point to some article, and hold up a certain number of fingers. The vendor would then hold up a higher number, sometimes bending his fingers at the knuckle to indicate a fraction of the value unit, which would be, presumably, the copper tarn disk. The steward might then improve his offer, or prepare to depart. The vendor would then either let him go or lower his price, by expressionlessly lifting fewer fingers than before. When either party called off the bargaining, his fists were closed. If a sale had been made, the steward would take a number of pierced coins, threaded on a string hung about his left shoulder, hand them to the vendor, pick up his article and depart. When words were exchanged, they were whispered and curt.
As I left the marketplace, I noted two men, furtive, round- shouldered in their nondescript grey robes, who followed me. Their faces were concealed in the folds of their garments, which had been drawn over their heads in the manner of a hood. Spies, I thought. It was an intelligent precaution for Tharna to take, to keep an eye on the stranger, lest her hospitality be abused. I made no effort to elude their surveillance, for that might perhaps have been interpreted as a breach of etiquette on my part, perhaps even a confession of villainous intention. Besides, as they did know that I knew they followed me, this gave me a certain advantage in the matter. It was possible, of course, that they were merely curious. After all, how many scarlet-clad warriors appeared from day to day in the drab streets of Tharna?
I climbed one of the towers of Tharna, wanting to look out upon the city. I emerged on the highest bridge I could find. It was railed, as most Gorean briges, high or low, are not. Slowly I let my eye wander the city, surely in its people and their customs one of the most unusual on Gor. Tharna, though a city of cylinders, did not seem to my eye as beautiful as many other cities I had seen. This was perhaps the cylinders were, on the whole, less lofty than those of other cities, and much broader, giving an impression of a set of squat, accumulated disks, so different from the lofty forests of sky-challenging towers and battlements distinguishing most Gorean cities. Moreover, in contrast to most cities, the cylinders of Tharna seemed excessively solemn, as if overcome by their own weight. They were scarcely distinguishable from one another, an aggregate of greys and browns, so different from the thousand gay colours that gleamed in most cities, where each cylinder in towering splendour lodged its claim to be the bravest and most beautiful of all.
Even the horizontal plains about Tharna, marked by their occasional outcroppings of weathered boulders, seemed to be grey, rather cold and gloomy, perhaps sad. Tharna was not a city to lift the heart of a man. Yet I knew that this city was, from my point of view, one of the most enlightened and civilised on Gor. In spite of this conviction, incomprehensibly, I found myself depressed by Tharna, and wondered if it, in its way, were not somehow, subtly, more barbaric, more harsh, less human than its ruder, less noble, more beautiful sisters. I determined that I should try to secure a tarn and proceed as quickly as possible to tha Sardar Mountains, to keep my appointment with the Priest- Kings. 'Stranger,' said a voice.
I turned.
One of the two nondescript men who had been following me had approached. His face was concealed in the folds of his robe. With one hand he held the folds together, lest the wind should lift the cloth and reveal his face, and with the other hand, he clutched the rail on the bridge, as if uncomfortable, uneasy at the height.
A slight rain had begun to fall.
'Tal,' I said to the man, lifting my arm in the common Gorean greeting. 'Tal,' he responded, not taking his arm from the rail. He approached me, more closely than I liked.
'You are a stranger in this city,' he said.
'Yes,' I said.
'Who are you, Stranger?'
'I am a man of no city,' I said, 'whose name is Tarl.' I wanted no more of the havoc I had wreaked earlier by the mere mention of the name of Ko-ro-ba.
'What is your business in Tharna?' he asked.
'I should like to obtain a tarn,' I said, 'for a journey I have in mind.' I had answered him rather directly. I assumed him to be a spy, charged with learning my reasons for visiting Tharna. I scorned to conceal this reason, though the object of my journey I reserved to myself. That I was determined to reach the Sardar Mountains he need not know. That I had business with the Priest-Kings was not his concern.
'A tarn is expensive,' he said.
'I know,' I said.
'Have you money?' he asked.
'No,' I said.
'How then,' he asked, 'do you propose to obtain your tarn?'
'I am not an outlaw,' I said, 'though I wear no insignia on my tunic, or shield.'
'Of course not,' he said quickly. 'There is no place in Tharna for an outlaw. We are a hard-working and honest folk.'
I could see that he did not believe me, and somehow I did not believe him either. For no good reason I began to dislike him. With both hands I reached to his hood and jerked it from his face. He snatched at the cloth and replaced it quickly. I had caught a brief glimpse of a sallow face, with skin like a dried lemon and pale blue eyes. His comrade, who had been furtively peering about, started forward and then stopped. The sallow-faced man, clutching the folds of the hood about his face, twisted his head to the left and the right to see if anyone might be near, if anyone might have observed.
'I like to see to whom I speak,' I said.
'Of course,' said the man ingratiatingly, a bit unsteadily, drawing the hood even more closely about his features.
'I want to obtain a tarn,' I said. 'Can you help me?' If he could not, I had decided to terminate the interview.
'Yes,' said the man.
I was interested.
'I can help you obtain not only a tarn,' said the man, 'but a thousand golden tarn disks and provisions for as lengthy a journey as you might wish.'
'I am not an assassin,' I said.
'Ah!' said the man.
Since the siege of Ar, when Pa-Kur, Master Assassin, had violated the limits of his caste and had presumed, in contradiction to the traditions of Gor, to lead a horde upon the city, intending to make himself Ubar, the Caste of Assassins had lived as hated, hunted men, no longer esteemed mercenaries whose services were sought by cities, and, as often by factions within cities. Now many assassins roamed Gor, fearing to wear the sombre black tunic of their caste, disguised as members of other castes, not infrequently as warriors.
'I am not an assassin,' I repeated.
'Of course not,' said the man. 'The Caste of Assassins no longer exists.' I doubted that.
'But are you not intrigued, Stranger,' asked the man, his pale eyes squinting up at me through the folds of the grey robe, 'by the offer of a tarn, gold and provisions?'
'What must I do to earn this?' I asked.
'You need kill no one,' said the man.
'What then?' I said.
'You are bold and strong,' he said.
'What must I do?' I asked.
'You have undoubtedely had experience in affairs of this sort,' suggested the man.
'What would you have me do?' I demanded.
'Carry off a woman,' he said.
The light drizzle of rain, almost a gray mist matching the miserable solemnity of Tharna, had not abated, and had, by now, soaked through my garments. The wind, which I had not noticed before now, seemed cold. 'What woman?' I asked.
'Lara,' said he.
'And who is Lara?' I asked.
'Tatrix of Tharna,' he said.
Chapter Nine: THE KAL-DA SHOP
Standing there on the bridge, in the rain, facing the obsequious, hooded conspirator, I felt suddenly sad. Here even in the noble city of Tharna there was intrigue, political strife, ambition that would not brook confinement. I had been taken for an assassin, or an outlaw, been assessed as a likely instrument for the furtherance of the foul schemes of one of Tharna' s dissatisfied factions.
'I refuse,' I said.
The small lemon-faced man drew back as if slapped. 'I represent a personage of power in this city,' he said.
'I wish no harm to Lara, Tatrix of Tharna,' I told him.
'What is she to you?' asked the man.
'Nothing,' I said.
'And yet you refuse?'
'Yes,' I said, 'I refuse.'
'You are afraid,' he said.
'No,' I said, 'I am not afraid.'
'You will never get your tarn,' hissed the man. He turned on his heel and still clinging to the railing on the bridge scurried to the threshhold of the cylinder, his comrade before him. At the threshhold he called back. 'You will never leave the walls of Tharna alive,' he said.
'Be it so,' I said, 'I will not do your bidding.'
The slight, grey-robed figure, almost as insubstantial as the mist itself, appeared ready to leave, but suddenly hesitated. He appeared to waver for a moment, then he briefly conferred with his companion. They seemed to reach some agreement. Cautiously, his companion remaining behind, he edged out onto the bridge again.
'I spoke hastily,' he said. 'No danger will come to you in Tharna. We are a hard-working and honest folk.'
