John Norman - Nomads of Gor

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.