John Norman - Nomads of Gor

Kamchak’s hand closed on mine and we clasped hands.

“Where is the egg?” I asked.

“Where would you think to find it?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” I said. “If I did not know better, I would expect to have found it in the wagon of Kutaituchik the wagon of the Ubar of the Tuchuks.”

“I approve of your conjecture,” he said, “but Kutaituchik, as you know, was not the Ubar of the Tuchuks.”

I gazed at him.

“I am Ubar of the Tuchuks,” he said.

“You mean” I said.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “the egg has been in my wagon for two years.”

“But I lived in your wagon for months!” I cried.

“Did you not see the egg?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “It must have been marvellously concealed.”

“What does the egg look like?” he asked.

I sat still on the back of the kaiila. “I don’t know,” I said.

“You thought, perhaps,” he asked, “it would be golden and spherical?”

“Yes,” I said, “I did.”

“It was for such a reason,” he said, “that we Tuchuks dyed the egg of a tharlarion and placed it in the wagon of Kutaituchik, letting its position be known.”

I was speechless, and could not respond to the Tuchuk.

“I think,” said he, “you have often seen the egg of Priest-Kings, for it lies about in my wagon. Indeed, the Paravaci who raided my wagon did not regard it as of sufficient interest to carry away.”

“That!” I cried.

“Yes,” said he, “the curiosity, the grey, leathery object that.”

I shook my head in disbelief.

I recalled Kamchak sitting on the grey, rather squarish, grained thing with the rounded corners. I recalled he had moved it about with his foot, that once he had kicked it across the wagon for me to examine.

“Sometimes,” said Kamchak, “the way to conceal something is not to conceal It, it is thought that what is of value will be hidden, and so it is natural to suppose that what is not hidden will not be of value.”

“But,” I said, my voice trembling, “you rolled it about you would throw it to the side of the wagon once you even kicked it across the rug to me that I might examine it.” I looked at him, incredulously. “Even,” I said, “did you dare to sit upon it”

“I shall hope,” chuckled Kamchak, “that the Priest-Kings will take no offence, but understand that such little bits of acting rather well carried off, I think were important parts of my deception.”

I smiled, thinking of Misk’s joy at receiving the egg. “They will take little offence,” I said.

“Do not fear the egg was injured,” said Kamchak, “for to injure the egg of Priest-Kings I would have had to use a quiva or axe.”

“Wily Tuchuk,” I said.

Kamchak and Harold laughed

“I hope,” I said, “that after this time the egg is still”

Kamchak shrugged. “We have watched it,” he said, “we have done what we could.”

“And I and Priest-Kings are grateful to you,” I said.

Kamchak smiled. “We are pleased to be of service to Priest-Kings,” he said, “but remember that we reverence only the sky.”

“And courage,” added Harold, “and such things.”

Kamchak and I laughed.

“I think it is because at least in part,” I said, “that you reverence the sky and courage and such things that the egg was brought to you.”

“Perhaps,” said Kamchak, “but I shall be glad to be rid of it, and besides it is nearly the best time for hunting tumits with the bola”

“By the way, Ubar,” asked Harold, winking at me, “what was it you paid for Aphris of Turia?”

Kamchak threw him a look that might have been a quiva in the heart.

“You have found Aphris!” I cried.

“Albrecht of the Kassars,” remarked Harold, casually, “picked her up while raiding the Paravaci camp.”

“Wonderful!” I cried.

“She is only a slave, and unimportant,” growled Kamchak.

“What did you pay for her return?” inquired Harold, with great innocence.

“Almost nothing,” muttered Kamchak, “for she is nearly worthless.”

“I am very pleased,” I said, “that she is alive and well and I gather that you were able to purchase her from Albrecht of the Kassars without difficulty.”

Harold put his hand over his mouth and turned away, sniggering, and Kamchak’s head seemed to sink angrily into his shoulders.

“What did you pay?” I asked.

“It is hard to outwit a Tuchuk in a bargain,” remarked Harold, turning back, rather confidently.

“It will soon be time to hunt tumits,” growled Kamchak, looking off across the grass toward the wagons beyond the walls.

Well did I recall how Kamchak had made Albrecht of the Kassars pay dearly for the return of his little darling Tenchika, and how he had roared with laughter because the Kassar had paid such a price, obviously having allowed himself to care for a mere slave girl, and she a Turian at that

“I would guess,” said Harold, “that so shrewd a Tuchuk as Kamchak, the very Ubar of our wagons, would have paid no more than a handful of copper tarn disks for a wench of such sorts.”

“The tumits run best this time of year rather toward the Cartius,” observed Kamchak.

“I’m very happy,” I said, “to hear that you have Aphris back. She cared for you, you know.”

Kamchak shrugged.

“I have heard,” said Harold, “that she does nothing but sing around the bosk and in the wagon all day I myself would probably beat a girl who-insisted on making all that noise.”

“I think,” said Kamchak, “I will have a new bola made for the hunting.”

“He is, of course,” observed Harold, “quite handsome.”

Kamchak growled menacingly.

“At any rate,” continued Harold, “I know that he would have upheld the honour of the Tuchuks in such matters and driven a hard bargain with the unwary Kassar.”

“The important thing,” I said, “is that Aphris is back and safe.” We rode on for a while more. Then I asked, “By the way, as a matter of fact, what did you pay for her?”

Kamchak’s face was black with rage. He looked at Harold, who smiled innocently and questioningly, and then at me, who was only honestly curious. Kamchak’s hands were like white clubs knotted on the reins of the kaiila. “Ten thousand bars of gold,” he said.

I stopped the kaiila and regarded him, astounded. Harold began to pound his saddle and howl with laughter.

Kamchak’s eyes, had they been jets of fire, would have frizzled the young, blond Tuchuk in his saddle.

“Well, well,” I said, a certain regrettable malicious elation perhaps unfortunately detectable in my voice.

Now Kamchak’s eyes would have frizzled me as well.

Then a wry glint of amusement sparkled in the Tuchuk’s eyes and the furrowed face wrinkled into a sheepish grin.

“Yes,” he said, “Tarl Cabot, I did not know until then that I was a fool.”

“Nonetheless, Cabot,” remarked Harold, “do you not think, all things considered, he is on the whole albeit unwise n certain matters an excellent Ubar?”

“On the whole,” I agreed, “albeit perhaps unwise in certain Matters an excellent Ubar.”

Kamchak glared at Harold, and then at me, and then he looked down, scratching his ear; then he looked at us again, and all three of us suddenly burst together into laughter, and tears even streamed down Kamchak’s face, running here and there among the scarred furrows on his cheeks.

“You might have pointed out,” said Harold to Kamchak, “that the gold was Turian gold.”

“Yes,” cried Kamchak, “that is true it was Turian gold!”

He cracked his fist on his thigh. “Turian gold”

“One might claim,” said Harold, “that that makes quite a difference.”