window, striking madly about, against the stone. His men followed, striking,
crying out.
I smiled, seeing, in the confusion the blood, drop by drop, slip to the door of
the cell, move across the stones, out into the hall, and through the threshold,
then up the twisting, narrow, concave stairs.
It had been an excellent diversion on the part of the Kur. It would have known
it would not have had the time to wrench loose the bars and slip through the
narrow window before being hacked to pieces. But the ruse had drawn Ibn Saran
from the door.
Ibn Saran spun from the wall, his blade battered, nicked and dull, from pounding
on the stone. He saw the blood. He cried out with rage and, turning, fled from
the cell.
On the kort rinds the spiders continued to hunt vints.
“We have killed it,” said Ibn Saran. “It is dead.”
I surmised that they had had little difficulty in following the trail of blood.
The animal, at least four times, had been struck, and with the razor-sharp
scimitars of the Tahari. Once, by Ibn Saran, it had been wounded to a depth of
some six inches. I had adjudged this by the blood rain on the scimitar, in its
rivulets. So Struck, four times, I found it not difficult to believe that the
animal, even if unfound, would have sought a dark place, and there, in silence,
bled to death.
“We have disposed of the body,” said Ibn Saran.
I shrugged.
“It threatened your life,” he said. “We have saved your life.”
“My gratitude,” I said.
It was midnight, in the cell. Outside, the three moons were full.
The cell had been cleaned, straw and wastes removed, rinsed down; most of the
blood had been scrubbed from the stones; behind remained, here and there, only
some stubborn, darkish stains; new straw had been spread: the kort rinds had
been taken. Little remained to give evidence of the conflict which had earlier
transpired in the chamber. Even the barred window had been repaired. The
scrubbing, and cleaning, to my interest, had been done by jailers. I would have
expected such work to be done by nude female slaves, in work collar, chain and
ankle ring, to keep them on their knees with their brushes, but it had not been:
one of the administrative penalties of he who is sent to the brine pits of Klima
is commonly to he deprived of the sight of female bodies; there are no women at
Klima; there is little but the salt, the heat, the slave masters and the sun;
sometimes men go mad, trudging into the desert, trying to escape: but there is
no water within a thousand pasangs of Klima: I would have liked to have seen a
female slave, before being chained for the march to Klima; but I was not
permitted this.
Often I had to force from my mind the look on the face of the second slave, she
called Vella, of triumph, as she, small and lovely, luscious, freed of the rack
ropes had sat up on the knotted ropes, after her testimony had confirmed that of
others, of Zaya, the other girl, and Ibn Saran, sending me to the brine pits of
Klima. She had been pleased. I would go to Klima. The slave girl had had her
vengeance. She, with her lie, confirming those of others, had determined the
matter well. Then, her testimony done, she, with the other wench, had been
chained as a slave. I recalled her smile, and that I, though innocent, was to go
to Klima.
I was not pleased with the female slave.
I looked up. With Ibn Saran were four men. One of them held up a tharlarion-oil
lamp.
“Do you understand what it is,” asked Ibn Saran, “to be sent to Klima--to be a
salt slave?”
“I think so,” I told him.
“There is the march to Klima.” said he, “through the dune country, on foot,
chained, on which many die.”
I said nothing.
“And should you be so unfortunate,” said he, “to reach the vicinity of Klima,
your feet must he bound with leather to your knees, for you will sink through
the salt crusts to your knees, and, unprotected, your flesh, by the millions of
tiny, heated crystals, would be grated and burned from your bones.”
I looked away, in the chains.
“In the pits,” he said, “you pump water through underground deposits, to wash
salt, with the water, to the surface, and repump again the same water. Men die
at the pumps, in the heat. Others, the carriers, in the brine, must fill their
yoke buckets with the erupted sludge, and carry it from the pits to the drying
tables; others must gather the salt and mold it into cylinders.” He smiled.
“Sometimes men kill one another for the lighter assignments.”
I did not look at him.
“But you,” said he, “who attempted to assassinate our noble Suleiman Pasha, will
not be given light assignments.”
I pulled at the chains.
“It is the steel of Ar,” he said. “It is excellent, brought in by caravan.”
I fought the manacles.
“It will hold you quite well,” said he, “--Tarl Cabot.”
I looked at him.
“It will amuse me,” he said, “to think of Tarl Cabot, laboring in the brine
pits. As I rest in my palace, in cool of the rooms, on cushions, relishing
custards and berries, sipping beverages, delighted by my slave girls, among them
your pretty Vella, I shall think of you, often, Tarl Cabot.”
I tore at the chains.
“The famed agent of Priest-Kings, Tarl Cabot,” he said, “in the brine pits!
Excellent! Superb!” He laughed. “You cannot free yourself,” he said, “You cannot
win.”
I subsided in the chains, helpless.
“The day at Klima,” he said, “begins at dawn, and only ends at darkness. Food
may be fried on the stones at Klima. The crusts are white. The glare from them
can blind men. There are no kaiila at Klima. The desert, waterless, surrounds
Klima, for more than a thousand pasangs on all sides. Never has a slave escaped
from Klima. Among the less pleasant aspects of Klima is that you will not see
females. You will note that, following your sentencing the sight of such flesh
has been denied you. But then you can always think of your pretty Vella.”
In the manacles, my fists clenched.
“When I make her serve me,” he said, “I will think of you.”
“Where did you find her?” I asked.
“She has a very lively body, hasn’t she?” asked Ibn Saran.
“She is a female.” I said. “Where did you find her?”
“In a tavern in Lydius.” he said. “It is interesting. We bought her, originally,
simply as a slave. We keep our eyes open for good female flesh, it is useful to
our purposes, in infiltrating houses, in obtaining secrets, in seducing officers
and important men, and, of course, to reward our followers and, naturally, as a
simple item for exchange, a form of currency; the slave girl is usually in
demand, particularly if beautiful and trained: at our wish, such women are
conveniently marketable; there is little trouble in selling them; furthermore,
they attract little undue commercial attention, for they are a familiar type of
merchandise; thus, the slave girl, for us, if beautiful, and particularly if
trained
constitutes a reliable, safe, readily negotiable form of wealth”
“For anyone,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“And Vella?” I asked.
“The former Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, the planet Earth?” he
asked.
“You seem to have learned much,” I said.
“The Earth slave girl has taught us much,” he said. “She was a lucky catch. We
were fortunate to get our chain on her collar.”
“What has she told you?” I asked.
“Whatever we wished to know,” he said.
“Oh,” I said, “I see.”
“Torture was not required,” said Ibn Saran. “Its threat was sufficient. She is
only a woman. We chained her nude in a dungeon, with urts. In an hour, weeping,
hysterical, she begged to speak. She was interrogated for the night. We learned
all she knew. We learned much.”
“Surely you then freed her?” I asked, smiling. “For such aid?”
“It seems we promised to do so,” said he, “but, later, as I recall, it slipped
our mind. We keep her slave.”
“Full slave?” I asked.
“Full slave,” he said.
“Fitting,” I said.
“She is a slave,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“What, in particular,” I asked, “did you learn from the Earth slave girl, the
former Miss Cardwell?”
“Many things,” said he, “but, doubtless of most importance, the weakness of the
Nest.”
“You will now attack?” I asked.
“It will not be necessary,” he said.
“An alternate plan?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“What she told you, of course,” said I, “may not be true.”
“It tallies with the reports of other humans, who, once, long ago, fled the
Sardar.”
These would have been the Nest’s humans who, following the Nest War, had elected
to return to the surface of Gor.
“But are these reports true,” I asked, “or only, sincerely, believed to be
true?”
“They could, of course, be implanted memories,” admitted Ibn Saran. “It could be
a trick to lure an attack into a trap.”
I was silent.
“We are not unaware of such possibilities,” he said. “We have typically
proceeded with caution.”
“But now it may matter less?” I asked.
“Now,” said he, “it may matter not at all. No longer need we listen with such
care to the blabbering of slave girls.”
“You have a new strategy?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling.
“Perhaps you would share it with one bound for the brine pits of Klima?” I
asked.
He laughed. “And you might speak it to guards, or others!”
“My tongue could be cut out,” I said.
“And your hands cut off?” he laughed. “And then good would you be in the pits?”
“How did you learn that the slave, purchased only for her beauty in Lydius, was
the former Elizabeth Cardwell?” I asked.
“Fingerprints,” he said. “Her accent, certain mannerisms, suggested Earth
origin. We took her prints, curious. On our records they matched those of Miss
Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, Earth, who had been brought to Gor to wear
the message collar to the Tuchuks.”
I recalled the collar. When first I had seen her, her stockings in shreds, her
brief, yellow, Oxford-cloth shift dusty and stained, her neck bound to a capture
lance, her wrists bound behind her, on the plains of the Wagon Peoples, a
captive of Tuchuks, she had worn it. She had understood so little then, been so
innocent of the affairs of worlds.
Now the girl was less innocent.
“The message collar,” said Ibn Saran, “failed to bring about your death, the
termination of your quest for the last egg of Priest-Kings,” He smiled. “Indeed,
the girl even became your slave.”
“I freed her,” I said.
“Courtly fool,” he said. “Investigating her further, understanding she
accompanied you to the Sardar, with the last egg of Priest-Kings, we looked for
further connections. Soon it became clear that she had been your confederate,
spying for you, in contriving the downfall of the house of Cernus, one of our
ablest operatives.”
“How could you know this?” I asked.
“One who knew the house of Cernus, freed from slavery, was brought to my palace.
To her terror, he immediately identified her. We then stripped her and put her
in shackles in the dungeon, with the urts. In an Ahn she begged to tell us all,
and did.’’
“She betrayed Priest-Kings?” I asked.
“Completely.” said Ibn Saran.
“She serves Kurii now?” I asked.
“She serves us well,” he said. “And her body is exquisite, and delicious.”
“You are fortunate,” said I, “to possess such a slave.”
Ibn Saran nodded.
“I was interested to note, as well, said I, “that she testified that I had
struck Suleiman Pasha.”
“So, too, did Zaya,” said Ibn Saran.
“That is true,” I said.
“Neither needed urging,” said Ibn Saran. “Both are slaves.”
“Vella,” said I, “is a highly intelligent, complex woman.”
“Such make the best slaves,” said Ibn Saran.
“True,” I said. Indeed, who would want to collar any other sort of woman? To
take the most brilliant, the most imaginative, the most beautiful women, and put
them at your feet, impassioned, helpless slaves is victory.
“She hates you,” said Ibn Saran.
“I see,” I said.
“It has to do with Lydius, it seems,” said he.
I smiled.
“It was with much pleasure that the vicious little slave falsely testified that
it had been your blade which had struck Suleiman Pasha. It is with much pleasure
that she sends you to the brine pits.”
“I see,” I said.
“A woman’s vengeance is not a light thing,” said Ibn Saran.
“Doubtless,” said I.
“But one thing troubled her,” said Ibn Saran, “a matter in which, fearing for
herself, she was apprehensive.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“The security of Klima,” he said. “She feared you might escape.”
“Oh?” I said.
“But I assured her that there was no escape from the pits of Klima, and, thus
encouraged, it was with enthusiasm that she rehearsed her testimony.”
“Pretty Vella,” I said.
He smiled.
“It is no accident,” I said, “that she was, her identity discovered, brought to
the Tahari.”
“Of course not,” said Ibn Saran. “She was brought here collared, to serve me.”
“She has served you well,” I said.
“She has much aided, as we had anticipated, in your reception. She, permitted
once, secretly, to look upon you in streets of Nine Wells, through the tiny veil
of a haik, nude beneath, in the keeping of one of my men, later firmed, stripped
on her knees before me, her lips to my feet, your identity--as Tarl Cabot, agent
of Priest-Kings. And what she did not accomplish, with the message collar in
land of the Wagon Peoples, she has well accomplished here on
the rack in the
chamber of justice.”
“She has served you well,” I said.
“She is an excellent little slave,” said Ibn Saran, “and most pleasing on the
cushions.”
“Pretty Vella,” I said.
“Think often of her, Salt Slave,” said Ibn Saran, “in the pits of Klima.”
He turned, cloak swirling, and left the chamber followed by his men, the last
bearing the tharlarion-oil lamp.
Outside the three moons were full.
I did not think, truly, I would be sent to the brine pits of Klima.
I was thus not surprised when, an Ahn later, that same moonlight night, before I
was to be taken to Klima in the morning, two men, hooded, cloaked, furtive,
appeared in the hall outside the cell door.
There would be danger in conducting or transporting a slave to Klima in these
times of unrest between the Kavars and the Aretai and their vassal tribes.
It was not impossible that the penal caravan, with me, and presumably, others,
would be intercepted.
If I had been Ibn Saran I would not have taken this risk.
The door to the cell opened.
“Tal, noble Ibn Saran,” said I, “and gracious Hamid, lieutenant to Shakar,
captain of the Aretai.”
In Ibn Saran’s hand was his scimitar, unsheathed. I moved in the chains. They
carried no light, but the moonlight, streaming through the barred window into
the cell, permitted us to regard one another.
“It seems,” I said, “I am not to reach the brine pits of Klima.”
I observed the scimitar. I did not think they would slay me in the cell. This
would seem, to the magistrates of Nine Wells, inexplicable, an accident
demanding the most rigorous and exacting inquiry.
“You mistake us,” said Ibn Saran.
“Of course,” I said. “Actually you are agents of Priest-Kings, secretly seeming
to work for Kurii. Before your men you were forced to conduct your charade of
complicity in their schemes, lest your true loyalties be discovered. Doubtless
you have fooled them all, and well, but not me.”
“You are perceptive,” said Ibn Saran.
“Obviously it was the intention of Kurii to kill me, for they sent one of their
kind to do so. You, however, saved me from its merciless fangs.”
Ibn Saran inclined his head. He sheathed his scimitar.
“We have little time,” he said. “Outside your kaiila awaits, saddled, with a
weapon, the scimitar, and water.”
Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt Page 17
