Nomads of Gor (51 page)

          
Harold. He had apparently when fleeing years ago, stumbled

          
on a route in and out of the city which had not been unknown

          
to certain of the Turians. I recalled that the Turians, because

          
of the baths, are almost all swimmers.

          
The fact that the man with the Paravaci quiva wore the

          
robe now seemed to be significant.

          
"Our friend," said Saphrar, gesturing to his right, "with the

          
hood preceded you tonight in the Passage Well. Since we

          
have been in touch with him and have informed him of the

          
well, we deemed it wise to mount a guard nearby

          
fortunately, as it seems."

          
"Who is the traitor to the Wagon Peoples?" asked Harold.

          
The man in the hood stiffened.

          
"Of course," said Harold, "I see now the quiva he is

          
Paravaci, naturally."

          
The man's hand went white on the quiva, and I feared he

          
might leap to his feet and thrust the quiva to its hilt in the

          
breast of the Tuchuk youth.

          
"I have often wondered," said Harold, "where the Parava-'

          
ci obtained their riches."

          
With a cry of rage the hooded figure leaped to his feet,

          
quiva raised.

          
"Please," said Saphrar, lifting his small fat hand. "Let

          
there be no ill will among friends."

          
Trembling with rage, the hooded figure resumed his place

          
on the dais.

          
The other warrior, a strong, gaunt man, scarred across the

 
left cheekbone, with shrewd, dark eyes, said nothing, but

 
watched us, considering us, as a warrior considers an enemy.

 
"I would introduce our hooded friend," explained Saphrar,

 
"but even I do not know his name nor face only that he

 
stands high among the Paravaci and accordingly has been of

 
great use to me."

 
"I know him in a way," I said. "He followed me in the

 
camp of the Tuchuks and tried to kill me."

 
"I trust," said Saphrar, "that we shall have better fortune."

 
I said nothing.

 
"Are you truly of the Clan of Torturers?" asked Harold of

 
the hooded man.

 
"You shall find out," he said.

 
"Do you think," asked Harold, "you will be able to make

 
me cry for mercy?"

 
"If I choose," said the man.

 
"Would you care to wager?" asked Harold.

 
The man leaned forward and hissed. "Tuchuk sleen!"

 
"May I introduce," inquired Saphrar, "Ha-Keel of Port

 
Kar, chief of the mercenary tarnsmen."

 
"Is it known to Saphrar," I inquired, "that you have

 
received gold from the Tuchuks?"

 
"Of course," said Ha-Keel.

 
"You think perhaps," said Saphrar, chuckling, "that I

 
might object and that thus you might sow discord amongst

 
us, your enemies. But know, Tarl Cabot, that I am a mer-

 
chant and understand men and the meaning of gold, I no

 
more object to Ha-Keel dealing with Tuchuks than I would

 
to the fact that water freezes and fire burns and that no

 
one ever leaves the Yellow Pool of Turia alive."

 
I did not follow the reference to the Yellow Pool of Turia.

 
I glanced, however, at Harold, and it seemed he had sudden-

 
ly paled.

 
"How is it," I asked, "that Ha-Keel of Port Kar wears

 
about his neck a tarn disk from the city of Ar?"

 
"I was once of Ar," said scarred Ha-Keel. "Indeed, I can

 
remember you, though as Tarl of Bristol, from the siege of

 
Ar."

 
"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 tarns-

        
man of Ar, ride for merchants and traitors on the southern

        
plains?"

        
"It saddens me," I said, "that a sword that was once raised

        
in defense 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 dread-

        
ful actually with a face as gray 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 mer-

chant, "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 honor 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 gray 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 offense 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 your-

self 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 gray 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 doz-

          
ens 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 favor.

          
My aunt used to examine my knuckles each evening and