by John Norman
Suddenly I became aware again of the banquet of Saphrar of Turia.
My piece of bosk meat, roasted, had arrived. I picked it up and began to chew on it. I liked it better cooked over the open-fires on the prairie, but it was good bosk. I sank my teeth into the juicy meat, tearing it and chewing on it.
I observed the banquet tables, laid out in an open-ended rectangle, permitting slaves to enter at the open end, facilitating the serving, and, of course, allowing entertainers to perform among the tables. To one side there was a small altar to Priest-Kings, where there burned a small fire. On this fire, at the beginning of the feast the feast steward had scattered some grains of meal, some coloured salt, some drops of wine. “Ta-Sardar-Gor,” he had said, and this phrase had been repeated by the others in the room. “To the Priest-Kings of Gor.” It had been the general libation for the banquet. The only one in the room who did not participate in this ceremony was Kamchak, who thought that such a libation, in the eyes of the sky, would not have been fitting. I partook of the libation out of respect for Priest-Kings, for one in particular, whose name was Misk.
A Turian sitting a few feet from me noted that I had partaken of the libation. “I see,” he said, “that you were not raised among the wagons.”
“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 talking with him, some matter I gathered pertaining 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, had determined to make that omission good at his banquet. There were several women present at the tables, free women, and several others, slaves, who served. The free women, shamelessly to the mind of the rather prudish Kamchak, lowered their veils and threw back the hoods of their Robes of Concealment, enjoying the feast, eating with much the same Gorean gusto as their men. Their beauty and the sparkle of their eyes, their laughter and conversation, to my mind, immeasurably improved the evening. Many were swift-tongued, witty wenches, utterly charming and uninhibited. I did think, however, that it was somewhat unusual that they should appear in public unveiled, particularly with Kamchak and myself present. The women in bondage present, who served us, each wore four golden rings on each ankle and each wrist, locked on, which clashed as they walked or moved, adding their sound to the slave bells that had been fixed on their Turian collars, and that hung from their hair; the ears of each, too, hall been pierced and from each ear hung a tiny slave bell. The single garment of these women was the Turian camisk. I do not know particularly why it is referred to as a camisk, save that it is a simple garment for a female slave. The common camisk is a single piece of cloth, about eighteen inches wide, thrown over the girl’s head and worn like a poncho. It usually falls a bit above the knees in the front and back and is belted with cord or chain. The Turian camisk, on the other hand, if it were to be laid out on the floor, would appear somewhat like an inverted “T” in which the bar of the “T” would be bevelled on each side. It is fastened with a single cord. The cord binds the garment on the girl at three points, behind the neck, behind the back, and in front at the waist. The garment itself, as might be supposed, fastens behind the girl’s neck, passes before her, passes between her legs and is then lifted and, folding the two sides of the T’s bar about her hips, ties in front. The Turian camisk, unlike the common camisk, will cover a girl’s brand; on the other hand, unlike the common camisk, it leaves the back uncovered and can be tied, and is, snugly, the better to disclose the girl’s beauty.
We had been treated to exhibitions of juggling, fire swallowing, and acrobats. There had been a magician, who particularly pleased Kamchak, and a man who, whip in hand, guided a dancing sleen through its paces.
I could pick up snatches of conversation between Kamchak and Saphrar, and I gathered from what was said that they were negotiating places of meeting for the exchange of goods. Then, later in the evening, when I was drunker on Paga than I should have permitted myself to become, I heard them discuss details which could only have pertained to what Kamchak had called the games of Love War, details having to do with specifications of time, weapons and judges, and such. Then I heard the sentence, “If she is to participate, you must deliver the golden sphere.”
Abruptly, it seemed, I came awake, no longer half asleep, more than half drunk. It seemed suddenly I was shocked awake and sober. I began to tremble, but held the table, and, I believe, betrayed no sign of my inward excitement.
“I can arrange that she is chosen for the games,” Saphrar was saying, “but it must be worth my while.”
“How can you determine that she is selected?” Kamchak was asking.
“My gold can determine that,” Saphrar was saying, “and further determine that she is ill defended.”
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Kamchak’s black eyes gleaming.
Then I heard the feast steward call out, his voice silencing all else, all conversation, even the musicians. The acrobats who were at the moment performing fled from between the tables. The feast steward’s voice was heard, “The Lady Aphris of Turia.”
I and all others turned our eyes to a wide, swirling marble stairway in the back and to the left of the lofty banquet hall in the house of Saphrar the merchant.
Down the stairway, slowly, in trailing white silk bordered with gold, the colours of the Merchants, there regally descended the girl who was Aphris of Turia.
Her sandals were of gold and she wore matching gloves of gold.
Her face could not be seen, for it was veiled, a white silken veil trimmed with gold, nor even her hair, for it was hidden in the folds of the free woman’s Robes of Concealment, in her case, of course, done in the colours of the merchants.
Aphris of Turia, then, was of the caste of merchants.
I recalled Kamchak had spoken of her once or twice.
As the woman approached I suddenly became aware again of Saphrar speaking. “Behold my ward,” he was saying, indicating the approaching girl.
“The richest woman in all Turia,” Kamchak said.
“When she reaches her majority,” Saphrar remarked.
Until then, I gathered, her means were in the doubtless capable hands of Saphrar the merchant.
This supposition was later confirmed by Kamchak. Saphrar was not related to the girl, but had been appointed by the Turian merchants, on whom he undoubtedly exercised considerable influence, the guardian of the girl following the death of her father in a Paravaci caravan raid several years before. The father of Aphris of Turia, Tethrar of Turia, had been the richest merchant in this city, itself one of the richest cities of Gor. There had been no surviving male heir and the considerable wealth of Tethrar of Turia was now that of his daughter, Aphris, who would assume control of these remarkable fortunes upon attaining her majority, which event was to occur this spring.
The girl, not unaware I am sure of the eyes upon her, stopped on the stairway and loftily surveyed the scene of the banquet. I could sense that she had almost immediately seen myself and Kamchak, strangers at the tables. Something in her carriage suggested that she might be amused.
I heard Saphrar whisper to Kamchak, whose eyes glowed as they rested on the figure in white and gold on the distant stairway.
“Is she not worth the golden sphere?” asked the merchant.
“It is hard to tell,” said Kamchak.
“I have the word of her serving slaves,” insisted Saphrar. “She is said to be marvellous.”
Kamchak shrugged, his wily Tuchuk trading shrug. I had seen him use it several times while discussing the possible sale of little Tenchika to Albrecht in the wagon.
“The sphere is actually not of much value, Saphrar was saying, “it is not truly of gold — but only appears so.”
“Still,” Kamchak said, “the Tuchuks are fond of it.”
“I would only wish it as a curiosity,” Saphrar was saying.
“I must think on the matter,” Kamchak was saying, not taking his eyes from Aphris of Turia.
“I know where it is,” Saphrar was saying, his lips pulled back, revealing the golden canines, “I could send men for it.”
Pretending not to listen I was, of course, as attentive as possible to their conversation. But few in that room would have noted my interest had I displayed it openly. All eyes, it seemed, were on the girl on the stairs, slim, said to be beautiful, veiled, clad in Robes of Concealment of white and gold. Even I was distracted by her. Even I, in spite of my preoccupation with the conversation of Kamchak and Saphrar, would have found it difficult, had I wished, to take my eyes from her. Now she descended the last three stairs and, stopping to nod her head and grace an eager fellow here and there along the tables with a word or gesture, she began to approach the head of the table. The musicians, at a signal from the feast steward, took up their instruments again and the acrobats rushed back among the tables, tumbling and leaping about.
“It is in the wagon of Kutaituchik,” Saphrar was saying. “I could send mercenary tarnsmen from the north, but I would prefer not to have war.”
Kamchak was still watching Aphris of Turia.
My heart was beating with great rapidity. I had learned now, if Saphrar was correct, that the golden sphere, undoubtedly the last egg of Priest-Kings, was in the wagon of Kutaituchik, said to be Ubar of the Tuchuks. At last, if Saphrar was correct, I knew its location.
I barely noticed, as Aphris of Turia made her way toward the head of the table, that she did not speak to nor acknowledge in any way any of the women present, though their robes suggested they must be of wealth and position. She gave them no sign that she recognized their existence. To a man here and there, however, she would nod her head or exchange a word or two. I thought perhaps Aphris was unwilling to acknowledge unveiled free women. Her own veil, of course, had not been lowered. Over the veil I could now see two black, deep, almond-shaped eyes; her skin, what I could see of it, was lovely and clear; her complexion was not so light as that of Miss Cardwell, but was lighter than that of the girl Hereena, of the First Wagon.
“The golden sphere for Aphris of Turia,” Saphrar whispered to Kamchak.
Kamchak turned to the small, fat merchant and his scarred, furrowed face broke into a grin, bearing down on the round, pinkish face of the merchant. “The Tuchuks,” he said, “are fond of the golden sphere.”
“Very well,” snapped Saphrar, “then you will not obtain the woman — I shall see to that — and somehow I shall have the sphere — understand that!”
Kamchak now turned to watch Aphris of Turia.
The girl now approached us, behind the tables, and Saphrar leaped to his feet and bowed low to her. “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 the camisk-clad girls in the room, who brought cushions and a silken mat and placed them between Saphrar and Kamchak.
Aphris nodded her head to the feast steward and he sent the acrobats running and tumbling from the room and the musicians began to play soft, honeyed melodies. The guests at the banquet returned to their 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 silk trimmed with gold. She sniffed twice. Then she clapped her little gloved hands two times and the feast steward rushed to her side.
“I smell bosk dung,” she said.
The feast steward looked startled, then horrified, then knowledgeable, and then bowed and spread his hands. He smiled ingratiatingly, apologetically. “I’m sorry, Lady Aphris,” said he, “but under the circumstances —”
She looked about, and then it seemed she saw Kamchak.
“Ah!” she said, “I see — a Tuchuk — of course.”
Kamchak, though sitting cross-legged, seemed to bounce twice on the cushions, slapping the small table, rattling dishes for a dozen feet on either side. He was roaring with laughter.
“Superb!” he cried.
“Please, if you wish, Lady Aphris, join us,” wheezed Saphrar.
Aphris of Turia, pleased with herself, assumed her place between the merchant and Kamchak, kneeling back on her heels in the position of the Gorean free woman.
Her back was very straight and her head high, in the Gorean fashion.
She turned to Kamchak. “It seems we 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 me a Tuchuk sleen.”
“I seem to recall,” said Aphris, as though trying very hard to do so.
“I had brought you a five-belt necklace of diamonds,” said Kamchak, “for I had heard you were beautiful.”
“Oh,” said Aphris, “yes — I gave it to one of my slaves.”
Kamchak slapped the table in merriment again.
“It was then,” he said, “that you turned away, calling me a Tuchuk sleen.”
“Oh, yes!” laughed Aphris.
“And it was then,” said Kamchak, still laughing, “that I vowed I would make you my slave.”
Aphris stopped laughing.
Saphrar was speechless.
There was no sound at the tables.
Kamras, Champion of the City of Turia, rose to his feet. He addressed Saphrar. “Permit me,” he said, “to fetch weapons.”
Kamchak was now swilling Paga and acted as though he had not heard the remark of Kamras.
“No, no, no!” cried Saphrar. “The Tuchuk and his friend are guests, and ambassadors of the Wagon Peoples — they must not come to harm!”
Aphris of Turia laughed merrily and Kamras, embarrassed, returned to his seat.
“Bring perfumes!” she called to the feast steward, and he sent forth the camisk-clad slave who carried the tiny tray of exotic Turian perfumes. She took one or two of these small bottles and held them under her nose, and then sprinkled them 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 the dung sack.”
Again Aphris laughed merrily and was joined by those of the banquet.
The fists of Kamras were clenched on the table.
“Who are you?” asked Aphris, looking at me.
I was pleased to see that she, at least, did not know my name.
“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said, “— of the 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 stinking wagon of a Tuchuk sleen?”
“The wagon does not stink,” I said, “and Kamchak of the Tuchuks is my friend.”
“You are an outlaw of course,” she said.
I shrugged.
She laughed.
The girl turned to Saphrar. “Perhaps the barbarians would care to be entertained,” she suggested.
I was puzzled at this, for throughout much of the evening there had been entertainment, the jugglers, the acrobats, the fellow who swallowed fire to music, the magician, the man with the dancing sleen.
Saphrar was looking down. He was angry. “Perhaps,” he said. I supposed Saphrar was still irritated at Kamchak’s refusal to give up, or arrange the transfer, of the golden sphere. I did not clearly understand Kamchak’s motivations in this matter — unless, of course, he knew the true nature of the golden sphere, in which case, naturally, he would recognize it as priceless. I gathered he did not understand its true value, seeing that he had discussed its exchange with some seriousness earlier in the evening — only that, apparently, he wa
nted more than Saphrar was offering, even though that might be Aphris of Turia herself.
Aphris now turned to me. She gestured to the ladies at the tables, with their escorts. “Are the women of Turia not beautiful?” she asked.
“Indeed,” I admitted, for there were none present who were not, in their own ways, beautiful.
She laughed, for some reason.
“In my city,” I said, “free women would not permit themselves to be seen unveiled before strangers.”
The girl laughed merrily once more and turned to Kamchak. “What think you, my colourful bit of bosk dung?” she asked.
Kamchak shrugged. “It is well known,” he said, “the women of Turia are shameless.”
“I think not,” snapped the angry Aphris of Turia, her eyes flashing above the golden border of her white 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 twice and the women about the table stood, and together, from both sides, moved swiftly to stand before us between the tables. The drums and flutes of the musicians sounded, and to my amazement the first girl, with a sudden, graceful swirl of her body lifted away her robes and flung them high over the heads of the guests to cries of delight. She stood facing us, beautiful, knees flexed, breathing deeply, arms lifted over her head, ready for the dance. Each of the women I had thought free did the same, until each stood before us, a collared slave girl clad only the diaphanous, scarlet dancing silks of Gor. To the barbaric music they danced.
Kamchak was angry.
“Did you truly think,” asked Aphris of Turia arrogantly, “that a Tuchuk would be permitted to look upon the face of a free woman of Turia?”
Kamchak’s fists were clenched on the table, for no Tuchuk likes to be fooled,
Kamras was laughing loudly and even Saphrar was giggling among the yellow cushions.
No Tuchuk, I knew, cares to be the butt of a joke, especially a Turian joke.
But Kamchak said nothing.
