She did so and the judge, holding her teeth apart roughly with his hands, peered within. There was blood in her mouth. The girl had been swallowing it, rather than show she had been struck.
It seemed to me she was a brave, fine girl.
It was with a kind of shock that I suddenly realized that she, and Dina of Turia, now belonged to Kamchak and myself.
The two girls, while Elizabeth Cardwell looked on angrily, knelt before Kamchak and myself, lowering their heads, lifting and extending their arms, wrists crossed. Kamchak, chuckling, leaped down from his kaiila and quickly, with binding fiber, bound their wrists. He then put a leather thong on the neck of each and tied the free ends to the pommel of his saddle. Thus secured, the girls knelt beside the paws of his kaiila. I saw Dina of Turia look at me. In her eyes, soft with tears, I read the timid concession that I was her master. 'I do not know what we need with all these slaves,' Elizabeth Cardwell was saying.
'Be silent,' said Kamchak, 'or you will be branded.' Elizabeth Cardwell, for some reason, looked at me in fury, rather than Kamchak. She threw back her head, her little nose in the air, her brown hair bouncing on her shoul- dcrs.
Then for no reason I understood, I took binding fiber and bound her wrists before her body, and, as Kamchak had done with the other girls, put a thong on her neck and tied it to the pommel of my saddle.
It was perhaps my way of reminding her, should she forget, that she too was a slave.
'Tonight, Little Barbarian,' said Kamchak, winking at her, 'you will sleep chained under the wagon.'
Elizabeth stifled a cry of rage.
Then Kamchak and I, on kaiila-back, made our way back to our wagon, leading the bound girls.
'The Season of Little Grass is upon us,' said Kamchak. 'Tomorrow the herds will move toward Turia.'
I nodded. The Wintering was done. There would now be the third phase of the Omen Year, the Return to Turia. It was now, perhaps, I hoped, that I might learn the answer to the riddles which had not ceased to disturb me, that I might learn the answer to the mystery of the message collar, perhaps the answer to the numerous mysteries which had attended it, and perhaps, at last, find some clue, as I had not yet with the wagons, to the whereabouts or fate of the doubtless golden spheroid that was or had been the last egg of Priest-Kings.
'I will take you to Turia,' said Kamchak.
'Good,' I said.
I had enjoyed the Wintering, but now it was done. The bask were moving south with the coming of the spring. I and the wagons would go with them.
There was little doubt that I, in the worn, red tunic of a warrior, and Kamchak, in the black leather of the Tuchuks, seemed somewhat out of place at the banquet of Saphrar, merchant of Turia.
'It is the spiced brain of the Turian vulo,' Saphrar was explaining.
It was somewhat surprising to me that Kamchak and I, being in our way ambassadors of the Wagon Peoples, were entertained in the house of Saphrar, the merchant, rather than in the palace of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia. Kamchak's explanation was reasonably satisfying. There were apparently two reasons, the official reason and the real reason. The official reason, proclaimed by Phanius Turmus, the Administrator, and others high in the govern- ment, was that those of the Wagon Peoples were unworthy to be entertained in the administrative palace; the real rea- son, apparently seldom proclaimed by anyone, was that the true power in Turia lay actually with the Caste of Mer- chants, chief of whom was Saphrar, as it does in many cities. The Administrator, however, would not be uninformed. His presence at the banquet was felt in the person of his plenipo- tentiary, Kamras, of the Caste of Warriors, a captain, said to be Champion of Turia.
I shot the spiced vulo brain into my mouth on the tip of a golden eating prong, a utensil, as far as I knew, unique to Turia. I took a large swallow of fierce Paga, washing it down as rapidly as possible. I did not much care for the sweet, syrupy wines of Turia, flavored and sugared to the point where one could almost leave one's fingerprint on their surface. It might be mentioned, for those unaware of the fact, that the Caste of Merchants is not considered one of the tradi- tional five High Castes of Gor the Initiates, Scribes, Physi- cians, Builders and Warriors. Most commonly, and doubtless unfortunately, it is only members of the five high castes who occupy positions on the High Councils of the cities. Nonethe- less, as might be expected, the gold of merchants, in most cities, exercises its not imponderable influence, not always in so vulgar a form as bribery and gratuities, but more often in the delicate matters of extending or refusing to extend credit in connection with the projects, desires or needs of the High Councils. There is a saying on Gor, 'Gold has no caste.' It is a saying of which the merchants are fond. Indeed, secretly among themselves, I have heard, they regard themselves as the highest caste on Gor, though they would not say so for fear of rousing the indignation of other castes. There would be something, of course, to be said for such a claim, for the merchants are often indeed in their way, brave, shrewd, skilled men, making long journeys, venturing their goods, risking caravans, negotiating commercial agreements, among themselves developing and enforcing a body of Merchant Law, the only common legal arrangements existing among the Gorean cities. Merchants also, in effect, arrange and administer the four great fairs that take place each year near the Sardar Mountains. I say 'in effect' because the fairs are nominally under the direction of a committee of the Caste of Initiates, which, however, largely contents itself with its cere- monies and sacrifices, and is only too happy to delegate the complex management of those vast, commercial phenomena, the Sardar Fairs, to members of the lowly, much-despised Caste of Merchants, without which, incidentally, the fairs most likely could not exist, certainly not at any rate in their current form.
'Now this,' Saphrar the merchant was telling me, 'is the braised liver of the blue, four-spired Cosian wingfish.' This fish is a tiny, delicate fish, blue, about the size of a tarn disk when curled in one's hand; it has three or four slender spines in its dorsal fin, which are poisonous; it is capable of hurling itself from the water and, for brief dis- tances, on its stiff pectoral fins, gliding through the air, usually to evade the smaller sea-tharlarions, which seem to be immune to the poison of the spines. This fish is also some _ APHRIS OF 85 times referred to as the songfish because, as a portion of its courtship rituals, the males and females thrust their heads from the water and utter a sort of whistling sound. The blue, four-spired wingfish is found only in the waters of Cos. Larger varieties are found farther out to sea. The small blue fish is regarded as a great delicacy, and its liver as the delicacy of delicacies.
'How is it,' I asked, 'that here in Turia you can serve the livers of wingfish?'
'I have a war galley in Port Kar,' said Saphrar the merchant, 'which I send to Cos twice a year for the fish.' Saphrar was a short, fat, pinkish man, with short legs and arms; he had quick bright eyes and a tiny, roundish red- lipped mouth; upon occasion he moved his small, pudgy fingers, with rounded scarlet nails, rapidly, as though rubbing the gloss from a tarn disk or feeling the texture of a fine cloth; his head, like that of many merchants, had been shaved; his eyebrows had been removed and over each eye four golden drops had been fixed in the pinkish skin; he also had two teeth of gold, which were visible when he laughed, the upper canine teeth, probably containing poison; mer- chants are seldom trained in the use of arms. His right ear had been notched, doubtless in some accident. Such notching, I knew, is usually done to the ears of thieves; a second offense is normally punished by the loss of the right hand; a third offense by the removal of the left hand and both feet. There are few thieves, incidentally, on Gor. I have heard, though, there is a Caste of Thieves in Port Kar, a strong caste which naturally protects its members from such indignities as ear notching. In Saphrar's case, of course, he being of the Caste of Merchants, the notching of the ear would be a coincidence, albeit one that must have caused him some embarrassment. Saphrar was a pleasant, gracious fel- low, a bit indolent perhaps, save for the eyes and rapid fingers. He was surely an attentive and excellent host. I would not Rave cared to know him better.
'flow is it,' I asked, 'that a merchant of Turia has a war galley in Port Kar.'
Saphrar reclined on the yellow cushions, behind the low table covered with wines, fruits and golden dishes heaped with delicate viands.
'I did not realize Port Kar was on friendly terms with any of the inland cities,' I said.
'She is not,' said Saphrar.
'Then how?' I asked.
He shrugged. 'Gold has no caste,' he said.
I tried the liver of the wingfish. Then another swig of Saga.
Saphrar winced.
'Perhaps,' he suggested, 'you would like a piece of roasted bask meat?'
I replaced the golden eating prong in its rack beside my place, shoved back the glittering dish in which lay several theoretically edible objects, carefully arranged by a slave to resemble a bouquet of wild Bowers sprouting from a rock outcropping. 'Yes,' I said, 'I think so.'
Saphrar conveyed my wishes to the scandalized Feast Stew- arc, and he, with a glare in my direction, sent two young slaves scampering off to scour the kitchens of Turia for a slice of bask meat.
I looked to one side and saw Kamchak scraping another plate clean, holding it to his mouth, sliding and shoving the carefully structured design of viands into his mouth. I glanced at Saphrar, who was now leaning on his yellow cushions, in his silken pleasure robes, white and gold, the colors of the Caste of Merchants. Saphrar, eyes closed, was nibbling on a tiny thing, still quivering, which had been impaled on a colored stick.
I turned away and watched a fire swallower perform to the leaping melodies of the musicians.
'Do not object that we are entertained in the house of Saphrar of the Merchants,' Kamchak had said, 'for in Turia power lies with such men.'
I looked down the table a bit at Kamras, plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia. He was a large- wristed strong man with long, black hair. He sat as a warrior, though in robes of silk. Across his face there were two long scars, perhaps from their delicacy the scars of quiva wounds. He was said to be a great warrior, indeed, to be champion of Turia. He had not spoken with us nor acknowl- edged our presence at the feast.
'Besides,' Kamchak had told me, nudging me in tile ribs, 'the food and the entertainment is better in the house of Saphrar than in the palace of Phanius Turmus.'
I would still, I told myself, settle for a piece of bask meat.
I wondered how the stomach of Kamchak could sustain the delightful injuries he was heaping into it with such gusto.
APHRIS 0P TURIA
To be sure, it had not. The Turian feast usually consumes the better part of a night and can have as many as a hundred and fifty courses. This would be impractical, naturally, save for the detestable device of the golden bowl and tufted banquet stick, dipped in scented oils, by means of which the diner may, when he wishes, refresh himself and return with eagerness to the feast. I had not made use of this particular tool, and had contented myself with merely taking a bite or two, to satisfy the requirements of etiquette, from each course.
The Turians, doubtless, regarded this as a hopelessly bar- barian inhibition on my part.
