by John Norman
“It was long ago,” I said.
“Your swordplay with Pa-Kur, Master of the Assassins, was superb.”
A nod of my head acknowledged his compliment.
“You may ask,” said Ha-Keel, “how it is that I, a tarnsman of Ar, ride for merchants and traitors on the southern plains?”
“It saddens me,” I said, “that a sword that was once raised in defence of Ar is raised now only by the beck and call of gold.”
“About my neck,” he said, “you see a golden tarn disk of glorious Ar. I cut a throat for that tarn-disk, to buy silks and perfumes for a woman. But she had fled with another. I, hunted, also fled. I followed them and in combat slew the warrior, obtaining my scar. The wench I sold into slavery. I could not return to Glorious Ar.” He fingered the tarn disk.
“Sometimes,” said he, “it seems heavy.”
“Ha-Keel,” said Saphrar, “wisely went to the city of Port Kar, whose hospitality to such as he is well known. It was there we first met.”
“Ha!” cried Ha-Keel. “The little urt was trying to pick my pouch!”
“You were not always a merchant, then?” I asked Saphrar.
“Among friends,” said Saphrar, “perhaps we can speak frankly, particularly seeing that the tales we tell will not be retold. You see, I know 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 day left the shop it seems inadvertently with some pounds of the nectar of talenders concealed beneath my tunic in a bladder and for that my ear was notched and I was exiled from the city. I found my way to Port Kar, where I lived unpleasantly for some time on garbage floating in the canals and such other tidbits as I could find about.”
“How then are you a rich merchant?” I asked.
“A man met me,” said Saphrar, “a tall man rather dreadful actually with a face as grey as stone and eyes like glass.”
I immediately recalled Elizabeth’s description of the man who had examined her for fitness to wear the message collar on Earth
“I have never seen that man,” said Ha-Keel. “I wish that I might have.”
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, “it was he who arranged my fortunes and sent me, some years ago, to Turia.”
“What is your city?” I demanded
He smiled. “I think,” he said, “Port Karl”
That told me what I wanted to know. Though raised in Tyros and successful in Turia, Saphrar the merchant thought of himself as one of Port Karl Such a city, I thought, could stain the soul of a man.
“That explains,” I said, “how it is that you, though in Turia, can have a galley in Port Karl”
“Of course,” said he.
“Also,” I cried, suddenly aware, “the rence paper in the message collar, 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, “though the poor thing was anesthetized at the time and unaware of the honour bestowed upon her.” Saphrar smiled.
“In a way,” he said, “it was a waste I would not have minded keeping her in my Pleasure Gardens as a slave.”
Saphrar shrugged and spread his hands. “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 but arranged his robes and smiled.
“He paid very well,” he said.
“Why,” I asked, “did he not permit you to keep the girl as a slave?”
“She spoke a barbarous tongue,” said Saphrar, “like yourself apparently. The plan was, it seems, that the message would be read, and that the Tuchuks would then use the girl to find you and when they had they would kill you. But they did not do so.”
“No,” I said.
“It doesn’t matter now,” said Saphrar.
I wondered what death he might have in mind for me.
“How was it,” I asked, “that you, who had never seen me, knew me and spoke my name at the banquet?”
“You had been well described to me by the grey fellow,” said Saphrar. “Also, I was certain there could not have been two among the Tuchuks with hair such as yours.”
I bristled slightly. For no rational reason I am sometimes angered when enemies or strangers speak of my hair. I suppose this dates back to my youth when my flaming hair, perhaps a deplorably outrageous red, was the object of dozens of derisive comments, each customarily engendering its own rebuttal, both followed often by a nimble controversy, adjudicated by bare knuckles. I recalled, with a certain amount of satisfaction, even in the House of Saphrar, that I had managed to resolve most of these in my favour.
My aunt used to examine my knuckles each evening and when they were skinned which was not seldom, I trooped away to bed with honour rather than supper.
“It was an amusement on my part,” smiled Saphrar, “to speak your name at that time to see what you would do, to give you something, so to speak, to stir in your wine.”
It was a Turian saying. They used wines in which, as a matter of fact, things could be and were, upon occasion, stirred mostly spices and sugars.
“Let us kill him,” said the Paravaci.
“No one has spoken to you, Slave,” remarked Harold.
“Let me have this one,” begged the Paravaci of Saphrar, pointing the tip of his quiva at Harold.
“Perhaps,” said Saphrar. Then the little merchant stood up and clapped his hands twice. From a side, from a portal which had been concealed behind a hanging, two men-at-arms came forth, followed by two others. The first two carried a platform, draped in purple. On this platform, nestled in the folds of the purple, I saw the object of my quest what I had come so far to find that for which I had risked and, apparently, lost my Life, the golden sphere.
It was clearly an egg. Its longest axis was apparently about eighteen inches. 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 Saphrar kindly. “Surely he is entitled to a glimpse of our precious prize.”
“Kutaituchik was killed for it,” I said.
“Many more than he,” said Saphrar, “and perhaps in the end even more will die.”
“Do you know what it is?” I asked.
“No,” said Saphrar, “but I know it is important to Priest-Kings.” He stood 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 wish with such an egg?”
“Who knows?” asked Ha-Keel.
“It. was this, was it not,” asked Saphrar, looking at me, “that you came to Turia to find?”
“Yes,” I admitted. “That is what I came 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,” he said.
“No,” cried the Paravaci, “let me have h
im as well as the other.”
“No,” said Saphrar firmly. “They are both mine.”
Ha-Keel angrily rammed his sword back into the sheath.
He had clearly wanted to kill me honourably, swiftly. Clearly he had little stomach for whatever games the Paravaci or Saphrar might have in mind. Ha-Keel might have been a cutthroat and a thief but, too he was of Ar and a tarnsman.
“You have secured the object,” I inquired, “to give it to the grey man?”
“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 I receive my gold and the gold will perhaps make me the richest man on Gor 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 else would he dare to use the name of Priest-Kings on the message in the message collar?”
I knew, of course, that the man was not a Priest-King. But I could now see that Saphrar had no idea who he was or for whom, if anyone, he was working. I was confident that the man was the same as he who had brought Elizabeth Cardwell to this world he who had seen her in New York and decided she would play her role in his perilous sports and that thus he had at his disposal an advanced technology certainly to the level of at least space flight. I did not know, of course, if the technology at his disposal was his own, or that of his kind, or if it were furnished by others unknown not seen who had their own stake in these games of two worlds, perhaps more. He might well be, and I supposed it true, merely an agent but for whom, or what? Something that would challenge even Priest-Kings blat, it must be, I something that feared Priest-Kings, or it would naturally have I struck this world, or Earth something that wanted Priest-Kings to die that the one world, or two, or perhaps even the system of our sun, would be freed for their taking.
“How did the grey man know where the golden sphere was?” I asked.
“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, to some extent, understand or sense the politics, the needs and policies of the remote denizens of the Sardar — they were probably not altogether unaware of the business of Priest-Kings, particularly not now, following the recent War of Priest-Kings, after which many humans had escaped the Place of Priest-Kings and now wandered free, if scoffed at and scorned for the tales they might bear possibly from these, or from spies or traitors in the Nest itself, the Others had learned the Others, I was sure, would neither jeer nor scoff at the stories told by vagabonds of Priest-Kings.
They could have learned of the destruction of much of the surveillance equipment of the Sardar, of the substantial reduction in the technological capabilities of Priest-Kings, at least for a short time and, most importantly, that the War had been fought, in a way, over the succession of dynasties thus learning that generations of Priest-Kings might be in the offing. If there had been rebels those wanting a new generation there must have been the seeds of that generation.
But in a Place of Priest-Kings there is only one bearer of young, the Mother, and she had died shortly before the War.
Thus, the Others might well infer that there was one, or more, concealed eggs, hidden away, which must now be secured that the new generation might be inaugurated, but hidden away quite possibly not in the Place of Priest-Kings itself, but elsewhere, out of the home of Priest-Kings, beyond even the black Sardar itself. And they might have learned, as well, that I had been in the War of Priest-Kings a lieutenant to Misk, the Fifth Born, Chief of the Rebels, and that I had now made my way to the southern plains, to the land of the Wagon Peoples. It would not then have required great intelligence to suspect that I might have come to fetch the egg or eggs of Priest-Kings.
If they had reasoned thus, then their strategy would seem likely to have been, first, to see that I did not find the egg, and, secondly, to secure it for themselves. They could guarantee their first objective, of course, by slaying me. The matter of the message collar had been a clever way of attempting to gain that end but, because of the shrewdness of! Tuchuks, who seldom take anything at its face value, it had failed; they had then attempted to bring me down among the wagons with a Paravaci quiva, but that, too, had failed; I grimly reminded myself, however, that I was now in the power of Saphrar of Turia. The second objective, that of obtaining the egg for themselves, was already almost accomplished; Kutaituchik had been killed and it had been stolen from his wagon; there was left only to deliver it to the grey man, who would, in turn, deliver it to the Others whoever or whatever they might be. Saphrar, of course, had been in Turia for years. This suggested to me that possibly the Others had even followed the movements of the two men ‘who had’ brought the egg from the Sardar to the Wagon Peoples.
Perhaps they had now struck more openly and quickly employing Gorean tarnsmen fearing that I might myself seize the egg first and return it to the Sardar. The attempt on my life took place one night and the raid on Kutaituchik’s wagon the next. Saphrar, too, I reminded myself, had known that the golden sphere was in the wagon of Kutaituchik. I was puzzled a bit that he had had this information. Tuchuks do not make good spies, for they tend to be, albeit fierce and cruel, intensely loyal; and there are few strangers allowed in the wagon of a Tuchuk Ubar. It occurred to me that perhaps the Tuchuks had made no secret of the presence of the golden sphere in Kutaituchik’s wagon. That puzzled me. On the other hand they may well not have understood its true value. Kamchak himself had told me the golden sphere was worthless poor Tuchuk! But now, I said to myself, poor Cabot! However it came about and I could not be sure Others than Priest-Kings had now entered the games of Gor and these Others knew of the egg and wanted It and, it seemed, would have it. In time Priest-Kings, those remaining, would die. Their weapons and devices would rust and crumble in the Sardar. And then, one day, like the pirates of Port Kar in their long galleys, unannounced, unexpected, Others would cross the seas of space and bring their craft to rest on the shores and sands of Gor.
“Would you like to fight for your life?” asked Saphrar of Turia.
“Of course,” I said.
“Excellent,” said Saphrar. “You may do so in the Yellow Pool of Turia.”
Chapter 17
THE YELLOW POOL OF TURIA
At the edge of the Yellow Pool of Turia Harold and I stood, now freed of the slave bar, but with wrists tied behind our backs. I had not been given back my sword but the quota I had carried was now thrust in my belt.
The pool is indoors in a spacious chamber in the House of Saphrar with a domed ceiling of some eighty feet in height. The pool itself, around which there is a marble walkway some seven or eight feet in width, is roughly circular in shape and has a diameter of perhaps sixty or seventy feet.
The room itself is very lovely and might have been one of the chambers in the renowned baths of Turia. It was decorated with numerous exotic floral designs, done primarily in greens and yellows, representing the vegetation of a tropical river, perhaps the tropical belt of the Cartius, or certain of its tributaries far to the north and west. Besides the designs there were also, growing from planting areas recessed here and there in the marble walkway, broad-leafed, curling plants; vines; ferns; numerous exotic flowers; it was rather beautiful, but in an oppressive way, and the room had been heated to such an extent that it seemed almost steamy; I gathered the temperature and humidity in the room were desirable for the plantings, or were supposed to simulate the climate of the tropical area represented.
The light in the room came, interestingly, from behind a translucent blue ceiling, probably being furnished by energy bulbs. Saphrar was a rich man indeed to have energy bulbs in his home; few Goreans can afford such a luxury; an
d, indeed, few care to, for Goreans, for some reason, are fond of the light of flame, lamps and torches and such; flames must be made, tended, watched; they are more beautiful, more alive.
Around the edge of the pool there were eight large columns, fashioned and painted as though the trunks of trees, one standing at each of the eight cardinal points of the Gorean compass; from these, stretching often across the pool, were vines, so many that the ceiling could be seen only as a patchwork of blue through vinous entanglements. Some of the vines hung so low that they nearly touched the surface of the pool. A slave, at a sort of panel fused with wires and levers, stood at one side. I was puzzled by the manner in which the heat and humidity were introduced to the room, for I saw no vents nor cauldrons of boiling water, or devices for releasing drops of water on heated plates or stones. I had been in the room for perhaps three or four minutes before I realized that the steam rose from the pool itself. I gathered that it was heated. It seemed calm. I wondered what I was expected to meet in the pool. I would have at least the quiva.
I noted that the surface of the pool, shortly after we had entered, began to tremble slightly, and it was then once again calm. I supposed something, sensing our presence, had stirred in its depths, and was now waiting. Yet the motion had been odd for it was almost as if the pool had lifted itself, rippled, and then subsided.
Harold and I, though bound, were each held by two men-at-arms, and another four, with crossbows, had accompanied us.
“What is the nature of the beast in the pool?” I asked.
“You will learn,” Saphrar laughed.
I conjectured it would be a water animal. Nothing had yet broken the surface. It would probably be a sea-tharlarion, or perhaps several such; sometimes the smaller sea-tharlarion, seemingly not much more than teeth and tail, puttering in packs beneath the waves, are even more to be feared than their larger brethren, some of whom in whose jaws an entire galley can be raised from the surface of the sea and snapped in two like a handful of dried reeds of the rence plant. It might, too, be a Vosk turtle. Some of them are gigantic, almost impossible to kill, persistent, carnivorous. Yet, if it had been a tharlarion or a Vosk turtle, it might well have broken the surface for air. It did not. This reasoning also led me to suppose that it would not be likely to be anything like a water sleen or a giant urt from the canals of Port Karl These two, even before the tharlarion or the turtle, would by now, presumably, have surfaced to breathe.
