The judge nodded assent. The boy’s eyes shone. He stood back.
“I have never seen this, to this extent, in another man.” He looked at me. “Who are you?” he asked.
I placed salt on the back of my right wrist. “One who shares salt with you,” I said.
“It is enough,” he said.
I touched my tongue to the salt in the sweat of his right wrist, and he touched his tongue to the salt on my right wrist. “We have shared salt,” he said.
He then placed in my hand the golden tarn disk, of Ar, with which I had purchased my instruction.
“It is yours,” I said.
“How can that be?” he asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
He smiled. “We have shared salt,” he said.
I was returning to my compartment in Tor, from the tents of Farouk of Kasra. He was a merchant. He was camping in the vicinity of the city while purchasing kaiila for a caravan to the Oasis of Nine Wells. This oasis is held by Suleiman, master of a thousand lances, Suleiman of the Aretai.
It had been at my invitation that Farouk had consented to judge the passages at arms, constituting the final phases of the scimitar training.
It had not been inconvenient for him, for he was inspecting kaiila at the corrals near the southern gate of Tor.
The judging had not been difficult, either, fortunately, for the passages were clear. One passage, divided between us, adjudged as “no blood drawn,” might have been disputed. Harif had wished it awarded to me. I refused to accept it, of course, for his body had not been touched. The judge had seen the matter correctly. The stroke in question was the back-handed, ascending face stroke.
Even though the blade was sheathed I had held the stroke, holding it short, a horl from his face. The leather would have torn at his forehead, ascending, over the bridge of the nose. I did not wish to injure him. Unsheathed, followed through, of course, such a stroke would have taken off the top of his head, slashing up ward through the hood of the burnoose.
“Would you be my guest tonight in my tents?” had asked the judge, Farouk of Kasra. It had been his son who had carried the salt, who had unsheathed the claws of my kaiila. The boy had stood by, eyes shining. His name was Achmed. It had been he who had, enroute in a caravan, months before discovered the rock, on which had been inscribed ‘Beware the steel tower.
“I would be much pleased,” I told the merchant, “to dine with you this night.”
That night, when our repast had been finished, and a clothed, bangled slave woman, the property of Farouk, had rinsed our right hands with veminium water, poured over our hand, into a small, shallow bowl of beaten copper, I drew forth from my robes a small, flat, closed Gorean chronometer. It was squarish. I placed it in the hands of the boy Achmed. He opened it. He observed the tiny hands, moving. There are twenty hours, or Ahn, in the Gorean day. The hands of the Gorean chronometers do not move as the hand of the clocks of the Earth. They turn in the opposite direction. In that sense, they move counterclockwise. This chronometer, tooled in Ar, was a fine one, sturdy, exact.
It contained, too, a sweeping Ihn hand, with which the tiny Ihn could be measured. The boy watched the hands. Such instruments were rare in the Tahari region. He looked at me.
“It is yours,” I told him. “It is a gift.”
The boy placed the chronometer in the hand of his father, offering it to him.
Farouk, merchant of Kasra, smiled.
The boy then, carrying the chronometer, took it about the circle of the small fire, on the sand of the tent; before each of his kinsmen, he stopped: into the hands of each, he placed the chronometer. “I give you this,” he said. Each looked at the chronometer. Then each handed it back to the boy. The boy returned and sat next to me. He looked at his father.
“You will tell the time,” said Farouk of Kasra, “by the speed of your kaiila, by the circle and the stick, by the sun.”
“Yes, Father,” said the boy, his head down.
“But,” said his father; “you may keep the gift.”
“Oh, Father, thank you!” he cried. “Thank you!” He looked to all his kinsmen.
“Thank you,” he said to them.
They smiled.
“And you, swordsman,” said he to me, “I thank you.”
“It is nothing,” I said to him.
Farouk of Kasra looked at me. “I am pleased,” he said. Then he had asked, “What is your business, Hakim of Tor, and may I in any way be of service to you?”
It had been on the route to the Oasis of Nine Wells that the boy had seen the rock.
“I am a humble merchant,” I said. “I have a few small stones which I would like to sell at the Oasis of Nine Wells, to buy date bricks to return and sell in Tor.”
“You do not handle a sword like a merchant,” smiled Farouk of Kasra.
I smiled.
“I myself,” said Farouk of Kasra, “am soon journeying to the Oasis of Nine Wells. I should be honored if you might, with your kaiila, accompany me.”
“I should be most pleased to do so,” I told him.
“I have purchased what kaiila I need,” said Farouk.
“When will you leave?” I asked.
“At dawn,” he said.
“I must pick up a girl at the pens of Tor,” I said. “I shall join you on the trail.”
“Do you know the desert?” asked Farouk.
“No,” I said.
“Achmed,” he said. “will wait for you at the south gate.”
“I am pleased,” I said.
After coming from the tents of Farouk of Kasra, outside the walls of Tor, I was returning late to my compartment, which lay in the district of tenders and drovers.
Things, it seemed to me, were proceeding well. Enroute I would find the rock, which had been discovered, some months ago, by the boy Achmed, the son of Farouk. This rock would be the place at which my search must begin. After determining this point, I would continue on to the Oasis of Nine Wells, where I would lay in supplies and water, attempt to hire a guide, and, returning to the rock, strike eastward into the Tahari. Questioning nomads, doubtless to be found here and there in the wastes, and the inhabitants of various eases, many of them off the main caravan routes, I hoped, eventually, to obtain enough data or information to make it possible to find the mysterious tower of steel. I thought it likely that there existed such a tower. I doubted that it was a figment of the imagination of the man who had made the inscription and, thereafter, had died in the desert. Towers of steel do not figure in the hallucinations, the delusions of the desert mad. Their delusions are influenced by wish-fulfillment; they involve water. Moreover, they are not likely to take the time to inscribe messages on rocks. Something had driven the man over the desert, something he had to tell. He had been, apparently, a raider. But yet, for some reason, he had fought his way, presumably eventually on foot, dying, through the desert, toward civilization, to warn someone, or something, of a steel tower. I did not doubt there was such a tower. On the other hand, I would have little or no chance of finding it by striking blindly out into the desert. I would have to make contact with nomads, and others, hoping eventually to find one who had heard of, or knew of, the tower. If it were in the dune country, removed from eases and caravan trails, of course, few, if any, might have seen it. Yet, I did not doubt that at least one man had seen it, he who had made the inscription, who had died near it, whose body had been dried, blackened, by the sun.
The streets of Tor were dark. Sometimes they were steep; often they were narrow and crooked. Sometimes I felt my way by touching a wall. Some places a small lamp burned, high, near a doorway.
I thought I heard a step behind me. I threw back the burnoose, unsheathed the scimitar. I waited.
I heard nothing more.
I pressed on through the streets. No more did I hear a step behind me.
I looked back, the streets were dark.
I think I was not more than a half pasang from my compartment when, approaching an opened gate, some forty yards ahead, lit by torches in walls, I stopped.
It was a small courtyard, through which it was my intention to pass.
I saw the shadow, furtive, dart back behind one of the two halves of the gate.
At the same time I heard the movements of men behind me. There were five of them.
I felled the first. I felled the second. I caught the scimitars of three on my blade and leaped back. They separated, intelligently, and, crouching, edged toward me. I backed away, crouching. I hoped to draw the center man forward, to where he might, if I should move to the right, block the man on his own right, or if I moved to the left, block the man on his own left. But he hung back, the two on the sides creeping forward. Whichever man I attacked need only defend himself; the other two would have a free instant, that of his defense, to make their own strokes. These men were not common street thieves.
Suddenly the three men stopped. I tensed. One man threw down his scimitar. All three of them turned and fled.
Behind me I heard the doors of the courtyard swing shut. I heard the beam, locking it, fall in place.
I turned. I could see nothing for the closed gate. The torches, high on the walls of the courtyard, flickered, casting pools of yellow light on the plaster walls.
Then I heard a human scream of horror from the other side of the gate.
I did not know at that time how many men were waiting in the courtyard. I do not think any of them escaped.
I waited, scimitar drawn, outside the closed gate of the courtyard.
High above, in a wall to my right, a light appeared. “What is going on?” cried a man.
Lights appeared in others of the high, narrow windows. I saw men looking out. I saw one woman, holding her veil to her face, peering out.
In what could not have been more than two or three Ehn, men, carrying torches, some of them lamps, emerged into the street. We could hear, too, men on the other side of the courtyard. Within the courtyard we then heard men moving. I heard a woman scream. I could see movement, and torches, in the vertical thread of space between the two halves of the gate.
