Outlaw of Gor (8 page)

As I left the marketplace, I noted two men, furtive, round-shouldered in their nondescript grey robes, who followed me. Their faces were concealed in the folds of their garments, which had been drawn over their heads in the manner of a hood. Spies, I thought. It was an intelligent precaution for Tharna to take, to keep an eye on the stranger, lest her hospitality be abused. I made no effort to elude their surveillance, for that might perhaps have been interpreted as a breach of etiquette on my part, perhaps even a confession of villainous intention. Besides, as they did know that I knew they followed me, this gave me a certain advantage in the matter. It was possible, of course, that they were merely curious. After all, how many scarlet-clad warriors appeared from day to day in the drab streets of Tharna?

I climbed one of the towers of Tharna, wanting to look out upon the city. I emerged on the highest bridge I could find. It was railed, as most Gorean briges, high or low, are not. Slowly I let my eye wander the city, surely in its people and their customs one of the most unusual on Gor.

Tharna, though a city of cylinders, did not seem to my eye as beautiful as many other cities I had seen. This was perhaps the cylinders were, on the whole, less lofty than those of other cities, and much broader, giving an impression of a set of squat, accumulated disks, so different from the lofty forests of sky-challenging towers and battlements distinguishing most Gorean cities. Moreover, in contrast to most cities, the cylinders of Tharna seemed excessively solemn, as if overcome by their own weight. They were scarcely distinguishable from one another, an aggregate of greys and browns, so different from the thousand gay colours that gleamed in most cities, where each cylinder in towering splendour lodged its claim to be the bravest and most beautiful of all.

Even the horizontal plains about Tharna, marked by their occasional outcroppings of weathered boulders, seemed to be grey, rather cold and gloomy, perhaps sad. Tharna was not a city to lift the heart of a man. Yet I knew that this city was, from my point of view, one of the most enlightened and civilised on Gor. In spite of this conviction, incomprehensibly, I found myself depressed by Tharna, and wondered if it, in its way, were not somehow, subtly, more barbaric, more harsh, less human than its ruder, less noble, more beautiful sisters. I determined that I should try to secure a tarn and proceed as quickly as possible to tha Sardar Mountains, to keep my appointment with the Priest-Kings.

“Stranger,” said a voice.

I turned.

One of the two nondescript men who had been following me had approached. His face was concealed in the folds of his robe. With one hand he held the folds together, lest the wind should lift the cloth and reveal his face, and with the other hand, he clutched the rail on the bridge, as if uncomfortable, uneasy at the height.

A slight rain had begun to fall.

“Tal,” I said to the man, lifting my arm in the common Gorean greeting.

“Tal,” he responded, not taking his arm from the rail. He approached me, more closely than I liked.

“You are a stranger in this city,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Who are you, Stranger?”

“I am a man of no city,” I said, “whose name is Tarl.” I wanted no more of the havoc I had wreaked earlier by the mere mention of the name of Ko-ro-ba.

“What is your business in Tharna?” he asked.

“I should like to obtain a tarn,” I said, “for a journey I have in mind.” I had answered him rather directly. I assumed him to be a spy, charged with learning my reasons for visiting Tharna. I scorned to conceal this reason, though the object of my journey I reserved to myself. That I was determined to reach the Sardar Mountains he need not know. That I had business with the Priest-Kings was not his concern.

“A tarn is expensive,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“Have you money?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“How then,” he asked, “do you propose to obtain your tarn?”

“I am not an outlaw,” I said, “though I wear no insignia on my tunic, or shield.”

“Of course not,” he said quickly. “There is no place in Tharna for an outlaw. We are a hard-working and honest folk.”

I could see that he did not believe me, and somehow I did not believe him either. For no good reason I began to dislike him. With both hands I reached to his hood and jerked it from his face. He snatched at the cloth and replaced it quickly. I had caught a brief glimpse of a sallow face, with skin like a dried lemon and pale blue eyes. His comrade, who had been furtively peering about, started forward and then stopped. The sallow-faced man, clutching the folds of the hood about his face, twisted his head to the left and the right to see if anyone might be near, if anyone might have observed.

“I like to see to whom I speak,” I said.

“Of course,” said the man ingratiatingly, a bit unsteadily, drawing the hood even more closely about his features.

“I want to obtain a tarn,” I said. “Can you help me?” If he could not, I had decided to terminate the interview.

“Yes,” said the man.

I was interested.

“I can help you obtain not only a tarn,” said the man, “but a thousand golden tarn disks and provisions for as lengthy a journey as you might wish.”

“I am not an assassin,” I said.

“Ah!” said the man.

Since the siege of Ar, when Pa-Kur, Master Assassin, had violated the limits of his caste and had presumed, in contradiction to the traditions of Gor, to lead a horde upon the city, intending to make himself Ubar, the Caste of Assassins had lived as hated, hunted men, no longer esteemed mercenaries whose services were sought by cities, and, as often by factions within cities. Now many assassins roamed Gor, fearing to wear the sombre black tunic of their caste, disguised as members of other castes, not infrequently as warriors.

“I am not an assassin,” I repeated.

“Of course not,” said the man. “The Caste of Assassins no longer exists.”

I doubted that.

“But are you not intrigued, Stranger,” asked the man, his pale eyes squinting up at me through the folds of the grey robe, “by the offer of a tarn, gold and provisions?”

“What must I do to earn this?” I asked.

“You need kill no one,” said the man.

“What then?” I said.

“You are bold and strong,” he said.

“What must I do?” I asked.

“You have undoubtedely had experience in affairs of this sort,” suggested the man.

“What would you have me do?” I demanded.

“Carry off a woman,” he said.

The light drizzle of rain, almost a gray mist matching the miserable solemnity of Tharna, had not abated, and had, by now, soaked through my garments. The wind, which I had not noticed before now, seemed cold.

“What woman?” I asked.

“Lara,” said he.

“And who is Lara?” I asked.

“Tatrix of Tharna,” he said.

Standing there on the bridge, in the rain, facing the obsequious, hooded conspirator, I felt suddenly sad. Here even in the noble city of Tharna there was intrigue, political strife, ambition that would not brook confinement. I had been taken for an assassin, or an outlaw, been assessed as a likely instrument for the furtherance of the foul schemes of one of Tharna's dissatisfied factions.

“I refuse,” I said.

The small lemon-faced man drew back as if slapped. “I represent a personage of power in this city,” he said.

“I wish no harm to Lara, Tatrix of Tharna,” I told him.

“What is she to you?” asked the man.

“Nothing,” I said.

“And yet you refuse?”

“Yes,” I said, “I refuse.”

“You are afraid,” he said.

“No,” I said, “I am not afraid.”

“You will never get your tarn,” hissed the man. He turned on his heel and still clinging to the railing on the bridge scurried to the threshhold of the cylinder, his comrade before him. At the threshhold he called back. “You will never leave the walls of Tharna alive,” he said.

“Be it so,” I said, “I will not do your bidding.”

The slight, grey-robed figure, almost as insubstantial as the mist itself, appeared ready to leave, but suddenly hesitated. He appeared to waver for a moment, then he briefly conferred with his companion. They seemed to reach some agreement. Cautiously, his companion remaining behind, he edged out onto the bridge again.

“I spoke hastily,” he said. “No danger will come to you in Tharna. We are a hard-working and honest folk.”

“I am pleased to hear that,” I said.

Then to my surprise he pressed a small, heavy leather sack of coins into my hand. He smiled up at me, a twisted grin visible through the obscuring folds of the grey robe. “Welcome to Tharna!” he said, and fled across the bridge and into the cylinder.

“Come back!” I cried, holding the bag of coins out to him. “Come back!”

But he was gone.

At least this night, this rainy night, I would not sleep again in the fields, for thanks to the puzzling gift of the hooded conspirator, I had the means to purchase lodging. I left the bridge, and descended through the spiral stairwell of the cylinder, soon finding myself on the streets again.

Inns, as such, are not plentiful on Gor, the hostility of cities being what it is, but usually some can be found in each city. There must, after all, be provision made for entertaining merchants, delegations from other cities, authorised visitors of one sort or another, and to be frank the innkeeper is not always scrupulous about the credentials of his guests, asking few questions if he receives his handful of copper tarn disks. In Tharna, however, famed for its hospitality, I was confident that inns would be common. It was surprising then that I could locate none.

I decided, if worst came to worst, that I could always go to a simple Paga Tavern where, if those of Tharna resembled those of Ko-ro-ba and Ar, one might, curled in a rug behind the low tables, unobtrusively spend the night for the price of a pot of Paga, a strong, fermented drink brewed from the yellow grains of Gor's staple crop, Sa-Tarna, or Life-Daughter. The expression is related to Sa-Tassna, the expression for meat, or for food in general, which means Life-Mother. Paga is a corruption of Pagar-Sa-Tarna, which means Pleasure of the Life-Daughter. It was customary to find diversions other than Paga in the Paga Taverns as well, but in grey Tharna the cymbals, drums and flutes of the musicians, the clashing of bangles on the ankles of dancing girls would be unfamiliar sounds.

I stopped one of the anonymous, grey-robed figures hurrying through the wet, cold dusk.

“Man of Tharna,” I asked, “where can I find an inn?”

“There are no inns in Tharna,” said the man, looking at me closely. “You are a stranger,” he said.

“A weary traveler who seeks lodging,” I said.

“Flee, Stranger,” said he.

“I am welcome in Tharna,” I said.

“Leave while you have time,” he said, looking about to see if anyone were listening.

“Is there no Paga Tavern near,” I asked, “where I can find rest?”

“There are no Paga Taverns in Tharna,” said the man, I thought with a trace of amusement.

“Where can I spend the night?” I asked.

“You can spend it beyond the walls in the fields,” he said, “or you can spend it in the Palace of the Tatrix.”

“It sounds to me as though the Palace of the Tatrix were the more comfortable,” I said.

The man laughed bitterly. “How many hours, Warrior,” asked he, “have you been within the walls of Tharn?”

“At the sixth hour I came to Tharna,” I said.

“It is then too late,” said the man, with a trace of sorrow, “for you have been within the walls for more than ten hours.”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Welcome to Tharna,” said the man, and hurried away into the dusk.

I had been disturbed by this conversation and without really intending it had begun to walk to the walls. I stood before the great gate of Tharna. The two giant beams that barred it were in place, beams that could only be moved by a team of broad tharlarions, draft lizards of Gor, or by a hundred slaves. The gates, bound with their bands of steel, studded with brass plates dull in the mist, the black wood looming over me in the dusk, were closed.

“Welcome to Tharna,” said a guard, leaning on his spear in the shadows of the gate.

“Thank you, Warrior,” I said, and turned back to the city.

Behind me I heard him laugh, much the same bitter laugh that I had heard from the citizen.

In wandering through the streets, I came at last to a squat portal in the wall of a cylinder. On each side of the door, in a small niche sheltered from the drizzle, there sputtered the yellow flame of a small tharlarion oil lamp. By this flickering light I could read the faded lettering on the door:
KAL-DA SOLD HERE
.

Kal-da is a hot drink, almost scalding, made of diluted Ka-la-na wine, mixed with citrus juices and stinging spices. I did not care much for this mouth-burning concoction, but it was popular with some of the lower castes, particularly those who performed strenuous manual labour. I expected its popularity was due more to its capacity to warm a man and stick to his ribs, and to its cheapness (a poor grade of Ka-la-na wine being used in its brewing) than to any gustatory excellence. But I reasoned on this night of all nights, this cold, depressing wet night, a cup of Kal-da might go well indeed. Moreover, where there was Kal-da there should be bread and meat. I thought of the yellow Gorean bread, baked in the shape of round, flat loaves, fresh and hot; my mouth watered for a tabuk steak or, perhaps, if I were lucky, a slice of roast tarsk, the formidable six-tusked wild boar of Gor's temperate forests. I smiled to myself, felt the sack of coins in my tunic, bent down and pushed the door open.

I descended three steps, and found myself in a warm, dimly lit, low-ceilinged room, cluttered with the low tables common on Gor, around which huddled groups of five or six of the grey-robed men of Tharna. The murmer of conversation ceased as I entered. The men regarded me. There seemed to be no warriors in the room. None of the men appeared to be armed.

I must have seemed strange to them, a scarlet-clad warrior, bearing weapons, suddenly entering, a man from another city unexpectedly in their midst.