John Norman - Nomads of Gor

I heard Harold’s voice in the darkness, sounding hollow against the tiled walls and over the water. “The tiles must be periodically inspected,” he said, “and for this purpose there are foot knots in the rope.”

I breathed a sigh of relief. It is one thing to descend a long rope and quite another, even in the lesser gravity of Gor, to climb one particularly one as long as that which I now saw dimly above me.

The foot knots were done with subsidiary rope but worked into the fibre of the main rope and glued over so as to be almost one with it. They were spaced about every ten feet on the rope. Still, even resting periodically, the climb was an exhausting one. More disturbing to me was the prospect of bringing the golden sphere down the rope and under the water and through the underground stream to the place where we had embarked on this adventure. Also, I was not clear how Harold, supposing him to be successful in his shopping amongst the ferns and flowers of Saphrar’s Pleasure Gardens, intended to conduct his squirming prize along this unscenic, difficult and improbable route.

Being an inquisitive chap, I asked him about it, some two or three hundred feet up the rope “In escaping,” he informed me, “we shall steal two tarns and make away.”

“I am pleased to see,” I said, “that you have a plan.”

“Of course,” he said, “I am Tuchuk.”

“Have you ever ridden a tarn before?” I asked him.

“No,” he said, still climbing somewhere above me.

“Then how do you expect to do soy” I inquired, hauling myself up after him.

“You are a tarnsman, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Very well,” said he, “you will teach me.”

“It is said,” I muttered, “that the tarn knows who is a tarnsman and who is not and that it slays him who is not.”

“Then,” said Harold, “I must deceive it.”

“How do you expect to do that?” I asked.

“It will be easy,” said Harold. “I am a Tuchuk.”

I considered lowering myself down the rope and returning to the wagons for a bottle of Paga. Surely tomorrow would be as propitious a day as any for my mission. Yet I did not care to pursue again that underground stream nor, particularly, on some new trip to Turia, to swim once more against it. It is one thing to roll about in a public bath or splash about in some pool or stream, but quite another to struggle for pasangs against a current in a tunnel channel with only a few inches between the water and the roof of the tunnel.-

“It should be worth the Courage Scar,” said Harold from above, “don’t you thinly so?”

“What?” I asked.

“Stealing a wench from the House of Saphrar and returning on a stolen tarn.”

“Undoubtedly,” I grumbled. I found myself wondering if the Tuchuks had an Idiocy Scar. If so, I might have nominated the young man hoisting himself up the rope above me as a candidate for the distinction.

Yet, in spite of my better judgment, I found myself somehow admiring the confident young fellow.

I suspected that if anyone could manage the madness on his mind it would surely be he, or someone such as he, someone quite as courageous, or daft.

On the other hand, I reminded myself, my own probabilities of success and survival were hardly better and here I was, his critic climbing up the drum rope, wet, cold, puking, a stranger to the city of Turia, intending to Steal an object the egg of Priest-Kings which was undoubtedly, by now, as well guarded as the Home Stone of the city itself. I decided that I would nominate both Harold and myself for an Idiocy Scar and let the Tuchuks take their pick.

It was with a feeling of relief that I finally got my arm over the crossbar of the windlass and drew myself up. Harold bad already taken up a position, looking about, near the edge of the well. The Turian wells, incidentally, have no raised wall, but are, save for a rim of about two inches in height, flat with the level. I joined Harold. We were in an inclosed well yard, surrounded by walls of about sixteen feet in height, with a defender’s catwalk about the inside. The walls provide a means for defending the water and also, of course, considering the number of wells in the city, some of which, by the way, are fed by springs, provide a number of defensible enclaves should portions of the city fall into enemy hands. There was an archway leading from the circular well yard, and the two halts of the timbered, arched gate were swung back and fastened on both sides. It was necessary only to walk through the archway and find ourselves on one of the streets of Turia. I had not expected the entry to the city to be so easy so to speak.

“The last time I was here,” said Harold, “was over five years ago.”

“Is it far to the House of Saphrar?” I asked.

“Rather far,” he said. “But the streets are dark.”

“Good,” I said. “Let us be on our way.” I was chilly in the spring night and my clothes, of course, were soaked. Harold did not seem to notice or mind this inconvenience. The Tuchuks, to my irritation, tended on the whole not to notice or mind such things. I was pleased the streets were dark and that the way was long.

“The darkness,” I said, “will conceal somewhat the wetness of our garments and by the time we arrive we may be rather dry.”

“Of course,” said Harold. “That was part of my plan.”

“Oh,” I said.

“On the other hand,” said Harold, “I might like to stop by the baths.”

“They are closed at this hour, are they not?” I asked.

“No,” said he, “not until the twentieth hour.” That was midnight of the Gorean day.

“Why do you wish to stop by the baths?” I asked.

“I was never a customer,” he said, “and I often wondered like yourself apparently if the bath girls of Turia are as lovely as it is said.”

“That is all well and good,” I said, “but I think it would be better to strike out for the House of Saphrar.”

“If you wish,” said Harold. “After all, I can always visit I the baths after we take the city.”

“Take the city?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Harold.

“Look,” I said to him, “the bosk are already moving away the wagons will withdraw in the morning. The siege is over. Kamchak is giving up.”

Harold smiled. He looked at me. “Oh, yes,” he said.

“But,” I said, “if you like I will pay your way to the baths.”

“We could always wager,” he suggested.

“No,” I said firmly, “let me pay.”

“If you wish,” he said.

I told myself it might be better, even, to come to the House of Saphrar late, rather than possibly before the twentieth hour. In the meantime it seemed reasonable to while away some time and the baths of Turia seemed as good a place as any to do so.

Arm in arm, Harold and I strode under the archway leading from the well yard.

We had scarcely cleared the portal and set foot in the street when we heard a swift rustle of heavy wire and, startled, looking up, saw the steel net descend on us.

Immediately we heard the sound of several men leaping down to the street and the draw cords on the wire net probably of the sort often used for snaring sleen began to tighten. Neither Harold nor myself could move an arm or hand and, locked in the net, we stood like fools until a guardsman kicked the feet out from under us and we rolled, entrapped in the wire, at his feet.

“Two fish from the well,” said a voice.

“This means, of course,” said another voice, “that others know of the well.”

“We shall double the guard,” said a third voice.

“What shall we do with them?” asked yet another man.

“Take them to the House of Saphrar,” said the first man.

I twisted around as well as I could. “Was this,” I asked Harold, “a part of your plan?”