John Norman - Nomads of Gor

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.”