“I think, too, there is little danger,” said Hassan.
We entered the oasis slowly, single file, in caravan style. There is almost
always a constant, hot wind on the Tahari. Our burnooses lifted behind us,
slowly, swelling, over the flanks of our animals. The girl, Alyena rode next to
the last in our line, in the position of least status; she was followed by one
of Hassan’s men, the guard; such a guard is commonly posted; he, from time to
time, watches the trail behind the caravan and, of course, prevents the escape
of slave girls.
The oasis, which we were entering, is named for the Battle of Red Rock, which is
a large shelf of reddish sandstone behind the oasis, north by northeast from its
lowest point, and center. It was used as the vantage point for the Aretai
commander at that time, Hammaran, who also launched at a crucial point in the
struggle, his picked cavalry, and bodyguard, from that height, turning the
battle’s tide. The Tashid commander of the time, Ba’Arub, died on the shelf of
red stone, with ten men, trying to reach Hammaran. It was said that he came
within ten yards of him. Ba’Arub was, it was said, a brave man. It was also
believed that if he had stood siege in his kasbah, in time Hammaran would have
been forced to retire. It is difficult to maintain a lengthy siege in the
Tahari. Food supplies at the oasis are short, except for the stores in the
kasbah, and supply lines are long, and difficult to defend. Had Ba’Arub
destroyed or fouled the public wells at Red Rock, those outside the walls of the
kasbah, Hammaran would have been forced to retire in twenty-four hours, and
perhaps lose most of his men on the return march to his country. But, being of
the Tahari, Ba’Arub, as it is told in the stories, related about the campfires,
would not do this. It is said he came within ten yards of Hammaran.
Men regarded us with some curiosity, as is common when newcomers arrive at an
oasis, but I detected neither apprehension nor hostility. The wars and raids, I
gathered, had not touched Red Rock.
A child ran beside the stirrup of Hassan, playing. “You have no bells on your
kaiila,” said the child.
“They were stolen by raiders,” said Hassan. The boy laughed and ran beside him.
“We shall seek an inn,” said Hassan.
The battle of Red Rock, for which the oasis is named, took place more than
seventy years ago, in 10,051 C.A., or in the sixth year of the reign of Ba’Arub
Pasha. Since that time the Tashid have been a vassal tribe of the Aretai. Though
there are some token tributes involved, exemptions for Aretai merchants from
caravan taxes, and such, the vassal tribe is, in its own areas, almost
completely autonomous, with its own leaders, magistrates, judges and soldiers.
The significance of the relationship is, crucially, interestingly, military
alliance. The vassal tribe is bound, by its Tahari oaths, sworn over water and
salt, to support the conquering tribe in its military endeavors, with supplies,
kaiila and men. The vassal tribe is, in effect, a military unit subordinate to
the conquering tribe which it, then, may count among its forces. Enemies
conquered become allies enlisted. One’s foe of yesterday becomes one’s pledged
friend of today. The man of the Tahari, conquered, stands ready, his scimitar
returned to him, to defend his conqueror to the death. The conqueror, by his
might and cunning, and victory, has won, by the right of the Tahari, a soldier
to his cause. I am not clear on the historical roots of this unusual social
institution but it does tend, in its practice, to pacify great sections of the
Tahari. War, for example, between conquering tribes and rebellious vassal tribes
is, although not unknown, quite rare, Another result, perhaps unfortunate,
however, is that the various tribes tend to build into larger and larger
confederations of militarily related communities. Thus, if war should erupt
between the high tribes, the conquering tribes, the entire desert might become
engulfed in hostilities. This was what was in danger of happening now, for the
Aretai and the Kavars were the two high tribes of the Tahari. Not all tribes, of
course, are vassal or conquering tribes. Some are independent. War,
incidentally, between vassal tribes is not unknown. The high tribes need not,
though often they do, support vassal tribes in their squabbles; the vassal
tribes, however, are expected to support the high, or noble, tribes, in their
altercations. Sometimes, it is made quite clear, by messenger and proclamation,
whether a war is local or not, say, between only the Ta’Kara and the Luraz, who
have some point of dispute between them. All in all, the relation of vassal
tribe to conquering tribe probably contributes more to the peace of the Tahari
than to its hostilities. It is fortunate that some such arrangement exists for
the men of the Tahari, like Goreans generally, are extremely proud, high-strung,
easily offended men, with a sense of honor that is highly touchy. Furthermore,
enjoying war, they need very little to send them to their saddles with their
scimitars loose in their sheaths. A rumor of an insult or outrage, not inquired
closely into, perhaps by intent, will suffice, A good fight, I have heard men of
the Tahari say, licking their lips, justifies any cause. It may be appropriate
here to mention that the reason that Hammaran came to Red Rock seventy years ago
is not even known, by either Aretai or Tashid. The cause of the war was
forgotten, but its deeds are still recounted about the fires. There were seventy
men in the bodyguard of Hammaran. When the battle was lost to him, Ba’Arub tried
to reach him. It is said he came within ten yards.
“We shall stop here,” said Hassan, reining in before an inn. We dismounted. We
took the packs from our kaiila, the saddles and accouterments. Boys came out to
meet us, to take our kaiila to the stables. Two of Hassan’s men went with them,
to see that the animals were well cared for. One of Hassan’s men helped Aleyna
to dismount. She took short steps and went to kneel beside Hassan, her head
down, at his left thigh.
“Stand, Slave,” he said to her.
“Yes, Master.” she said.
He took one of the water bags, which was still full, which held some twenty
gallons of water.
“Carry this burden, Slave,” he said.
“Yes. Master,” she said.
He threw it over her shoulders. She gasped. She bent forward, her hands
steadying the bag. It was heavy for the slight beauty. She almost lost her
balance. If she dropped it, she would be much beaten.
The men then gathered their saddles, their weapons, the other water and goods,
and their belongings. Alyena waited for us, bent, face strained, bearing across
her small shoulders the weight of the water.
Each man carried his own saddle. Saddles are prized on the Tahari and each man
cares for his own, and sees to its safety. Among nomads they are brought into
the tent each night, and placed on the right side of the tent, at the back.
The water which we had brought with us would not now be wasted but, by Tahari
custom, emptied into the cistern of the inn. In this fas
hion the water is still
used, and, to some extent, it saves the inn boys from carrying as much water as
they might otherwise do, from the wells of the oasis, to the inn’s cistern. In
leaving an oasis, of course, similarly, as a courtesy to the inn, and its
hospitality, the bags are commonly filled not at the cistern, but at the public
well.
Hassan then, carrying his saddle and other belongings, went into the inn. His
men, and I, followed him. Last to enter the inn, head down, was Alyena.
“Here, Slave,” said one of the inn boys to her, indicating the way to the inn’s
cistern. Alyena, slowly, half stumbling, followed him. He did not, of course,
help her. She emptied the water into the cistern. Those of Hassan’s men who
carried water, too, emptied the water into the cistern. Before Alyena returned
to us, the boy brushed back her hood, revealing her hair and face. His hand was
in her hair. “You are a pretty slave,” he said. “Thank you, Master,” whispered
Alyena. He turned her head from side to side. Then he released her, snapping his
fingers and pointing to his feet. She knelt before him, and kissed his feet, her
hair falling over them. He then turned away. She rose to her feet and went to
kneel beside Hassan, who was sitting at a bench before a table. She knelt
perpendicular to his thigh, and put her head gently, sideways, on his left leg.
He handled her head and hair with a rough gentleness, sometimes running his
fingers, caressing her, between her throat and the collar.
“Have you heard aught of a tower of steel?” Hassan was asking the master of the
inn.
None, it seemed, at Red Rock had either seen, or heard, of so strange an
architectural oddity as a tower of steel in the desert.
This was irritating to Hassan, and did not much please me either, for the oasis
of the Battle of Red Rock was the last of the major oases of the Tahari for more
than two thousand pasangs eastward; it lay, in effect, on the borders of the
dreaded dune country; there are oases in the dune country but they are small and
infrequent, and often lie more than two hundred pasangs apart; in the sands they
are not always easy to find: among the dunes one can, unknowingly, pass within
ten pasangs of an oasis, missing it entirely. Little but salt caravans ply the
dune country. Caravans with goods tend to travel the western. Or distant eastern
edge of the Tahari; caravans do, it might be mentioned, occasionally travel from
Tor or Kasra to Turmas, a Turian outpost and kasbah, in the southeastern edge of
the Tahari, but even these commonly avoid the dune country, either moving south,
then east, or east, then south, skirting the sands. Few men, without good
reason, enter the dune country.
I had little doubt, nor did Hassan, that it was within the dune country that lay
the steel tower, if there was indeed such an unusual edifice.
It seemed reasonably clear that if such were not the case someone, nomad or
merchant, or innkeeper or drover, or guide or soldier, would have heard of it.
But such a tower might exist in the dune country for ten thousand years, remote
and undiscovered.
The Others, the Kurii, had stopped slave runs from Earth to Gor. “Surrender
Gor,” had been the ultimatum delivered to the Sardar. A Kur, alone, had been
apprehended, apparently on his way to the dune country. A message had been
inscribed on a rock: Beware the steel tower. And a message girl had been brought
to Samos, of Port Kar. Her message, revealed in the shaving of her bead, had
been “Beware Abdul.” Only that portion of the mystery seemed well solved. Abdul
had been the lowly water carrier in Tor, a minor agent, presumably of Others,
the Kurii, who had wished to keep me from the Tahari. That part of the mystery
only had I now well solved. Still, however, I did not know who had sent the
message. I wondered on the Kur, which had entered, invisible, my cell at Nine
Wells. He had been much wounded. He had not killed me. Ihn Saran had told me the
beast had been slain. There was much, yet, which I did not understand.
“We shall leave in the morning,” said Hassan to me, stretching. “None here seem
to know of a steel tower.”
Indeed, to my surprise, word of the attack, putatively by Aretai, on the Bakah
oasis of Two Scimitars, of some days ago, had not yet seemed to reach Red Rock.
None here spoke of it. Had they known of the raid it would, surely, have been
the topic of pervasive converse in the oasis. It seemed to me clear that none
here, at least of the common population, knew of it. Had it truly been by Aretai
I had no doubt but what the oasis would be preparing itself, even now, for Kavar
reprisals. It was not odd, of course-, for Red Rock not to have yet heard of the
attack. It was explained so simply as by no man yet having brought them the
news. No one had yet journeyed to them, who knew of the attack, or knew of it
and would tell them. Since Red Rock was an oasis under the governance of the
Tashid, a vassal tribe of Aretai, of course, no Bakah, or other member of the
Kavar confederation, would be likely, particularly in such times, to drop in
and, in friendly fashion, convey this intelligence to them. Indeed, they would
tend to avoid Aretai and Aretai-dominant oases, at least until they could come
in force, paying the respects of the Tahari with steel.
“I am weary,” said Hassan. “I shall retire.” Already he had sent Alyena up to
his room. His men, too, were lodged on the second floor.
Hassan looked about himself. “What is the hour?” asked Hassan.
One of the inn boys, sitting in an apron, on a bench near the large, cylindrical
sand clock, glanced at it. “Past the nineteenth hour,” he said. He yawned. He
would stay up until the twentieth hour, the Gorean midnight, at which time he
would turn the clock, and retire.
“Are masters well content in my house?” asked the innkeeper.
“Yes,” said Hassan. Then Hassan said, “Soldiers are returning.”
I listened carefully I had not noticed the sound. Hassan’s fingers, on the
table, had caught the subtle vibration.
I could now hear the drumming of galloping kaiila.
“No soldiers, are out,” said the innkeeper.
Hassan leaned to his feet, throwing over the table. In a bound he had fled
upstairs.
“Do not go to the window,” I cried.
But already the innkeeper had thrown back the shutters. I heard Hassan shouting
upstairs. I heard the sound of feet. The innkeeper turned to face me, his face
white: he fell rolling to the floor, snapping off the shaft of the arrow.
“Kavars supreme!” I heard. I rushed to the window and my scimitar thrust through
and the figure, in burnoose, screamed, clutched at the side of the window, and
fell back, bloodied, into the darkness. I reached to close the shutters. Two
arrows struck the wood, splintering needles of wood into my cheek: then the
shutters were pulled closed, fastened: another arrow burst half through one,
hanging on our side. The inn boy stood by the sand clock, looking wildly about.
We heard the paws of kaiila, their squeals and snorts, and hisses. I beard a man
cry out. Somewhere I beard a door splinterin
g, though not, I thought, of the
inn. “Kavars supreme!” I heard.
“Upstairs!” cried Hassan. “To the roof!”
I took the stairs four at a time, climbing to the second floor. The inn boy,
terrified, fled through a door to the kitchen.
Alyena, white faced, stood, her arm held in the grip of one of Hassan’s men.
“Follow me,” said Hassan. Other guests at the inn fled downstairs. A woman
screamed.
We climbed a narrow ladder, pushing up a trap door to the roof. We stood under
the three moons of Gor. The desert looked white. Beneath us, in the streets,
people were running, some carrying belongings. “To the kasbah!” cried a man.
“Seek safety in the kasbah!” Among the running people rode warriors, slashing
about themselves, slaying and freeing for themselves a path for their mounts.
“Kavars supreme!” they cried.
“Kavars!” I cried.
Hassan looked at me, wildly, angrily. “To the stable yard,” he said. We ran
across the roof to the walled stable yard. He cried orders, swiftly. Saddles
were fetched, two men leaped down from the roof to the ground below, then leaped
up, running to the stables. I saw a fire arrow loop in the sky over palms. I
heard the sounds of axes. There was, on the other side of the wall, much
screaming. We heard the door of the inn splintering. Below us, in the stable
yard, holding the reins of kaiila, came Hassan’s men. “Guard the trap door,”
said Hassan to one of his men. Almost at that moment the trap door thrust up and
a man’s face appeared; Hassan’s man thrust his scimitar through the jaw and
wrenched it free, loose with blood and teeth and kicked shut the door.
“To the kasbah!” cried a man below in the street, terrified.
“Into the desert!” cried a woman. “The kasbah is bolted against raiders! People
die at the gate, cut down, pounding to enter!”
“Fire!” I cried. An arrow had fallen within the stable yard, striking through
the straw in the storage stall at the right. We saw a man climbing over the gate
to the stable yard. He fell back, thrust from the gate by a lance in the hands
of one of Hassan’s men. The interior of the stable yard was now well lit, by the
blazing straw. The kaiila squealed in fright. Hassan’s men threw their burnooses
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