by John Norman
I was only about a quarter of the way through the bottle and was passing the side of a wagon when I saw a swift flicker of a shadow suddenly leap on the lacquered boards and by instinct I threw my head to one side as a quiva flashed past and buried itself three inches deep in the timber side of the wagon. Flinging the paga bottle aside, a swirl of the liquid flying out of it, I whirled and saw, some fifty feet away, between two wagons, the dark figure of the hooded man, he of the Clan of Torturers, who had been following me. He turned and ran, and I, drawing my sword, ran stumbling after him but in less than a moment or two I found my pursuit cut short by a string of tied kaiila being returned after having been released to hunt on the plains. By the time I could manage to avoid their buffeting bodies and crawl under the rope that joined them, my assailant was gone. All I received for my trouble were the angry shouts of the man leading the kaiila string. Indeed, one of the vicious beasts even snapped at me, ripping the sleeve on my shoulder.
Angry I returned to the wagon and drew the quiva from the boards.
By this time the owner of the wagon, who was naturally curious about the matter, was beside me. He held a small torch, lit from the fire bowl within the wagon. He was examining, not happily, the cut in his planking. "A clumsy throw," he remarked, I thought a bit ill-humoredly.
"Perhaps," I admitted.
"But," he added, turning and looking at me, "I suppose under the circumstances it was just as well."
"Yes," I said, "I think so."
I found the paga bottle and noted that there was a bit of liquid left in it, below the neck of the bottle. I wiped off the neck and handed it to the man. He took about half of it and then wiped his mouth and handed it back. I then finished the bottle. I flung it into a refuse hole, dug and periodically cleaned by male slaves.
"It is not bad paga," said the man.
"No," I said, "I think it is pretty good."
"May I see the quiva?" asked the man.
"Yes," I said.
"Interesting," said he.
"What?" I asked.
"The quiva," said he.
"But what is interesting about it?" I asked.
"It is Paravaci," he said.
13
The Attack
In the morning, to my dismay, Elizabeth Cardwell was not to be found.
Kamchak was beside himself with fury. Aphris, knowing the ways of Gor and the temper of Tuchuks, was terrified, and said almost nothing.
"Do not release the hunting sleen," I pleaded with Kamchak.
"I shall keep them leashed," he responded grimly.
With misgivings I observed the two, six-legged, sinuous, tawny hunting sleen on their chain leashes. Kamchak was holding Elizabeth's bedding—a rep-cloth blanket—for them to smell. Their ears began to lay back against the sides of their triangular heads; their long, serpentine bodies trembled; I saw claws emerge from their paws, retract, emerge again and then retract; they lifted their heads, sweeping them from side to side, and then thrust their snouts to the ground and began to whimper excitedly; I knew they would first follow the scent to the curtained enclosure within which last night we had observed the dance.
"She would have hidden among the wagons last night," Kamchak said.
"I know," I said, "—the herd sleen." They would have torn the girl to pieces on the prairie in the light of the three Gorean moons.
"She will not be far," said Kamchak.
He hoisted himself to the saddle of his kaiila, a prancing and trembling hunting sleen on each side of the animal, the chains running to the pommel of the saddle.
"What will you do to her?" I asked.
"Cut off her feet," said Kamchak, "and her nose and ears, and blind her in one eye—then release her to live as she can among the wagons."
Before I could remonstrate with the angry Tuchuk the hunting sleen suddenly seemed to go wild, rearing on their hind legs, scratching in the air, dragging against the chains. It was all Kamchak's kaiila could do to brace itself against their sudden madness.
"Hah!" cried Kamchak.
I spied Elizabeth Cardwell approaching the wagon, two leather water buckets fastened to a wooden yoke she carried over her shoulders. Some water was spilling from the buckets.
Aphris cried out with delight and ran to Elizabeth, to my astonishment, to kiss her and help with the water.
"Where have you been?" asked Kamchak.
Elizabeth lifted her head innocently and gazed at him frankly. "Fetching water," she said.
The sleen were trying to get at her and she had backed away against the wagon, watching them warily. "They are vicious beasts," she observed.
Kamchak threw back his head and roared with laughter. Elizabeth did not so much as look at me.
Then Kamchak seemed sober and he said to the girl, "Go into the wagon. Bring slave bracelets and a whip. Then go to the wheel."
She looked at him, but did not appear afraid. "Why?" she asked.
Kamchak dismounted. "You were overly long in fetching water," he said.
Elizabeth and Aphris had gone into the wagon.
"She was wise to return," said Kamchak.
I agreed with him but would not say so. "It seems she was fetching water," I pointed out.
"You like her, don't you?" asked Kamchak.
"I feel sorry for her," I said.
"Did you enjoy her yesterday?" asked Kamchak.
"I did not see her after she left the enclosure of the dance," I said.
"If I had known that," said Kamchak, "I would have had the sleen out last night."
"Then," I said, "it is fortunate for the girl that you did not know it."
"Agreed," smiled Kamchak. "Why did you not make use of her?" he inquired.
"She is only a girl," I said.
"She is a woman," said Kamchak, "with blood."
I shrugged.
By this time Elizabeth had returned with the whip and bracelets, and had handed them to Kamchak. She then went to stand by the left, rear wheel of the wagon. There Kamchak braceleted her wrists high over her head about the rim and over one of the spokes. She faced the wheel.
"There is no escape from the wagons," he said.
Her head was high. "I know," she said.
"You lied to me," he said, "saying you went to fetch water."
"I was afraid," said Elizabeth.
"Do you know who fears to tell the truth?" he asked.
"No," she said.
"A slave," said Kamchak.
He ripped the larl's pelt from her and I gathered that she would wear the garment no longer.
She stood well, her eyes closed, her right cheek pressed against the leather rim of the wheel. Tears burst from between the tightly pressed lids of her eyes but she was superb, restraining her cries.
She had still uttered no sound when Kamchak, satisfied, had released her, but fastening her wrists before her body with the bracelets. She stood trembling, her head down. Then he took her braceleted hands and with one hand raised her hands over her head. She stood so, her knees slightly flexed, head down.
"You think," said Kamchak to me, "she is only a girl."
I said nothing.
"You are a fool, Tarl Cabot," said he.
I did not respond.
Coiled, in his right hand, Kamchak still held the slave whip.
"Slave," said Kamchak.
Elizabeth looked at him.
"Do you wish to serve men?" he asked.
Tears in her eyes she shook her head, no, no, no. Then her head fell again to her breast.
"Observe," said Kamchak to me.
Then, before I could realize what he intended, he had subjected Miss Cardwell to what, among slavers, is known as the Whip Caress. Ideally it is done, as Kamchak had, unexpectedly, taking the girl unawares. Elizabeth suddenly cried out throwing her head to one side. I observed to my amazement the sudden, involuntary, uncontrollable response to the touch. The Whip Caress is commonly used among Slavers to force a girl to betray herself.
"She is
a woman," said Kamchak. "Did you not see the secret blood of her?—That she is eager and ready—that she is fit prize for the steel of a master—that she is female, and," he added, "slave?"
"No!" cried Elizabeth Cardwell. "No!" But Kamchak was pulling her by the bracelets toward an empty sleen cage mounted on a low cart near the wagon, into which, still braceleted, he thrust her, then closing the door, locking it.
She could not stand in the low, narrow cage, and knelt, wrists braceleted, hands on the bars. "It is not true!" she screamed.
Kamchak laughed at her. "Female slave," he said. She buried her head in her hands and wept. She knew, as well as we, that she had showed herself—that her blood had leaped within her and its memory must now mock the hysteria of her denial—that she had acknowledged to us and to herself, perhaps for the first time, the incontrovertible splendor of her beauty and its meaning.
Her response had been that of an utter woman.
"It's not true!" she whispered over and over, sobbing as she had not from the cruel strokes of the whip. "It's not true!"
Kamchak looked at me. "Tonight," he said, "I shall call the Iron Master."
"Don't," I said.
"I shall," he said.
"Why?" I asked.
He smiled at me grimly. "She was too long in fetching water."
I said nothing. Kamchak, for a Tuchuk, was not unkind.
The punishment of a runaway slave is often grievous, sometimes culminating in death. He would do no more to Elizabeth Cardwell than was commonly done to female slaves among the wagons, even those who had never dared to speak back or disobey in the least particular. Elizabeth, in her way, was fortunate. As Kamchak might have said, he was permitting her to live. I did not think she would be tempted to run away again.
I saw Aphris sneaking to the cage to bring Elizabeth a dipper of water. Aphris was crying.
Kamchak, if he saw, did not stop her. "Come along," he said. "There is a new kaiila I want to see near the wagon of Yachi of the Leather Workers' Clan."
It was a busy day for Kamchak.
He did not buy the kaiila near the wagon of Yachi of the Leather Workers though it was apparently a splendid beast. At one point, he wrapped a heavy fur and leather robe about his left arm and struck the beast suddenly on the snout with his right hand. It had not struck back at him swiftly enough to please him, and there were only four needlelike scratches in the arm guard before Kamchak had managed to leap back and the kaiila, lunging against its chain, was snapping at him. "Such a slow beast," said Kamchak, "might in battle cost a man his life." I supposed it true. The kaiila and its master fight in battle as one unit, seemingly a single savage animal, armed with teeth and lance. After looking at the kaiila Kamchak visited a wagon where he discussed the crossing of one of his cows with the owner's bull, in exchange for a similar favor on his own part. This matter was arranged to their mutual satisfaction. At another wagon he haggled over a set of quivas, forged in Ar, and, obtaining his price, arranged to have them, with a new saddle, brought to his wagon on the morrow. We lunched on dried bosk meat and paga and then he trooped to the wagon of Kutaituchik, where he exchanged pleasantries with the somnolent figure on the robe of gray boskhide, about the health of the bosk, the sharpness of quivas and the necessity of keeping wagon axles greased, and certain other matters. While near Kutaituchik's wagon, on the dais, he also conferred with several other high men among the Tuchuks. Kamchak, as I had learned before, held a position of some importance with the Tuchuks. After seeing Kutaituchik and the others, Kamchak stopped by an Iron Master's wagon, and, to my irritation, arranged for the fellow to come by the wagon that very night. "I can't keep her in a sleen cage forever," Kamchak said. "There is work to be done about the wagon." Then, to my delight, Kamchak, borrowing two kaiila, which he seemed to have no difficulty doing—from a Tuchuk warrior I had not even seen before—rode with me to the Omen Valley.
Coming over a low, rolling hill, we saw a large number of tents pitched in a circle, surrounding a large grassy area. In the grassy area, perhaps about two hundred yards in diameter, there were literally hundreds of small, stone altars. There was a large circular stone platform in the center of the field. On the top of this platform was a huge, four-sided altar which was approached by steps on all four sides. On one side of this altar I saw the sign of the Tuchuks, and on the others, that of the Kassars, the Kataii and the Paravaci. I had not mentioned the matter of the Paravaci quiva which had almost struck me last night, having been in the morning disturbed about the disappearance of Elizabeth Cardwell and in the afternoon busy following Kamchak about in his rounds. I resolved to mention the matter to him sometime—but not this evening—for I was convinced this would not be a good evening for anyone in the wagon, except perhaps for Kamchak, who seemed pleased about the arrangements he had made with the herder pertaining to crossing livestock and the bargain, it seemed, he had contracted with the fellow with the quivas and saddle.
There were a large number of tethered animals about the outer edge of the circle, and, beside them, stood many haruspexes. Indeed, I supposed there must be one haruspex at least for each of the many altars in the field. Among the animals I saw many verr; some domestic tarsks, their tusks sheathed; cages of flapping vulos, some sleen, some kaiila, even some bosk; by the Paravaci haruspexes I saw manacled male slaves, if such were to be permitted; commonly, I understood from Kamchak, the Tuchuks, Kassars and Kataii rule out the sacrifice of slaves because their hearts and livers are thought to be, fortunately for the slaves, untrustworthy in registering portents; after all, as Kamchak pointed out, who would trust a Turian slave in the kes with a matter so important as the election of a Ubar San; it seemed to me good logic and, of course, I am sure the slaves, too, were taken with the cogency of the argument. The animals sacrificed, incidentally, are later used for food, so the Omen Taking, far from being a waste of animals, is actually a time of feasting and plenty for the Wagon Peoples, who regard the Omen Taking, provided it results that no Ubar San is to be chosen, as an occasion for gaiety and festival. As I may have mentioned, no Ubar San had been chosen for more than a hundred years.
As yet the Omen Taking had not begun. The haruspexes had not rushed forward to the altars. On the other hand on each altar there burned a small bosk-dung fire into which, like a tiny piece of kindling, had been placed an incense stick.
Kamchak and I dismounted and, from outside the circle, watched the four chief haruspexes of the Wagon Peoples approach the huge altar in the center of the field. Behind them another four haruspexes, one from each People, carried a large wooden cage, made of sticks lashed together, which contained perhaps a dozen white vulos, domesticated pigeons. This cage they placed on the altar. I then noted that each of the four chief haruspexes carried, about his shoulder, a white linen sack, somewhat like a peasant's rep-cloth seed bag.
"This is the first Omen," said Kamchak, "—the Omen to see if the Omens are propitious to take the Omens."
"Oh," I said.
Each of the four haruspexes then, after intoning an involved entreaty of some sort to the sky, which at the time was shining beneficently, suddenly cast a handful of something—doubtless grain—to the pigeons in the stick cage.
Even from where I stood I could see the pigeons pecking at the grain in reassuring frenzy.
The four haruspexes turned then, each one facing his own minor haruspexes and anyone else who might be about, and called out, "It is propitious!"
There was a pleased cry at this announcement from the throng.
"This part of the Omen Taking always goes well," I was informed by Kamchak.
"Why is that?" I asked.
"I don't know," he said. Then he looked at me. "Perhaps," he proposed, "it is because the vulos are not fed for three days prior to the taking of the Omen."
"Perhaps," I admitted.
"I," said Kamchak, "would like a bottle of paga."
"I, too," I admitted.
"Who will buy?" he asked.
I refused to speak
.
"We could wager," he suggested.
"I'll buy it," I said.
I could now see the other haruspexes of the peoples pouring with their animals toward the altars. The Omen Taking as a whole lasts several days and consumes hundreds of animals. A tally is kept, from day to day. One haruspex, as we left, I heard cry out that he had found a favorable liver. Another, from an adjoining altar had rushed to his side. They were engaged in dispute. I gathered that reading the signs was a subtle business, calling for sophisticated interpretation and the utmost delicacy and judgment. Even as we made our way back to the kaiila I could hear two more haruspexes crying out that they had found livers that were clearly unfavorable. Clerks, with parchment scrolls, were circulating among the altars, presumably, I would guess, noting the names of haruspexes, their peoples, and their findings. The four chief haruspexes of the peoples remained at the huge central altar, to which a white bosk was being slowly led.
It was toward dark when Kamchak and I reached the slave wagon to buy our bottle of paga.
On the way we passed a girl, a girl from Cos taken hundreds of pasangs away in a raid on a caravan bound for Ar. She had been bound across a wagon wheel lying on the ground, her body over its hub. Her clothing had been removed. Fresh and clean on her burned thigh was the brand of the four bosk horns. She was weeping. The Iron Master affixed the Turian collar. He bent to his tools, taking up a tiny, open golden ring, a heated metal awl, a pair of pliers. I turned away. I heard her scream.
"Do not Korobans brand and collar slaves?" asked Kamchak.
"Yes," I admitted, "they do."
I could not rid my mind of the image of the girl from Cos weeping bound on the wheel. Such tonight, or on another night, would be the lovely Elizabeth Cardwell. I threw down a wild swallow of paga. I resolved I would somehow release the girl, somehow protect her from the cruelty of the fate decreed for her by Kamchak.
"You do not much speak," said Kamchak, taking the bottle, puzzled.
"Must the Iron Master be called," I asked, "to the wagon of Kamchak?"
Kamchak looked at me. "Yes," he said.
