Nomads of Gor (50 page)

       
"You are a tarnsman, are you not?" he asked.

       
"Yes," I said.

       
"Very well," said he, "you will teach me."

       
"It is said," I muttered, "that the tarn knows who is a

       
tarnsman and who is not and that it slays him who is not."

       
"Then," said Harold, "I must deceive it."

       
"How do you expect to do that?" I asked.

 
"It will be easy," said Harold. "I am a Tuchuk."

 
I considered lowering myself down the rope and returning

 
to the wagons for a bottle of Paga. Surely tomorrow would

 
be as propitious a day as any for my mission. Yet I did not

 
care to pursue again that underground stream nor, particu-

 
larly, on some new trip to Turia, to swim once more against

 
it. It is one thing to roll about in a public bath or splash

 
about in some pool or stream, but quite another to struggle

 
for pasangs against a current in a tunnel channel with only a

 
few inches between the water and the roof of the tunnel. -

 
"It should be worth the Courage Scar," said Harold from

 
above, "don't you thinly so?"

 
"What?" I asked.

 
"Stealing a wench from the House of Saphrar and return-

 
ing on a stolen tarn."

 
"Undoubtedly," I grumbled. I found myself wondering if

 
the Tuchuks had an Idiocy Scar. If so, I might have nomi-

 
nated the young man hoisting himself up the rope above me

 
as a candidate for the distinction.

 
Yet, in spite of my better judgment, I found myself some-

 
how admiring the confident young fellow.

 
I suspected that if anyone could manage the madness on

 
his mind it would surely be he, or someone such as he,

 
someone quite as courageous, or daft.

 
On the other hand, I reminded myself, my own probabili-

 
ties of success and survival were hardly better and here I

 
was, his critic climbing up the drum rope, wet, cold,

 
puking, a stranger to the city of Turia, intending to Steal an

 
object the egg of Priest-Kings which was undoubtedly, by

 
now, as well guarded as the Home Stone of the city itself. I

 
decided that I would nominate both Harold and myself for

 
an Idiocy Scar and let the Tuchuks take their pick.

 
It was with a feeling of relief that I finally got my arm

 
over the crossbar of the windlass and drew myself up. Harold

 
bad already taken up a position, looking about, near the edge

 
of the well. The Turian wells, incidentally, have no raised

 
wall, but are, save for a rim of about two inches in height,

 
flat with the level. I joined Harold. We were in an inclosed

 
well yard, surrounded by walls of about sixteen feet in

 
height, with a defender's catwalk about the inside. The walls

 
provide a means for defending the water and also, of course,

 
considering the number of wells in the city, some of which,

 
by the way, are fed by springs, provide a number of defensi-

 
ble enclaves should portions of the city fall into enemy

         
hands. There was an archway leading from the circular well

         
yard, and the two halts of the timbered, arched gate were

         
swung back and fastened on both sides. It was necessary only

         
to walk through the archway and find ourselves on one of the

         
streets of Turia. I had not expected the entry to the city to

         
be so easy so to speak.

         
"The last time I was here," said Harold, "was over five

         
years ago."

         
"Is it far to the House of Saphrar?" I asked.

         
"Rather far," he said. "But the streets are dark."

         
"Good," I said. "Let us be on our way." I was chilly in the

         
spring night and my clothes, of course, were soaked. Harold

         
did not seem to notice or mind this inconvenience. The

         
Tuchuks, to my irritation, tended on the whole not to notice

         
or mind such things. I was pleased the streets were dark and

         
that the way was long.

     
    
"The darkness," I said, "will conceal somewhat the wetness

         
of our garments and by the time we arrive we may be

         
rather dry."

         
"Of course," said Harold. "That was part of my plan."

         
"Oh," I said.

         
"On the other hand," said Harold, "I might like to stop by

         
the baths."

         
"They are closed at this hour, are they not?" I asked.

         
"No," said he, "not until the twentieth hour." That was

         
midnight of the Gorean day.

         
"Why do you wish to stop by the baths?" I asked.

         
"I was never a customer," he said, "and I often wondered

         
like yourself apparently if the bath girls of Turia are as

         
lovely as it is said."

         
"That is all well and good," I said, "but I think it would be

         
better to strike out for the House of Saphrar."

         
"If you wish," said Harold. "After all, I can always visit I

         
the baths after we take the city."

         
"Take the city?" I asked.

         
"Of course," said Harold.

         
"Look," I said to him, "the bask are already moving

         
away the wagons will withdraw in the morning. The siege is

         
over. Kamchak is giving up."

         
Harold smiled. He looked at me. "Oh, yes," he said.

         
"But," I said, "if you like I will pay your way to the

         
baths."

         
"We could always wager," he suggested.

         
"No," I said firmly, "let me pay."

 
"If you wish," he said.

 
I told myself it might be better, even, to come to the

 
House of Saphrar late, rather than possibly before the twenti-

 
eth hour. In the meantime it seemed reasonable to while

 
away some time and the baths of Turia seemed as good a

 
place as any to do so.

 
Arm in arm, Harold and I strode under the archway

 
leading from the well yard.

 
We had scarcely cleared the portal and set foot in the

 
street when we heard a swift rustle of heavy wire and,

 
startled, looking up, saw the steel net descend on us.

 
Immediately we heard the sound of several men leaping

 
down to the street and the draw cords on the wire net

 
probably of the sort often used for snaring sleen began to

 
tighten. Neither Harold nor myself could move an arm or

 
hand and, locked in the net, we stood like fools until a

 
guardsman kicked the feet out from under us and we rolled,

 
entrapped in the wire, at his feet.

 
"Two fish from the well," said a voice.

 
"This means, of course," said another voice, "that others

 
know of the well."

 
"We shall double the guard," said a third voice.

 
"What shall we do with them?" asked yet another man.

 
"Take them to the House of Saphrar," said the first man.

 
I twisted around as well as I could. "Was this," I asked

 
Harold, "a part of your plan?"

 
He grinned, pressing against the net, trying its strength.

 
"No," he said.

 
I, too, tried the net. The thick woven wire held well.

 
Harold and I had been fastened in a Turian slave bar, a

 
metal bar with a collar at each end and, behind the collar,

 
manacles which fasten the prisoner's hands behind his neck.

 
We knelt before a low dais, covered with rugs and cush-

 
ions, on which reclined Saphrar of Turia. The merchant wore

 
his pleasure Robes of white and gold and his sandals, too,

 
were of white leather bound with golden straps. His toenails,

 
as well as the nails of his hands, were carmine in color. His

 
small, fat hands moved with delight as he observed us. The

 
golden drops above his eyes rose and fell. He was smiling and

 
I could see the tips of the golden teeth which I had first

 
noticed on the night of the banquet.

 
Beside him, on each side, cross-legged, sat a warrior. The

 
warrior on his right wore a robe, much as one might when

          
emerging from the baths. His head was covered by a hood,

          
such as is worn by members of the Clan of Torturers. He

          
was toying with a Paravaci quiva. I recognized him, some-

          
how in the build and the way he held his body. It was he who

          
had hurled the quiva at me among the wagons, who would

          
have been my assassin save for the sudden flicker of a

          
shadow on a lacquered board. On the left of Saphrar there

          
sat another warrior, in the leather of a tarnsman, save that

          
he wore a jeweled belt, and about his neck, set with dia-

          
monds, there hung a worn tarn disk from the city of Ar.

          
Beside him there rested, lying on the dais, spear, helmet and

         
 
shield.

          
"I am pleased that you have chosen to visit us, Tarl Cabot

          
of Ko-ro-ba," said Saphrar. "We expected that you would

          
soon try, but we did not know that you knew of the Passage

          
Well."

          
Through the metal bar I felt a reaction on the part of