by John Norman
On the hill by the amphitheater where sat the tent of Centius of Cos there was much light and generous feasting. Torches abounded. Tables were strewn about and sheets thrown upon the ground. Free tarsk and roast bosk were being served, and Sa-Tarna bread and Ta wine, from the famed Ta grapes of the Cosian terraces. Only Centius of Cos, it was said, did not join in the feasting. He remained secluded in the tent studying by the light of a small lamp a given position in Kaissa, one said to have occurred more than a generation ago in a game between Ossius of Tabor, exiled from Teletus, and Philemon of Asperiche, a cloth worker.
On the hill by the amphitheater, where sat the tent of the party of Ar, there was little feasting or merriment. Scormus of Ar, it was said, was not in that tent. After the game he had left the amphitheater. He had gone to the tent. He was not there now. No one knew where he had gone. Behind him he had left a Kaissa board, its kit of pieces, and the robes of the player.
I turned my thoughts from Centius of Cos and Scormus of Ar. I must now think of returning to Port Kar.
There was little now to hold me at the fair. Overhead, with some regularity, I saw tarns streaking from the fair, many with tarn baskets slung beneath them, men and women returning to their cities. More than one caravan, too, was being harnessed. My own tarn was at a cot, where I had rented space for him.
I thought that I would leave the fair tonight. There seemed little point now in remaining at the fair.
I thought of the ship of Tersites, its high prow facing toward the world's end. That unusual, mighty ship would soon be supplied and fitted. It could not yet see. Its eyes had not yet been painted. This must be done. It would then be ready to seek the sea and, beyond it, the world's end.
I was troubled as I thought of the great ship. I was troubled as I thought of the world's end. I was not confident of the design of the ship. I thought I might rather ply toward the horizon beckoning betwixt Cos and Tyros in the Dorna or the small, swift Tesephone.
Tersites, it was clear, was mad. Samos thought him, too, however, a genius.
Oddly, for there seemed no reason for it, I found myself thinking, in a mentally straying moment, of the herd of Tancred, and its mysterious failure to appear in the polar basin. I hoped the supplies I had sent north would mitigate what otherwise might prove a catastrophe for the red hunters, the nomads of the northern wastes. I recalled, too, the myth of the mountain that did not move, a great iceberg which somehow seemed to defy the winds and currents of the polar sea. Many primitive peoples have their stories and myths. I smiled to myself. It was doubtless rather the invention of a red hunter, bemused at the request of the man of Samos, months ago, for reports of anything which might prove unusual. I wondered if the wily fellow had chuckled well to himself when placing the tarsk bit in his fur pouch. Seldom would his jokes and lies prove so profitable I suspected. The foolishness of the man of Samos would make good telling around the lamp.
I was making my way toward the tarn cot where I had housed the tarn on which I had come to the fair, a brown tarn, from the mountains of Thentis, famed for its tarn flocks. My belongings I had taken there earlier, putting them in the saddlebags. I had had supper.
I was looking forward to the return to Port Kar. It is beautiful to fly alone by night over the wide fields, beneath the three moons in the black, star-studded sky. One may then be alone with one's thoughts, and the moons, and the wind. It is beautiful, too, to so fly, with a girl one has desired, bound over one's saddle, tied to the saddle rings, commanded to silence, her white belly arched, exposed to the moons.
I turned down the street of the rug makers.
I was not dissatisfied with my stay at the fair and I did not think my men would be either.
I smiled to myself.
In my pouch were the receipts and shipping vouchers for five slave girls, she whom I had purchased at the public tent this morning and four others, recently acquired on the platforms near the pavilion. I had had good buys on the four, as well as the first. A new shipment had come in, from which I had bought the four. I had had almost first pick of the chain beauties. The market had been slow, as I had thought it would be, and as I had hoped it would be, because of the game earlier between the Kaissa titans, Centius of Cos and Scormus of Ar. Indeed the market had been almost empty, save for the displayed wares and their merchants. The girls must wait, chained, for buyers, while men discuss Kaissa. The four I had purchased I had obtained from the platforms of Leander of Turia. His caravan had been delayed in arriving at the Sardar because of spring floods on the Cartius. None of the girls was an Earth wench. All were Gorean. Each was woman enough to survive when thrown naked and collared amongst men such as mine. I had had the lot for a silver tarsk, a function of the slowness of the market, a slowness which I had anticipated and on which I had been pleased to capitalize. I happily slapped the pouch at my side which contained the receipts for the fair merchandise and the shipping vouchers. My favorite I thought would be the girl I had bought from the public tent. She could not help herself but turn hot and open when a man's hand so much as closed on her arm. What marvelous slaves women make, when men are strong.
I turned down the street of the cloth makers now. Most of the booths were closed.
I thought again of the herd of Tancred, which had not appeared in the north, and of the "mountain that did not move," the great iceberg which seemed, somehow, independent and stable, maintaining its position, fixed and immobile, in the midst of the restless, flowing waters of the polar sea. But I dismissed consideration of the latter, for that was obviously a matter of myth. That the herd of Tancred, however, had not appeared in the north seemed to be a matter of fact, a puzzling anomaly which, in Gorean history, had not, as far as I knew, hitherto occurred.
The herd had perhaps been wiped out by a disease in the northern forests.
I hoped the supplies I had had Samos send northward would save the red hunters from extinction.
I made my way down the street of the cloth makers. There were few people in the street now.
The ship of Tersites intrigued me. I wondered if its design was sound.
"Greetings to Tarl Cabot," had read the message on the scytale, "I await you at the world's end. Zarendargar. War General of the People."
"It is Half-Ear," had said Samos, "high Kur, war general of the Kurii."
"Half-Ear," I thought to myself. "Half-Ear."
Eyes must be painted on the ship of Tersites. It must sail.
It was then that I heard the scream, a man's scream. I knew the sound for I was of the warriors. Steel, unexpectedly and deeply, had entered a human body. I ran toward the sound. I heard another cry. The assailant had struck again. I tore aside a stake on which canvas was sewn and forced my way between booths. I thrust aside boxes and another sheet of canvas and stumbled into the adjacent street. "Help!" I heard. I was then in the street of the dealers in artifacts and curios. "No!" I heard. "No!" Other men, too, were hurrying toward the sound. I saw the booth, closed, from which the sounds came. I thrust through the roped canvas which closed off the selling area. Inside, crouching over a fallen man, the merchant, was the attacker, robed in swirling black. In his hand there glinted a dagger. Light in the booth was furnished by a tiny lamp, dim, burning tharlarion oil, hung from one of the booth's ceiling poles. The merchant's assistant, the scribe, his face and arm bleeding, stood to one side. The attacker spun to face me. In his hand, his left, he clutched an object wrapped in fur; in his right he held the dagger, low, blade up. I stopped, crouched, cautious. He had turned the dagger in his hand as he had turned to face me. It is difficult to fend against the belly slash.
I must approach him with care.
"I did not know you were of the warriors, he who calls himself Bertram of Lydius," I smiled. "Or is it of the assassins?"
The struck merchant, bleeding, thrust himself back from the attacker.
The attacker's eyes moved. There were more men coming. Gorean men tend not to be patient with assailants. Seldom do they live long enough
to be impaled upon the walls of a city.
The assailant's hand, that bearing the object of his quest, some curio wrapped in fur, flashed upward, and I turned my head aside as flaming oil from the lamp splashed upon me, the lamp itself struck loose from its tiny chains and flying past my head. I rolled to one side in the sudden darkness, and then scrambled to my feet. But he had not elected to attack. I heard him at the back of the booth. I heard the dagger cutting at the canvas. He had elected flight, it seemed. I did not know this for certain, but it was a risk I must take. Darkness would be my cover. I dove at the sound, low, rolling, to be under the knife, feet first, presenting little target, kicking, feet scissoring. If I could get him off his feet I might then manage, even in the darkness, regaining my feet first, to break his diaphragm or crush his throat beneath my heel, or, with an instep kick to the back of his neck, snap loose the spinal column from the skull.
But he had not elected flight.
The cutting at the canvas, of course, had been a feint. He had shown an admirable coolness.
But I had the protection of the darkness. He, waiting to one side, leaped downward upon me, but I, twisting, squirming, proved an elusive target. The blade of the dagger cut through the side of the collar of my robes and my hand then was on his wrist.
We rolled in the darkness, fighting on the floor of the booth. Curios on shelves fell and scattered. I heard men outside. The canvas at the front of the booth was being torn away.
We struggled to our feet, swaying.
He was strong, but I knew myself his master.
I thought him now of the assassins for the trick with the canvas was but a variant of the loosened door trick, left ajar as in flight, a lure to the unwary to plunge in his pursuit into the waiting blade.
He cried out with pain and the knife had fallen. We stumbled, locked together, grappling, to the back of the tenting, and, twisted, tangled in the rent canvas, fell to the outside. A confederate was there waiting and I felt the loop of the garrote drop about my neck. I thrust the man I held from me and spun about, the cord cutting now at the back of my neck. I saw another man, too, in the darkness. The heels of both hands drove upward and the head of the first confederate snapped back. The garrote was loose about my neck. I turned. The first man had fled, and the other with him. A peasant came about the edge of the booth. Two more men looked through the rent canvas, who had entered through the front. I dropped the garrote to the ground. "Don't," I said to the peasant. "It is already done," he said, wiping the blade on his tunic. I think the man's neck had been broken by the blow of my hands under his chin, but he had still been alive. His head now lay half severed, blood on the peasant's sandals. Gorean men are not patient with such as he. "The other?" asked the peasant. "There were two," I said. "Both are gone." I looked into the darkness between the tents.
"Call one of the physicians," I heard.
"One is coming," I heard.
These voices came from within the booth.
I bent down and brushed aside the canvas, re-entering the booth. Two men with torches were now there, as well as several others. A man held the merchant in his arms.
I pulled aside his robes. The wounds were grievous, but not mortal.
I looked to the scribe. "You did not well defend your master," I said.
I recalled he had been standing to one side when I had entered the booth.
"I tried," said the scribe. He indicated his bleeding face, the cut on his arm. "Then I could not move. I was frightened." Perhaps, indeed, he had been in shock. His eyes though had not suggested that. He was not now in shock. Perhaps he had been truly paralyzed with fear. "He had a knife," pointed out the scribe.
"And your master had none," said a man.
I returned my attention to the struck merchant. The placement of the wounds I found of interest.
"Will I die?" asked the merchant.
"He who struck you was clumsy," I said. "You will live." I then added, "If the bleeding is stopped."
I stood up.
"For the sake of Priest-Kings," said the man, "stop the bleeding."
I regarded the scribe. Others might attend to the work of stanching the flow of blood from the wounds of the merchant.
"Speak to me," I said.
"We entered the booth and surprised the fellow, surely some thief. He turned upon us and struck us both, my master most grievously."
"In what was he interested?" I asked. Surely there was little in a shop of curios to interest a thief. Would one risk one's throat and blood for a toy of wood or an ivory carving?
"In that, and that alone," said the merchant, pointing to the object which the thief had held, and which he had dropped in our struggle. It lay wrapped in fur on the ground within the booth. Men held cloth against the wounds of the merchant.
"It is worthless," said the scribe.
"Why would he not have bought it?" asked the merchant. "It is not expensive."
"Perhaps he did not wish to be identified as he who had made the purchase," I said, "for then he might be traced by virtue of your recollection of the transaction."
One of the men in the tent handed me the object, concealed in fur.
A physician entered the booth, with his kit slung over the shoulder of his green robes. He began to attend to the merchant.
"You will live," he assured the merchant.
I recalled the assailant. I recalled the turning of the blade in his hand. I remembered the coolness of his subterfuge at the back of the booth, waiting beside the rent canvas for me to thrust through it, thus locating myself and exposing myself for the thrust of the knife.
I held the object wrapped in fur in my hands. I did not look at it.
I knew what it would contain.
When the physician had finished the cleansing, chemical sterilization, and dressing of the merchant's wounds, he left. With him the majority of the watchers withdrew as well. The scribe had paid the physician from a small iron box, taken from a locked trunk, a tarsk bit.
A man had lit the tiny lamp again and set it on a shelf. Then only I remained in the booth with the scribe and merchant. They looked at me.
I still held the object, wrapped in fur, in my hand.
"The trap has failed," I said.
"Trap?" stammered the scribe.
"You are not of the scribes," I said. "Look at your hands."
We could hear the flame of the lamp, tiny, soft, in the silence of the tent.
His hands were larger than those of the scribe, and scarred and roughened. The fingers were short. There was no stain of ink about the tips of the index and second finger.
"Surely you jest," said the fellow in the robes of the scribe.
I indicated the merchant. "Consider his wounds," I said. "The man I fought was a master, a trained killer, either of the warriors or of the assassins. He struck him as he wished, not to kill but in the feigning of a mortal attack."
"You said he was clumsy," said the fellow in the scribe's blue.
"Forgive my colleague," said the merchant. "He is dull. He did not detect that you spoke in irony."
"You work for Kurii," I said.
"Only for one," said the merchant.
I slowly unwrapped the object in my hands, moving the fur softly aside.
It was a carving, rather roundish, some two pounds in weight, in bluish stone, done in the manner of the red hunters, a carving of the head of a beast. It was, of course, a carving of the head of a great Kur. Its realism was frightening, to the suggestion of the shaggy hair, the withdrawn lips, exposing fangs, the eyes. The left ear of the beast, as indicated with the patient fidelity of the red hunter, was half torn away.
"Greetings from Zarendargar," said the merchant.
"He awaits you," said the man in blue, "—at the world's end."
Of course, I thought. Kurii do not care for water. For them, not of Gorean background, the world's end could mean only one of the poles.
"He said the trap would fail," said the merchant. "He was right."
"Zarendargar had naught to do with that," said the merchant.
"He disapproved of it," said the fellow in the robes of the scribe.
"He did not wish to be cheated of meeting you," said the merchant. "He was pleased that it failed."
"There are tensions in the Kurii high command," I said.
"Yes," said the merchant.
"But you," I said, "work only for Zarendargar?"
"Yes," said the merchant. "He will have it no other way. He must have his own men."
"The assailant and his confederates?" I asked.
"They are in a separate chain of command," said the merchant, "one emanating from the ships, one to which Zarendargar is subordinate."
"I see," I said.
I lifted the carving.
"You had this carving," I asked, "from a red hunter, a bare-chested fellow, with rope and bow about his shoulders?"
"Yes," said the merchant. "But he had it from another. He was told to bring it to us, that we would buy it."
"Of course," I said. "Thus, if the trap failed, I would supposedly detect nothing. You would then give me this carving, in gratitude for having driven away your assailant. I, seeing it, would understand its significance, and hurry to the north, thinking to take Half-Ear unsuspecting."
"Yes," said the merchant.
"But he would be waiting for me," I said.
"Yes," said the merchant.
"There is one part of this plan, however," I said, "which you have not fathomed."
"What is that?" asked the merchant. Momentarily he gritted his teeth, in pain from his wounds.
"It was the intention of Half-Ear," I said, "that I understand full well, and with no possible mistake, that I would be expected."
The merchant looked puzzled.
"Else," I said, "he would have given orders for both of you to be slain."
