Tribesmen of Gor

7 I am Informed of the Pits of Klima; An Escape is Arranged

I lifted my head.

I smelled it, somewhere near. But I saw nothing. I tensed. I sat against the stone wall, formed of heavy blocks. I pulled my head out from the wall, but it would not move far. To the heavy collar of iron, to each of its two, heavy welded rings, one on each side, there was fastened a short chain, fixed to a ring and plate, bolted through the drilled stone. My hands, each, were manacled to the wall, too, on short chains, to my left and right. I was naked. My ankles, in close chains, were fastened to another ring, in the floor, before me, it, too, on a plate, bolted through the floor block.

I sat forward, as far as I could, listening. I sat on the stone, on straw, soiled, which was scattered on the floor to absorb wastes. I looked to the door, some twenty feet across the stone floor; it was of beams, sheathed with iron.

There was a small window, high in the door, about six inches in height, eighteen inches in width. It bore five bars. There was a musty smell, but the room was not particularly damp. Light reached it from a small window, barred, some twelve feet above the floor, in the wall to my right. It was just under the ceiling. In the placid, diagonal beam of light, seeming to lean against the wall, ascending to the window, I saw dust.

I distended my nostrils, screening the scents of the room. I rejected the smell of moldy straw, of wastes. From outside I could smell date palms, pomegranates.

I heard a kaiila pass, its paws thudding in the sand. I heard kaiila bells, from afar, a man shouting. Nothing seemed amiss. I detected the odor of kort rinds, matted, drying, on the stones, where they had been scattered from my supper the evening before. Vints, insects, tiny, sand-colored, covered them: On the same rinds, taking and eating vints, were two small cell spiders. Outside the door I could smell cheese. The smell, too, of Bazi tea was clear. I heard the guard move, drowsy, on his chair outside the door. I could smell his sweat, and the veminium water he had rubbed about his neck.

Then I sat back against the stones. It seemed I had been mistaken.

I closed my eyes. “Surrender Gor,” had come the message, presumed from the steel worlds. “Surrender Gor.” And, earlier, months ago, a caravan boy, Achmed, the son of the merchant, Farouk of Kasra, had found the inscription on a rock, “Beware the steel tower.” There had been, too, the message girl, Veema, whose very body had borne the warning, “Beware Abdul.” I thought little of that now, however, for Abdul had been the water carrier in Tor, surely a minor agent of Others, the Kurii, little to be feared, no more than a gnat in the desert. I had not chosen to press the juices from the body of that insect. I had let him flee in terror. I still did not know, however, who had sent the warning, “Beware Abdul.” I smiled. There seemed little reason to beware of such a nonentity.

On the tip to Nine Wells, in the company of Achmed; his father, Farouk; Shakar, captain of the Aretai; Hamid, his lieutenant, and a guard of fifteen riders, I had seen the stone, led to it by Achmed.

“The body is gone!” cried Achmed. “It lay here!”

The stone, however, remained, and the message scratched upon it. It was scratched in Taharic, the lettering of the Tahari peoples. Their language is Gorean, but they, like certain other groups, usually isolated groups, did not use the common Gorean script. I had studied the Taharic alphabet. Since the alphabet is correlated with Gorean phonemes, it is speedily mastered, little more than an incomplete cipher, by one who knows Gorean. One oddity about it, from the point of view of one who reads Gorean, is that it possesses signs for only four of the nine vowels in Gorean. There was, however, even for me, no difficulty in reading the inscription. No vowel sound had to be interpolated, or determined from context, in this message. Each sign was clear. The message as a whole was explicit, unmistakable. The vowel sounds which are explicitly represented, incidentally, are represented by tiny marks near the other letters, rather like accent marks. They are not, in themselves, full-fledged letters.

Vowel sounds which are not explicitly represented, of course, must be inserted by the reader. At one time in Taharic, apparently, no vowel sounds were represented. Some Taharic scholars, purists, refuse to countenance vowel signs, regarding their necessity as a convenience for illiterates.

“There is no body here now,” had said Shakar, captain of the Aretai.

“Where could it have gone?” asked Hamid, his lieutenant.

His question was not an ill-advised one. There was no sign about of picked bones, or of the work of scavengers. Had there been sand storms the rock, too, presumably, would have been covered. Sand storms in the Tahari, incidentally, though upon occasion lengthy and terrible storms, may rearrange dunes, but they seldom bury anything. The whipping sand is blasted away almost as swiftly as it is deposited. Further, of course, a body in the Tahari decomposes with great slowness. The flesh of a desert tabuk which dies in the desert, perhaps separated from its herd, and unable to find water, if undisturbed by the salivary juices of predators, remains edible for several days. The external appearance of the animal, beyond this, can remain much the same for centuries.

“It is gone,” said Shakar, turning his kaiila, and returning to the caravan.

The others followed him.

I lingered a bit longer, looking on the inscription. “Beware the steel tower.”

Then I, too, turned my kaiila, and returned to the caravan.

“Surrender Gor,” I thought.

I leaned back against the stone. I moved my head a bit, turning my neck inside the heavy collar. I pulled a bit at the wrist manacles, on my left and right. I heard the chain subside to the stones. I felt a trickle of sweat move down my left forearm, and slip under the iron on my left wrist. I pulled wildly against the wrist manacles, the collar cut into my neck; I twisted my ankles in the ankle irons, and pulled the chain against the ring. Then, furious, I sat back against the stones. I was a prisoner. I was absolutely helpless.

I closed my eyes again. Suleiman had not died. The blow of the assassin, in the confusion. had failed to find its mark.

The judge, on the testimony of Ibn Saran, and that of two white-skinned, female slaves, one named Zaya, a red-haired girl, the other a dark-haired girl, whose name was Vella, had sentenced me as a criminal, a would-be assassin, to the secret brine pits of Klima, deep in the dune country, there to dig until the salt, the sun, the slave masters, had finished with me. From the secret pits of Klima, it was said, no slave had ever returned. Kaiila are not permitted at Klima, even to the guards. Supplies are brought in, and salt carried away, by caravan, on which the pits must depend. Other than the well at Klima, there is no other water within a thousand pasangs. The desert is the wall at Klima. The locations of the pits, such as those at Klima, are little known, and, to protect the resource, are kept secret by mine agents and merchants. Women are not permitted at Klima, lest men kill one another for them.

Then again, unmistakably, this time, the odor came to my nostrils. The hair rose on the back of my neck.

I strained against the iron, the chains. I was nude. I was completely helpless.

I could not even put my hands before my body.

I must wait.

I smelled Kur.

“Is there someone there?” called the guard. I heard his chair scrape. I heard him get to his feet.

He received no answer. There was only silence.

I sat still. I moved not even the chain.

He walked toward the threshold of the large room, or hall, which gives access to the cells. He walked carefully. There is no door on the threshold. It is a narrow threshold, lying at the foot of a set of narrow twisting concave stairs.

“Who is there?” he called. He waited. There was no answer.

He turned about and went back to his chair. I heard him sit down again. But in a moment, suddenly, the chair scraped back again, and he was on his feet. “Who is there!” he challenged. I heard his scimitar leave its sheath.

“Who is there!” I heard him cry once more, then heard him turning, wildly, facing about, here and there, in the hall.

Then I heard a startled inarticulate cry of horror, quick cut short. There was a snap, as of gristle.

There was little sound then, only that of a large tongue, moving in blood, tasting, curious. The man had had smeared about the base of his neck veminium water.

I heard then the body, dropped. I did not hear the sound of feeding. I heard a pawing about the body, and it’s clothing. Then I sensed, outside, a large body lift itself to its feet, and turn, slowly, toward the door of my cell.

I sensed then that it stood before the door of my cell. I could not take my eyes from the small window in the door. I saw nothing outside. Yet I sensed that it stood there, and that it was looking through the bars.

I heard the key move in the lock.

The door swung open. I saw nothing in the threshold. Beyond, crumpled on the floor, I saw the remains of the guard, head, awry, lying on its side, strung by torn vessels to the body, the back of the neck bitten through. I saw straw move within the cell. The smell of Kur was strong. I sensed it stood before me.

The chain at my left wrist was lifted. Twice, it was pulled against the wall ring. Then was it dropped to the stones.

I sensed that the beast stood.

In a moment I heard voices, those of several men. They were nearing.

Among them, imperious, I heard the voice of Ibn Saran. I heard men descending the steps. There was a cry of horror. I could see through the door of my cell, now swung open. Ibn Saran, himself, in black cloak, and white kaffiyeh with black cording, emerged through the threshold.

Instantly was his scimitar unsheathed, the reflex of a desert warrior. He did not look upon the gruesome sight which lay upon the stones at his feet. Rather did he, with one lightning glance, examine the room.

“Unsheath your weapons,” cried he to his daunted men. Some of them were unable to take their eyes from what lay on the stones. With the flat of his blade he struck more than one of them. “Back to back,” he said. “Stand ready!” Then he said, “Block the door!”

He looked within the cell. I saw him, outside. I was chained in a sitting position. I could not pull far against the ring of my ankle irons for my back was against the wall; I could not pull forward, nor to the side, from the wall because of the chains on my collar; my hands wire chained down and toward the wall, on each side, back from my body; I could, by the intention of my captors, exert little leverage; I was perfectly chained. Ibn Saran smiled. “Tal,” said he. I was his prisoner. “Tal,” said I. I could see his scimitar.

“What could have done this horrible thing?” asked one of his men.

“I was warned of this,” said Ibn Saran.

“A Djinn?” asked one of the men.

“Smell it?” said Ibn Saran. “Smell it! It is still here!”

I heard the Kur breathing, near me.

“Block the door!” said Ibn Saran.

The two men by the door, who had been standing there, looked about themselves, brandishing their scimitars, frightened.

“Do not fear, my fellows,” said Ibn Saran. “This is not a Djinn. It is a creature of flesh and blood. But be wary! Be wary!” He then formed his men into a line, against the far wall of the outer room, that into which the threshold gave access. “I had warning of this possibility,” he said. “It has now occurred.

Do not fear. It can be met.”

The men looked to one another, wild-eyed.

“Upon my signal,” said Ibn Saran, speaking in swift: Gorean, “attacking in a line, slash every inch of this room. He who first makes contact, let him cry out, and the others, then, must converge on that spot, cutting, as it were, the very air into pieces.”

One of the men looked at him. “There is nothing here,” he whispered.

Ibn Saran, scimitar poised, smiled. “It is here,” he said. “It is here.” Then suddenly he cried, “Ho!” and leapt forward, the blade, in rapid, diagonal figure-eight strokes, backhand upswept, shallowly curved, blade turning, forehand descending, shallowly curved, tracing its razor pattern. His right, booted foot stamped forward, his body turned to the left, minimizing target, his head to the right, maximizing vision, his rear foot at right angles to the attack line, maximizing leverage, assuring balance. His men, some of them timidly thrusting out, poking, touching, followed him. “There is nothing here, noble master,” said one of them.

Ibn Saran stood in the threshold of the cell. “It is in the cell,” he said.

I observed the scimitar. It was a wickedly curved blade. On such a blade, I knew, silk dropped, should the blade be moved, would fall parted to the floor.

Even a light stroke of such a blade, falling across an arm, would drop through the flesh, leaving its incised record, a quarter of an inch deep, in the bone beneath.

“It will be most dangerous,” said Ibn Saran, “to enter the cell. You will follow me swiftly, forming yourselves in a line, backs against the near wall.”

“Let us close the door, and lock it,” said a man, “trapping it within.”

“It would tear the bars from the window and escape,” said Ibn Saran.

“How could it do this?” asked the man.

I gathered that the man did not know the strength of Kurii. I found it of interest that Ibn Saran did.

“Such a beast,” said he, “must not be found within the cell. Its body must be disposed of.”

I could understand the reasoning of this. Few on Gor knew of the secret war of Priest-Kings and Others, the Kurii. The carcass of a Kur, lying about, would surely prompt many questions, much curiosity, perhaps shrewd speculations. It might also, of course, attract the vengeance of Kurii on the community or district involved.

“I will first enter the cell,” said Ibn Saran. “You will then follow me.” There seemed nothing soft or languid about Ibn Saran now. When there is need the men of the desert can move with swift, menacing efficiency. The contrast with their more normal, acculturated, paced form of motion, unhurried, even graceful, is startling. I further decided that Ibn Saran was a brave man.

With a cry, thrusting through the threshold of the cell, then slashing about, he leaped into the cell. His men, frightened, sped into the cell behind him, and, white-faced, backed themselves against the wall in a line behind him. No longer was the outer threshold, that opening onto the twisting, ascending stairs, guarded. The door to the cell, however, by Ibn Saran, was.

“There is nothing here, Master!” cried one of the men.

“This is madness!”

“It is gone,” I told Ibn Saran.

Ibn Saran smiled. “No,” he said. “It is here. It is here somewhere.” Then he said to his men. “Be silent! Listen!”

I could not even hear men breathing. The light fell from the barred window onto the gray stones of the straw-strewn floor. I looked at the men, the walls, the matted, dried kort rinds on the floor, near the metal dish. On the rinds the spiders continued to hunt vints.

We did hear a man calling outside, selling melons. We heard two kaiila plod by, their bells.

“The cell is empty,” said one of the men, whispering.

Suddenly one of the men of Ibn Saran screamed horribly. I looked up, in the collar, chains pulling at my throat. I jerked at my wrist chains, held. Men shrank back, “Save me!” cried the man. “Help!”

Abruptly, horribly, had he seemed, from his feet, sideways, to hurtle upward.

Ten feet in the air, against the stones of the ceiling, twisting, crying out, screaming, he writhed.

“Help me!” he cried.

“Do not break your position,” said Ibn Saran. “Hold position!”

“Please!” wept the man.

“Hold position!” said Ibn Saran.

Then the man, the sleeves of his garments, above his elbows, tight to his body, was slowly lowered.

“Please!” he said.

Then he cried out, a short cry, brief; there was a sound, exploding, velvet-soft, like a bubble of air being forced up ward through water; the side of his neck had been bittern way; arterial blood, driven by the blind pump of the heart, pulsed.

“Hold position!” cried Ibn Saran.

I admired his generalship. Had his men charged, initially, the captured man would have been hurled against them. In the breaking of their formation the Kur would have slipped away. Had they now rushed to their comrade, again the formation would be broken, and the Kur, by now, had assuredly changed his position.

Ibn Saran himself, a brave man, blocked the open door to the cell.

“Scimitars ready!” he cried. “Ho!”

Across the floor, now wet with blood, and blood-soaked straw, the men, in their line, Ibn Saran remaining at the door, charged. The blood, between the stones, formed tiny rivers.

“Aiii!” cried a man, wheeling back, horrified. There was blood on his scimitar.

He was terrified. “A Djinn!” he cried.

In that moment, Ibn Saran, at the door, thrust out, wickedly, deeply.

There was a roar of pain, a howl of rage, and I saw that his scimitar, to six inches, was splashed with bright blood of the Kur, clearly visible.

“We have it!” cried Ibn Saran. “Strike! Strike!” The men looked about. “There!” cried Ibn Saran. “The blood! The blood!” I saw a stain of blood on the floor, and then a bloody print, of a heavy, clawed foot. Then drops of blood, as if from nowhere dropping, one after the other, to the stones. “Attack at the blood!” cried Ibn Saran. The men converged at the blood, striking. I heard two more howls of rage, for twice more had they struck the beast. Then a man reeled back, turning. His face was gone.

The men now circled where the blood fell, which marked the path of the beast.

Suddenly there was a scrambling sound and I saw the bars in the small window shake and scrape, one wrenching loose, with a shower of stone and dust from the wall.

“To the window!” cried Ibn Saran. “It will escape!” He leaped to the barred window, striking madly about, against the stone. His men followed, striking, crying out.

I smiled, seeing, in the confusion the blood, drop by drop, slip to the door of the cell, move across the stones, out into the hall, and through the threshold, then up the twisting, narrow, concave stairs.

It had been an excellent diversion on the part of the Kur. It would have known it would not have had the time to wrench loose the bars and slip through the narrow window before being hacked to pieces. But the ruse had drawn Ibn Saran from the door.

Ibn Saran spun from the wall, his blade battered, nicked and dull, from pounding on the stone. He saw the blood. He cried out with rage and, turning, fled from the cell.

On the kort rinds the spiders continued to hunt vints.

“We have killed it,” said Ibn Saran. “It is dead.”

I surmised that they had had little difficulty in following the trail of blood.

The animal, at least four times, had been struck, and with the razor-sharp scimitars of the Tahari. Once, by Ibn Saran, it had been wounded to a depth of some six inches. I had adjudged this by the blood rain on the scimitar, in its rivulets. So Struck, four times, I found it not difficult to believe that the animal, even if unfound, would have sought a dark place, and there, in silence, bled to death.

“We have disposed of the body,” said Ibn Saran.

I shrugged.

“It threatened your life,” he said. “We have saved your life.”

“My gratitude,” I said.

It was midnight, in the cell. Outside, the three moons were full.

The cell had been cleaned, straw and wastes removed, rinsed down; most of the blood had been scrubbed from the stones; behind remained, here and there, only some stubborn, darkish stains; new straw had been spread: the kort rinds had been taken. Little remained to give evidence of the conflict which had earlier transpired in the chamber. Even the barred window had been repaired. The scrubbing, and cleaning, to my interest, had been done by jailers. I would have expected such work to be done by nude female slaves, in work collar, chain and ankle ring, to keep them on their knees with their brushes, but it had not been: one of the administrative penalties of he who is sent to the brine pits of Klima is commonly to he deprived of the sight of female bodies; there are no women at Klima; there is little but the salt, the heat, the slave masters and the sun; sometimes men go mad, trudging into the desert, trying to escape: but there is no water within a thousand pasangs of Klima: I would have liked to have seen a female slave, before being chained for the march to Klima; but I was not permitted this.

Often I had to force from my mind the look on the face of the second slave, she called Vella, of triumph, as she, small and lovely, luscious, freed of the rack ropes had sat up on the knotted ropes, after her testimony had confirmed that of others, of Zaya, the other girl, and Ibn Saran, sending me to the brine pits of Klima. She had been pleased. I would go to Klima. The slave girl had had her vengeance. She, with her lie, confirming those of others, had determined the matter well. Then, her testimony done, she, with the other wench, had been chained as a slave. I recalled her smile, and that I, though innocent, was to go to Klima.

I was not pleased with the female slave.

I looked up. With Ibn Saran were four men. One of them held up a tharlarion-oil lamp.

“Do you understand what it is,” asked Ibn Saran, “to be sent to Klima-to be a salt slave?”

“I think so,” I told him.

“There is the march to Klima.” said he, “through the dune country, on foot, chained, on which many die.”

I said nothing.

“And should you be so unfortunate,” said he, “to reach the vicinity of Klima, your feet must he bound with leather to your knees, for you will sink through the salt crusts to your knees, and, unprotected, your flesh, by the millions of tiny, heated crystals, would be grated and burned from your bones.”

I looked away, in the chains.

“In the pits,” he said, “you pump water through underground deposits, to wash salt, with the water, to the surface, and repump again the same water. Men die at the pumps, in the heat. Others, the carriers, in the brine, must fill their yoke buckets with the erupted sludge, and carry it from the pits to the drying tables; others must gather the salt and mold it into cylinders.” He smiled.

“Sometimes men kill one another for the lighter assignments.”

I did not look at him.

“But you,” said he, “who attempted to assassinate our noble Suleiman Pasha, will not be given light assignments.”

I pulled at the chains.

“It is the steel of Ar,” he said. “It is excellent, brought in by caravan.”

I fought the manacles.

“It will hold you quite well,” said he, “-Tarl Cabot.”

I looked at him.

“It will amuse me,” he said, “to think of Tarl Cabot, laboring in the brine pits. As I rest in my palace, in cool of the rooms, on cushions, relishing custards and berries, sipping beverages, delighted by my slave girls, among them your pretty Vella, I shall think of you, often, Tarl Cabot.”

I tore at the chains.

“The famed agent of Priest-Kings, Tarl Cabot,” he said, “in the brine pits!

Excellent! Superb!” He laughed. “You cannot free yourself,” he said, “You cannot win.”

I subsided in the chains, helpless.

“The day at Klima,” he said, “begins at dawn, and only ends at darkness. Food may be fried on the stones at Klima. The crusts are white. The glare from them can blind men. There are no kaiila at Klima. The desert, waterless, surrounds Klima, for more than a thousand pasangs on all sides. Never has a slave escaped from Klima. Among the less pleasant aspects of Klima is that you will not see females. You will note that, following your sentencing the sight of such flesh has been denied you. But then you can always think of your pretty Vella.”

In the manacles, my fists clenched.

“When I make her serve me,” he said, “I will think of you.”

“Where did you find her?” I asked.

“She has a very lively body, hasn’t she?” asked Ibn Saran.

“She is a female.” I said. “Where did you find her?”

“In a tavern in Lydius.” he said. “It is interesting. We bought her, originally, simply as a slave. We keep our eyes open for good female flesh, it is useful to our purposes, in infiltrating houses, in obtaining secrets, in seducing officers and important men, and, of course, to reward our followers and, naturally, as a simple item for exchange, a form of currency; the slave girl is usually in demand, particularly if beautiful and trained: at our wish, such women are conveniently marketable; there is little trouble in selling them; furthermore, they attract little undue commercial attention, for they are a familiar type of merchandise; thus, the slave girl, for us, if beautiful, and particularly if trained constitutes a reliable, safe, readily negotiable form of wealth”

“For anyone,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And Vella?” I asked.

“The former Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, the planet Earth?” he asked.

“You seem to have learned much,” I said.

“The Earth slave girl has taught us much,” he said. “She was a lucky catch. We were fortunate to get our chain on her collar.”

“What has she told you?” I asked.

“Whatever we wished to know,” he said.

“Oh,” I said, “I see.”

“Torture was not required,” said Ibn Saran. “Its threat was sufficient. She is only a woman. We chained her nude in a dungeon, with urts. In an hour, weeping, hysterical, she begged to speak. She was interrogated for the night. We learned all she knew. We learned much.”

“Surely you then freed her?” I asked, smiling. “For such aid?”

“It seems we promised to do so,” said he, “but, later, as I recall, it slipped our mind. We keep her slave.”

“Full slave?” I asked.

“Full slave,” he said.

“Fitting,” I said.

“She is a slave,” he said.

“I know,” I said.

“What, in particular,” I asked, “did you learn from the Earth slave girl, the former Miss Cardwell?”

“Many things,” said he, “but, doubtless of most importance, the weakness of the Nest.”

“You will now attack?” I asked.

“It will not be necessary,” he said.

“An alternate plan?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“What she told you, of course,” said I, “may not be true.”

“It tallies with the reports of other humans, who, once, long ago, fled the Sardar.”

These would have been the Nest’s humans who, following the Nest War, had elected to return to the surface of Gor.

“But are these reports true,” I asked, “or only, sincerely, believed to be true?”

“They could, of course, be implanted memories,” admitted Ibn Saran. “It could be a trick to lure an attack into a trap.”

I was silent.

“We are not unaware of such possibilities,” he said. “We have typically proceeded with caution.”

“But now it may matter less?” I asked.

“Now,” said he, “it may matter not at all. No longer need we listen with such care to the blabbering of slave girls.”

“You have a new strategy?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling.

“Perhaps you would share it with one bound for the brine pits of Klima?” I asked.

He laughed. “And you might speak it to guards, or others!”

“My tongue could be cut out,” I said.

“And your hands cut off?” he laughed. “And then good would you be in the pits?”

“How did you learn that the slave, purchased only for her beauty in Lydius, was the former Elizabeth Cardwell?” I asked.

“Fingerprints,” he said. “Her accent, certain mannerisms, suggested Earth origin. We took her prints, curious. On our records they matched those of Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, Earth, who had been brought to Gor to wear the message collar to the Tuchuks.”

I recalled the collar. When first I had seen her, her stockings in shreds, her brief, yellow, Oxford-cloth shift dusty and stained, her neck bound to a capture lance, her wrists bound behind her, on the plains of the Wagon Peoples, a captive of Tuchuks, she had worn it. She had understood so little then, been so innocent of the affairs of worlds.

Now the girl was less innocent.

“The message collar,” said Ibn Saran, “failed to bring about your death, the termination of your quest for the last egg of Priest-Kings,” He smiled. “Indeed, the girl even became your slave.”

“I freed her,” I said.

“Courtly fool,” he said. “Investigating her further, understanding she accompanied you to the Sardar, with the last egg of Priest-Kings, we looked for further connections. Soon it became clear that she had been your confederate, spying for you, in contriving the downfall of the house of Cernus, one of our ablest operatives.”

“How could you know this?” I asked.

“One who knew the house of Cernus, freed from slavery, was brought to my palace.

To her terror, he immediately identified her. We then stripped her and put her in shackles in the dungeon, with the urts. In an Ahn she begged to tell us all, and did.’’ “She betrayed Priest-Kings?” I asked.

“Completely.” said Ibn Saran.

“She serves Kurii now?” I asked.

“She serves us well,” he said. “And her body is exquisite, and delicious.”

“You are fortunate,” said I, “to possess such a slave.”

Ibn Saran nodded.

“I was interested to note, as well, said I, “that she testified that I had struck Suleiman Pasha.”

“So, too, did Zaya,” said Ibn Saran.

“That is true,” I said.

“Neither needed urging,” said Ibn Saran. “Both are slaves.”

“Vella,” said I, “is a highly intelligent, complex woman.”

“Such make the best slaves,” said Ibn Saran.

“True,” I said. Indeed, who would want to collar any other sort of woman? To take the most brilliant, the most imaginative, the most beautiful women, and put them at your feet, impassioned, helpless slaves is victory.

“She hates you,” said Ibn Saran.

“I see,” I said.

“It has to do with Lydius, it seems,” said he.

I smiled.

“It was with much pleasure that the vicious little slave falsely testified that it had been your blade which had struck Suleiman Pasha. It is with much pleasure that she sends you to the brine pits.”

“I see,” I said.

“A woman’s vengeance is not a light thing,” said Ibn Saran.

“Doubtless,” said I.

“But one thing troubled her,” said Ibn Saran, “a matter in which, fearing for herself, she was apprehensive.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“The security of Klima,” he said. “She feared you might escape.”

“Oh?” I said.

“But I assured her that there was no escape from the pits of Klima, and, thus encouraged, it was with enthusiasm that she rehearsed her testimony.”

“Pretty Vella,” I said.

He smiled.

“It is no accident,” I said, “that she was, her identity discovered, brought to the Tahari.”

“Of course not,” said Ibn Saran. “She was brought here collared, to serve me.”

“She has served you well,” I said.

“She has much aided, as we had anticipated, in your reception. She, permitted once, secretly, to look upon you in streets of Nine Wells, through the tiny veil of a haik, nude beneath, in the keeping of one of my men, later firmed, stripped on her knees before me, her lips to my feet, your identity-as Tarl Cabot, agent of Priest-Kings. And what she did not accomplish, with the message collar in land of the Wagon Peoples, she has well accomplished here on the rack in the chamber of justice.”

“She has served you well,” I said.

“She is an excellent little slave,” said Ibn Saran, “and most pleasing on the cushions.”

“Pretty Vella,” I said.

“Think often of her, Salt Slave,” said Ibn Saran, “in the pits of Klima.”

He turned, cloak swirling, and left the chamber followed by his men, the last bearing the tharlarion-oil lamp.

Outside the three moons were full.

I did not think, truly, I would be sent to the brine pits of Klima.

I was thus not surprised when, an Ahn later, that same moonlight night, before I was to be taken to Klima in the morning, two men, hooded, cloaked, furtive, appeared in the hall outside the cell door.

There would be danger in conducting or transporting a slave to Klima in these times of unrest between the Kavars and the Aretai and their vassal tribes.

It was not impossible that the penal caravan, with me, and presumably, others, would be intercepted.

If I had been Ibn Saran I would not have taken this risk.

The door to the cell opened.

“Tal, noble Ibn Saran,” said I, “and gracious Hamid, lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai.”

In Ibn Saran’s hand was his scimitar, unsheathed. I moved in the chains. They carried no light, but the moonlight, streaming through the barred window into the cell, permitted us to regard one another.

“It seems,” I said, “I am not to reach the brine pits of Klima.”

I observed the scimitar. I did not think they would slay me in the cell. This would seem, to the magistrates of Nine Wells, inexplicable, an accident demanding the most rigorous and exacting inquiry.

“You mistake us,” said Ibn Saran.

“Of course,” I said. “Actually you are agents of Priest-Kings, secretly seeming to work for Kurii. Before your men you were forced to conduct your charade of complicity in their schemes, lest your true loyalties be discovered. Doubtless you have fooled them all, and well, but not me.”

“You are perceptive,” said Ibn Saran.

“Obviously it was the intention of Kurii to kill me, for they sent one of their kind to do so. You, however, saved me from its merciless fangs.”

Ibn Saran inclined his head. He sheathed his scimitar.

“We have little time,” he said. “Outside your kaiila awaits, saddled, with a weapon, the scimitar, and water.”

“But is there no guard?” I asked.

“He was outside,” said Ibn Saran. “We have slain him for you.”

“Ah,” I said.

“We will drag the body into the cell when you have made good your swift escape.”

The manacles on my wrists and ankles were lock shackles. Hamid thrust the key in, unsnapping them. “And Hamid,” I said, “by intent, did not strike Suleiman to the death, but feigning clumsiness, wounded him only.”

“Precisely,” said Ibn Saran.

“Had I wished to kill,” hissed Hamid, “the blow would have told.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“It was essential for us, to protect appearances with Kurii, to appear to attempt to delay you, to forestall you in the completion of your inquiry for Priest-Kings.”

“Of course,” I said. “But now, appearances kept, you free me to continue my work.”

“Precisely,” said Ibn Saran.

From within his cloak Hamid produced a chisel and hammer.

“Open the collar,” I told him, “rather than merely break the links. It will take more time, but it will be more comfortable.”

“Someone will hear!” said Ibn Saran.

“I am confident,” I told him, “none will hear.” I smiled. “It is late.”

I had a special reason for wishing to delay my escape some quarter of an Ahn.

“Open the collar,” said Ibn Saran, angrily.

“It is a lovely moonlight night,” I observed. “It will thus, in my escape, make it easier for me to see my way.

Ibn Saran’s eyes flashed. “Yes,” he said.

“I am pleased,” I said, “to learn that you labor in the service of Priest-Kings.”

Ibn Saran inclined his head.

“Will my escape not require an explanation?” I asked.

“The guard was bribed,” said Ibn Saran. “Then you, in treachery, in your escape, slew him.”

“We will leave the body here, with the tools,” said Hamid.

“You are thorough,” I admitted.

I eased my neck from the collar, it scraping the sides of my neck. It hung against the stones, on the two chains. It caused me great pain to stand. I moved my arms and legs. I wondered how far I was supposed to get. If it were true that a saddled kaiila, my own, awaited, I gathered the strike would be made in the desert, probably just outside the oasis.

It must be well planned. It must be, in their opinion, foolproof, far surer than the likelihood, which would be high, of my reaching Klima in penal caravan.

I left the cell. On a table outside was clothing. I donned it. It was my own. I checked the wallet. It contained even the gems which I had placed there, after removing them from my interior belt, when I had been negotiating with Suleiman.

“Weapons?” I asked.

“The scimitar, at the saddle,” said Ibn Saran.

“I see,” I said. “And water?”

“At the saddle,” he said.

“It seems,” I said, “that it is twice I owe you my life. You have saved me this afternoon from the beast’s attack, and tonight you free me, rescuing me from the brine pits of Klima. I am indebted to you, it seems.”

“You would do as much for me,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

His eyes clouded.

“Hurry,” said Hamid. “The guard will be soon changed.”

I climbed the stairs. I strode through the outer rooms, and out the portal, onto the sand.

“Be less bold. Be more careful,” said Ibn Saran.

“No one is watching,” I assured him. I smiled. “It, is late,” I said.

I saw the kaiila. It was my own. It was saddled: water bags were at its flanks; a scimitar sheath, with weapon, on straps, hung at a saddle ring on the right. I checked the girth straps, the kaiila rein. They were in order. I hoped that the beast had not been drugged. I lifted my hand near its eye; it blinked, even to the third lid, the transparent lid; very lightly I touched its flank; the skin shook, twitching, beneath the finger.

“What are you doing?” asked Ibn Saran.

“T am greeting my kaiila,” I said.

The reflexes of the beast seemed fit. I doubted then that it had been drugged.

If it had been drugged with a quick-acting agent, the quarter of an Ahn I had purchased, delaying my escape, in demanding that the collar be removed, rather than the links broken, would have given the drug time to be evident in the behavior of the beast. I doubted that a slow drug would have been used, because time would be significant in these matters. Ibn Saran would not have cared to risk giving me an Ahn’s start on a fast kaiila. I was pleased that the animal had not, apparently, been drugged.

It suddenly occurred to me that perhaps Ibn Saran, as he proclaimed, was indeed an agent for Priest-Kings. Perhaps Hamid, too, was such an agent.

If so, my dalliance, increasing their risks, had jeopardized their lives.

I mounted.

“May your water bags be never empty,” said Ibn Saran. “May you always have water.” He put his hand on the bulging water bag, which hung behind the saddle, on the left side of the beast, balanced by another on the right. One drinks alternately from the bags, to maintain the weight distribution. Such weight, of course, slows the kaiila, but, in the desert, one must have much water.

“May your water bags be never empty,” I said. “May you always have water.”

“Ride north,” said Ibn Saran.

“My thanks,” I said, and, kicking the beast in the flanks, sand scattered back from its claws, I pressed the beast to the north.

As soon as I was out of earshot of Ibn Saran and Hamid, and among tile walls of the oasis buildings, I reined in, I looked back and noted, high, lofting in the moonlight night, an arrow, with a silver pennon attached to it. It climbed more and more slowly to the height of its are, seemed to pause, and then, gracefully, turned and looped down, faster and faster, the moonlight sparkling on the fluttering, silvered pennon.

I examined the paws of the kailla. I found that for which I searched inserted in the right forepaw of the animal. I removed from its paw the tiny, rounded ball of wax, held in place by threads: within the wax, which would soon, in the riding and pounding, and by the heat of the animal’s body, disintegrate, concealed. I found a needle; I smelled it; it was smeared with kanda, a deadly toxin, prepared from the ground roots of the kanda bush. I wiped the needle, with a ripping from my shirt sleeve, cleaning it, and discarded needle and cloth in a refuse pile.

I sampled the water in the two water bags. It was, as I expected, heavily salted. It was not drinkable.

I removed the scimitar from its sheath. It was not mine. I examined the blade and found the flaw, neatly filed, under the hilt, concealed by the guard. I tapped the blade into the sand: it fell from the hilt, which I retained in my hand, concealed both blade and hilt in the refuse pile.

I drew the kaiila back into the shadows. Two men rode by, Ibn Saran and Hamid.

I poured the salt water into the sand. It was late. I decided I would seek an inn for the night. It was late.