagon, and though it had beenlooted, it had not been burned.

There was no sign of eitherAphris or Elizabeth, either aboutthe wagon, or in the overturned,broken sleen cage in which, when Ihad last seen them, Kamchak hadconfined them. I was told by aTuchuk woman that they had notbeen in the cage when the Paravacihad struck but rather that Aphris had

been in the wagon and thebarbarian, as she referred to MissCardwell, had been sent to anotherwagon, the whereabouts she did notknow. Aphris had, according to thewoman, fallen into the hands of theParavaci who had lootedKamchak’s wagon; Elizabeth’s fateshe did not know; I gathered, ofcourse, from the fact that Elizabethhad been sent to another wagon thatKamchak had sold her. I wonderedwho her new master might be andhoped, for her sake, that she wouldwell please him. She might, ofcourse, have also fallen, liceAphris, into the hands of the

Paravaci. I was bitter and sad as Ilooked about the interior ofKamchak’s wagon. The covering onthe framework had been torn inseveral places and the rugs rippedor carried away. The saddle on theside had been cut and the quivashad been taken from their sheaths.The hangings were torn down, thewood of the wagon scratched andmar1red. Most of the gold andjewels, and precious plate and cupsand goblets, were missing, exceptwhere here and there a coin orstone might lie missed at the edge ofthe wagon hides or at the foot ofwere gone and those that were not

had been shattered against the floor,or against the wagon poles, leavingdark stains on the poles and on thehides behind them. The floor waslittered with broken glass. Somethings, of little or no worth, butwhich I remembered fondly, werestill about.

There was a brass ladle thatAphris and Elizabeth had used incooking and a tin box of yellowTurian sugar, dented in now and itscontents scattered; and the large,grey leathery object which I hadupon occasion seen Kamchak use asa stool, that which he had oncekicked across the floor for my

inspection; he had been fond of it,that curiosity, and would perhapsbe pleased that it had not been, likemost of his things, carried away inthe leather loot sacks of Paravaciraiders. I wondered on the fate ofAphris of Turia.

Kamchak, I knew, however,cared little for the slave, and wouldnot be much concerned; yet her fateconcerned me, and~hoped that shemight live, that her beauty if notcompassion or justice might havewon her life for her, be it only as aParavaci wagon slave; and then,too, I wondered again on the fate ofMiss Elizabeth Cardwell, the

lovely young New York secretary,so cruelly and so far removed fromher own world; and then, exhausted,I lay down on the boards ofKamchak’s looted wagon and fellasleep.

Chapter 24THE WAGON OF A

COMMANDERTuria was now largely under the

control of Tuchuks. For days it hadbeen burning.

The morning after the Battle atthe Wagons I had mounted a restedkaiila and set forth for Turia. Some

Ahn after departing from the Tuchukcamp I encountered the wagon thatcarried my tarn, and its guard, stilladvancing toward the camp. Thewagon carrying Harold’s tarn andits guard accompanied it. I-left thekaiila with the Tuchuks andmounted my tarn, and in less than anAhn, saw the shimmering walls ofTuria in the distance, and the veilsof smoke rising over the city.

The House of Saphrar still stood,and the tower that had been fortifiedby Ha-Keel’s tarnsmen. Aside fromthese there remained few pockets oforganized-resistance in the city,though here and there, in alleys and

on roof tops, small groups ofTurians furtively and sporadicallyattempted to carry the war to theinvaders. I and Kamchak expectedSaphrar to flee by tarn at anymoment, for it must now be clear tohim that the strike of the Paravaciagainst the Tuchuk wagons andherds had not forced Kamchak towithdraw; indeed, his forces werenow supplemented by Kataii andKassars, a development which musthave horrified him.

The only reason that occurred tome why Saphrar had not yet fledwas that he was waiting in Turia foran excellent reason possibly the

arrival on tarnback of the grey manwith whom he had negotiatedapparently to secure the goldensphere. I reminded myself, beyondthis, that if his house should actuallybe forced, and himself threatened,he could always flee, with relativesafety, at the last moment, Atabandoning his men, his servantsand slaves to the mercies ofravaging Tuchuks.

I knew that Kamchak was inconstant touch, by means of riders,with the wagons of the Tuchuks, andso I did not speak with him of thelooting of his wagon, nor of the fateof Aphris of Turia, nor did I deem it

well to speak to him of ElizabethCardwell, for it seemed evident thathe had sold her, and that my inquiry,to a Tu1chuk mind, might thusappear prying or impertinent; Iwould discover, if possible, hermaster and his whereaboutsindependently; indeed, for all Iknew, perhaps she had beenabducted by raiding Paravaci, andnone among the Tuchuks wouldeven know.

I did ask Kamchak why,considering the probabilities that Ifthe Kataii and the Kassars wouldnot have come to the aid of theTuchuks, he had not abandoned

Turia and returned with his mainforces to the wagons. “It was awager,” said he, “which I had madewith myself.”

“A dangerous wager,” I hadremarked.

“Perhaps,” he said, “but I think Iknow the Kataii and the Kassars.”

“The stakes were high,” I said.“They are higher than you know,”

he said.“I do not understand,” I said.“The wager is not yet done,” he

said, but would speak no duskmore.

On the day following my arrivalin Turia, Harold, on tarnback,

relieved at his request of thecommand of the wagons and herdsjoined me in the palace of PhaniusTurmus must.

During the day and night, takinghours of sleep where we could,sometimes on the rugs of the palaceof Phanius Turmus, sometimes onthe stones of the streets by watchfires, Harold and I, at Kamchak’sorders, performed a variety oftasks, sometimes joining in thefighting, sometimes acting as liaisonbetween him nod othercommanders, sometimes merelypositioning men, checking outpostsand reconnoitring.

Kamchak’s forces, on the whole,were so disposed as to push theTurians toward two gates which hehad left open and undefended, thusproviding a route of escape forcivilians and soldiers who wouldmake use of it. From certainpositions on the walls we could seethe stream of refugees fleeing theburning city. They carried food andwhat possessions they could. Thetime of the year was the late springand the prairie’s climate was notunkind, though occasionally longrains must have made the lot of therefugees fleeing toward other citiesmiserable. There were occasional

small creek, across the paths of therefugees and water was available.

Also, Kamchak, to my pleasurebut surprise, had had his men driveverr flocks and some Turian boskafter the refugees I asked him aboutthis, for Tuchuk warfare, as Iunderstood it, was complete,leaving no living thing in its wake,killing even domestic animals andpoisoning wells. Certain cities,burned by the Wagon Peoples morethan a hundred years ago, were stillsaid to be desolate ruins betweentheir broken walls, silent save forthe wind and the occasional foot-fall of a prowling sleen hunting for

urts.“The Wagon Peoples need

Turia,” said Kamchak, simply.I was thunderstruck. Yet it

seemed to me true, for Turia wasthe main avenue of contact betweenthe Wagon Peoples and the othercities of Gor, the gate throughwhich trade-goods flowed to thewilderness of grasses that was theland of the riders of the kaiila andthe herders of bosk. Without Turia,to be sure, the Wagon Peopleswould undoubtedly be the poorer.

“And,” said Kamchak, “theWagon Peoples need an enemy.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Without an enemy,” saidKamchak, “they will never standtogether and if they fail to standtogether, someday they will fall.”

“Has this something to do withthe ‘wager’ you spoke1 of?”

I asked.“Perhaps,” said Kamchak.-Still I was not altogether

satisfied, for, on the whole, itseemed to me that Turia might yethave survived even had Kamchak’sforces wrought much greaterdestruction than they had forexample, opening but a single gateand permitting only a few hundred,rather than thousands to escape the

city. “is that all?” I asked. “Is thatthe only reason that Be many ofTuria yet live beyond the city?”

He looked at me, withoutexpression. “Surely, Commander,”he said, “you have dutieselsewhere.”

I nodded curtly and turned andleft the room, dismissed.

Long ago I had learned not topress the Tuchuk when he did notwish to speak. But as I left Iwondered at his compare fivelenience. He professed a cruelhatred of Turia and Turians, and yethe had, considering the normalpractices of the Wagon Peoples, not

noted for their mercy to helplessfoes, treated the unarmed citizens ofthe city with unique indulgence,permitting them, on the whole, tokeep their lives and freedom,though only as refugees beyond thewalls. The clearest exception tothis, of course, lay in the case of themore beautiful of the city’s women,who were treated by Goreancustom, as portions of the booty.

I spent what free time I could inthe vicinity of Saphrar’s compound.The structures about the compoundhad been fortified by Tuchuks, andwalls of stone and wood had beenthrown into the streets and openings

between the buildings, thusenclosing the compound. I had beentraining some hundred Tuchuks inthe use of the crossbow, dozens ofwhich had now fallen into ourhands. Each warrior had at hisdisposal five crossbows and fourTurian slaves, for winding andloading the bows. These warriors Istationed on roofs of buildingsencircling the compound, as closeto the walls as possible. Thecrossbow, though its rate of fire ismuch slower than the Tuchuk bow,has a much greater range. With thecrossbow in our hands, the businessof bringing tarns in and out of the

compound became proportionatelymore hazardous, which, of course,was what I intended. In fact, to myelation, some of my fledglingcrossbowmen, on the first day,brought down four tarns attemptingto enter the compound, though, to besure, several escaped them. If wecould get the crossbows into thecompound itself, perhaps even tothe outside walls, we could formost practical purposes close thecompound to entrance and escapeby air. I feared, of course, that thisaddition to our armament mighthasten Saphrar’s departure, but, asit turned out, it did not, perhaps

because the first word Saphrar hadof our intentions was the tumblingof dying tarns behind the walls ofthe compound.

Harold and I chewed on somebosk meat roasted over a fire builton the marble floor of the palace ofPhanius Turmus. Nearby ourtethered kaiila crouched, their pawson the bodies of slain verrs,devouring them.

“Most of the people,” Haroldwas saying, “are out of the citynow.”

“That’s good,” I said.“Kamchak will close the gates

soon,” said Harold, “and then we

shall get to work on Saphrar’shouse and that tarn roost of Ha-Keel’s.”

I nodded. The city now largelyclear of defenders, and closed tothe outside, Kamchak could bringhis forces to bear on Saphrar’shouse, that fort within a fort, and onthe tower of Ha-Keel, taking them,if necessary, by storm. Ha-Keelhad, we estimated, most of athousand tarnsmen still with him,plus many Turian guardsmen.Saphrar probably had, b1ehind hiswalls, more than three thousanddefenders, plus a comparablenumber of servants and slaves, who

might be of some service to him,particularly in such matters asreinforcing gates, raising the heightof walls, loading crossbows,gathering arrows from within thecompound, cooking and distributingfood and, in the case of the women,or some of them, pleasing hiswarriors.

After I had finished the bosk meatI lay back on the floor, a cushionbeneath my head, and stared at theceiling. I could see stains from ourcooking fire on the vaulted dome.

“Are you going to spend the nighthere?” asked Harold.

“I suppose so,” I said.

“But some thousand bosk cametoday from the wagons,” he said.

I turned to look at him. I knewKamchak had brought, over the pastfew days, several hundred bosk tograze near Turia, to use in-feedinghis troops.

“What has that to do with where Isleep?” I asked. “You are perhapsgoing to sleep on the back of a boskbecause you are a Tuchuk orsomething?” I thought that a rathergood one, at any rate for me.

But Harold did not seemparticularly shattered, and I sighed.

“A Tuchuk,” he informed meloftily, “may if he wishes rest

comfortably on even the horns of abosk, but only a Koroban is likelyto recline on a marble floor whenhe might just as well sleep upon thepelt of a larl in the wagon of acommander.”

“I don’t understand,” I said.“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 onhis left sleeve, and thrust it in hisbelt.

“Where are you going?” I asked.

“To my wagon,” he said. “Itarrived with the bosk along withbetter than two hundred otherwagons today including yours.”

I propped myself up on oneelbow. “I do not have a-wagon,” Isaid.

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

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

“I am serious,” he averred. “Thenight that you and I to departed forTuria, Kamchak ordered a wagonprepared for each of us to rewardus.”

I remembered that night the longswim against the undergroundcurrent, the well, our capture, theYellow Pool of Turia, the PleasureGardens, the tarns and escape.

“At that time, of course,” saidHarold, “our wagons were notpainted red, nor filled with bootyand rich things, for we were notthen commanders.”

“But to reward us for what?” Iasked.

“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 setout to do. I did not. I failed. I didnot obtain the golden sphere.”

“Bu1t the golden sphere isworthless,” said Harold. “Kamchakhas said so.”

“He does not know its value,” Isaid.

Harold shrugged. “Perhaps,” hesaid.

“So you see,” I said, “I was notsuccessful.”

“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 evenif 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 evenbringing tarns to the camp we thetwo of us won the Courage Scar.”

I was silent. Then I looked athim. “But,” I said, “you do not wearthe scar.”

“It would have been ratherdifficult to get near the gates ofTuria for a fellow wearing theCourage Scar, would it not?”

“Indeed it would,” I laughed.“When I have time,” said Harold,

“I will call one from the clan ofScarers and have the scar affixed. Itwill make me look even morehandsome.”

I smiled.“Perhaps you would like me to

call him for you as well?” inquiredHarold.

“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, soldierly. “But youwear the Courage Scar for what youdid not all men who wear theCourage Scar do so visibly.”

I did not speak.“Well,” said Harold, “I am tired

and I am going to my wagon, I havea little slave there I am anxious toput to work.”

“I did not know of my wagon,” Isaid.

“I gathered not,” said Harold,“seeing that you apparently spentthe night after the battle comfortablyresting on the floor-of Kamchak’swagon, I looked around for you thatnight but didn’t find you.” He

added, “Your own wagon, you willbe pleased to hear, was among thewagons, untouched by the Paravacias was mine.”

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

“You would have found out longago,” said Harold, “had you notrushed off to Turia againimmediately after our return whenthe wagons were moving towardTa-Thassa.

You did not even stop byKamchak’s wagon that day. Hadyou done so Aphris, or someone,might have told you.”

“From the sleen cage?” I asked.

“She was not in the sleen cagethe morning of our return from Turiawith the tarns,” said Harold.

“Oh,” I said, “I am glad to hearit.”

“Nor was the little barbarian,”said Harold.“What became of her?” I asked.

“Kamchak gave her to awarrior,” he said.

“Oh,” I said. I was not glad tohear it. “Why didn’t you tell me ofmy wagon?” I asked.

“It did not seem important,” hesaid.

I frowned.“I suppose, however,” he said,

“Korobans are impressed with suchthings having wagons and such.”

I smiled. “Harold the Tuchuk,” Isaid, “I am tired.”

“Are you not going to yourwagon tonight?” he asked.

“I think not,” I said.“As you wish,” said he, “but I

have had it well stocked with Pagaand Ka-la-na wines from Ar andsuch.”

In Turia, even though we hadmuch of the riches of the city at ourdisposal, there had not been muchPaga or Ka-la-na wine. As I mayhave mentioned the Turians, on thewhole, favour thick, sweet wines. I

had taken, as a share of battle loot,a hundred and ten bottles of Pagaand forty bottles of Ka-la-na winefrom Tyros, Cos and Ar, but these Ihad distributed to my crossbowmen,with the exception of one bottle ofPaga which Harold and I had splitsome two nights ago. I decided Imight spend the night in my wagon.

Two nights ago it had been anight for Paga. Tonight, I felt, was anight for Ka-la-na. I was pleased tolearn there would be some in thewagon.

I looked at Harold and grinned.“I am grateful,” I said.

“Properly so,” remarked Harold

and leaped to his kaiila, untetheringthe beast and springing to itssaddle. “Without me,” he said, “youwill never find your wagon and Ifor one will dawdle here nolonger!”

“Wait!” I cried.His kaiila sprang from the room,

bounding across the carpet in thenext hall, and then thudding down acorridor toward the main entrance.

Muttering I jerked loose the reinsof my kaiila from the column towhich I had tethered it, leaped tothe saddle and raced after Harold,not wishing to be left behindsomewhere in the streets of Turia or

among the dark wagons beyond thegate, pounding on wagon afterwagon to find which one might bemine. I bounded down the stairs ofthe palace of Phanius Turmus, andsped through the inner and outercourtyard and out into the street,leaving the startled guards trying tosalute me as a commander.

A few yards beyond the gate Ihauled my kaiila up short, rearingand pawing the air. Harold wassitting there calmly on the back ofhis kaiila, a reproachful look on hisface.

“Such haste,” he said, “is notseemly in the commander of a

Thousand.”“Very well,” I said, and we

walked our kaiila at a stately pacetoward Turia’s main gate.

“I was afraid,” I said, “thatwithout you I would not be able tofind my wagon.”

“But it is the wagon of acommander,” said Harold, asthough puzzled, “so anyone couldtell 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 thesematters by racing you to the maingate.”

“Look out!” cried Harold.“Behind you!”

I spun the kaiila and whipped mysword from its sheath. I lookedabout wildly, at doorways, at rooftops, 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 brickbuilding.

“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 maingate.

By the time I had turned myanimal and was racing after him hewas almost a quarter of a pasangdown the street, bounding overbeams and rubbish, and litter, someof it still smoking. At the main gateI overtook him and together wesped through it, slowing our mounts

on the other side to a decorous pacesuitable to our rank.

We rode a bit into the wagonsand then he pointed. “There is yourwagon,” he said. “Mine is nearby.”

It was a large wagon, drawn byeight black bosk. There were twoTuchuk guards outside. Beside it,fixed in the earth, on a pole, therewas a standard of four bosk horns.The pole had been painted red,which is the colour 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 timeson their shields.

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

“You certainly have a fastkaiila,” remarked Harold.

“The race,” I said, “is all in therider.”

“As it was,” said Harold, “Iscarcely 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 seemunlikely, would it not?”

“Yes,” I sail, “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?” heinquired. “Odd or even?”

“No,” I said.“Very well,” said he, grinning,

and lifted 1his right hand in Goreansalute. “Until morning.”

I returned the salute. “Untilmorning,” I said.

I watched Harold ride towards

his wagon, whistling a Tuchuk tune.I supposed the little wench Hereenawould be waiting for him, probablycollared and chained to the slavering.

Tomorrow I knew the assaultwould begin on the House ofSaphrar and the tower of Ha-Keel.Tomorrow one or both of us, Isupposed, might be dead.

I noted that the bosk seemed wellcared for, and that their coats weregroomed, and the horns and hoofspolished.

Wearily I gave the kaiila to oneof the guards and mounted the stepsof the wagon.

Chapter 25I AM SERVED WINEI entered the wagon and stopped,

startled.Within, a girl, across the wagon,

beyond the tiny fire bowl-in thecentre of its floor, standing on thethick rug, near a hanging tharlarionoil lamp, turned suddenly to faceme clutching about herself as wellas she could a richly wroughtyellow cloth, a silken yellow sheet.The red band of the Koora boundback her hair. I could see a chainrunning across the rug from the

slave ring to her right ankle.“You!” she cried.She held her hand before her

face.I did not speak, but stood

dumbfounded, finding myself facingElizabeth Cardwell.

“You’re alive!” she said. Andthen 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

got”“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 ElizabethCardwell had been given byKamchak to a warrior. He had notsaid which warrior. Now I knew

“Has your master visited youoften?” I asked.

“As yet, never,” said she, “but heis in the city and may this very nightcome to the wagon!”

“I do not fear him,” I said.She turned away, the chain

moving with her. She pulled theyellow sheet more closely abouther. She dropped her hand frombefore her face and stood facing theback 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, wastrue. She could speak Gorean butshe could not read it. For that mattermany Tuchuks could not, and theengraving on the collars of theirslaves was often no more than asign which was known to be theirs.

Even those who could read, or

pretended to be able to, would affixtheir sign on the coll1ar as well astheir name, so that others who couldnot read could know to whom theslave belonged. Kamchak’s signwas the four bosk horns and twoquivas.

I walked about the fire bowl toapproach the girl. “Don’t look atme,” she cried, bending down,holding her face from the light, thencovering it with her hands. Ireached over and turned the collarsomewhat. It was attached to achain. I gathered the girl was inSirik, the chain on the floor attachedto the slave ring running to the twin

ankle rings. She would not face mebut stood covering her face, lookingaway. The engraving on the Turiancollar consisted of the sign of thefour bosk horns and the sign of thecity of Ko-ro-ba, which I took it,Kamchak had used for my sign.There was also an inscription inGorean on the collar, a simple one.I am Tarl Cabot’s girl. Irestraightened the collar andwalked away, going to the otherside of the wagon, leaning my handsagainst it, wanting to think.

I could hear the chain move asshe 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 otherholding the yellow sheet about her.I could see now that her wristswere encircled with slavebracelets, linked to the collar chain,which then continued to the anklerings. A second chain, that which Ihad first seen, fastened the Sirikitself to the slave ring. Over thehand that shielded the lower part ofher face I could see her eyes, andthey 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 acommander he who could commanda Thousand.”

“I am such,” I said. “I am acommander.”

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, unableto stand, weeping.

I knelt beside her. “It is overnow, Elizabeth,” I said. “It isfinished. You will no longer behurt. You are no longer a slave.You are free, Elizabeth.”

I gently took her braceletedwrists in my hands and removedthem from her face.

She tried to twist her head away.“Please don’t look at me, Tarl,” shesaid.

In her nose, as I had suspected,

there glinted the tiny, fine goldenring of the Tuchuk woman.

“Don’t look at me, please,” shesaid.

I held her lovely head with itssoft dark hair in my hands, gazingon her face, her forehead, her dark,soft eyes, with tears, themarvellous, trembling mouth, andset in her fine nose, delicate andlovely, the tiny golden ring.

“It is actually very beautiful,” Isaid.

She sobbed and pressed her headto my shoulder. “They bound me ona wheel,” she said.

With my right hand I pressed her

head more closely against me,holding it.

“I am branded,” she said. “I ambranded.”

“It is finished now,” I said. “Youare free, Elizabeth.”

She lifted her face, stained withtears, to mine.

“I love you, Tarl Cabot,” shesaid.

“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 giveyou to his friend.”

She withdrew from me a bit,puzzled. “Can that be?” she asked.“He whipped me, he — touchedme,” she shuddered, “with theleather.” She looked down, notwanting to look Into my eyes.

“You were beaten,” I said,“because you ran abbey. Normallya girl who does what you did ismaimed or thrown to Been orkaiila, and that he touched you withthe whip, the Slaver’s Caress, thatwas only to show me, and perhaps

you, that you were female.”She looked down. “He shamed

me,” she said. “I cannot help it thatI moved as I did I cannot help that Iam 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 barbarouscustom inflicted on their slave girlsby Turians.”

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

“Are your ears pierced?” Iasked.

“No,” she said, “but many of my

friends on Earth who owned fineearrings, had their ears pierced.”

“Did that seem so dreadful toyou?” I asked.

“No,” she said, smiling.“It would to Tuchuks,” I said.

“They do not even inflict that ontheir Turian slaves.” I added, “Andit is one of the great fears of aTuchuk girl that, should she fall intoTurian hands, it will be done toher.”

Elizabeth laughed, through hertears.

“The ring may be removed,” Isaid. “With instruments it can beopened and then slid free leaving

behind no mark that one would eversee.”

“You are very kind, Tarl Cabot,”she said.

“I do not suppose it would do totell you,” I remarked, “but actuallythe ring is rather attractive.”

She lifted her head and smiledpertly. “Oh?” she asked.

“dyes,” I said, “quite.”She leaned back on her heels,

drawing the yellow silken sheetmore closely about her shoulders,and looked at me,1 smiling.

“Am I slave or free?” she asked.“Free,” I said.She laughed. “I do not think you

want to free me,” she said. “Youkeep me chained up like a slavegirl!”

I laughed. “I am sorry!” I cried.To be sure, Elizabeth Cardwell wasstill in Sirik.

“Where is the key?” I asked.“Above the door,” she said,

adding, rather pointedly, “justbeyond my reach.”

I leaped up to fetch the key.“I am happy,” she said.I picked the key from the small

hook.“Don’t turn around!” she said.I did not turn. “Why not?” I

asked. I heard a slight rustle of

chain.I heard her voice from behind

me, husky. “Do you dare free thisgirl?” she asked.

I spun about and to myastonishment saw that ElizabethCardwell had arisen and stoodproudly, defiantly, angrily beforeme, as though she might have been afreshly collared slave girl, broughtin but an Ahn before, bound overthe saddle of a kaiila, the fruit of aslave raid.

I gasped.“Yes,” she said, “I will reveal

myself, but know that I will fightyou to the death.”

Gracefully, insolently, the silkenyellow sheet moved about andacross her body and fell from her.She stood facing me, in pretendedanger, graceful and beautiful. Shewore the Sirik and was, of course,clad Kajir, clad in the Curia andChatka, the red cord and the narrowstrip of black leather; in theKalmak, the brief vest, open andsleeveless, of black leather, and inthe Koora, the strip of red cloth thatbound back her brown hair. Abouther throat was the Turian collarwith it chain, attached to slavebracelets and ankle rings, one of thelatter attached to the chain running

to the slave ring. I saw that her leftthigh, small and deep, bore thebrand of the four bosk horns.

I could scarcely believe that theproud creature who stood chainedbefore me was she whom Kamchakand I had referred to as the LittleBarbarian; whom I had been able tothink of only as a timid, simple girlof Earth, a young, pretty littlesecretary, one-of nameless,unimportant thousands of such in thelarge offices of Earth’s majorcities; but what I now saw beforeme did not speak to me of the glassand rectangles and pollutions ofEarth, of her pressing crowds and

angry, rushing, degraded throngs,slaves running to the whips of theirclocks, slaves leaping and yelpingand licking for the caress of silver,for their positions and titles andstreet addresses, for the adulationand envy of frustrated mobs forwhose regard a true Gorean wouldhave had but contempt; what I sawbefore me now spoke rather, in itsway, of the bellowing of bosk andthe smell of trampled earth; of thesound of the moving wagons and thewhistle of wind about them; of thecries of the girls with the bosk stickand the odour of the open cookingfire; of Kamchak on his kaiila as I

remembered him from before; asKutaituchik must once have been; ofthe throbbing, earthy rhythms ofgrass and snow, and the herding ofbeasts; and here before me nowthere stood a girl, seemingly acaptive, who might have been ofTuria, or Ar, or Cos, or Thentis;who proudly wore her chains andstood as though defiant in the wagonof her enemy, as if clad for hispleasure, all identity and meaningswept from her save theincontrovertible fact of what shenow seemed to b1e, and that alone,a Tuchuk slave girl.

“Well,” said Miss Cardwell,

breaking the spell she had cast, “Ithought you were going to unchainme.”

“Yes, yes,” I said, and stumbledas I went toward her.

Lock by lock, fumbling a bit, Iremoved her chains, and threw theSirik and ankle chain to the side ofthe wagon, under the slave ring.

“Why did you do that?” I asked.“I don’t know,” she responded

lightly, “I must be a Tuchuk slavegirl.”

“You are free,” I said firmly.“I shall try to keep it in mind,”

she said.“Do so,” I said.

“Do I make you nervous?” sheasked.

“Yes,” I said.She had now picked up the

yellow sheet and, with a pin or two,booty from Turia probably, fastenedit gracefully about her.

I considered raping her.It would not do, of course.“Have you eaten?” she asked.“Yes,” I said.“There is some roast bosk left,”

she said. “It is cold. It would be abother to warm it up, so I will notdo so. I am not a slave girl, youknow.”

I began to regret my decision in

freeing her.She looked at me, her eyes

bright. “It certainly took you a longtime to come by the wagon.”

“I was busy,” I said.“Fighting and such, I suppose,”

she said.“I suppose,” I said.“Why did you come to the wagon

tonight?” she asked. I didn’t careprecisely for the tone of voice withwhich she asked the question.

“For wine,” I said.“Oh,” she said.I went to the chest by the side of

the wagon and pulled out a smallbottle, one of several, of Ka-la-na

wine which reposed there.“Let us celebrate your freedom,”

I said, pouring her a small bowl ofwine.

She took the bowl of wine andsmiled, waiting for me to fill onefor myself.

When I had done so, I faced herand said, “To a free woman, onewho has been strong, one who hasbeen brave, to Elizabeth Cardwell,to a woman who is both beautifuland free.”

We touched the bowls and drank.“Thank you, Tarl Cabot,” she

said.I drained my bowl.

“We shall, of course,” Elizabethwas saying, “have to make somedifferent arrangements about thewagon.” She was glancing about,her lips pursed. “We shall have todivide it somehow. I do not know ifit would be proper to share awagon with a man who is not mymaster.”

I was puzzled. “I am sure,” Imuttered, “we can figure outsomething.” I refilled my winebowl. Elizabeth did not wish more.I noted she had scarcely sippedwhat she had been given. I tosseddown a swallow of Ka-la-na,thinking perhaps that it was a night

for Paga 1after all.“A wall of some sort,” she was

saying.“Drink your wine,” I said,

pushing the bowl in her handstoward her.

She took a sip, absently. “It is notreally bad wine,” she said.

“It is superb!” I said.“A wall of heavy planks would

be best, I think,” she mused.“You could always wear Robes

of Concealment,” I ventured, “andcarry about your person anunsheathed quiva.”

“That is true,” she said.Her eyes were looking at me

over the rim of her bowl as shedrank. “It is said,” she remarked,her eyes mischievous, “that any manwho frees a slave girl is a fool.”

“It is probably true,” I said.“You are nice, Tarl Cabot,” she

said.She seemed to me very beautiful.

Again I considered raping her, butnow that she was free, no longer asimple slave, I supposed that itwould be improper. I did, however,measure the distance between us, anexperiment in speculation, anddecided I could reach her in onebound and in one motion, with luck,land her on the rug.

“What are you thinking?” sheasked.

“Nothing that I care to inform youof,” I said.

“Oh,” she said, looking downinto her bowl of wine, smiling.

“Drink more wine,” I prompted.“Really” she said.“It’s quite good,” I said.

“Superb.”“You are trying to get me drunk,”

she said.“The thought did cross my mind,”

I admitted.She laughed. “After I am drunk,”

she asked, “what are you Being todo with me?”

“I think I will stuff you in thedung sack,” I said.

“Unimaginative,” she remarked.“What do you suggest?” I asked.“I am in your wagon,” she

sniffed. “I am alone, quitedefenceless, completely at yourmercy.”

“Please,” I said.“If you wished,” she pointed out,

“I could in an instant be returned toslave steel simply be reenslavedand would then again be yours to dowith precisely as you pleased.”

“That does not sound to me like abad idea,” I said.

“Can it be,” she asked, “that the

commander of a Tuchuk Thousanddoes not know what to do with agirl such as I?”

I reached toward her, to take herinto my arms, but I found the bowlof wine in my way, deftly so.

“Please, Mr. Cabot,” she said.I stepped back, angry.“By the Priest-Kings,” I cried,

“you are one woman who lookingfor trouble”

Elizabeth laughed over the wine.Her eyes sparkled. “I am free,” shesaid.

“I am well aware of that,” Isnapped.

She laughed.

1“You spoke of arrangements,” I

said. “There are some. Free or not,you are the woman in my wagon. Iexpect to have food, I expect thewagon to be clean, the axles to begreased, the bosk to be groomed.”

“Do not fear,” she said, “when Iprepare my meals I will makeenough for two.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” Imuttered.

“Moreover,” she said, “I myselfwould not wish to stay in a wagonthat was not clean, nor one whoseaxles were not greased nor whosebosk were not properly groomed.”

“No,” I said, “I suppose not.”“But it does seem to me,” she

said, “that you might share in suchchores.”

“I am the commander of aThousand,” I said.

“What difference does thatmake?” she asked.

“It makes a great deal ofdifference!” I shouted.

“You needn’t shout,” she said.My eye glanced at the slave

chains under the slave ring.“Of course,” said Elizabeth, “we

could regard it as a division oflabour of sorts.”

“Good,” I said.

“On the other hand,” she mused,“you might rent a slave for suchwork.”

“All right,” I said, looking at her.“I will rent a slave.”

“But you can’t trust slaves,” saidElizabeth.

With a cry of rage I nearlyspilled my wine.

“You nearly spilled your wine,”said Elizabeth.

The institution of freedom forwomen, I decided, as many Goreansbelieved, was a mistake.

Elizabeth winked at me,conspiratorially. “I will take careof the wagon,” she said.

“Good,” I said. “Good!”I sat down beside the fire bowl,

and stared at the floor.Elizabeth knelt down a few feet

from me, and took another sip of thewine.

“I heard,” said the girl, seriously,“from a slave whose name wasHereena that tomorrow there willbe great fighting.”

I looked up. “Yes,” I said. “Ithink it is true.”

“If there is to be fightingtomorrow,” she asked, “will youtake part in it?”

“Yes,” I said, “I suppose so.”“Why did you come to the wagon

tonight?” she asked.“For wine,” I said, “as I told

you.”She looked down.Neither of us said anything for a

time. Then she spoke. “I am happy,”she said, “that this is your wagon.”

I looked at her and smiled, thenlooked down again, lost in thought.

I wondered what would becomeof Miss Cardwell. She was, Iforcibly reminded myself, not aGorean girl, but one of Earth. Shewas not natively Turian nor Tuchuk.She could not even read thelanguage. To almost anyone whowould come upon her she might

seem but a beautiful barbarian, fitpresumably by b1irth and bloodonly for the collar of a master. Shewould be vulnerable. She, without adefender, would be helpless.Indeed, even the Gorean woman,outside her city, without a defender,should she escape the dangers of thewild, is not likely long to elude theiron, the chain and collar. Evenpeasants pick up such women, usingthem in the fields, until they can besold to the first passing slaver.Miss Cardwell would need aprotector, a defender. And yet onthe very morrow it seemed I mightdie on the walls of Saphrar’s

compound What then would be herfate? Moreover, I reminded myselfof my work, and that a warriorcannot well encumber himself witha woman, particularly not a freewoman. His companion, as it issaid, is peril and steel. I was sad. Itwould have been better, I toldmyself, if Kamchak had not givenme the girl.

My reflections were interruptedby the girl’s voice. “I’m surprised,”she said, “that Kamchak did not sellme.”

“Perhaps he should have,” I said.She smiled. “Perhaps,” she

admitted. She took another sip of

wine. “Tarl Cabot,” she said“Yes,” I said.“Why did Kamchak not sell me?”“I do not know,” I said.“Why did he give me to you?”

she asked.“I am not truly sure,” I said.I wondered indeed that Kamchak

had given the girl to me.There were many things that

seemed to me puzzling, and Ithought of Gor, and of Kamchak,and the ways of the Tuchuks, sodifferent from those native to MissCardwell and myself.

I wondered why it was thatKamchak had put the ring on this

girl, had had her branded andcollared and clad Kajir was it trulybecause she had angered him,running from the wagon that onetime or for another reason and whyhad he subjected her, cruellyperhaps, in my presence to theSlaver’s Caress? I had thought hecared for the girl. And then he hadgiven her to me, when there mighthave been other commanders. Hehad said he was fond of her. And Iknew him to be my friend. Why hadhe done this, truly? For me? Or forher, as well? If so, why? For whatreason?

Elizabeth had now finished her

wine. She had arisen and rinsed outthe bowl and replaced it. She wasnow kneeling at the back of thewagon and had untied the Kooraand shaken her hair loose. She waslooking at herself in the mirror,holding her head this way and that. Iwas amused. She was seeing howthe nose ring might be displayed tomost advantage. Then she began tocomb her long dark hair, kneelingvery straight as would a Goreangirl. Kamchak had never permittedher to cut her hair. Now that shewas free I supposed she wouldsoon shorten it. I would regret that.I have always found long hair

beautiful on a woman.I watched her combing her hair.

Then she had put the comb asideand had retied the Koora, bindingback her hair.

Now she was again studying herimage in the bronze mirror, movingher head slightly.

Suddenly I thought I understoodKamchak! He had indeed been fondof the girl!

“Elizabeth,” I said.“Yes,” she said, putting the

mirror down.“I think I know why Kamchak

gave you to me aside from the factthat I suppose he thought I could use

a prettier wench about the wagon.”She smiled.“I am glad he did,” she said.“Oh?” I asked.She smiled. She looked into the

mirror. “Of course,” she said, “whoelse would have been fool enoughto free me?”

“Of course,” I admitted.I said nothing for a time.The girl put down the mirror.

“Why do you think he did?” sheasked, facing me, curious.

“On Gor,” I said, “the myths haveit that only the woman who has beenan utter slave can be truly free.”

“I am not sure,” she said, “that I

understand the meaning of that.”“It has nothing to do, I think,” I

said, “with what woman is actuallyslave or free, has little to do withthe simplicity of chains or thecollar, or the brand.”

“Then what?” she asked.“It means, I think,” I said, “that

only the woman who has utterlysurrendered and can utterlysurrender losing herself in a man’stouch can be truly a woman, andbeing what she is, is then free.”

Elizabeth smiled. “I do notaccept that theory,” she remarked.“I am free now.”

“I am not talking about chains

and collars,” I said.“It is a silly theory,” she said.I looked down. “I suppose so,” I

said.“I would have little respect for

the woman,” said ElizabethCardwell, “who could utterlysurrender to a man.”

“I thought not,” I said.“Abdomen,” said Elizabeth, “are

persons surely as much as men andtheir equals.”

“I think we are talking aboutdifferent things,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said.“On our world,” I said, “there is

much talk of persons-and little of

men and women and the men aretaught that they must not be men andthe women are taught that they mustnot be women.”

“Nonsense,” said Elizabeth.“That is nonsense.”

“I do not speak of the words thatare used, or how men of Earthwould speak of these things,” I said,“but of what is not spoken of whatis implicit perhaps in what is saidand taught.

“But what,” I asked, “if the lawsof nature and of human blood weremore basic, more primitive andessential than the conventions andteachings of society what if these

old secrets and truths, if truths theybe, had been concealed orforgotten, or subverted to therequirements of a society conceivedin terms of interchangeable labourunits, each assigned id functional,technical sexless skills?”

“Really!” said Elizabeth.“What do you think would be the

result?” I asked.“I’m sure I don’t know,” she

said.“Our Earth,” I suggested.“Women,” said Miss Cardwell,

“do not wish to submit to men, to bedominated, to be brutalized.”

“We are speaking of different

things,” I said.“Perhaps,” she admitte1d.“There is no freer nor higher nor

more beautiful woman,” I said,“than the Gorean Free Companion.Compare her with your averagewife of Earth.”

“The Tuchuk women,” saidElizabeth, “have a miserable lot.”

“Few of them,” I said, “would beregarded in the cities as a FreeCompanion.”

“I have never known a womanwho was a Free Companion,” saidElizabeth.

I was silent, and sad, for I hadknown one such.

“You are perhaps right,” I said,“but throughout themammats itseems that there is one whosenature it is to possess and onewhose nature it is to be possessed.”

“I am not accustomed to thinkingof myself,” smiled Elizabeth, “as amammal.”

“What do you think of yourselfas,” I asked, “biologically?”

“Well,” she smiled, “if you wishto put it that way.”

I pounded the floor of the wagonand Elizabeth jumped.

“That,” I said, “is the way it is!”“Nonsense,” said she.“The Goreans recognize,” I said,

“that this truth is hard for women tounderstand, that they will reject it,that they will fear it and fight it.”

“Because,” said Elizabeth, “it isnot true.”

“You think,” I said, “that I amsaying that a woman is nothing thatis not it, I am saying she ismarvellous, but that she becomestruly herself and magnificent onlyafter the surrenders of love.”

“Silly!” said Elizabeth.“That is why,” I remarked, “that

upon this barbaric world thewoman who cannot surrenderherself is upon occasion simplyconquered.”

Elizabeth threw back her headand laughed merrily.

“Yes,” I smiled, “her surrenderis won often by a master who willbe satisfied with no less.”

“And what happens to thesewomen afterwards?” askedElizabeth.

“They may wear chains or theymay not,” I said, “but they arewhole they are female.”

“No man,” said Elizabeth,“including you, my dear Tarl Cabot,could bring me to such a pass.”

“The Gorean myths have it,” Isaid, “that the woman longs for thisidentity to be herself in being his if

only for the moment of paradox inwhich she is slave and thus Freed.”

“It is all very silly,” saidElizabeth.

“It is further said that the womanlongs for this to happen to her, butdoes not know it.”

“That is the silliest of all!”laughed Elizabeth.

“Why,” I asked, “did you earlierstand before me as a slave girl ifyou did not, for the moment, wish tobe a slave?”

“It was a joker” she laughed. “Ajoker”

“Perhaps,” I said.She looked down, confused.

“And so,” I said, “that is why Ithink Kamchak gave you.”

She looked up, startled. “Why?”she asked.

“That in my arms you wouldlearn the meaning of a slave collar,that you would learn the meaning ofbeing a woman.”

She looked at me, astonished, hereyes wide with disbelief.

“You see,” I said, “he thoughtwell of you. He was truly fond ofhis Little Barbarian.”

I stood up and threw the winebowl to the side of the room. Itshattered against the wine chest.

I turned away.

She leaped to her feet. “Whereare you going?” she asked.

“I am going to the public slavewagon,” I said.

“But why?” she asked.I looked at her frankly. “I want a

woman,” I said.She looked at me. “I am a

woman, Tarl Cabot,” she said.I said nothing.“Am I not as beautiful as the girls

in the public slave wagon?” sheasked.

“Yes,” I said, “you are.”“Then why do you not remain

with me?”“Tomorrow,” I said, “I think

there will be heavy fighting.”“I can please you as well as any

girl in the slave wagon,” she said.“You are free,” I told her.“I will give you more,” she said.“Please, do not speak so,

Elizabeth,” I said.She straightened herself. “I

suppose,” she said, “you have seengirls in slave markets, betrayed as Iwas by the touch of the whip.”

I did not speak. It was true that Ihad seen this.

“You saw how I moved,” shechallenged. “Would it not haveadded a dozen gold pieces to myprice?”

“Yes,” I said, “it would have.”I approached her and gently held

her by the waist, and looked downinto her eyes.

“I love you, Tarl Cabot,” shewhispered. “Do not leave me.”

“Do not love me,” I said. “Youknow little of my life and what Imust do.”

“I do not care,” she said, puttingher head to my shoulder.

“I must leave,” I said, “if onlybecause you care for me. It wouldbe cruel for me to remain.”

“Have me, Tarl Cabot,” she said,“if not as a free woman as a slave.”

“Beautiful Elizabeth,” I said, “I

can have you as neither.”“You will have me,” she cried,

“as one or the other!”“No,” I said gently. “No.”Suddenly she drew back in fury

and struck me with the flat of herhand, a vicious slap, and then againand again, and again.

“No,” I said.Again she slapped me. My face

burned. “I hate you,” she said. “Ihate your”

“No,” I said.“You know your codes, do you

not?” she challenged. “The codes ofthe warrior of Gor?”

“Do not,” I said.

Again she slapped me and myhead leaped to the side, burning. “Ihate you,” she hissed.

And then, as I knew she would,she suddenly knelt before me, infury, head down, arms extended,wrists crossed, submitting as aGorean female.

“Now,” she said, looking up, hereyes blazing with anger, “You musteither slay me or enslave me.”

“You are free,” I said sternly.“Then slay me,” she demanded.“I could not do that,” I said.“Collar me,” she said.“I have no wish to do so,” I said.“Then acknowledge your codes

betrayed,” she said.“Fetch the collar,” I said.She leaped up to fetch the collar

and handed it to me, again kneelingbefore me.

I encircled her lovely throat withthe steel and she looked up at me,angrily.

I snapped it shut.She began to rise to her feet.But my hand on her shoulder

prevented her from rising. “I did notgive you permission to rise, slave,”I said.

Her shoulders shook with anger.Then she said, “Of course, I amsorry, master,” and dropped her

head.I removed the two pins from the

yellow silken sheet, and it fell fromher, revealing her clad Kajir.

She stiffened in anger.“I would see my slave girl,” I

said.“Perhaps,” she said, acidly, “you

wish your girl to remove herremaining garments?”

“No,” I said.She tossed her head.“I shall do it,” I told her.She gasped.As she knelt on the rug, head

down, in the position of thePleasure Slave, I took from her the

Koora, loosening her hair, and thenthe leather Kalmak, and then I drewfrom her the Curia and Chatka.

“If you would be a slave,” I said,“be a slave.”

She did not raise her head butglared savagely down at the rug, hersmall fists clenched.

I went across the rug and satdown cross-legged near the firebowl, and looked at the girl.

“Approach me, slave girl,” Isaid, “and kneel.”

She lifted her head and looked atme, angrily, proudly, for a moment,but then she said, “Yes, master,”and did as she was commanded.

I looked at Miss ElizabethCardwell, kneeling before me, headdown, clad only in the collar of aslave.

“What are you?” I asked.“A slave,” she said bitterly, not

raising her head.“Serve me wine,” I said.She did so, kneeling before me,

head down, handing me the1 black,red-trimmed wine crater, that of themaster, as had Aphris to Kamchak. Idrank.

When I had finished I set thewine crater aside and looked on thegirl.

“Why have you done this,

Elizabeth?” I asked.She looked down sullenly. “I am

Vella,” she said, “a Gorean slave.”“Elizabeth” I said.“Vella,” she said angrily.“Vella,” I agreed, and she looked

up. Our eyes met and we looked atone another for a long time. Then,she smiled, and I looked down.

I laughed. “It seems,” I said, “thatI will not make it to the public slavewagon tonight.”

Elizabeth looked up, shyly. “Itseems not, master.”

“You are a vixen, Vella,” said I.She shrugged. Then, kneeling

before me in the position of the

Pleasure Slave, she stretchedindolently, with feline grace, liftingher hands behind the back of herneck and throwing her dark hairforward. She knelt so for alanguorous moment, her hands overher head holding her hair, looking atme.

“Do you think,” she asked, “thatthe girls in the public slave wagonare as beautiful as Vella?”

“No,” I said, “they are not.”“Or as desirable?” she asked.“No,” I said, “none is as

desirable as Vella.”Then, her back still arched, with

a half-smile, she stretched even

more, and, as though weary, sheslowly turned her head to one side,with her eyes closed, and thenopened them and with a small, lazymotion of her hands threw her hairback over her head, and with a tinymotion of her head shook it intoplace.

“It seems Vella wishes to pleaseher master,” I said.

“No,” said the girl, “Vella hatesher master.” She looked at me withfeigned hatred. “He has humiliatedVella. He has stripped her and puther in the collar of a slaver”

“Of course,” I said.“But,” said the girl, “perhaps she

might be forced to please him. Afterall she is only a slave.”

I laughed.“It is said,” remarked the girl,

“that Vella, whether she knows it ornot, longs to be a slave the utterslave of a man if but for an hour.”

I slapped my knee withamusement. “That sounds to me,” Isaid, “like a silly theory.”

The girl shrugged in her collar.“Perhaps,” she said, “Vella doesnot know.”

“Perhaps,” I said, “Vella willfind out.”

“Perhaps,” said the girl, smiling.“Are you ready, Slave Girl,” I

asked, “to give pleasure to amaster?”

“Have I any choice?” she asked.“None,” I said.“Then,” she said, with

resignation, “I suppose I am ready.”I laughed.Elizabeth was looking at me,

smiling. Then, suddenly, playfully,she put her head to the rug beforeme. I hear1d her whisper, “Vellaasks only to tremble and obey.”

I stood up and, laughing, liftedher to her feet.

She, too, laughed, standing closeto me, her eyes bright. I could feelher breath on my face.

“I think now I will do somethingwith you,” I said.

She looked resigned, droppingher head. “What is to be the fate ofyour beautiful, civilized slave?” sheasked.

“The dung sack,” I replied.“No!” she cried, suddenly

frightened. “No!”I laughed.“I will do anything rather than

that,” she said. “Anything.”“Anything?” I asked.She looked up at me and smiled.

“Yes,” she said, “anything.”“Very well, Vella,” said I, “I

will give you but one chance if you

well please me the aforementionedmiserable fate will not be yours atleast for tonight.”

“Vella will well please you,” shesaid earnestly.

“Very well,” I said, “please me.”I recalled keenly how she had

sported with me earlier and Ithought there might be some point ingiving the young American a tasteof her own medicine.

She looked at me startled.Then she smiled. “I will teach

you that I well know the meaning ofmy collar, master,” she said.

Suddenly she kissed me, a deepkiss, moist, rich, too soon ended.

“There” she laughed. “The kissof a Tuchuk slave girl!”

Then she laughed and turnedaway, looking over her shoulder.“You see,” she said, “I can do itquite well.”

I did not speak.She was facing the other way.

“But,” she said, teasingly, “I thinkone will be enough for master.”

I was a bit angry, and not a littlearoused. “The girls in the publicslave wagon,” I said, “know how tokiss.”

“Oh?” she said, turning about.“They are not little secretaries,” I

said, “pretending to be slave girls.”

Her eyes flashed. “Try this!” shesaid, approaching me, and this time,my head in her small hands, shelingered with her lips upon mymouth, warm, wet, breaths meetingand mingling in the savouring touch.My hands held her slender waist.When she had finished, I remarked,“Not bad.”

“Not bad!” she cried. Then fullyand for much time, she kissed me,with increasing determination, yetattempted subtlety, thennoxlety, thenwoodenly, and then she dropped herhead. lifted her chin with my finger.She looked at me angrily.

“I should have told you, I

suppose,” I remarked, “that awoman kisses well only when fullyaroused, after at least half an Ahn,after she is helpless and yielding.”

She looked at me angrily andturned away.

Then she spun about laughing.“You are a beast, Tarl,” she cried.

“And you, too,” I laughed, “are abeast a beautiful little collaredbeast.”1p>

“I love you,” she said, “TarlCabot.”

“Array yourself in Pleasure Silk,Little Beast,” I said, “and enter myarms.”

The blaze of a challenge flared

suddenly in her eyes. She transfusedwith excitement. “Though I am ofEarth,” she said, “try to use me asslave.”

I smiled. “If you wish,” I said.“I will prove to you,” she said,

“that your theories are false.” Ishrugged.

“I will prove to you,” she said,“that a woman cannot beconquered.”

“You tempt me,” I said.“I love you,” she said, “but even

so, you will not be able to conquerme, for I shall not permit myself tobe conquered, not even though Ilove your”

“If you love me,” I said,“perhaps I would not wish toconquer you.”

“But Kamchak, generous fellow,gave me to you, did he,” she asked,“that you should teach me as slaveto be female?”

“I think so,” I admitted.;“And in his opinion, and perhaps

yours, would that not be In my bestinterests?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not reallyknow. These are complicatedmatters.”

“Well,” said she, laughing, “Ishall prove you both wrong”

“All right,” I said, “we shall

see,”“But you must promise to try to

make me truly a slave if only for amoment.”

“All right,” I said.“The stakes,” she pronounced,

“will be my freedom against.”“Yes?” I asked.“Against yours?” she laughed.“I do not understand,” I said.“For one week,” she said, “in the

secrecy of the wagon where no onecan see you will be my slave youwill wear collar and serve me anddo whatever I wish.”

“I do not care much for yourterms,” I said.

“You seem to find little fault inmen owning female slaves,” shesaid. “Why should you object tobeing a slave owned by a female?”

“I see,” I said.She smiled slyly. “I think it might

be rather pleasant to eve a maleslave.” She laughed. “I will teachyou the bearing of a collar, TarlCabot,” she said.

“Do not count your slaves untilyou have won them,” I cautioned.

“Is it a wager?” she asked.I gazed on her. How every bit of

her seemed alive with allege! Hereyes, her stance, the sound of hervoice I saw e tiny nose ring,

barbaric, glinting in the light of thefire bowl. I saw the place on herthigh where not many days beforethe fiery iron had been so cruellypressed, leaving hind it, smokingfor the instant, deep and clean, thetiny arc of the four bosk horns. Isaw on her lovely throat the ring ofTurian steel, gleaming and locked,so contrast g with, so barbaricallyaccentuating the incredible softnessher beauty, the tormentingvulnerability of it. The collar, Iknew, bore my name, proclaimingher, should I wish, my slave. An1dyet this beautiful, soft, proud thingstood there, trough ringed and

branded, though collared, bold andbrazen staring at me, eyes bright,her challenge, the eternal challengeof the unconquered female, that ofthe untamed woman daring the maleto touch her, to try, she resisting, toreduce her to yielding prize, toforce from her the unconditionalsurrender,-the total and uttersubmission of the woman who hasno choice but to acknowledgeherself his, the help less,capitulated slave of him in whosearms she finds herself prisoner.

As the Goreans have it, there isin this a war in which the womancan respect only that man who can

reduce her to utter defeat.But it seemed to me there was

little in the eyes or stance of MissCardwell which suggested theplausibility of the Goreaninterpretation. She seemed to meclearly out to win, to enjoy herselfperhaps, but to win, and then exactfrom me something in the way ofvengeance for all the months anddays in which she, proud,independent wench, had been onlyslave. I recalled she had told methat she would teach me well themeaning of a collar. If she weresuccessful, I had little doubt that shewould carry out her threat.

“Well,” she challenged,“Master?”

I gazed at her, the tormentingvixen. I had no wish to be her slave.I resolved, if one of us must beslave, it would be she, the lovelyMiss Cardwell, who would wearthe collar.

“Well,” she again challenged,“Master?”

I smiled. “It is a wager,” said I,“Slave Girl.”

She laughed happily and turned,and standing on her tiptoes,lowered the tharlarion oil lamps.Then she bent to find for herselfamong the riches of the wagon

yellow Pleasure Silks.At last she stood before me, and

was beautiful.“Are you prepared to be a

slave?” she asked.“Until you have won,” I said, “it

is you who wear the collar.”She dropped her head in mock

humility. “Yes, Master,” she said.Then she looked up at me, her eyesmischievous.

I motioned for her to approach,and she did so.

I indicated that she should entermy arms, and she did so.

In my arms she looked up at me.“You’re sure you’re quite ready

to be a slave?” she asked.“Be quiet,” I said gently.“I shall be pleased to own you,”

she said. “I have always wanted ahandsome male slave.”

“Be quiet,” I whispered.“Yes, Master,” she said,

obediently.My hands parted the Pleasure

Silk and cast it aside.“Really, Master!” she said.“Now,” I said, “I will taste the

kiss of my slave girl.”“Yes, Master,” she said.“Now,” I instructed her, “with

more passion.”“Yes, Master,” she said

obediently, and kissed me withfeigned passion.

I, hand in her collar, turned herabout and put her on her back on therug, her shoulders pressed againstthe thick pile.

She looked 1at me, a sly smile onher face.

I took the nose ring between mythumb and forefinger and gave it alittle pull.

“Oh!” she cried, eyes smarting.Then she looked up. “That is noway to treat a lady,” she remarked.

“You are only a slave girl,” Ireminded her.

“True,” she said forlornly,

turning her head to one side.I was a bit irritated.She looked up at me and laughed

with amusement.I began to kiss her throat and

body and my hands were behind herback, lifting her and arching her, sothat her head was back and down.

“I know what you’re trying todo,” she said.

“What is that?” I mumbled.“You are trying to make me feel

owned,” she said.“Oh,” I said.“You will not succeed,” she

informed me.I myself was beginning to grow

sceptical.She wiggled about on her side,

looking at me. My hands were stillclasped behind the small of herback.

“It is said by Goreans,” remarkedthe girl, very seriously, “that everywoman, whether she knows it ornot, longs to be a slave the utterslave of a man if but for an hour.”

“Please be quiet,” I said.“Every woman,” she said

emphatically. “Every woman.”I looked at her. “You are a

woman,” I observed.She laughed. “I find myself naked

in the arms of a man and wearing

the collar of a slave. I think there islittle doubt at I am a woman!”

“And at the moment.” Isuggested, “little more.”

She looked at me irritably for amoment. Then she smiled.

“It is said by Goreans,” sheremarked, with very great rseriousness, with mock bitterness,“that in a collar a woman can beonly a woman.”

“The theory you mention,” I said,grumbling, “about women longingto be slaves, if only for an hour, isdoubtless false.”

She shrugged in her collar andput her head to one side, her hair

falling to the rug. “Perhaps,” shesaid, much as she had before,“Vella does not know.”

“Perhaps Vella will find out,” Isaid.

“Perhaps,” she said, laughing.Then, perhaps not pleasantly, my

hand closed on her ankle.“Oh!” she said.She tried to move her leg, but

could not.I then bent her leg, that I might, as

I wished, display for my pleasure,she willing or not, the marvellouscurves of her calf.

She tried to pull her leg away,but she could not. It would move

only as I pleased.“Please, Tarl,” she said.“You are going to be mine,” I

said.“Please,” she said, “let me go.”

My grip on her ankle was not cruelbut in all her womanness she knewh1erself held.

“Please,” she said again, “let mego.”

I smiled to myself. “Be silent,Slave,” said I.

Elizabeth Cardwell gasped.I smiled.“So you are stronger than me,”

she scoffed. “It means nothing!”I then began to kiss her foot and

the inside of her Achilles, beneaththe bone, and she trembledmomentarily.

“Let me go!” she cried.But I only kissed her, holding

her, my lips moving to the back ofher leg, low where it joins the foot,where an ankle ring would belocked.

“A true man,” she cried outsuddenly, “would not behave so!No! A true man is gentle, kind,tender, respectful, at all times,sweet and solicitous! That is a trueman!”

I smiled at her defences, soclassical, so typical of the modern,

unhappy, civilized female,desperately frightened of being trulya woman in a man’s arms, trying todecide and determine manhood notby the nature of man and his desire,and her nature as the object of thatdesire, but by her own fears, tryingto make man what she could findacceptable, trying to remake him inher own image.

“You are a female,” I saidcasually. “I do not accept yourdefinition of man.”

She made an angry noise.“Argue,” I suggested, “explain

speak names.”She moaned.

“It is,” I said, “that when the fullblood of a man is upon him, and hesees his female, and will have her,that it should be then that he is not atrue man.”

She cried out in misery.Then, as I had expected, she

suddenly wept, and doubtless withgreat sincerity. I supposed at thistime many men of Earth, properlyconditioned, would have beenshaken, and would have fallenpromptly to this keen weapon,shamed, retreating stricken withguilt, with misgivings, as the femalewished. But, smiling to myself, Iknew that on this night her weeping,

the little vixen, would gain her norespite.

I smiled at her.She looked at me, horrified,

frightened, tears ire her eyes.“You are a pretty little slave,” I

said.She struggled furiously, but could

not escape.When her struggles had subsided

I began, half biting, half kissing, tomove up her calf to the delights ofthe sensitive areas behind herknees.

“Please” she wept.“Be quiet, pretty little Slave

Girl,” I mumbled.,

Then, kissing, but letting her feelthe teeth which could, if I chose,tear at her flesh, I moved to theinterior of her thigh. Slowly, withmy mouth, by inches, I began toclaim her.

“Please,” she said.“What is wrong?” I asked.“I find I want to yield to you,”

she whispered.“Do not be frightened,” I told

her.“No,” she said. “You do not

understand.”I was puzzled.

“I want to yield to you,” shewhispered, “as a slave girl!”

“You will so yield to me,” I toldher.

“No!” she cried. “No!”“You will yield to me,” I told

her, “as a slave girl to her master.”“No!” she cried. “No! No!”I continued to kiss her, to touch

her.“Please stop,” she wept.“Why?” I asked.“You are making me a slave,”

she whispered.“I will not stop,” I told her.“Please,” she wept. “Please!”“Perhaps,” I said to her, “the

Goreans were right?”“No!” she cried. “No!”

“Perhaps that is what youdesire,” I said, “to yield with theutterness of a female slave.”

“Never!” she cried, weeping infury. “Leave me!”

“Not until you have become aslave,” I told her.

She cried out in misery. “I do notwant to be a slave!”

But when I had touched the mostintimate beauties of her she becameuncontrollable, writhing, and in myarms I knew the feeling of a slavegirl and such, for the moment, wasthe beautiful Elizabeth Cardwell,helpless and mine, female andslave.

Now her lips and arms and body,now those only of an enamouredwench in bondage, sought mine,acknowledging utterly andunreservedly, shamelessly andhopelessly, with helpless abandon,their master.

I was astonished at her for eventhe touch of the whip, herinvoluntary response to the Slaver’sCaress, had not seemed to promiseso much.

She cried out suddenly as shefound herself fully mine.

Then she scarcely dared to move.“You are claimed, Slave Girl,” I

whispered to her.

“I am not a slave girl,” shewhispered intensely. “I am not aslave girl.”

I could feel her nails in my arm.In her kiss I tasted blood, suddenlyrealizing that she had bitten me. Herhead was back, her eyes closed, herlips open.

“I am not a slave girl,” she said.I whispered in her ear, “Pretty

little slave girl.”“I am not a slave girl!” she cried.“You will be soon,” I told her.“Please, Tarl,” she said, “do not

make me a slave.”“You sense that it can be done?”

I asked.

“Please,” she said, “do not makeme a slave.”

“Do we not have a wager?” Iasked.

She tried to laugh. “Let us forgetthe wager,” said she. “Please, Tarl,it was foolishness. Let us forget thewager?”

“Do you acknowledge yourselfmy slave?” I inquired.

“Never!” she hissed.“Then,” said I, “lovely wench,

the wager is not yet done.”She struggled to escape me, but

could not. Then, suddenly, as thoughstartled, she would not move.

She looked at me.

“It soon begins,” I told her.“I sense it,” she said, “I sense it.”She did not move but I felt the cut

of her nails in my arms.“Can there be more?” she wept.“It soon begins,” I told her.“I’m frightened,” she wept.“Do not be frightened,” I told

her.“I feel owned,” she whispered.“You are,” I said.“No,” she said. “No.”“Do not be frightened,” I told

her.“You must let me go,” she said.“It soon begins,” I told her.“Please let me go,” she

whispered. “Please”“On Gor,” I said, “it is said that a

woman who wears a collar can beonly a woman.”

She looked at me angrily.“And you, lovely Elizabeth,”

said I, “wear a collar.”She turned her head to one side,

helpless, angry, tears in her eyes.~She did not move, and then

suddenly I felt the cut of her nailsdeep in my arms, and though herlips were open, her teeth wereclenched, her head was back, theeyes closed, her hair tangled underher and over her body, and then hereyes seemed surprised, startled, and

her shoulders lifted a bit from therug, and she looked at me, and Icould feel the beginning n her, thebreathing of it and the blood of it,hers, in my own flesh swift and likefire in her beauty, mine, andknowing it was then the time,meeting her eyes fiercely, I said toher, with sudden contempt andsavagery, following the commonGorean Rites of Submission,“Slave!” and she looked at me withhorror and cried out “Nor” and halfreared from the rug, wild, helpless,fierce as I intended, wanting to fightme, as I knew she would, wantingto slay me if it lay within her

power, as I knew she would, and Ipermitted her to struggle and to biteand scratch and cry out and then Isilenced her with the kiss of themaster, and accepted the exquisitesurrender which she had no choicebut to give. “Slave,” she wept,“slave, slave, slave I am a slave”

It was more than an Ahn later thatshe lay in my arms on the rug andlooked up at me, tears in her eyes.“I know now,” she said, “what it isto be the slave girl of a Master.”

I said nothing.“Though I am slave,” she said,

“yet for the first tinge in my life Iam free.”

“For the first time in your life,” Isaid, “you are a woman.”

“I love being a woman,” shesaid. “I am happy I am a woman,Tarl Cabot, I am happy.”

“Do not forget,” I said, “you areonly a slave.”

She smiled and fingered hercollar. “I am Tarl Cabot’s girl,” shesaid.

“My slave,” I said.“Yes,” she said, “your slave.”I smiled.“You will not beat me too often

will you, Master?” she asked.“We will see,” I said.“I will strive to please you,” she

said.“I am pleased to hear it,” I said.She lay on her back, her eyes

open, looking at the top of, thewagon, at the hangings, the shadowsthrown on the scarlet hides by thelight of the fire bowl.

“I am free,” she said.I looked at her.She rolled over on her elbows.

“It is strange,” she said. “I am aslave girl. But I am free. I am free.”

“I must sleep,” I said, rollingover.

She kissed me on the shoulder.“Thank you,” she said, “Tarl Cabot,for freeing me.”

I rolled over and seized her bythe shoulders and pressed her backto the rug and she looked uplaughing.

“Enough of this nonsense aboutfreedom,” I said. “Do not forget thatyou are a slave.” I took her nosering between my thumb andforefinger.

“Oh” she said.I lifted her head from the rug by

the ring and her eyes smarted.“This is scarcely the way to

show respect for a lady,” said thegirl.

I tweaked the nose ring, and tearssprang into her eyes.

“But then,” she said, “I am only aslave girl.”

“And do not forget it,” Iadmonished her.

“No, no, Master,” she said,smiling.

“You do not sound to mesufficiently sincere,” I said.

“But I arm” she laughed.“I think in the morning,” I said, “I

will throw you to kaiila.”“But where then will you find

another slave as delectable as I?”she laughed.

“Insolent wench!” I cried.“Oh” she cried, as I gave the ring

a playful tug. “Please!”

With my left hand I jerked thecollar against the back of her neck.

“Do not forget,” I said, “that onyour throat you wear a collar ofsteel.”

“Your collar!” she saidpromptly.

I slapped her thigh. “And,” Isaid, “on your thigh you wear thebrand of the four bosk horns”

“I’m yours,” she said, “like abosk!”

“Oh,” she cried, as I dropped herback to the rug.

She looked up at me, her eyesmischievous. “I’m free,” she said.

“Apparently,” I said, “you have

not learned the lesson of thecollar.”

She laughed merrily. Then shelifted her arms and put them aboutmy neck, and lifted her lips to mine,tenderly, delicately. “This slavegirl,” she said, “has well learnedthe lesson of her collar.”

I laughed.She kissed me again. “Vella of

Gor,” said she, “loves master.”“And what of Miss Elizabeth

Cardwell?” I inquired.“That pretty little slave” said

Elizabeth, scornfully.“Yes,” I said, “the secretary.”“She is not a secretary,” said

Elizabeth, “she is only a littleGorean slave.”

“Well,” said I, “what of her?”“As you may have heard,”

whispered the girl, “Miss ElizabethCardwell, the nasty little wench,was forced to yield herself as aslave girl to a master.”

“I had heard as much,” I said.“What a cruel beast he was,”

said the girl.“What of her now?” I asked.“The little slave girl,” said the

girl scornfully, “is now madly inlove with the beast.”

“What is his name?” I asked.“The same who won the

surrender of proud Vella of Gor,”said she.

“And his name?” I asked.“Tarl Cabot,” she said.“He is a fortunate fellow,” I

remarked, “to have two suchwomen.”

“They are jealous of oneanother,” confided the girl.

“Oh?” I asked.“Yes,” she said, “each will try to

please her master more than theother, that she will be hisfavourite.”

I kissed her.“I wonder who will be his

favourite?” she asked.

“Let them both try to please him,”I suggested, “each more than theother.”

She looked at me reproachfully.“He is a cruel, cruel master,” shesaid.

“Doubtless,” I admitted.For a long time we kissed and

touched. And from time to time,during the night, each of the girls,Vella of Gor and the littlebarbarian, Miss ElizabethCardwell, begged, and werepermitted, to serve the pleasure oftheir master. Yet he, unprecipitateand weighing matters carefully, stillcould not decide between them.

It was well toward morning, andhe was nearly asleep, when he feltthem against him, their cheekpressed against his thigh. “Girls,”mumbled he, “do not forget youwear my steel.”

“We will not forget,” they said.And he felt their kiss.“We love you,” said they,

“Master.”He decided, falling asleep, that

he would keep them both slave for afew days, if only to teach them alesson. Also, he reminded himself,it is only a fool who frees a slavegirl.

Chapter 26THE EGG OF PRIEST-

KINGSIn the dampness and darkness

long before dawn the forces ofKamchak, crowding the streets ofTuria in the vicinity of Saphrar’scompound, waited silently, likedark shapes on 1the stones; hereand there the glint of a weapon oraccoutrement could be madeout~the fading light of one of theflying moons; someone coughed;there was a rustle of leather; I heardto one side the honing of a quiva,the tiny sound of a short bow being

strung.Kamchak, Harold and I stood

with several others on the roof of abuilding across from the compound.

Behind the walls we could hear,now and then, a sentry calling hispost, answering another.

Kamchak stood in the halfdarkness, his palms on the wallrunning about the edge of the roof ofthe building on which we stood.

More than an hour ago I had leftthe commander’s wagon, beingroused by one of the guards outside.As I had left Elizabeth Cardwellhad awakened. We had saidnothing, but I had gathered her into

my arms and kissed her, then left thewagon.

On the way to the compound Ihad met Harold and together we hadeaten some dried bosk meat — anddrank water, from one of thecommissary wagons attached to oneof Hundreds in the city. Ascommanders we could eat wherewe chose.

The tarns that Harold and I hadstolen from Saphrar’s keep severaldays ago had both been brought intothe city and were nearby, for it wasthought that such might be needed, ifonly to convey reports from onepoint to another.

There were also, in the city, ofcourse, hundreds of kaiila, thoughthe main body of such mounts wasoutside the city, where game couldbe driven to them with greater ease.

I heard someone chewing nearbyand noted that Harold, who hadthrust some strips of bosk meat fromthe commissary wagon in his belt,was busily engaged, quiva in hand,with cutting and eating the meat.

“It’s nearly morning,” hemumbled, the observationsomewhat blurred by the meatpacked in his mouth.

I nodded.I saw Kamchak leaning forward,

his palms on the wall about theroof, staring at the compound. Heseemed humped in the halfdarkness, short of neck, broad ofshoulder. He hadn’t moved in aquarter of an Ahn. He was waitingfor the dawn.

When I had left the wagonElizabeth Cardwell, though she hadsaid nothing, had been frightened. Iremembered her eyes, and her lips,as they had trembled on mine. I hadtaken her arms from about my neckand turned away. I wondered if Iwould see her again.

“My own recommendation,”Harold was saying, “would be first

to fly my tarn cavalry over thewalls, clearing them with thousandsof arrows, and then, in a secondwave, to fly dozens of ropes ofwarriors to the roofs of the mainbuildings, to seize them and burnthe others.”

“But we have no tarn cavalry,” Inoted.

“That is what is wrong with myrecommendation,” granted Harold,chewing.

I closed my eyes briefly, and thenlooked back at the dim compoundacross the way.

“No recommendation is perfect,”said Harold.

I turned to a commander of aHundred, he who was in charge ofthe men I had trained with thecrossbow. “Did tarns enter or leavethe compound last night?” I asked.

“No,” said the man.“Are you sure?” I asked.“There was moonlight,” he said.

“We saw nothing.” He looked atme. “Bu1t,” he added, “there are,by my count some three or fourtarns from before within thecompound.”

“Do not permit them to escape,” Isaid.

“We shall try not to do so,” hesaid.

Now, in the east, as on Earth, wecould see a lightness in the sky. Iseemed to be breathing very deeply.

Kamchak still had not moved.I heard the rustling of men below

in the streets, the checking of arms.“There is a tarn” cried one of the

men on the roof.Very high in the sky, no more

than a small speck, speeding towardthe compound of Saphrar from thedirection of the Nil, tower Ibelieved held by Ha-Keel, we sawa tarn.

“Prepare to final” I cried.“No,” said Kamchak, “let it

enter.”

The men held their fire, and thetarn, almost at the centre of thecompound, as far from ourencircling positions as possible,suddenly plummeted downward, itswings high, opening them only at thelast minute to land on the top of thekeep, beyond accurate crossbowrange.

“Saphrar may escape,” I pointedout.

“No,” said Kamchak, “there is noescape for Saphrar.”

I said nothing.“His blood is mine,” said

Kamchak“Who is the rider?” I queried.

“Ha-Keel, the mercenary,” saidKamchak “He is coming to bargainwith Saphrar, but I can betterwhatever terms he is offered for Ihave all the gold and women ofTuria, and by nightfall I will havethe private hordes of Saphrar himself.”

“Beware,” I warned, “thetarnsmen of Ha-Keel they might yetturn the brunt of battle against you.”

Kamchak did not respond.“The thousand tarnsmen of Ha-

Keel,” said Harold, “left beforedawn for Port Karl Their tower isabandoned.”

“But why?” I demanded.

“They were well paid,” saidHarold, “with Turian gold of whichsubstance we have a great deal.”

“Then Saphrar is alone,” I said.“More alone than he knows,”

remarked Harold.“What do you mean?” I asked.“You will see,” he said.It was now clearly light in the

east, and I could see the faces ofmen below me, some of themcarrying rope ladders with metalhooks at the ends, others scalingladders.

It seemed to me that a fullstorming of the compound wouldtake place within the Ahn.

The House of Saphrar wasencircled literally by thousands ofwarriors.

We would outnumber thedesperate defenders of his wallsperhaps by twenty to one. Thefighting would be fierce, but it didnot seem that the outcome would bein doubt, even from the beginningparticularly now that the tarnsmenof Ha-Keel had left the city, thesaddle packs of their tarns bulgingwith Turian gold.

Then Kamchak spoke again. “Ihave waited long for the blood ofSaphrar of Turia,” he said. Helifted his1 hand and one who stood

near him climbed to the wall of theroof and blew a long blast on abosk horn.

I thought this might signal thebeginning of the storming of thecompound, but none of the menbelow moved.

Rather, to my astonishment, agate of the compound itself openedand wary men-at-arms, theirweapons ready, each carrying acloth sack, emerged. They filedbefore us in the street below, eachunder the contemptuous eyes of thewarriors of the Wagon Peoples,each in turn going to a long tablewhereon were placed many pairs of

scales, and each at that table wasweighed out four Gorean stone ofgold, about six Earth pounds, whichhe put in his cloth sack and scurriedaway, through an avenue opened forhim between the warriors. Theywould be escorted beyond the city.Four Gorean stone of gold is afortune.

I was utterly startled, overcome.I was shaking. Hundreds uponhundreds of men must have passedthus before us.

“I, I do not understand,” Istammered to Kamchak.

He did not turn to face me, butcontinued to stare at the compound.

“Let Saphrar of Turia die by gold,”he said.

Only then did I understand withhorror the depth of Kamchak’shatred of Saphrar of Turia.

Man by man, stone by stone ofgold. Saphrar was dying, his wallsand defences being taken grain bygrain from him, slipping away. Hisgold could not buy him the hearts ofmen.

Kamchak, in his Tuchuk cruelty,would stand quietly to one side and,coin by coin, bit by bit, buy Saphrarof Turia.

Once or twice I heard swordsringing from within the walls, as

perhaps some men, loyal toSaphrar, or to their codes,attempted to prevent their fellowsfrom leaving the compound, but Igather, judging from the continuedexodus from the walls, that thosewho were this loyal were scatteredand few in number. Indeed, somewho might have fought for Saphrar,seeing their fellows deserting insuch numbers, undoubtedly realizedtheir own imminent danger, nowincreased a hundred fold, andhastened to join the deserters. Ieven saw some slaves leaving thecompound, and these, though theywere slave, were given the four

stone of gold as well, perhaps themore to insult those free men whohad accepted the babes of Tuchuks.I gathered that Saphrar, in the yearshe had built his power in Tuna, hadfor his own purposes gathered suchmen about him, and now he wouldpay the pace — with his own life.

Kamchak’s face was impassive.At last, perhaps an Ahn after

daylight, no more men came fromthe compound and the gates wereleft open.

Kamchak then descended fromthe roof and mounted his kaiila.Slowly, at a walk, he rode towardthe main gate of the compound.

Harold and I, on foot, accompaniedhim. Behind us came severalwarriors. On Kamchak’s right therewalked a master of sleen, who heldtwo of the vicious, sinuous beasts incheck by chain leashes.

About the pommel of Kamchak’ssaddle were tied several bags ofgold, each weighed out to fourstone. And following him, amongthe warriors, were several Turianslaves, dad in chains and the Kes,among them Kamras, Champion ofTuria, and Phanius Turmus, theTurian Ubar, all of whom carriedlarge pans filled with sacks of gold.

Inside the gate of the compound I

saw that it seemed deserted, thewalls emptied of defenders. Theclear ground between the walls andthe first buildings was similarlyempty, though here and there I sawsome litter, pieces of boxes, brokenarrows, patches of1 cloth.

Kamchak stopped inside thecompound and looked about, hisdark, fierce eyes looking frombuilding to building, examining withgreat care the roof tops andwindows.

Then he gently moved his kaiilatoward the main portal. I caughtsight of two warriors standingbefore it, ready to defend it. Behind

them I was startled to see suddenlya currying figure in white and gold,Saphrar of Turia. Then he stoodback from the door, holdingsomething large in his arms,wrapped in purple cloth.

The two men prepared to defendthe portal.

Kamchak stopped the kaiila.Behind me I heard hundreds of

ladders and grappling hooks strikeagainst the wall, and, turning, I saw,climbing over the walls, as well asentering through the open gates,hundreds and hundreds of men, untilthe walls were swarming withTuchuks, and others of the Wagon

Peoples. Then, on the walls andwithin the compound, they stood,not moving.

Astride his kaiila Kamchakannounced himself. “Kamchak ofthe Tuchuks, whose fatherKutaituchik was slain by Saphrar ofTuria, cads upon Saphrar of Turia.”

“Strike him with your spears,”screamed Saphrar from within thedoorway.

The two defenders hesitated.“Give greetings to Saphrar of

Turia from Kamchak of theTuchuks,” said Kamchak calmly.

One of the guards turnedwoodenly. “Kamchak of the

Tuchuks,” he said, “gives greetingsto Saphrar of Turia.”

“Kill him!” screamed Saphrar.“Kill him!”

Silently a dozen Tuchuk bowmen,with the short horn bow, stood afootbefore Kamchak’s Kaiila, theirarrows trained on the hearts of thetwo guards.

Kamchak untied two of the sacksof gold from the pommel of hissaddle. He threw one to one sidefor one guard, and the other to theother side for the other guard.

“Fight!” cried Saphrar.The two guards broke from

before the door, each picking up his

sack of gold and fled through theTuchuks.

“Sleen!” cried Saphrar, andturned and ran deeper within thehouse.

Not hurrying Kamchak walkedhis kaiila up the stairs of the houseand, on kaiilaback, entered the mainhall of the House of Saphrar.

In the main had he looked aboutand then, Harold and I following,and the man with the two Sleen, andthe slaves with gold, and hisarchers and other men, he began towalk his kaiila up the broad marblestairs, following the terrifiedSaphrar of Turia.

Again and again we encounteredguards within the House but eachtime, when Saphrar took refugebehind them, Kamchak would throwgold to them and they woulddissipate and Saphrar, panting,puffing, clutching the large, purple-wrapped object in his arms, wouldon his short legs hurry off again. Hewould lock doors behind himselfbut they were forced open. Hewould throw furniture down stairstowards us, but we would steparound it. Our pursuit carried usfrom room to room, through hallafter hall, in the great house ofSaphrar of Turia. We passed

through the banquet hall, where longbefore we had been entertained bythe fleeing merchant.

We passed through kitchens andgalleries, even through the privatecompartments of Saphrar himself,where we saw the multitudinousrobes and sandals of the merchant,each1 worked predominantly inwhite and gold, though often mixedwith hundreds of other colours. Inhis own compartments the pursuithad seemed to end, for it seemedSaphrar had disappeared, butKamchak did not show the leastirritation or annoyance.

He dismounted and picked up a

lounging garment from He vastsleeping platform in the room,holding it to the noses of the twosleen. “Hunt,” said Kamchak.

The two sleen seemed to drink inthe scent of the robe and then theybegan to tremble, and the claws ontheir wide, soft feet emerged andretracted, and their heads lifted andbegan to sway from side to side. Asone animal they turned and pulledtheir keeper by the chain leashes towhat appeared to be a solid wall,where they rose on their back twolegs and set their other four legsagainst it, snarling, whimpering.

“Break through the wall,” said

Kamchak. He would not bother tosearch for the button or lever thatmight open the panel. In a fewmoments the wall had beenshattered, revealing the darkpassage beyond.

“Bring lamps and torches,” saidKamchak.

Kamchak now gave his kaiila toa subordinate and, on foot, carryingtorch and quiva, began to prowldown the passage, beside him thetwo snarling sleen, behind himHarold and I, and the rest of hismen, several with torches, even theslaves with gold. Guided by thesleen we had no difficulty in

following the track of Saphrarthrough the passage, though often itbranched variously. The passagewas, on the whole dark, but whereit branched there was often set amall, burning tharlarion oil lamp. Isupposed Saphrar of Curia musthave carried lamp or torch, orperhaps that he knew the passage byheart.

At one point Kamchak stoppedand called for planks, The door ofthe passage had been dropped, bythe release of a bolt, for an area ofits width and for a length of abouttwelve feet. Harold tossed a pebbleinto the opening and it took about

ten Ihn before we heard it strikewater far below.

Kamchak did not seem disturbedat the wait, but sat like a rock,cross-legged before the opening,looking across it, until planks werebrought, and then he, and the Sleen,were the first to cross.

Another time he warned us backand called for a lance, with whichhe tripped a wire in the passage.Four spears, with bronze heads,suddenly burst across the passage,emerging from circular openings,their tips striking into other smallopenings across the passage.Kamchak, with his boot, broke the

spear shafts and we moved betweenthem.

At last we emerged into a largeaudience room, with a domedceiling, heavily carpeted and hungwith tapestries. I recognized itimmediately, for it was the room inwhich Harold and I had beenbrought prisoner before Saphrar ofTuria.

In the room there were fourpersons.

Sitting in the place of honour,cross-legged, calm, on themerchant’s cushions, on hispersonal dais, applying a bit of oilto the blade of his sword, sat the

lean, scarred Ha-Keel, once of Ar,now a mercenary tarnsman ofsqualid, malignant Port Karl

On the floor below the dais wereSaphrar of Turia, frantic, clutchingthe purple-wrapped object, and theParavaci, he who still wore thehood of the Clan of Torturers, hewho would have been my assassin,he who had been with Saphrar ofTuria when I had entered theYellow Pool of Turia.

I heard Harold cry out withdelight at the sight of the fellow,and the man turned to face us, aquiva in his hand.

Beneath his black mask I wager

he turned white at the sight ofHarold of the Tuchuks. I couldsense him tremble.

The other man with them was ayoung man, dark-haired and eyed, asimple man-at-arms, perhaps notmore than twenty. He wore thescarlet of a warrior. He carried ashort sword and stood between usand the others.

Kamchak regarded him, and Ithought with the merest trace ofamusement.

“Do not interfere, Lad,” said he,quietly. “There is the business ofmen afoot in this place.”

“Stand back, Tuchuk,” cried the

young man. He held his swordready.

Kamchak signalled for a bag ofgold, and Phanius Turmus waskicked forward, and from a large,bronze pan which he carried,Kamchak removed a sack of goldand threw it to one side.

The young man did not movefrom his place, but set himself totake the charge of the Tuchuks.

Kamchak threw another sack ofgold to his feet, and then another.

“I am a warrior,” said the youngman proudly.

Kamchak signalled his archersand they came forward, their

arrows trained on the young man.He then threw, one after another,

a dozen bags of gold to the floor.“Save your gold, Tuchuk sleep,”

said the young man. “I am a warriorand I know my codes.”

“As you wish,” said Kamchakand raised his hand to signal thearchers.

“Do not” I cried.In that moment, uttering the

Turian war cry, the young manrushed forward with his sword onKamchak and the dozen arrowsflew simultaneously, striking him adozen times, turning him twice. Yetdid he try still to stagger forward

and then another arrow and anotherpierced his body until he fell atKamchak’s feet.

To my astonishment I saw thatnot one of the arrows hadpenetrated his torso or head orabdomen, but that each had struckonly an arm or leg.

It had been no accident.Kamchak turned the young man

over with his boot. “Be a Tuchuk,”he said.

“Never,” wept the young man inpain, between clenched teeth.“Never, Tuchuk sleen, never!”

Kamchak turned to certain of thewarriors with him.

“Bind his wounds,” he said. “Seethat he lives. When he can rideteach him the saddle of the kaiila,the quiva, the bow and lance Puthim in the leather of a Tuchuk. Wehave need of such men among thewagons.”

I saw the astonished eyes of theyoung man regarding Kamchak, andthen he was carried away.

“In time,” said Kamchak, “thatboy will command a Thousand.”

Then Kamchak lifted his headand regarded the other three men,seated Ha-Keel, calm with hissword, and the frantic Saphrar ofTuria, and the tall Paravaci, with

the quiva.“Mine is the Paravaci!” cried

Harold.The man turned angrily to face

him, but he did not advance, norhurl his quiva.

Harold leaped forward. “Let usfight!” he cried.

At a gesture from KamchakHarold stepped back, angry, a quivain his ha1nd.

The two sleen were snarling andpulling at their collar.

The tawny hair hanging fromtheir jaws was flecked with thefoam of their agitation. Their eyesblazed. The claws when they

emerged and retracted and emergedagain tore at the rug.

“Do not approach!” criedSaphrar, “or I shall destroy thegolden sphere!” He tore away thepurple cloth that had enfolded thegolden sphere and then lifted it highover his head. My heart stopped forthe instant. I put out my hand, totouch Kamchak’s leather sleeve.

“He must not,” I said, “he mustnot.”

“Why not?” asked Kamchak. “Itis worthless.”

“Stand back!” screamed Saphrar.“You do not understand!” I cried

to Kamchak.

I saw Saphrar’s eyes gleam.“Listen to the Koroban!” he said.“He knows! He knows!”

“Does it truly make adifference,” asked Kamchak of me,“whether or not he shatters thesphere?”

“Yes,” I said, “there is nothingmore valuable on all Gor it isperhaps worth the planet itself.”

“Listen to him!” screamedSaphrar. “If you approach I shalldestroy this!”

“No harm must come to it,” Ibegged Kamchak.

“Why?” asked Kamchak.I was silent, not knowing how to

say what had to be said.Kamchak regarded Saphrar.

“What is it that you hold?” heasked.

“The golden sphere!” criedSaphrar.

“But what is the golden sphere?”queried Kamchak.

“I do not know,” said Saphrar,“but I know that there are men whowill pay half the wealth of Gor forthis”

“I,” said Kamchak, “would notgive a copper tarn disk for it.”

“Listen to the Koroban!” criedSaphrar.

“It must not be destroyed,” I said.

“Why?” asked Kamchak.“Because,” I said, “It is the last

seed of Priest-Kings an egg a childthe hope of Priest-Kings, to them all— everything, the world, theuniverse.”

The men murmured with surpriseabout me. Saphrar’s eyes seemed topop. Ha-Keel looked up, suddenly,seeming to forget his sword and itsoiling. The Paravaci regardedSaphrar.

“I think not,” said Kamchak. “Ithink rather it is worthless.”

“No, Kamchak,” I said, “please.”“It was for the golden sphere,

was it not,” asked Kamchak, “that

you came to the Wagon Peoples?”“Yes,” I said, “it was.” I recalled

our conversation in the wagon ofKutaituchik.

The men about us shifted, someof them angrily.

“You would have stolen it?”asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I said. “I would have.”“As Saphrar did?” asked

Kamchak.“I would not have slain

Kutaituchik,” I sai1d.“Why would you steal it?” asked

Kamchak.“To return it to the Sardar,” I

said.

“Not to keep it for yourself, norfor riches?”

“No,” I said, “not for that.”“I believe you,” said Kamchak.

He looked at me. “We knew that intime someone would come from theSardar. We did not know that youwould be the one.”

“Nor did I,” I said.Kamchak regarded the merchant.

“Is it your intention to buy your lifewith the golden sphere?”

“If necessary,” said Saphrar,“yes”

“But I do not want it,” saidKamchak. “It is you I want.”

Saphrar blanched and held the

sphere again over his head.I was relieved to see that

Kamchak signalled his bowmen notto fire. He then waved them, and theothers, with the exception of Haroldand myself, and the Sleen keeperand his animals, back several yards.

“That is better,” wheezedSaphrar.

“Sheath your weapons,” orderedthe Paravaci.

We did so.“Go back with your men” cried

Saphrar, backing away from us astep. “I will shatter the goldensphere!”

Slowly Kamchak, and Harold

and I, and the sleen keeper,dragging the two sleen, walkedbackwards. The animals ragedagainst the chain leashes, maddenedas they were drawn farther fromSaphrar, their prey.

The Paravaci turned to Ha-Keel,who had now resheathed his swordand stood up. Ha-Keel stretchedand blinked once.

“You have a tarn,” the Paravacisaid. “Take me with you. I can giveyou half the riches of the ParavaciBosk and gold and women andwagons!”

“I would suppose,” said Ha-Keel, “that all that you have is not

worth so much as the golden sphereand that is Saphrar of Turia’s.”

“You cannot leave me here”cried the Paravaci.

“You are outbid for myservices,” yawned Ha-Keel.

The Paravaci’s eyes were whitein the black hood and his headturned wildly to regard the Tuchuksclustered in the far end of the room.

“Then it will be miner” he criedand raced to Saphrar, trying to seizethe sphere.

“Miner Mine” screamed Saphrar,trying to retain the sphere.

Ha-Keel looked on, with interest.I would have rushed forward, but

Kamchak’s hand reached out andtouched my arm, restraining me.

“No harm must come to thegolden sphere!” I cried.

The Paravaci was much strongerthan the fat, tiny merchant and hesoon had his hands well on thesphere and west tearing it out of thesmaller man’s clutching hands.Saphrar was screaming insanelyand then, to my astonishment, he bitthe Paravaci’s forearm, sinking thetwo golden upper canine teeth intothe hooded man’s flesh. TheParavaci suddenly cried out inuncanny fear and shuddered and, tomy horror, the golden sphere, which

he had succeeded in wresting fromSaphrar, was thrown a dozen feetacross the room, and shattered onth1e floor.

A cry of horror escaped my lipsand I rushed forward.

Tears burst from my eyes. I couldnot restrain a moan as I fell to myknees beside the shatteredfragments of the egg. It was done,gone, ended My mission had failed!The Priest-Kings would diet Thisworld, and perhaps my other, dearEarth, would now fall to themysterious Others, whoever orwhatever they might be. It wasdone, gone, ended, dead, dead,

hopeless, gone, dead.I was scarcely aware of the brief

whimpering of the Paravaci as,twisting and turning on the rug,biting at it, holding his arm, hisflesh turning orange from ostvenom, he writhed and died.

Kamchak walked to him and toreaway the mask. I saw the contorted,now-orange, twisted, agonized face.Already it was like coloured paperand peeling, as though lit andburned from the inside. There weredrops of blood and sweat on it.

I heard Harold say, “It isTolnus.”

“Of course,” said Kamchak. “It

had to have been the Ubar of theParavaci for who else could havesent their riders against the Tuchukwagons, who else could havepromised a mercenary tarnsman halfthe bosk and gold and women andwagons of the Paravaci?”

I was only dimly aware of theirconversation. I recalled Tolnus, forhe had been one of the four Ubars ofthe Wagon Peoples, whom I,unknowing, had met when first Icame to the Plains of Turia, to theLand of the Wagon Peoples.

Kamchak bent to the figure and,opening his garments, tore from hisneck the almost priceless collar of

jewels which the man had worn.He threw this to one of his men.

“Give this to the Paravaci,” he said,“that they may buy back some oftheir bosk and women from theKataii and the Kassars.”

I was only partly cognizant ofthese things, for I was overcomewith grief, kneeling in Saphrar’saudience hall before the shards ofthe shattered golden sphere.

I was conscious of Kamchak nowstanding near to me, and behind himHarold.

Unabashed I wept.It was not only that I had failed,

that what I had fought for had now

vanished, become ashes not onlythat the war of Priest-Kings, inwhich I had played a prominentpart, fought long before over suchmatters, had now become fruitless,meaningless that my friend Misk’slife and its purpose would now beshattered even that this world andperhaps Earth itself might now,undefended, fall in time to themysterious Others but that what layin the egg itself, the innocent victimof intrigues which had lastedcenturies and might perhaps beingworlds into conflict, was dead ithad done nothing to warrant such afate; the child, so to speak, of

Priest-Kings, what could havebecome the Mother, was now dead.

I shook with sobs, not caring.I heard, vaguely, someone say,

“Saphrar and Ha-Keel have fled.”Near me Kamchak said, quietly,

“Release the sleen. Let them hunt.”I heard the chains loosened and

the two sleen bounded from theroom, eyes blazing.

I would not have cared to havebeen Saphrar of Turia.

“Be strong, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba,” said Kamchak, kindly.

“You do not understand, myfriend,” I wept, “you do notunderstand.”

T1he Tuchuks stood about, intheir black leather. The sleenkeeper stood nearby, the chainleashes loose in his hands. In thebackground there stood the slaveswith their pans of gold.

I became aware of a strongodour, of rottenness, exuding fromthe shattered thing which lay beforeme.

“It smells,” Harold was saying.He knelt down near the fragments,disgust on his face, fingering thestiff, leathery ruptured egg, some ofthe golden pieces broken from it.He was rubbing one of thembetween his thumb and forefinger.

My head down, I cared fornothing.

“Have you examined the goldensphere carefully?” Kamchak wasasking.

“I never had the opportunity,” Isaid.

“You might do so now,” saidKamchak.

I shook my head negatively.“Look,” said Harold, thrusting

his hand under my face. I saw thathis thumb and forefinger weremarked with a golden stain.

I gazed at his hand, notcomprehending.

“It is dye,” he said.

“Dye?” I asked.Harold got up and went to the

shattered, stiff shard of the egg.From it, wet, wrinkled. rotted, deadfor perhaps months or years, hedrew forth the body of an unborntharlarion.

“I told you,” said Kamchak,kindly, “the egg was worthless.”

I staggered to my feet, standingnow and looking down at theshattered fragments of the egg. Istooped down and picked up one ofthe stiff shards and rubbed it, seeingthe golden stain now left on myfingertips.

“It is not the egg of Priest-

Kings,” said Kamchak. “Do youtruly think we would permitenemies to know the whereaboutsof such a thing?”

I looked at Kamchak, tears in myeyes.

Suddenly, far off, we heard aweird scream, high, wavering, andthe shrill howls of frustrated sleen.

“It is ended,” said Kamchak. “Itis ended.”

He turned in the direction fromwhich the scream had come.Slowly, not hurrying, in his boots hetramped across the rug, toward thesound. He stopped once beside thetwisted, hideous body of Tolnus of

the Paravaci. “it is too bad,” hesaid, “I would have preferred tostake him out In the path of thebosk.” Then, saying no more,Kamchak, the rest of us following,left the room, guiding ourselves bythe distant, frustrated howls ofdisappointed Sleen.

We came together to the brink ofthe Yellow Pool of Turia. At itsmarbled edge, hissing and quiveringwith rage, throwing their heads nowand again upward and howling infrustrated fury were the two, tawnyhunting sleen, their maddened roundeyes blazing on the pathetic figureof Saphrar of Turia, blubbering and

whimpering, sobbing, reaching out,his fingers scratching the air asthough he would climb it, for thegraceful, decorative vines that hungabove the pool, more than twentyfeet above his head.

He struggled to move in theglistening, resprung, sparklingsubstance of the Yellow Pool, butcould not change his place.

The fat hands with the scarletfingernails seemed suddenly to bedrawn and thin, clutching. Themerchant was covered with sweat.He was surrounded by theluminous, white spheres that floatedunder the surface about1 him,

perhaps watching, perhapssomehow recording his position invirtue of pressure waves in themedium. The golden droplets whichSaphrar wore in place of eyebrowsfed unnoticed into the fluid thathumped itself thickening itself abouthim. Beneath the surface we couldsee places where his robes hadbeen eaten away and the skin wasturning white beneath the surface,the juices of the pool etching theirway into his body, taking its proteinand nutriment into its own, digestingit.

Saphrar took a step deeper intothe pool and the pool permitted this,

and he now stood with the fluidslevel with his chest

“Lower the vines!” beggedSaphrar.

No one moved.Saphrar threw back his head like

a dog and howled in pain. He beganto scratch and tear at his body, as ifmad.

Len, tears bursting from his eyes,he held out his hands to Kamchak ofthe Tuchuks.

“Please” he cried.“Remember Kutaituchik,” said

Kamchak.Saphrar screamed in agony and

moving beneath the yellow

glistening surface of the pool I sawseveral of the filamentous fibresencircle his legs and begin to drawhim deeper into the pool andbeneath the surface.

Then Saphrar, merchant of Turia,struggled, pounding against thecaked material near to him, toprevent his being drawn under. Theeyes were bulging perhaps a quarterof an inch from the little round headand the mouth, with its two goldenteeth, now emptied of ost venom,seemed to be screaming but therewas no sound.

“The egg,” Kamchak informedhim, “was the egg of a tharlarion it

was worthless.”The fluid now had reached

Saphrar’s chin and his head wasback to try and keep his nose andmouth over the surface.

His head shook with horror.“Please!” he cried once more, the

syllable lost in the bubbling yellowmass that reached into his mouth.

“Remember Kutaituchik,” saidKamchak, and the filamentousfibres about the merchant’s legs andankles drew him slowly downward.Some bubbles broke the surface.Then the merchant’s hands, stillextended as though to grasp thevines overhead, with their scarlet

fingernails, the robes eaten awayfrom the flesh, disappeared beneaththe sparkling, glistening surface.

We stood silently there for atime, until Kamchak saw small,white bones, like bleacheddriftwood, rocking on the sparkling,now watery surface, being movedbit by bit, almost as if by tides, tothe edge of the pool, where Igathered attendants would normallycollect and discard them.

“Bring a torch,” said Kamchak.He looked down into the

sparkling, glistening living fluid ofthe Yellow Pool of Turia.

“It was Saphrar of Turia,” said

Kamchak to me, “who firstintroduced Kutaituchik to the stringsof kanda.” He added, “it was twicehe killed my father.”

The torch was brought, and thepool seemed to discharge its vapourmore rapidly, and the fluids beganto churn, and draw away from ouredge of the pool. The yellows of thepool began to flicker and thefilamentous fibres began to writhe,and the spheres of different coloursbeneath the surface began to turnand oscillate, and dart in onedirection and then the other.

Kamchak took the torch and withhis 1right hand, in a long arc, flung

it to the centre of the pool.Suddenly like an explosion and

conflagration the pool erupted intoflames and Kamchak and I andHarold and the others shielded ourfaces and eyes and withdrew beforethe fury of the fire. The pool beganto roar and hiss and bubble andscatter parts of itself, flaming, intothe air and again to the walls. Eventhe vines caught fire. The pool thenat drawn under. The eyes werebulging perhaps a quarter of an inchfrom the little round head and themouth, with its two golden teeth,now emptied of ost venom, seemedto be screaming but there was no

sound.It tempted to desiccate itself and

retreat into its hardened shell-likecondition but the fire within theclosing shell burst it apart and openand then it was again like a lake ofburning oil, with portions of theshell tossed like flaming chips uponit

For better than an hour it burnedand then the basin of the pool, nowblack, in places the marble fusedand melted, was empty, save forsmears of carbon and grease, andsome cracked, blackened bones,and some drops of melted gold,what had been left perhaps of the

golden drops which Saphrar ofTuria had worn over his eyes, andthe two golden teeth, which hallonce held the venom of an ost.

“Kutaituchik is avenged,” saidKamchak, and turned from theroom.

Harold and I, and the othersfollowed him.

Outside the compound ofSaphrar, which was now burning,we mounted kaiila to return to thewagons outside the walls.

A man approached Kamchak.“The tarnsman,” he said,“escaped.” He added, “As you said,we did not fire on him for he did

not have with him the merchant,Saphrar of Turia.”

Kamchak nodded. “I have noquarrel with Ha-Reel, themercenary,” he said. Then Kamchaklooked at me. “You, however,” hesaid, “now that he knows of thestakes in these games, may meet himagain. He draws his sword only inthe name of gold, but I expect thatnow, Saphrar dead, those whoemployed the merchant may neednew agents for their work and thatthey will pay the price of a swordsuch as that of Ha-keel” Kamchakgrinned at me, the first time sincethe death of Kutaituchik. “It is

said,” remarked Kamchak, “that thesword of Ha-Keel is scarcely lessswift and cunning than that of Pa-Kur, the Master of Assassin”

“Pa-Kur is dead,” I said. “Hedied in the siege of Ar.”

“Was the body recovered?”asked Kamchak.

“No,” I said.Kamchak smiled. “I think, Tarl

Cabot,” he said. “you would nevermake a Tuchuk.”

“Why is that?” I asked.“You are too innocent,” he said,

“too trusting.”“Long ago,” said Harold, nearby,

“I gave up expecting more of a

Koroban.”I smiled. “Pa-Kur,” I said,

“defeated in personal combat on thehigh roof of the Cylinder of Justicein Ar, turned and to avoid capturethrew himself over the ledge. I donot think he could fly.”

“Was the body recovered?”Kamchak asked again.

“No,” I said. “But what does itmatter?”

“It would matter to a Tuchuk,”said Kamchak.

“You Tuchuks are indeed asuspicion lot,” I remarked.

“What would have happened tothe body?” asked Harold, and it

seemed he was serious.“I-suppose,” I said, “it was torn

to pieces by the crowds below orlost with the other dead. Manythings could have happened to it.”

“It seems then,” said Kamchak,“that he is dead.”

“Surely,” I said.“Let us hope so,” said Kamchak,

“For your sake.”We turned the kaiila from the

courtyard of the burning House ofSaphrar and, abreast, rode from thatplace. We rode without speakingbut Kamchak, for the first time inweeks, whistled a tune. Once heturned to Harold. “I think in a few

days we might hunt tumits,” heremarked.

“I would enjoy that,” remarkedHarold.

“Perhaps you will join us?”inquired Kamchak.

“I think,” I said, “I shall leave theWagons soon for I have failed in mymission on behalf of Priest-Kings.”

“What mission is that?” inquiredKamchak innocently.

“No find the last egg of Priest-Kings,” I said, perhaps irritably,“and to return it to the Sardar.”

“Why do Priest-Kings not dotheir own errands?” asked Harold.

“Whey cannot stand the sun,” I

said. “They are not as Men and ifmen saw them they might fear andtry to kill them the egg might bedestroyed.”

“Someday,” said Harold, “youmust speak to me of Priest-Kings.”

“Very well,” I agreed.“I thought you might be the one,”

said Kamchak.“What one?” I asked.“The one that the two men who

brought the sphere told me mightcome one day to claim it.”

“The two men,” I said, “are deadtheir cities warred upon one anotherand in battle they slew oneanother.”

“They seemed to me finewarriors,” said Kamchak. “I amsorry to hear it.”

“When did they come to thewagons?” I asked.

“As recently as two years ago,”he said.

“They gave you the egg?” Iasked.

“Yes,” he said, “to keep forPriest-Kings.” He added, “It waswise of them, for the WagonPeoples are among the farthest andmost fierce of the Goreans, livingfree hundreds of pasangs from allcities, save Turia.”

“Do you know where the egg is

now?” I asked.“Of course,” he said.I began to shake in the saddle of

the kaiila, trembling. The reinsmoved in my hands and the beastshifted nervously.

I reined in the kaiila.“Do not tell me where it Is,” I

said, “or I should feel bound toattempt to seize it and take it to theSardar.”

“But are you not he who is tocome from Priest-Kings to claim theegg?” inquired Kamchak.

“I am he,” I said.“Then why would you wish to

seize it and carry it away?” he

asked.“I have no way to prove that I

come from Priest-Kings,” I said.“Why would you believe me?”

“Because,” said Kamchak, “Ihave come to know you.”

I said nothing.“I have watched you carefully,

Tarl Cabot of the City of Ko-ro-ba,” said he, Kamchak of theTuchuks. “Once you spared my life,and we held grass and earthtogether, and from that time, evenhad you been outlaw and knave, Iwould have died for you, but still,of course, I could not give you theegg. Then you went with Harold to

the city, and so I knew that to seizethe egg against such overwhelmingodds you were ready to give yourlife. Such a venture would not in alllikelihood have been attempted byone who laboured only for gold.That taught me that it was indeedprobable that you were he chosenby Priest-Kings to come for theegg.”

“That is why,” I asked, “you letme go to Turia though you knew theGolden Sphere was worthless”

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “that iswhy.”

“And why, after that,” I asked,“did you not give me the egg?”

Kamchak smiled. “I needed onlyone last thing,” said he, “TarlCabot.”

“And what was that?” I asked.“To know that you wanted the

egg for Priest-Kings alone, and notfor yourself.” Kamchak put out hishand and touched my arm. “That iswhy,” he said, “I wanted the goldensphere shattered. I would have doneit myself had it not been broken, tosee what you would have done, tosee if you would have been enragedat your loss, or if you would havebeen overcome with grief, on behalfof Priest-Kings.”

Kamchak smiled gently. “When

you wept,” he said, “I knew thenthat you cared for it, and for Priest-Kings that you had truly come forthe egg and that you wanted it forthem and not for yourself.”

I looked at him, dumbfounded.“forgive me,” he said, “if I am

cruel for I am a Tuchuk, but though Icare much for you I kind to knowthe truth of these mattes.”

“No forgiveness is necessary,” Isaid. “In your place, I think I mightwell have done the same thing.”

Kamchak’s hand closed on mineand we clasped hands.

“Where is the egg?” I asked.“Where would you think to find

it?” he asked.“I don’t know,” I said. “If I did

not know better, I would expect tohave found it in the wagon ofKutaituchik the wagon of the Ubarof the Tuchuks.”

“I approve of your conjecture,”he said, “but Kutaituchik, as youknow, was not the Ubar of theTuchuks.”

I gazed at him.“I am Ubar of the Tuchuks,” he

said.“You mean” I said.“Yes,” said Kamchak, “the egg

has been in my wagon for twoyears.”

“But I lived in your wagon formonths!” I cried.

“Did you not see the egg?” heasked.

“No,” I said. “It must have beenmarvellously concealed.”

“What does the egg look like?”he asked.

I sat still on the back of thekaiila. “I don’t know,” I said.

“You thought, perhaps,” heasked, “it would be golden andspherical?”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”“It was for such a reason,” he

said, “that we Tuchuks dyed the eggof a tharlarion and placed it in the

wagon of Kutaituchik, letting itsposition be known.”

I was speechless, and could notrespond to the Tuchuk.

“I think,” said he, “you haveoften seen the egg of Priest-Kings,for it lies about in my wagon.Indeed, the Paravaci who raided mywagon did not regard it as ofsufficient interest to carry away.”

“That!” I cried.“Yes,” said he, “the curiosity, the

grey, leathery object that.”I shook my head in disbelief.I recalled Kamchak sitting on the

grey, rather squarish, grained thingwith the rounded corners. I recalled

he had moved it about with his foot,that once he had kicked it across thewagon for me to examine.

“Sometimes,” said Kamchak,“the way to conceal something isnot to conceal It, it is thought thatwhat is of value will be hidden, andso it is natural to suppose that whatis not hidden will not be of value.”

“But,” I said, my voicetrembling, “you rolled it about youwould throw it to the side of thewagon once you even kicked itacross the rug to me that I mightexamine it.” I looked at him,incredulously. “Even,” I said, “didyou dare to sit upon it”

“I shall hope,” chuckledKamchak, “that the Priest-Kingswill take no offence, but understandthat such little bits of acting ratherwell carried off, I think wereimportant parts of my deception.”

I smiled, thinking of Misk’s joyat receiving the egg. “They willtake little offence,” I said.

“Do not fear the egg wasinjured,” said Kamchak, “for toinjure the egg of Priest-Kings Iwould have had to use a quiva oraxe.”

“Wily Tuchuk,” I said.Kamchak and Harold laughed“I hope,” I said, “that after this

time the egg is still”Kamchak shrugged. “We have

watched it,” he said, “we have donewhat we could.”

“And I and Priest-Kings aregrateful to you,” I said.

Kamchak smiled. “We arepleased to be of service to Priest-Kings,” he said, “but remember thatwe reverence only the sky.”

“And courage,” added Harold,“and such things.”

Kamchak and I laughed.“I think it is because at least in

part,” I said, “that you reverence thesky and courage and such things thatthe egg was brought to you.”

“Perhaps,” said Kamchak, “but Ishall be glad to be rid of it, andbesides it is nearly the best time forhunting tumits with the bola”

“By the way, Ubar,” askedHarold, winking at me, “what wasit you paid for Aphris of Turia?”

Kamchak threw him a look thatmight have been a quiva in theheart.

“You have f1ound Aphris!” Icried.

“Albrecht of the Kassars,”remarked Harold, casually, “pickedher up while raiding the Paravacicamp.”

“Wonderful!” I cried.

“She is only a slave, andunimportant,” growled Kamchak.

“What did you pay for herreturn?” inquired Harold, with greatinnocence.

“Almost nothing,” mutteredKamchak, “for she is nearlyworthless.”

“I am very pleased,” I said, “thatshe is alive and well and I gatherthat you were able to purchase herfrom Albrecht of the Kassarswithout difficulty.”

Harold put his hand over hismouth and turned away, sniggering,and Kamchak’s head seemed to sinkangrily into his shoulders.

“What did you pay?” I asked.“It is hard to outwit a Tuchuk in a

bargain,” remarked Harold, turningback, rather confidently.

“It will soon be time to hunttumits,” growled Kamchak, lookingoff across the grass toward thewagons beyond the walls.

Well did I recall how Kamchakhad made Albrecht of the Kassarspay dearly for the return of his littledarling Tenchika, and how he hadroared with laughter because theKassar had paid such a price,obviously having allowed himselfto care for a mere slave girl, andshe a Turian at that

“I would guess,” said Harold,“that so shrewd a Tuchuk asKamchak, the very Ubar of ourwagons, would have paid no morethan a handful of copper tarn disksfor a wench of such sorts.”

“The tumits run best this time ofyear rather toward the Cartius,”observed Kamchak.

“I’m very happy,” I said, “to hearthat you have Aphris back. Shecared for you, you know.”

Kamchak shrugged.“I have heard,” said Harold,

“that she does nothing but singaround the bosk and in the wagonall day I myself would probably

beat a girl who-insisted on makingall that noise.”

“I think,” said Kamchak, “I willhave a new bola made for thehunting.”

“He is, of course,” observedHarold, “quite handsome.”

Kamchak growled menacingly.“At any rate,” continued Harold,

“I know that he would have upheldthe honour of the Tuchuks in suchmatters and driven a hard bargainwith the unwary Kassar.”

“The important thing,” I said, “isthat Aphris is back and safe.” Werode on for a while more. Then Iasked, “By the way, as a matter of

fact, what did you pay for her?”Kamchak’s face was black with

rage. He looked at Harold, whosmiled innocently andquestioningly, and then at me, whowas only honestly curious.Kamchak’s hands were like whiteclubs knotted on the reins of thekaiila. “Ten thousand bars of gold,”he said.

I stopped the kaiila and regardedhim, astounded. Harold began topound his saddle and howl withlaughter.

Kamchak’s eyes, had they beenjets of fire, would have frizzled theyoung, blond Tuchuk in his saddle.

“Well, well,” I said, a certainregrettable malicious elationperhaps unfortunately detectable inmy voice.

Now Kamchak’s eyes wouldhave frizzled me as well.

Then a wry glint of amusementsparkled in the Tuchuk’s eyes andthe furrowed face wrinkled into asheepish grin.

“Yes,” he said, “Tarl Cabot, Idid not know until then that I was afool.”

“Nonetheless, Cabot,” remarkedHarold, “do you not think, all thingsconsidered, he is on the wholealbeit unwise n certain matters an

excellent Ubar?”“On the whole,” I agreed, “albeit

perhaps unwise in certain Mattersan excellent Ubar.”

Kamchak glared at Harold, andthen at me, and then he lookeddown, scratching his ear; then helooked at us again, and all three ofus suddenly burst together intolaughter, and tears even streameddown Kamchak’s face, running hereand there among the scarredfurrows on his cheeks.

“You might have pointed out,”said Harold to Kamchak, “that thegold was Turian gold.”

“Yes,” cried Kamchak, “that is

true it was Turian gold!”He cracked his fist on his thigh.

“Turian gold”“One might claim,” said Harold,

“that that makes quite a difference.”“Yes!” cried Kamchak.“On the other hand,” said Harold,

“I for one would not claim that.”Kamchak straightened in the

saddle and thought about it.Then he chuckled and said, “Nor

would I.”Again we laughed and, suddenly,

we urged the kaiila forward in greatbounding strides, eager to reach thewagons, each of us, for waiting inthese wagons were three girls,

desirable, marvellous, ours,Hereena, she who had been of theFirst Wagon, the slave of Harold,her master; Aphris of Turia,almond-eyed and exquisite, oncethe richest and perhaps the mostbeautiful woman of her city, nowthe simple slave of the Ubar ofTuchuks, he Kamchak; and theslender, lovely, dark-haired, dark-eyed Elizabeth Cardwell, once aproud girl of Earth, now only thehelpless and beautiful slave of awarrior of Ko-ro-ba; a girl inwhose nose had been fixed thedelicate, provocative golden ring ofTuchuk women, a girl whose thigh

bore unmistakably the brand of thefour bosk horns, whose lovelythroat was encircled by a collar ofsteel, bearing my name; a girlwhose rapturous and uncontrollablesubmission had, in its utterness,astounded both herself and me, bothhe who commanded and she whoserved, he who took and she whowas given no choice but to yieldunreservedly. When she had left myarms she had lain upon the rug andwept. “I have nothing more togive,” she cried. “Nothing more!”

“It is enough,” I had told her.And she had wept with joy,

pressing her head with its loose,

wild hair to my side.“Is my master pleased with me?”

she had asked.“Yes,” I had told her. “Yes,

Vella, Kajira mire. I am pleased. Iam pleased indeed.”

I leaped from the back of thekaiila and ran toward the wagonand the girl waiting there cried outwith joy and tad to me and I swepther into my arms and our lips metand she wept, “You are safer Youare safer”

“Yes,” I said, “I am safe and youare safe and the world is safer.”

At the time I believed that what I1kind said was true.

Chapter 27THE SPARING OF THE

HOME STONE OF TURIAI gathered that the best season for

hunting tumits, the large, flightlesscarnivorous birds of the southernplains, was at hand, for Kamchak,Harold and others seemed to belooking forward to it with greateagerness. Kutaituchik avenged,Kamchak was no longer interestedin Turia, though he wished the cityto be restored, perhaps in order thatthe Wagon Peoples might have avaluable trade outlet whereby they

could manage, if the caravan raidsturned out poorly, to barter hidesand horn for the goods ofcivilization.

On the last day before thewithdrawal of the Wagon Peoplesfrom nine-gated, high-walled Turia,Kamchak held court in the palace ofPhanius Turmus. The Turian Ubarhimself, with Kamras, formerChampion of Turia, both clad m theKes, were chained at the door, towash the feet of those who wouldenter.

Turia had been a rich city, andthough much gold had been given tothe tarnsmen of Ha-Keel and the

defenders of t he House of Saphrar,it was a tiny amount whencompared with the whole, not evencounting that lost by being carriedby civilians through the gatesKamchak had designated as escapesfrom the burning city. Indeed,Saphrarâ™ secret hordes alone,kept in dozens of vast undergroundstorehouses, would have beenenough to have made each andevery Tuchuk, and perhaps eachKataii and Kassar as well, a richman a very rich man in any of thecities of Gor. I recalled that neverbefore had Turia fallen, not sincethe founding of the city, perhaps

thousands of years ago.Yet a large portion of this wealth

perhaps a third Kamchak designatedshould be left behind in the city, toaid in its rebuilding.

Kamchak, as a Tuchuk, could notbring himself to be quite asgenerous with the cityâ™ women,and the five thousand most beautifulgirls of Turia were branded andgiven to the commanders ofHundreds, that they might bedistributed to the bravest andfiercest of their warriors; the otherswere permitted to remain in the cityor flee through the gates to seektheir fellow citizens beyond the

walls. Additionally, of course,beyond the free women, numerousslaves had fallen into the hands ofthe warriors, and these, too, weresent to the commanders ofHundreds. The most marvellous setof the latter were the beauties fromthe Pleasure Gardens of Saphrar ofTuria. The girls of the WagonPeoples, of course, who had beenenslaved, were freed; the others,however, save for some of Ko-ro-ba on whose behalf I spoke, wouldchange their perfumed silks andtheir warmed, scented baths for thehardships of the trek, the care ofbosk, and the arms of warrior

masters. Few it seemed to me,surprisingly perhaps, much objectedto leaving the luxurious delights ofthe gardens of Saphrar for thefreedom of the winds and prairies,the dust, the smell of bosk, thecollar of a man who would masterthem utterly but before whom theywould stand al human shes,individual, each different, eachalone and marvellous and prized inthe secret world of her masterâ™wagon.

In the palace of Phanius Emus, onhis throne, eat. Kamchak, the purpleof the Ubarâ™ robes throwncasually over one shoulder, over

his Tuchuk leather. He did not nowsit dourly as before, stern and lostin thought, but attended to thedetails of his business with goodhumour, stopping only now and thento throw scraps of meat to hiskaiila, which was tethered behindthe throne. As a matter of coursevarious goods and riches wereheaped about his throne, and amongthem, as part of the booty, thereknelt some of the most beautiful ofTuriaâ™ maidens, clad only in theSirik, but at his right knee,unchained and clad Kajir, there knotAphris of Curia.

About his throne as well there

stood his commanders, and someleaders of Hundreds, many withtheir women. Beside me, clad notKajir but in the brief leather of oneof the Wagon Girls, thoughcollared, stood Elizabeth Cardwell;similarly attired and collared, Inoted, standing a bit behind Haroldof the Tuchuks, I saw the fieryHereena; she was perhaps the onlyone of all the girls of the WagonPeoples that day in Turia who wasnot free; she alone remained slave,and would so remain until or unlessit might please Harold, her master,that it should be otherwise; âœrather like the look of a collar on

her throat,âhe once remarked in hiswagon, before ordering her toprepare food for Kamchak andAphris, and myself and Elizabeth,or Vella, as I would sometimes canher. I gathered that the proudHereena might long be the slave ofHarold of the Tuchuks.

As fellow after fellow, men ofimportance in Turia, were draggedbefore his throne, in the Kes andchained, Kamchak would say tothem, âœour goods and your womenare mine. Who is the Master ofTuria?â/p>

âœamchak of the Tuchuks,âtheywould say, and be dragged away.

To some he would ask, âœasTuria fallen?â/p>

And they would bow their headsand say, âœhe has fallen.â/p>

At last Phanius Turmus andKamras were pulled before thethrone and thrust to their knees.

Kamchak gestured to the richespiled about him. âœhose h thewealth of Turia?âhe asked.

âœamchak of the Tuchuks,âsaidthey.

Kamchak thrust his fistaffectionately into the hair ofAphris of Turia and twisted herhead to him.

âœhose are the women of

Turia?âhe asked.âœaster,âsaid Aphris.âœamchak of the Tuchuks,âsaid

the two men.âœho,âlaughed Kamchak, âœs

Ubar of Turia?â/p>âœamchak of the Tuchuks,âsaid

the two.âœring the Home Stone of the

city,âcommanded Kamchak, and thestone, oval and aged, carved withthe initial letter of the city, wasbrought to him.

He lifted the stone over his headand read fear in the eyes of the twomen chained before him.

But he did not dash the stone to

the floor. Rather he arose Tom histhrone and placed the stone in thechained hands of Phanius Turmus.âœuria lives,âsaid he, âœbar.â/p>

Tears formed in the eyes ofPhanius Turmus and he held theHome Stone of the city to his heart.

âœn the morning,âcalledKamchak, âœe return to thewagons.â/p>

âœou will spare Turia,Master?âasked Aphris, wondering,knowing the hatred he had borne thecity.

âœes,âsaid he, âœuria willlive.â/p>

Aphris looked at him, not

understanding.I myself was startled, but would

not speak. I had thought thatKamchak might destroy the stone,thus breaking the heart of the city,leaving it in ruins in the minds ofmen. It was only at that time, as heheld court in the palace of PhaniusTurmus that I realized he wouldpermit the city its freedom, and itssoul. I had hitherto only understoodthat Turians might perhaps return tothe city, and that its walls would beleft standing. I had not understoodthat it would be permitted to retaina Home Stone.

It seemed to me a strange act for

a conqueror, for a Tuchuk.Was it only because Kamchak

believed, as he had once said, thatthe Wagon Peoples must have anenemy? or was there some otherreason, beyond that?

Suddenly there was commotion atthe door and three men, followed bysome others, burst into the hall.

The first was Conrad of theKassars, and with him wereHakimba of the Kataii and a thirdman I did not know, but who wasParavaci. Behind them were someothers, among whom I saw Albrechtof the Kassars, and behind him, tomy astonishment, clad in brief

leather, not collared, was Tenchika,who held a small bundle tied incloth in her right hand.

Conrad, Hakimba and theParavaci strode to the throne ofKamchak, but none of them, asbefitted Ubars of their peoples,knelt.

Conrad spoke. “The Omens havebeen taken,” he said.

“They have been read well,” saidHakimba.

“For the first time in more than ahundred years,” said the Paravaci,“there is a Ubar San, a One Ubar,Master of the Wagons!”

Kamchak stood up and threw

from his shoulders the purple of theTurian Ubar and stood in the blackleather of a Tuchuk.

As one man the three Ubarsraised their arms to him.

“Kamchak,” they cried, “UbarSan!”

The cry was taken up by all in theroom, even myself.

“Kamchak Ubar San”Kamchak held forth his hands and

the room was quiet.“Each of you,” he said, “the

Kassars the Kataii the Paravacihave your own bosk and your ownwagons live so but in time of warwhen there are those who would

divide us when there are those whowould fight us and threaten ourwagons and our bosk and womenour plains, our land then let us wartogether and none will stand againstthe Wagon Peoples we may livealone but we are each of us of theWagons and that which divides usis less than that which unites us weeach of us know that it is wrong toslay bosk and that it is right to beproud and to have courage and todefend our wagons and our womenwe know that it is right to be strongand to be free and so it is togetherthat we will be strong and we willbe free. Let this be pledged.”

The three men came to Kamchakand he and they placed their handstogether.

“It is pledged,” they said. “It ispledged.”

Then they stood back. “All hailKamchak,” they cried, “Ubar San!”

“All hail Kamchak,” rangthroughout the hall, “Kamchak UbarSan!”

It was late in the afternoon beforethe business of the day had subsidedand the great hall emptied.

At last only a few remained inthat place, some commanders andsome leaders of Hundreds, andKamchak and Aphris.

Harold and I were there, too, andHereena and Elizabeth.

Shortly before Albrecht andTenchika had been there, and Dinaof Turia with her two Tuchukguards, who had kept her safe fromharm during the fall of the city.

Tenchika had approached Dinaof Turia.

“You wear no collar now,” Dinahad said.

Tenchika had dropped her headshyly. “I am free,” she said.

“Will you now return to Turia?”asked Dina.

“No,” said Tenchika, smiling. “Iwill remain with Albrecht With the

wagons.”Albrecht himself was busy

elsewhere, talking with Conrad,Ubar of the Kassars.

“Here,” said Tenchika, thrustingthe small cloth sack she held intoDina’s hands. “These are yours youshould have them you won them.”

Dina, wondering, opened thepackage and within it she saw thecups and rings, and pieces of gold,which Albrecht had given her forher victories in the runnings fromthe bola.

“Wake them,” insisted Tenchika.“Does he know?” asked Dina.“Of course,” said Tenchika.

“He is kind,” said Dina.“I love him,” said Tenchika,

kissing Dina and hurrying away.I approached Dina of Turia. I

looked at the objects she held. “Youmust have run well indeed,” Iremarked.

She laughed. “There is more thanenough here to hire help,” she said.“I shall reopen the shop of myfather and brothers.”

“If you like,” I said, “I will giveyou a hundred times that.”

“No,” she said, smiling, “for thisis my own.”

Then she lowered her veil brieflyand kissed me. “Goodbye, Tarl

Cabot,” she said. “I wish youwell.”

“And I,” I said, “wish you wellnoble Dina of Turia.”

She laughed. “Foolish warrior,”she chided, “I am only the daughterof a baker.”

“He was a noble and valiantman,” I said.

“Thank you,” said she.“And his daughter, too,” I said,

“is a noble and valiant woman andbeautiful.”

I did not permit her to replaceher veil until I had kissed her,softly, one last time.

She refastened her veil and

touched her fingertips to her lipsbeneath it and then pressed them tomy lips and turned and hurriedaway.

Elizabeth had watched but shehad shown no sign of anger orirritation.

“She is beautiful,” saidElizabeth.

“Yes,” I said, “she is.” And thenI looked at Elizabeth.

“You, too,” I told her, “arebeautiful.”

She looked up at me, smiling. “Iknow,” she said.

“Vain wench,” I said.“A Gorean girl,” she said, “need

not pretend to be plain when sheknows that she is beautiful.”

“what~true,” I admitted. “Butwhere,” I asked, “did you come bythe notion that you are beautiful?”

“My master told me,” she sniffed,“and my master does not lie doeshe?”

“Not often,” I said, “andparticularly not about matters ofsuch importance.”

“And I have seen men look atme,” she said, “and I know that Iwould bring a good price.”

I must have appearedscandalized.

“I would,” said Elizabeth firmly,

“I am worth many tarn disks.”“You are,” I admitted.“So I am beautiful,” she

concluded.“It is true,” I said.“But,” said she, “you will not

sell me — will you?”“Not immediately,” I said. “We

shall see if you continue to pleaseme.”

“Oh, Tarl!” she said.“Master,” I prompted.“Master,” she said.“Well?” I asked.“I shall,” she said, smiling,

“strive to continue to please you.”“See that you do,” I said.

“I love you,” she said suddenly,“I love you, Tarl Cabot, Master.”She put her arms about my neck andkissed me.

I kept her long in my arms,savouring the warmth of her lips,the delicacy of her tongue on mine.

“Your slave,” she whispered,“Master, forever your slave.”

It was hard for me to believe thatthis marvellous, collared beauty inmy arms was once a simple girl ofEarth, that this astounding wench,Tuchuk and Gorean, was the sameas Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, theyoung secretary who so long beforehad found herself inexplicably

thrust into intrigues andcircumstances beyond hercomprehension on the plains ofGor. Whatever she might have beenbefore, a clock number, a set ofrecords in a personnel file, anunimportant employee, with hersalary and benefits, under theobligation to please and impressother employees, scarcely moreimportant than herself, she was nowalive, and free in her emotionsthough her flesh might be subject tochains; she was now vital,passionate, loving, mine; Iwondered if there were other girlsof Earth in whom a transformation

might be wrought, others whomight, not fully understanding, longfor a man and a world a world inwhich they must find and bethemselves, for no other choicewould be theisms world in whichthey might run and breathe andlaugh and be swift and loving andprized and in their hearts at lastopen and free though paradoxicallyperhaps, for a time, or until the manshould choose otherwise, wearingthe collar of a slave girt

But I dismissed such thoughts asfoolish.

None remained now in the courtof the Ubar other than Kamchak and

Aphris, Harold and Hereena, andmyself and Elizabeth Cardwell.

Kamchak looked across the roomto me. “Well,” said he, “the wagerturned out well.”

I recalled he had spoken of this.“You gambled,” I said, “when youdid not surrender Turia to return todefend the bosk and wagons of theTuchuks that the others, the Kataiiand Kassars, would come to youraid.” I shook my head. “It was adangerous gamble,” I said.

“Perhaps not so dangerous,” saidhe, “for I know the Kataii and theKassars better than they knewthemselves.”

“You said there was more to thewager thou1gh,” I remarked, “that itwas not yet done.”

“It is now done,” said he.“What was the latter part of the

wager?” I asked.“That,” said he, “the Kataii and

the Kassars and, too, in time theParavaci would see how we mightbe divided against ourselves andsingly destroyed and would thusrecognize the need for uniting thestandards, bringing together theThousands under one command”

“That they would,” I said,“recognize the need for the UbarSan?”

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “that wasthe wager that I could teach themthe Ubar San.”

“Hail,” said I, “Kamchak, UbarSan!”

“Hail,” cried Harold, “Kamchak,Ubar San!”

Kamchak smiled and lookeddown. “It will soon be time forhunting tumits,” he said.

As he turned to leave the throneroom of Phanius Turmus, to returnto the wagons, Aphris lightly roseto her feet to accompany him.

But Kamchak turned and facedher. She looked up at him,questioningly. It was hard to read

his face. She stood quite close tohim.

Gently, ever so gently, Kamchakput his hands on her arms and drewher to him and then, very softly,kissed her.

“Master?” she asked.Kamchak’s hands were at the

small, heavy lock at the back of thesteel, Turian collar she wore. Heturned the key and opened thecollar, discarding it.

Aphris said nothing, but shetrembled and shook her headslightly. She touched her throatdisbelievingly.

“You are free,” said the Tuchuk.

The girl looked at him,incredulously, bewildered.

“Do not fear,” he said. “You willbe given riches.” He smiled. “Youwill once again be the richestwoman in all of Turia.”

She could not answer him.The girl, and the rest of us

present, stood stunned. Most of usknew the peril, the hardship anddanger the Tuchuk had sustained inher acquisition; all of us knew theprice he had been willing to payonly recently that she, fallen into thehands of another, might be returnedto lam

We could not understand what he

had done.Kamchak turned abruptly from

her striding to his kaiila, which hadbeen tethered behind the throne. Heput one foot in the stirrup andmounted easily. Then, not pressingthe animal, he took his way from thethrone room. The rest of usfollowed him, with the exception ofAphris who remained, stricken,standing beside the throne of theUbar, clad perhaps Kajir, but nowuncollared, now free. Her fingertipswere before her mouth. She seemednumb. She shook her head.

I walked behind Kamchak, on hiskaiila. Harold walked beside me.

Hereena and Elizabeth followed us,each, as was proper, some twopaces behind.

“Why is it,” I asked Harold, “thathe spared Turia?”

“His mother was Turian,” saidHarold.

I stopped.“Did you not know?” asked

Harold.I shook my head. “No,” I said. “I

did not know.”“It was after her death,” said

Harold, “that Kamchak first tastedthe rolled strings of kanda.”

“I did not know,” I said.Kamchak was now well in

advance of us.Harold looked at me. “Yes,” he

said, “she had been a Turian girltaken as slave by Kutaituchik but hecared for her and freed her. Sheremained with him in the wagonsuntil her death the Ubar of theTuchuks.”

Outside the main gate of thepalace of Phanius Turmus,Kamchak, on his kaiila, waited forus. Our beasts were tethered there,and we mounted. Hereena andElizabeth would run at our stirrups.

We turned from the gate, to ridedown the long avenue leadingtoward the main gate of Turia.

Kamchak’s face was inscrutable.“Wait!” we heard.We turned our mounts and saw

Aphris of Turia, barefoot, cladKajir, running after us.

She stopped beside Kamchak’sstirrup, standing there, her headdown.

“What means this?” demandedKamchak sternly.

The girl did not respond, nor didshe raise her head.

Kamchak turned his kaiila andbegan to ride toward the main gate,the rest of us following. Aphris, asHereena and Elizabeth, ran by thestirrup.

Kamchak reined in, and we allstopped. Aphris stood there, herhead down.

“You are free,” said Kamchak.Without raising her head, she

shook it negatively. “No,” she said,“I am Kamchak of the Tuchuks.”

She put her head timidly toKamchak’s fur boot in the stirrup.

“I do not understand,” saidKamchak.

She lifted her head and therewere tears in her eyes.

“Please,” she said, “Master.”“Why?” asked Kamchak.She smiled. “I have grown fond

of the smell of bosk,” said she.

Kamchak smiled. He held hishand to the girl. “Ride with me,Aphris of Turia,” said Kamchak ofthe Tuchuks.

She took his hand and he drewher to the saddle before him, whereshe turned, sitting across the saddle,and placed her head against hisright shoulder, weeping.

“This woman,” said Kamchak ofthe Tuchuks, brusquely, his voicestern but almost breaking, “is calledAphris know her she is Ubara of theTuchuks, she is Ubara Sana, of myheart Ubara Sana!”

We let Kamchak and Aphris rideahead, and followed them, by some

hundred yards, toward the main gateof Turia, now leaving the city, andits Home Stone and its people,returning to the wagons and to theopen, windswept land beyond thehigh walls of the city, once-conquered, nine-gated Turia of thesouthern plains of Gor.

Chapter 28ELIZABETH AND I

DEPART FROM THEWAGON PEOPLES

Tuka, the slave girl, did not farewell at the hands of ElizabethCardwell.

In the camp of the TuchuksEli1zabeth had begged that I notfree her for but another hour.

“Why?” I had asked.“Because,” she had said,

“masters do not much care tointerfere in the squabbles ofslaves.”

I shrugged. It would be at leastanother hour before I was ready totake wing for the Sardar, with theegg of Priest-Kings safe in thesaddle pack of my tarn.

There were several peoplegathered about, near the wagon ofKamchak, among them Tuka’smaster, and the girl herself. I

recalled how cruel she had been toElizabeth in the long months she hadbeen with the Tuchuks, and how shehad tormented her even when shewas helpless in the cage of a sleen,mocking her and poking at her withthe bosk stick.

Perhaps Tuka gathered whatmight have been on Elizabeth’smind, for no sooner had theAmerican girl turned toward herthan she turned and fled from thewagon.

Within something like fifty yardswe heard a frightened squawk andsaw Tulca thrown to the groundwith a tackle that might have done

credit to a qualified professionalplayer of the American form offootball. There shortly thereafterfollowed a vigorous and dusty broilamong the wagons, involving muchrolling about, biting, slapping,scratching and, from time to time,the easily identified sound of asmall fist, apparently moving withconsiderable momentum, meetingwith venous partially resistant,protoplasmic curvatures.

There was only so much of thisand we soon heard Tuka shriekingfor mercy. At that juncture, as Irecall, Elizabeth was kneeling ontop of the Turian maiden with her

hands in her hair pounding her headup and down in the dirt. Elizabeth’sTuchuk leather had been half tornfrom her but Tuka, who had beenclothed only Kajir, had fared noteven this well. Indeed, whenElizabeth finished, Tuka wore onlythe Curia, the red band that tiesback the hair, and this band nowknotted her wrists behind her back.Elizabeth then tied a thong inTulca’s nose ring and dragged herto the creek, where she might find aswitch. When she found a suitableimplement, of proper length andflexibility, of appropriate diameterand suppleness, she then secured

Tuka by nose ring and thong to theexposed root of a small but sturdybush, and thrashed her soundly.Following this, she untied the thongfrom the root and permitted the girl,thong still streaming from her nosering, wrists still bound behind her,to run for her master’s wagon, butpursued her each foot of the waylike a hunting sleen, administeringinnumerable stinging incitements togreater and ever greater speed.

At last, panting, bleeding hereand there, discoloured in places,half-naked, triumphant, ElizabethCardwell returned to my side,where she knelt as a humble,

obedient slave girl.When she had somewhat caught

her breath I removed the collarfrom her throat and freed her.

I set her on the saddle of the tarn,telling her to hold to the pommel ofthe saddle. When I myself mounted Iwould tie her to the pommel withbinding fibre. I would fasten aboutmyself the broad safety strap,usually purple, which is aninvariable portion of the tarnsaddle.

Elizabeth did not seem affrightedto be astride the tarn. I was pleasedthat there were some changes ofclothing for her in the pack. I

observed that she needed them, orat least one of them.

Kamchak was there, and hisAphris, and Harold and hisHereena, still his slave. She kneltbeside him, and once when shedared to touch her cheek to his rightthigh he good-naturedly cuffed theslave girl away.

“How are the bosk doing?” Iasked Kamchak.

“As well as might be expected,”he responded.

I turned to Harold. “Are thequivas sharp?” I inquired.

“One tries to keep them thatway,” said Harold.

I turned back to Kamchak. “It isimportant,” I reminded him, “tokeep the axles of the wagonsgreased.”

“Yes,” he said, “I think that istrue.”

I clasped the hands of the twomen.

“I wish you well, Tarl Cabot,”said Kamchak.

“I wish you well, Kamchak of theTuchuks,” I said

“You are not really a badfellow,” said Harold, “for aKoroban.”

“You are not bad yourself,” Igranted, “for a Tuchuk.”

“I wish you well,” said Harold.“I wish you well,” I said.Swiftly I climbed the short

ladder to the tarn saddle, and tied itagainst the saddle. I then tookbinding fibre and looped it severaltimes about Miss Cardwell’s waistand then several times about thepommel of the saddle, then tying it.

Harold and Kamchak looked upat me. There were tears in the eyesof both men. Now, diagonally, likea scarlet chevron coursing the flightof the cheek bones, there blazed onthe face of Harold the Tuchuk theCourage Scar.

“Never forget,” said Kamchak,

“that you and I have together heldgrass and earth.”

“I will never forget,” I said.“And while you are remembering

things,” remarked Harold, “youmight recollect that we two togetherwon the Courage Scar in Turia.”

“No,” I said, “I will not forgetthat either.”

“Your coming and going with theWagon Peoples,” said Kamchak,“has spanned parts of two of ouryears.”

I looked at him, not reallyunderstanding. What he said, ofcourse, was true.

“The years,” said Harold,

smiling, “were two the Year inwhich Tarl Cabot Came to theWagon Peoples and the Year inwhich Tarl Cabot Commanded aThousand.”

Inwardly I gasped. These wereyear names which would beremembered by the Year Keepers,whose memories knew the names ofthousands of consecutive years.

“But,” I protested, “there havebeen many things of much greaterimportance than those in these yearsthe Siege of Turia, the Taking of theCity, the Election of the Ubar San”

“We choose most to rememberTarl Cabot,” said Kamchak.

I said nothing.“If you should ever need the

Tuchuks’ Tarl Cabot,” saidKamchak, “or the Kataii or theKassar or the Paravaci you haveonly to speak and we will ride. Wewill ride to your side, be it even tothe cities of Earth.”

“You know of Earth?” I asked. Irecalled what I took to be thescepticism of Kamchak andKutaituchik long ago when they hadquestioned myself and ElizabethCardwell of such matters.

Kamchak smiled. “We Tuchuksknow of many things,” he said, “Ofmore than we tell.” H1e grinned.

“Good fortune attend you, TarlCabot, Commander of a ThousandTuchuks, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba!”

I lifted my hand to them and thendrew on the one-strap and the wingsof the great tarn began to strike theresistant air and the Tuchuks on allsides fell back stumbling in the dustand the driven wind smote frombeneath the mighty wings of the birdand in that instant we saw thewagons fall away beneath us,extending in their squares forpasangs, and we could see theribbon of the creek and then theOmen Valley and then the spires ofdistant Turia, far off.

Elizabeth Cardwell wasweeping, and I put my arms abouther, to comfort her, and to protecther from the blasts of the swift air. Inoted with irritation that the sting ofthe air had made my own eyes moistas well.

Table of ContentsCONTENTSChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5

Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22

Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28

Table of ContentsCONTENTSChapter 1Chapter 2Chapter 3Chapter 4Chapter 5Chapter 6Chapter 7Chapter 8

Chapter 9Chapter 10Chapter 11Chapter 12Chapter 13Chapter 14Chapter 15Chapter 16Chapter 17Chapter 18Chapter 19Chapter 20Chapter 21Chapter 22Chapter 23Chapter 24Chapter 25

Chapter 26Chapter 27Chapter 28