There was little doubt that I, in the worn, red tunic of a warrior, and Kamchak, in the black leather of the Tuchuks, seemed somewhat out of place at the banquet of Saphrar, merchant of Turia.
"It is the spiced brain of the Torian vulo," Saphrar was explaining.
It was somewhat surprising to me that Kamchak and I, being in our way ambassadors of the Wagon Peoples, were entertained in the house of Saphrar, the merchant, rather than in the palace of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia. Kamchak’s explanation was reasonably satisfying. There were apparently two reasons, the official reason and the real reason. The official reason, proclaimed by Phanius Turmus, the Administrator, and others high in the government, was that those of the Wagon Peoples were unworthy to be entertained in the administrative palace; the real reason, apparently seldom proclaimed by anyone, was that the true power in Turia lay actually with the Caste of Merchants, chief of whom was Saphrar, as it does in many cities. The Administrator, however, would not be uninformed. His presence at the banquet was felt in the person of his plenipotentiary, Kamras, of the Caste of Warriors, a captain, said to be Champion of Turia.
I shot the spiced vulo brain into my mouth on the tip of a golden eating prong, a utensil, as far as I knew, unique to Turia. I took a large swallow of fierce Paga, washing it down as rapidly as possible. I did not much care for the sweet, syrupy wines of Turia, flavoured and sugared to the point where one could almost leave one’s fingerprint on their surface.
It might be mentioned, for those unaware of the fact, that the Caste of Merchants is not considered one of the traditional five High Castes of Gor—the Initiates, Scribes, Physicians, Builders and Warriors. Most commonly, and doubtless unfortunately, it is only members of the five high castes who occupy positions on the High Councils of the cities. Nonetheless, as might be expected, the gold of merchants, in most cities, exercises its not imponderable influence, not always in so vulgar a form as bribery and gratuities, but more often in the delicate matters of extending or refusing to extend credit in connection with the projects, desires or needs of the High Councils. There is a saying on Gor, "Gold has no caste." It is a saying of which the merchants are fond. Indeed, secretly among themselves, I have heard, they regard themselves as the highest caste on Gor, though they would not say so for fear of rousing the indignation of other castes. There would be something, of course, to be said for such a claim, for the merchants are often indeed in their way, brave, shrewd, skilled men, making long journeys, venturing their goods, risking caravans, negotiating commercial agreements, among themselves developing and enforcing a body of Merchant Law, the only common legal arrangements existing among the Gorean cities. Merchants also, in effect, arrange and administer the four great fairs that take place each year near the Sardar Mountains. I say "in effect" because the fairs are nominally under the direction of a committee of the Caste of Initiates, which, however, largely contents itself with its ceremonies and sacrifices, and is only too happy to delegate the complex management of those vast, commercial phenomena, the Sardar Fairs, to members of the lowly, much-despised Caste of Merchants, without which, incidentally, the fairs most likely could not exist, certainly not at any rate in their current form.
"Now this," Saphrar the merchant was telling me, "is the braised liver of the blue, four-spired Cosian wingfish."
This fish is a tiny, delicate fish, blue, about the size of a tarn disk when curled in one’s hand; it has three or four slender spines in its dorsal fin, which are poisonous; it is capable of hurling itself from the water and, for brief distances, on its stiff pectoral fins, gliding through the air, usually to evade the smaller sea-tharlarions, which seem to be immune to the poison of the spines. This fish is also some times referred to as the songfish because, as a portion of its courtship rituals, the males and females thrust their heads from the water and utter a sort of whistling sound.
The blue, four-spired wingfish is found only in the waters of Cos. Larger varieties are found farther out to sea. The small blue fish is regarded as a great delicacy, and its liver as the delicacy of delicacies.
"How is it," I asked, "that here in Turia you can serve the livers of wingfish?"
"I have a war galley in Port Kar," said Saphrar the merchant, "which I send to Cos twice a year for the fish."
Saphrar was a short, fat, pinkish man, with short legs and arms; he had quick bright eyes and a tiny, roundish red-lipped mouth; upon occasion he moved his small, pudgy fingers, with rounded scarlet nails, rapidly, as though rubbing the gloss from a tarn disk or feeling the texture of a fine cloth; his head, like that of many merchants, had been shaved; his eyebrows had been removed and over each eye four golden drops had been fixed in the pinkish skin; he also had two teeth of gold, which were visible when he laughed, the upper canine teeth, probably containing poison; merchants are seldom trained in the use of arms. His right ear had been notched, doubtless in some accident. Such notching, I knew, is usually done to the ears of thieves; a second offence is normally punished by the loss of the right hand; a third offence by the removal of the left hand and both feet. There are few thieves, incidentally, on Gor. I have heard, though, there is a Caste of Thieves in Port Kar, a strong caste which naturally protects its members from such indignities as ear notching. In Saphrar’s case, of course, he being of the Caste of Merchants, the notching of the ear would be a coincidence, albeit one that must have caused him some embarrassment. Saphrar was a pleasant, gracious fellow, a bit indolent perhaps, save for the eyes and rapid fingers. He was surely an attentive and excellent host. I would not have cared to know him better.
"How is it," I asked, "that a merchant of Turia has a war galley in Port Kar."
Saphrar reclined on the yellow cushions, behind the low table covered with wines, fruits and golden dishes heaped with delicate viands.
"I did not realize Port Kar was on friendly terms with any of the inland cities," I said.
"She is not," said Saphrar.
"Then how?" I asked.
He shrugged. "Gold has no caste," he said.
I tried the liver of the wingfish. Then another swig of Saga.
Saphrar winced.
"Perhaps," he suggested, "you would like a piece of roasted bosk meat?"
I replaced the golden eating prong in its rack beside my place, shoved back the glittering dish in which lay several theoretically edible objects, carefully arranged by a slave to resemble a bouquet of wild flowers sprouting from a rock outcropping. "Yes," I said, "I think so."
Saphrar conveyed my wishes to the scandalized Feast Steward, and he, with a glare in my direction, sent two young slaves scampering off to scour the kitchens of Turia for a slice of bosk meat.
I looked to one side and saw Kamchak scraping another plate clean, holding it to his mouth, sliding and shoving the carefully structured design of viands into his mouth.
I glanced at Saphrar, who was now leaning on his yellow cushions, in his silken pleasure robes, white and gold, the colours of the Caste of Merchants. Saphrar, eyes closed, was nibbling on a tiny thing, still quivering, which had been impaled on a coloured stick.
I turned away and watched a fire swallower perform to the leaping melodies of the musicians.
"Do not object that we are entertained in the house of Saphrar of the Merchants," Kamchak had said, "for in Turia power lies with such men."
I looked down the table a bit at Kamras, plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia. He was a large-wristed strong man with long, black hair. He sat as a warrior, though in robes of silk. Across his face there were two long scars, perhaps from their delicacy the scars of quiva wounds. He was said to be a great warrior, indeed, to be champion of Turia. He had not spoken with us nor acknowledged our presence at the feast.
"Besides," Kamchak had told me, nudging me in the ribs, "the food and the entertainment is better in the house of Saphrar than in the palace of Phanius Turmus."
I would still, I told myself, settle for a piece of bosk meat.
I wondered how the stomach of Kamchak could sustain the delightful injuries he was heaping into it with such gusto. To be sure, it had not. The Turian feast usually consumes the better part of a night and can have as many as a hundred and fifty courses. This would be impractical, naturally, save for the detestable device of the golden bowl and tufted banquet stick, dipped in scented oils, by means of which the diner may, when he wishes, refresh himself and return with eagerness to the feast. I had not made use of this particular tool, and had contented myself with merely taking a bite or two, to satisfy the requirements of etiquette, from each course.
The Turians, doubtless, regarded this as a hopelessly barbarian inhibition on my part.
I had, perhaps, however, drunk too much Paga.
This afternoon Kamchak and I, leading four pack kaiila, had entered the first gate of nine-gated Turia.
On the pack animals were strapped boxes of precious plate, gems, silver vessels, tangles of jewellery, mirrors, rings, combs, and golden tarn disks, stamped with the signs of a dozen cities. These were brought as gifts to the Turians, largely as a rather insolent gesture on the part of the Wagon Peoples, indicating how little they cared for such things, that they would give them to Turians. Turian embassies to the Wagon Peoples, when they occurred, naturally strove to equal or surpass these gifts. Kamchak told me, a sort of secret I gather, that some of the things he carried had been exchanged back and forth a dozen times. One small, flat box, however, Kamchak would not turn over to the stewards of Phanius Turmus, whom he met at the first gate. He insisted on carrying that box with him and, indeed, it rested beside his right knee at the table now.
I was very pleased to enter Turia, for I have always been excited by a new city.
I found Turia to match my expectations. She was luxurious. Her shops were filled with rare, intriguing paraphernalia. I smelled perfumes that I had never smelled before. More than once we encountered a line of musicians dancing single file down the centre of the street, playing on their flutes and drums, perhaps on their way to a feast. I was pleased to see again, though often done in silk, the splendid varieties of caste colours of the typical Gorean city, to hear once more the cries of peddlers that I knew so well, the cake sellers, the hawkers of vegetables, the wine vendor bending under a double verr skin of his vintage. We did not attract as much attention as I had thought we would, and I gathered that every spring, at least, visitors from the Wagon Peoples must come to the city. Many people scarcely glanced at us, in spite of the fact that we were theoretically blood foes. I suppose that life in high-walled Turia, for most of its citizens, went on from day to day in its usual patterns oblivious of the usually distant Wagon Peoples. The city had never fallen, and had not been under siege in more than a century. The average citizen worried about the Wagon Peoples, customarily, only when he was outside the walls. Then, of course, he worried a great deal, and, I grant him, wisely.
One disappointment to me in trekking through the streets of Turia was that a crier advanced before us, calling to the women of the city to conceal themselves, even the female slaves. Thus, unfortunately, save for an occasional furtive pair of dark eyes peering from behind a veil in a recessed casement, we saw in our journey from the gate of the city to the House of Saphrar none of the fabled, silken beauties of Turia.
I mentioned this to Kamchak and he laughed loudly.
He was right, of course. Among the Wagons, clad in a brief bit of cord and leather, branded, wearing nose ring and Turian collar, could be found many of the beauties of Turia. Indeed, to the annoyance of Elizabeth Cardwell, who had spent her nights under the wagon in the last weeks, there were two such in our own wagon, the girl Dina, whom I had snared in the contests of the bola, and her companion, the fine wench who had bitten the neck of Kamchak’s kaiila and had attempted to conceal her injury by the lance of Albrecht, Tenchika, a Tuchuk corruption of her Turian name, Tendite; she struggled to serve Kamchak well, but it was clear that she lamented her separation from Albrecht of the Kassars; he had, surprisingly, twice tried to buy his little slave back, but Kamchak was holding out for a higher price; Dina, on the other hand, served me skilfully and devotedly; once Albrecht, having a bola match planned, tried to buy her back, as well as Tenchika, but I had demurred.
"Does it mean," Dina had asked me that night, head to boot, "that Dina’s master is pleased with her?"
"Yes," I said, "it does."
"I am happy," she had said.
"She has fat ankles," Elizabeth Cardwell had observed.
"Not fat," I said, "—strong, sturdy ankles."
"If you like fat ankles," Elizabeth had said, turning about, perhaps inadvertently revealing the delightful slimness of her own ankles, and leaving the wagon.
Suddenly I became aware again of the banquet of Saphrar of Turia.
My piece of bosk meat, roasted, had arrived. I picked it up and began to chew on it. I liked it better cooked over the open-fires on the prairie, but it was good bosk. I sank my teeth into the juicy meat, tearing it and chewing on it.
I observed the banquet tables, laid out in an open-ended rectangle, permitting slaves to enter at the open end, facilitating the serving, and, of course, allowing entertainers to perform among the tables. To one side there was a small altar to Priest-Kings, where there burned a small fire. On this fire, at the beginning of the feast the feast steward had scattered some grains of meal, some coloured salt, some drops of wine. "Ta-Sardar-Gor," he had said, and this phrase had been repeated by the others in the room. "To the Priest-Kings of Gor." It had been the general libation for the banquet. The only one in the room who did not participate in this ceremony was Kamchak, who thought that such a libation, in the eyes of the sky, would not have been fitting. I partook of the libation out of respect for Priest-Kings, for one in particular, whose name was Misk.
A Turian sitting a few feet from me noted that I had partaken of the libation. "I see," he said, "that you were not raised among the wagons."
"No," I said.
"He is Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba," Saphrar had remarked.
"How is it," I asked, "that you know my name?"
"One hears of such things," he said.
I would have questioned him on this matter, but he had turned to a man behind him and was talking with him, some matter I gathered pertaining to the feast.
I forgot about it.
If there had been no women for us to view in the streets of Turin, Saphrar, merchant of the city, had determined to make that omission good at his banquet. There were several women present at the tables, free women, and several others, slaves, who served. The free women, shamelessly to the mind of the rather prudish Kamchak, lowered their veils and threw back the hoods of their Robes of Concealment, enjoying the feast, eating with much the same Gorean gusto as their men. Their beauty and the sparkle of their eyes, their laughter and conversation, to my mind, immeasurably improved the evening. Many were swift-tongued, witty wenches, utterly charming and uninhibited. I did think, however, that it was somewhat unusual that they should appear in public unveiled, particularly with Kamchak and myself present. The women in bondage present, who served us, each wore four golden rings on each ankle and each wrist, locked on, which clashed as they walked or moved, adding their sound to the slave bells that had been fixed on their Turian collars, and that hung from their hair; the ears of each, too, hall been pierced and from each ear hung a tiny slave bell. The single garment of these women was the Turian camisk. I do not know particularly why it is referred to as a camisk, save that it is a simple garment for a female slave. The common camisk is a single piece of cloth, about eighteen inches wide, thrown over the girl’s head and worn like a poncho. It usually falls a bit above the knees in the front and back and is belted with cord or chain. The Turian camisk, on the other hand, if it were to be laid out on the floor, would appear somewhat like an inverted "T" in which the bar of the "T" would be bevelled on each side. It is fastened with a single cord. The cord binds the garment on the girl at three points, behind the neck, behind the back, and in front at the waist. The garment itself, as might be supposed, fastens behind the girl’s neck, passes before her, passes between her legs and is then lifted and, folding the two sides of the T’s bar about her hips, ties in front. The Turian camisk, unlike the common camisk, will cover a girl’s brand; on the other hand, unlike the common camisk, it leaves the back uncovered and can be tied, and is, snugly, the better to disclose the girl’s beauty.
We had been treated to exhibitions of juggling, fire swallowing, and acrobats. There had been a magician, who particularly pleased Kamchak, and a man who, whip in hand, guided a dancing sleen through its paces.
I could pick up snatches of conversation between Kamchak and Saphrar, and I gathered from what was said that they were negotiating places of meeting for the exchange of goods. Then, later in the evening, when I was drunker on Paga than I should have permitted myself to become, I heard them discuss details which could only have pertained to what Kamchak had called the games of Love War, details having to do with specifications of time, weapons and judges, and such. Then I heard the sentence, "If she is to participate, you must deliver the golden sphere."
Abruptly, it seemed, I came awake, no longer half asleep, more than half drunk. It seemed suddenly I was shocked awake and sober. I began to tremble, but held the table, and, I believe, betrayed no sign of my inward excitement.
"I can arrange that she is chosen for the games," Saphrar was saying, "but it must be worth my while."
"How can you determine that she is selected?" Kamchak was asking.
"My gold can determine that," Saphrar was saying, "and further determine that she is ill defended."
Out of the corner of my eye I could see Kamchak’s black eyes gleaming.
Then I heard the feast steward call out, his voice silencing all else, all conversation, even the musicians. The acrobats who were at the moment performing fled from between the tables. The feast steward’s voice was heard, "The Lady Aphris of Turia."
I and all others turned our eyes to a wide, swirling marble stairway in the back and to the left of the lofty banquet hall in the house of Saphrar the merchant.
Down the stairway, slowly, in trailing white silk bordered with gold, the colours of the Merchants, there regally descended the girl who was Aphris of Turia.
Her sandals were of gold and she wore matching gloves of gold.
Her face could not be seen, for it was veiled, a white silken veil trimmed with gold, nor even her hair, for it was hidden in the folds of the free woman’s Robes of Concealment, in her case, of course, done in the colours of the merchants.
Aphris of Turia, then, was of the caste of merchants.
I recalled Kamchak had spoken of her once or twice.
As the woman approached I suddenly became aware again of Saphrar speaking. "Behold my ward," he was saying, indicating the approaching girl.
"The richest woman in all Turia," Kamchak said.
"When she reaches her majority," Saphrar remarked.
Until then, I gathered, her means were in the doubtless capable hands of Saphrar the merchant.
This supposition was later confirmed by Kamchak. Saphrar was not related to the girl, but had been appointed by the Turian merchants, on whom he undoubtedly exercised considerable influence, the guardian of the girl following the death of her father in a Paravaci caravan raid several years before. The father of Aphris of Turia, Tethrar of Turia, had been the richest merchant in this city, itself one of the richest cities of Gor. There had been no surviving male heir and the considerable wealth of Tethrar of Turia was now that of his daughter, Aphris, who would assume control of these remarkable fortunes upon attaining her majority, which event was to occur this spring.
The girl, not unaware I am sure of the eyes upon her, stopped on the stairway and loftily surveyed the scene of the banquet. I could sense that she had almost immediately seen myself and Kamchak, strangers at the tables. Something in her carriage suggested that she might be amused.
I heard Saphrar whisper to Kamchak, whose eyes glowed as they rested on the figure in white and gold on the distant stairway.
"Is she not worth the golden sphere?" asked the merchant.
"It is hard to tell," said Kamchak.
"I have the word of her serving slaves," insisted Saphrar. "She is said to be marvellous."
Kamchak shrugged, his wily Tuchuk trading shrug. I had seen him use it several times while discussing the possible sale of little Tenchika to Albrecht in the wagon.
"The sphere is actually not of much value, Saphrar was saying, "it is not truly of gold—but only appears so."
"Still," Kamchak said, "the Tuchuks are fond of it."
"I would only wish it as a curiosity," Saphrar was saying.
"I must think on the matter," Kamchak was saying, not taking his eyes from Aphris of Turia.
"I know where it is," Saphrar was saying, his lips pulled back, revealing the golden canines, "I could send men for it."
Pretending not to listen I was, of course, as attentive as possible to their conversation. But few in that room would have noted my interest had I displayed it openly. All eyes, it seemed, were on the girl on the stairs, slim, said to be beautiful, veiled, clad in Robes of Concealment of white and gold. Even I was distracted by her. Even I, in spite of my preoccupation with the conversation of Kamchak and Saphrar, would have found it difficult, had I wished, to take my eyes from her. Now she descended the last three stairs and, stopping to nod her head and grace an eager fellow here and there along the tables with a word or gesture, she began to approach the head of the table. The musicians, at a signal from the feast steward, took up their instruments again and the acrobats rushed back among the tables, tumbling and leaping about.
"It is in the wagon of Kutaituchik," Saphrar was saying. "I could send mercenary tarnsmen from the north, but I would prefer not to have war."
Kamchak was still watching Aphris of Turia.
My heart was beating with great rapidity. I had learned now, if Saphrar was correct, that the golden sphere, undoubtedly the last egg of Priest-Kings, was in the wagon of Kutaituchik, said to be Ubar of the Tuchuks. At last, if Saphrar was correct, I knew its location.
I barely noticed, as Aphris of Turia made her way toward the head of the table, that she did not speak to nor acknowledge in any way any of the women present, though their robes suggested they must be of wealth and position. She gave them no sign that she recognized their existence. To a man here and there, however, she would nod her head or exchange a word or two. I thought perhaps Aphris was unwilling to acknowledge unveiled free women. Her own veil, of course, had not been lowered. Over the veil I could now see two black, deep, almond-shaped eyes; her skin, what I could see of it, was lovely and clear; her complexion was not so light as that of Miss Cardwell, but was lighter than that of the girl Hereena, of the First Wagon.
"The golden sphere for Aphris of Turia," Saphrar whispered to Kamchak.
Kamchak turned to the small, fat merchant and his scarred, furrowed face broke into a grin, bearing down on the round, pinkish face of the merchant. "The Tuchuks," he said, "are fond of the golden sphere."
"Very well," snapped Saphrar, "then you will not obtain the woman—I shall see to that—and somehow I shall have the sphere—understand that!"
Kamchak now turned to watch Aphris of Turia.
The girl now approached us, behind the tables, and Saphrar leaped to his feet and bowed low to her. "Honoured Aphris of Turia, whom I love as my own daughter," he said.
The girl inclined her head to him, "Honoured Saphrar," she said.
Saphrar gestured to two of the camisk-clad girls in the room, who brought cushions and a silken mat and placed them between Saphrar and Kamchak.
Aphris nodded her head to the feast steward and he sent the acrobats running and tumbling from the room and the musicians began to play soft, honeyed melodies. The guests at the banquet returned to their conversation and repast.
Aphris looked about her.
She lifted her head, and I could see the lovely line of her nose beneath the veil of white silk trimmed with gold. She sniffed twice. Then she clapped her little gloved hands two times and the feast steward rushed to her side.
"I smell bosk dung," she said.
The feast steward looked startled, then horrified, then knowledgeable, and then bowed and spread his hands. He smiled ingratiatingly, apologetically. "I’m sorry, Lady Aphris," said he, "but under the circumstances—"
She looked about, and then it seemed she saw Kamchak.
"Ah!" she said, "I see—a Tuchuk—of course."
Kamchak, though sitting cross-legged, seemed to bounce twice on the cushions, slapping the small table, rattling dishes for a dozen feet on either side. He was roaring with laughter.
"Superb!" he cried.
"Please, if you wish, Lady Aphris, join us," wheezed Saphrar.
Aphris of Turia, pleased with herself, assumed her place between the merchant and Kamchak, kneeling back on her heels in the position of the Gorean free woman.
Her back was very straight and her head high, in the Gorean fashion.
She turned to Kamchak. "It seems we have met before," she said.
"Two years ago," said Kamchak, "in such a place at such a time—you recall it was then you called me a Tuchuk sleen."
"I seem to recall," said Aphris, as though trying very hard to do so.
"I had brought you a five-belt necklace of diamonds," said Kamchak, "for I had heard you were beautiful."
"Oh," said Aphris, "yes—I gave it to one of my slaves."
Kamchak slapped the table in merriment again.
"It was then," he said, "that you turned away, calling me a Tuchuk sleen."
"Oh, yes!" laughed Aphris.
"And it was then," said Kamchak, still laughing, "that I vowed I would make you my slave."
Aphris stopped laughing.
Saphrar was speechless.
There was no sound at the tables.
Kamras, Champion of the City of Turia, rose to his feet. He addressed Saphrar. "Permit me," he said, "to fetch weapons."
Kamchak was now swilling Paga and acted as though he had not heard the remark of Kamras.
"No, no, no!" cried Saphrar. "The Tuchuk and his friend are guests, and ambassadors of the Wagon Peoples—they must not come to harm!"
Aphris of Turia laughed merrily and Kamras, embarrassed, returned to his seat.
"Bring perfumes!" she called to the feast steward, and he sent forth the camisk-clad slave who carried the tiny tray of exotic Turian perfumes. She took one or two of these small bottles and held them under her nose, and then sprinkled them about the table and cushions. Her actions delighted the Turians, who laughed.
Kamchak now was still smiling, but he no longer laughed.
"For that," he said, smiling, "you will spend your first night in the dung sack."
Again Aphris laughed merrily and was joined by those of the banquet.
The fists of Kamras were clenched on the table.
"Who are you?" asked Aphris, looking at me.
I was pleased to see that she, at least, did not know my name.
"I am Tarl Cabot," I said, "—of the city of Ko-ro-ba."
"It is in the far north," she said. "Even beyond Ar."
"Yes," I said.
"How comes it," asked she, "that a Koroban rides in the stinking wagon of a Tuchuk sleen?"
"The wagon does not stink," I said, "and Kamchak of the Tuchuks is my friend."
"You are an outlaw of course," she said.
I shrugged.
She laughed.
The girl turned to Saphrar. "Perhaps the barbarians would care to be entertained," she suggested.
I was puzzled at this, for throughout much of the evening there had been entertainment, the jugglers, the acrobats, the fellow who swallowed fire to music, the magician, the man with the dancing sleen.
Saphrar was looking down. He was angry. "Perhaps," he said. I supposed Saphrar was still irritated at Kamchak’s refusal to give up, or arrange the transfer, of the golden sphere. I did not clearly understand Kamchak’s motivations in this matter—unless, of course, he knew the true nature of the golden sphere, in which case, naturally, he would recognize it as priceless. I gathered he did not understand its true value, seeing that he had discussed its exchange with some seriousness earlier in the evening—only that, apparently, he wanted more than Saphrar was offering, even though that might be Aphris of Turia herself.
Aphris now turned to me. She gestured to the ladies at the tables, with their escorts. "Are the women of Turia not beautiful?" she asked.
"Indeed," I admitted, for there were none present who were not, in their own ways, beautiful.
She laughed, for some reason.
"In my city," I said, "free women would not permit themselves to be seen unveiled before strangers."
The girl laughed merrily once more and turned to Kamchak. "What think you, my colourful bit of bosk dung?" she asked.
Kamchak shrugged. "It is well known," he said, "the women of Turia are shameless."
"I think not," snapped the angry Aphris of Turia, her eyes flashing above the golden border of her white silicon veil.
"I see them," said Kamchak, spreading his hands to both sides, grinning.
"I think not," said the girl.
Kamchak looked puzzled.
Then, to my surprise, the girl clapped her hands sharply twice and the women about the table stood, and together, from both sides, moved swiftly to stand before us between the tables. The drums and flutes of the musicians sounded, and to my amazement the first girl, with a sudden, graceful swirl of her body lifted away her robes and flung them high over the heads of the guests to cries of delight. She stood facing us, beautiful, knees flexed, breathing deeply, arms lifted over her head, ready for the dance. Each of the women I had thought free did the same, until each stood before us, a collared slave girl clad only the diaphanous, scarlet dancing silks of Gor. To the barbaric music they danced.
Kamchak was angry.
"Did you truly think," asked Aphris of Turia arrogantly, "that a Tuchuk would be permitted to look upon the face of a free woman of Turia?"
Kamchak’s fists were clenched on the table, for no Tuchuk likes to be fooled,
Kamras was laughing loudly and even Saphrar was giggling among the yellow cushions.
No Tuchuk, I knew, cares to be the butt of a joke, especially a Turian joke.
But Kamchak said nothing.
Then he took his goblet of Paga and drained it, watching the girls swaying to the caress of Turian melodies.
"Are they not delightful?" spurred Aphris, after a time.
"We have many girls among the wagons quite as good," said Kamchak.
"Oh?" asked Aphris.
"Yes," said Kamchak, "Turians—slaves—such as you will be."
"You are aware, of course," she said, "that if you were not an ambassador of the Wagon Peoples at this time I would order you slain."
Kamchak laughed. "It is one thing to order the death of a Tuchuk," he said. "It is another to kill him."
"I’m sure both could be arranged," remarked Aphris.
Kamchak laughed. "I shall enjoy owning you," he said.
The girl laughed. "You are a fool," she said. Then she added, unpleasantly, "But beware—for if you cease to amuse me—you will not leave these tables alive."
Kamchak was swilling down another bolt of Paga, part of it running out at the side of his mouth.
Aphris then turned to Saphrar. "Surely our guests would enjoy seeing the others" she suggested.
I wondered what she meant.
"Please, Aphris," said Saphrar, shaking his fat, pinkish head, sweating. "No trouble, no trouble."
"Ho!" cried Aphris of Turia, summoning the feast steward to her, through the turning bodies of the girls dancing among the tables. "The others!" ordered Aphris, "—for the amusement of our guests!"
The feast steward turned a wary eye toward Saphrar, who, defeated, nodded his head.
The feast steward then clapped his hands twice, dismissing the girls, who rushed from the room; and then he clapped his hands twice more, paused a moment, then twice more.
I heard the sound of slave bells attached to ankle rings, to locked wrist bracelets, to Turian collars.
More girls approached rapidly, their feet taking small running steps in a turning line that sped forth from a small room in the back and to the right.
My hand clenched on the goblet. Aphris of Turia was bold indeed. I wondered if Kamchak would rise to do war in the very room.
The girls that now stood before us, barefoot, in swirling Pleasure Silks, belled and collared, were wenches of the Wagon Peoples, now, as could be determined even beneath the silks they wore, the branded slaves of Turians. Their leader, to her surprise, seeing Kamchak, fell in shame to her knees before him, much to the fury of the feast steward; the others did so as well.
The feast steward was handed a slave whip and stood towelling over the leader of the girls.
His hand drew back but the blow never fell, for with a cry of pain he reeled away, the hilt of a quiva pressed against the inside of his forearm, the balance of the blade emerging on the other side.
Even I had not seen Kamchak throw the knife, Now, to my satisfaction, another of the blades was poised in his finger tips. Several of the men had leaped from behind the tables, including Kamras, but they hesitated, seeing Kamchak so armed. I, too, was on my feet. "Weapons," said Kamras, "are not permitted at the banquet."
"Ah," said Kamchak, bowing to him, "I did not know."
"Let us sit down and enjoy ourselves, recommended Saphrar. "If the Tuchuk does not wish to see the girls, let us dismiss them."
"I wish to see them perform," said Aphris of Turia, though she stood within arm’s reach of Kamchak’s quiva.
Kamchak laughed, looking at her. Then, to my relief, and doubtless to the relief of several at the table, he thrust the quiva in his sash and sat back down.
"Dance," ordered Aphris.
The trembling girl before her did not move.
"Dance!" screamed Aphris, rising to her feet.
"What shall I do?" begged the kneeling girl of Kamchak. She looked not too unlike Hereena, and was perhaps a similar sort of girl, raised and trained much the same. Like Hereena, of course, she wore the tiny golden nose ring.
Kamchak spoke to her, very gently. "You are slave," he said. "Dance for your masters."
The girl looked at him gratefully and she, with the others, rose to her feet and to the astounding barbarity of the music performed the savage love dances of the Kassars, the Paravaci, the Kataii, the Tuchuks.
They were magnificent.
One girl, the leader of the dancers, she who had spoken to Kamchak, was a Tuchuk girl, and was particularly startling, vital, uncontrollable, wild.
It was then clear to me why the Turian men so hungered for the wenches of the Wagon Peoples.
At the height of one of her dances, called the Dance of the Tuchuk Slave Girl, Kamchak turned to Aphris of Turia, who was watching the dance, eyes bright, as astounded as I at the savage spectacle. "I will see to it," said Kamchak, "when you are my slave, that you are taught that dance."
The back and head of Aphris of Turia was rigid with fury, but she gave no sign that she had heard him.
Kamchak waited until the girls of the Wagon Peoples had performed their dances and then, when they had been dismissed, he rose to his booted feet. "We must go" he said.
I nodded, and struggled to my feet, well ready to return to his wagon.
"What is in the box?" asked Aphris of Turia, as she saw Kamchak pick up the small black box which, throughout the banquet, he had kept at his right knee. The girl was clearly curious, female.
Kamchak shrugged.
I remembered that two years before, as I had learned, he had brought Aphris of Turia a five-string diamond necklace, which she had scorned, and had, according to her report at least, given to a slave. It had been at that time that she had called him a Tuchuk sleen, presumably because he had dared present her with a gift.
But, I could see, she was interested in the box. Indeed, at certain times during the evening, I had seen her casting furtive glances at it.
"It is nothing," said Kamchak, "only a trinket."
"But is it for someone?" she asked.
"I had thought," said Kamchak, "that I might give it to you."
"Oh?" asked Aphris, clearly intrigued.
"But you would not like it," he said.
"How do you know," she said, rather airily, "I have not seen it."
"I will take it home with me," said Kamchak.
"If you wish," she said.
"But you may have it if you wish," he said.
"Is it other," she asked, "than a mere necklace of diamonds?" Aphris of Turia was no fool. She knew that the Wagon Peoples, plunderers of hundreds of caravans, occasionally possessed objects and riches as costly as any on Gor.
"Yes," said Kamchak, "it is other than a necklace of diamonds."
"Ah!" she said. I then suspected that she had not actually given the five-string diamond necklace to a slave. Undoubtedly it still reposed in one of her several chests of jewellery.
"But you would not like it," said Kamchak, diffidently.
"Perhaps I might," she said.
"No," said Kamchak, "you would not like it."
"You brought it for me, did you not?" she said.
Kamchak shrugged and looked down at the box in his hand. "Yes," he said, "I brought it for you."
The box was about the size in which a necklace, perhaps on black velvet, might be displayed.
"I want it," said Aphris of Turia.
"Truly?" asked Kamchak. "Do you want it?"
"Yes," said Aphris. "Give it to me!"
"Very well," said Kamchak, "but I must ask to place it on you myself."
Kamras, the Champion of Turia, half rose from his position. "Bold Tuchuk sleen!" he hissed.
"Very well," said Aphris of Turia. "You may place it on me yourself."
So then Kamchak bent down to where Aphris of Turia knelt, her back straight, her head very high, before the low table. He stepped behind her and she lifted her chin delicately. Her eyes were shining with curiosity. I could see the quickness of her breath marked in the soft silk of her white and gold veil.
"Now," said Aphris.
Kamchak then opened the box.
When Aphris heard the delicate click of the box lid it was all she could do not to turn and regard the prize that was to be hers, but she did not do so. She remained looking away, only lifting her chin a bit more.
"Now!" said Aphris of Turia, trembling with anticipation.
What happened then was done very swiftly. Kamchak lifted from the box an object indeed intended to grace the throat of a girl. But it was a round metal ring, a Turian collar, the collar of a slave. There was a firm snap of the heavy lock in the back of the collar and the throat of Aphris of Turia had been encircled with slave steel! At the same instant Kamchak lifted her startled to her feet and turned her to face him, with both hands tearing the veil from her face! Then, before any of the startled Turians could stop him, he had purchased by his audacity a bold kiss from the lips of the astounded Aphris of Turia! Then he hurled her from him across and over the low table until she fell to the floor where Tuchuk slaves had danced for her pleasure. The quiva, appearing as if by magic in his hand, warned back those who would press in upon him to revenge the daughter of their city. I stood beside Kamchak, ready to defend him with my life, yet as startled as any in the room at what had been done.
The girl now had struggled to her knees tearing at the collar. Her tiny gloved fingers were locked in it, pulling at it, as though by brute force she would tear it from her throat.
Kamchak was looking at her. "Beneath your robes of white and gold," he said, "I smelled the body of a slave girl."
"Sleen! Sleen! Sleen!" she cried.
"Replace your veil!" ordered Saphrar.
"Remove the collar immediately," commanded Kamras, plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia.
Kamchak smiled. "It seems," he said, "that I have forgotten the key."
"Send for one of the Caste of Metal Workers!" cried Saphrar.
There were cries on all sides, "Slay the Tuchuk sleen!" "Torture for him!" "The oil of tharlarions!" "Leech plants!" "Impalement!" "Tongs and fire!" But Kamchak seemed unmoved. And none rushed upon him, for in his hand, and he was Tuchuk, there gleamed the quiva.
"Slay him!" screamed Aphris of Turia, "Slay him!"
"Replace your veil," repeated Saphrar to the girl. "Have you no shame?"
The girl attempted to rearrange the folds of the veil, but could only hold it before her face, for Kamchak had ripped away the pins by which it was customarily fastened.
Her eyes were wild with fury and tears.
He, a Tuchuk, had looked upon her face.
I was pleased, though I would not have admitted it, at Kamchak’s boldness, for it was a face for which a man might risk much, even death in the torture dungeons of Turia, utterly beautiful though now, of course, transformed with rage, far more beautiful than had been that of the most beautiful of the slave girls who had served us or given us of the beauty of their dances.
"You recall, of course," Kamchak was saying, "that I am an ambassador of the Wagon Peoples and am entitled to the courtesies of your city."
"Impale him!" cried a number of voices.
"It is a joke," cried out Saphrar. "A joke! A Tuchuk joke!"
"Slay him!" screamed Aphris of Turia.
But no one would move against the quiva.
"Now, gentle Aphris," Saphrar was purring, "you must be calm—soon one from the Caste of Metal Workers will appear to free you—all will be well—return to your own chambers."
"No!" screamed Aphris. "The Tuchuk must be slain!"
"It is not possible, my dear," wheezed Saphrar.
"You are challenged!" said Kamras, spitting to the floor at Kamchak’s booted feet.
For an instant I saw Kamchak’s eyes gleam and thought he might at the very table at which he stood accept the challenge of the Champion of Turia, but instead, he shrugged and grinned. "Why should I fight?" he asked.
It did not sound like Kamchak speaking.
"You are a coward!" cried Kamras.
I wondered if Kamras knew the meaning of the word which he had dared to address to one who wore the Courage Scar of the Wagon Peoples.
But to my amazement, Kamchak only smiled. "Why should I fight?" he asked.
"What do you mean?" demanded Kamras.
"What is to be gained?" inquired Kamchak.
"Aphris of Turia!" cried the girl.
There were cries of horror, or protest, from the men crowded about.
"Yes!" cried Aphris of Turia. "If you will meet Kamras, Champion of Turia, I—Aphris of Turia—will stand at the stake in Love War!"
Kamchak looked at her. "I will fight," he said.
There was a silence in the room.
I saw Saphrar, a bit in the background, close his eyes and nod his head. "Wily Tuchuk," I heard him mutter. Yes, I said to myself, wily Tuchuk. Kamchak had, by means of the very pride of Aphris of Turia, of Kamras, and the offended Turians, brought the girl by her own will to the stake of Love War. It was something he would not buy with the golden sphere from Saphrar the merchant; it was something he was clearly capable of arranging, with Tuchuk cunning, by himself. I supposed, naturally, however, that Saphrar, guardian of Aphris of Turia, would not permit this to occur.
"No, my dear," Saphrar was saying to the girl, "you must not expect satisfaction for this frightful injury which has been wrought upon you—you must not even think of the games—you must forget this unpleasant evening—you must try not to think of the stories that will be told of you concerning this evening—what the Tuchuk did and how he was permitted to escape with impunity."
"Never!" cried Aphris. "I will stand, I tell you! I will! I will!"
"No," said Saphrar, "I cannot permit it—it is better that the people laugh at Aphris of Turia—and perhaps, in some years, they may forget."
"I demand to be permitted to stand," cried the girl. Then she cried, "I beg of you Saphrar—permit me!"
"But in a few days," said Saphrar, "you will attain your majority and receive your fortunes—then you may do as you wish."
"But it will be after the games!" cried the girl.
"Yes," said Saphrar, as though thinking, "that is true."
"I will defend her," said Kamras. "I will not lose."
"It is true you have never lost," wavered Saphrar.
"Permit it!" cried several of those present.
"Unless you permit this," wept Aphris, "my honour will be forever stained."
"Unless you permit it," said Kamras sternly, "I may never have an opportunity to cross steel with this barbaric sleen."
It then occurred to me, suddenly, that, following Gorean civic law, the properties and titles, assets and goods of a given individual who is reduced to slavery are automatically regarded as having been transferred to the nearest male relative—or nearest relative if no adult male relative is available—or to the city—or to, if pertinent, a guardian. Thus, if Aphris of Turia, by some mischance, were to fall to Kamchak, and surely slavery, her considerable riches would be immediately assigned to Saphrar, merchant of Turia. Moreover, to avoid legal complications and free the assets for investment and manipulation, the transfer is asymmetrical, in the sense that the individual, even should he somehow later recover his freedom, retains no legal claim whatsoever on the transferred assets.
"All right," said Saphrar, his eyes cast down, as though making a decision against his better judgment, "I will permit my ward, the Lady Aphris of Turia, to stand at the stake in Love War."
There was a cry of delight from the crowd, confident now that the Tuchuk sleen would be fittingly punished for his bold use of the richest daughter of Turia.
"Thank you, my guardian," said Aphris of Turia, and with one last vicious look at Kamchak threw back her head and with a swirl of her white gown, bordered with gold, walked regally from between the tables.
"To see her walk," remarked Kamchak, rather loudly, "one would hardly suspect that she wears the collar of a slave."
Aphris spun to face him, her right fist clenched, her left hand muffling her veil about her face, her eyes flashing. The circle of steel gleamed on the silk at her throat.
"I meant only, little Aphris," said Kamchak, "—that you wear your collar well."
The girl cried out in helpless rage and turned, stumbling and clutching at the banister on the stairs. Then she ran up the stairs, weeping, veil disarranged, both hands jerking at the collar. With a cry she disappeared.
"Have no fear, Saphrar of Turia," Kamras was saying, "I shall slay the Tuchuk sleen—and I shall do so slowly."