'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.'
'I am pleased to hear that,' I said.
Then to my surprise he pressed a small, heavy leather sack of coins into my hand. He smiled up at me, a twisted grin visible through the obscuring folds of the grey robe. 'Welcome to Tharna!' he said, and fled across the bridge and into the cylinder.
'Come back!' I cried, holding the bag of coins out to him. 'Come back!' But he was gone.
At least this night, this rainy night, I would not sleep again in the fields, for thanks to the puzzling gift of the hooded conspirator, I had the means to purchase lodging. I left the bridge, and descended through the spiral stairwell of the cylinder, soon finding myself on the streets again. Inns, as such, are not plentiful on Gor, the hostility of cities being what it is, but usually some can be found in each city. There must, after all, be provision made for entertaining merchants, delegations from other cities, authorised visitors of one sort or another, and to be frank the innkeeper is not always scrupulous about the credentials of his guests, asking few questions if he receives his handful of copper tarn disks. In Tharna, however, famed for its hospitality, I was confident that inns would be common. It was surprising then that I could locate none.
I decided, if worst came to worst, that I could always go to a simple Paga Tavern where, if those of Tharna resembled those of Ko-ro-ba and Ar, one might, curled in a rug behind the low tables, unobtrusively spend the night for the price of a pot of Paga, a strong, fermented drink brewed from the yellow grains of Gor' s staple crop, Sa-Tarna, or Life- Daughter. The expression is related to Sa-Tassna, the expression for meat, or for food in general, which means Life-Mother. Paga is a corruption of Pagar-Sa-Tarna, which means Pleasure of the Life- Daughter. It was customary to find diversions other than Paga in the Paga Taverns as well, but in grey Tharna the cymbals, drums and flutes of the musicians, the clashing of bangles on the ankles of dancing girls would be unfamiliar sounds.
I stopped one of the anonymous, grey-robed figures hurrying through the wet, cold dusk.
'Man of Tharna,' I asked, 'where can I find an inn?'
'There are no inns in Tharna,' said the man, looking at me closely. 'You are a stranger,' he said.
'A weary traveler who seeks lodging,' I said.
'Flee, Stranger,' said he.
'I am welcome in Tharna,' I said.
'Leave while you have time,' he said, looking about to see if anyone were listening.
'Is there no Paga Tavern near,' I asked, 'where I can find rest?' 'There are no Paga Taverns in Tharna,' said the man, I thought with a trace of amusement.
'Where can I spend the night?' I asked.
'You can spend it beyond the walls in the fields,' he said, 'or you can spend it in the Palace of the Tatrix.'
'It sounds to me as though the Palace of the Tatrix were the more comfortable,' I said.
The man laughed bitterly. 'How many hours, Warrior,' asked he, 'have you been within the walls of Tharn?'
'At the sixth hour I came to Tharna,' I said.
'It is then too late,' said the man, with a trace of sorrow, 'for you have been within the walls for more than ten hours.'
'What do you mean?' I asked.
'Welcome to Tharna,' said the man, and hurried away into the dusk. I had been disturbed by this conversation and without really intending it had begun to walk to the walls. I stood before the great gate of Tharna. The two giant beams that barred it were in place, beams that could only be moved by a team of broad tharlarions, draft lizards of Gor, or by a hundred slaves. The gates, bound with their bands of steel, studded with brass plates dull in the mist, the black wood looming over me in the dusk, were closed.
'Welcome to Tharna,' said a guard, leaning on his spear in the shadows of the gate.
'Thank you, Warrior,' I said, and turned back to the city.
Behind me I heard him laugh, much the same bitter laugh that I had heard from the citizen.
In wandering through the streets, I came at last to a squat portal in the wall of a cylinder. On each side of the door, in a small niche sheltered from the drizzle, there sputtered the yellow flame of a small tharlarion oil lamp. By this flickering light I could read the faded lettering on the door: KAL-DA SOLD HERE.
Kal-da is a hot drink, almost scalding, made of diluted Ka- la-na wine, mixed with citrus juices and stinging spices. I did not care much for this mouth-burning concoction, but it was popular with some of the lower castes, particularly those who performed strenuous manual labour. I expected its popularity was due more to its capacity to warm a man and stick to his ribs, and to its cheapness (a poor grade of Ka- la-na wine being used in its brewing) than to any gustatory excellence. But I reasoned on this night of all nights, this cold, depressing wet night, a cup of Kal-da might go well indeed. Moreover, where there was Kal-da there should be bread and meat. I thought of the yellow Gorean bread, baked in the shape of round, flat loaves, fresh and hot; my mouth watered for a tabuk steak or, perhaps, if I were lucky, a slice of roast tarsk, the formidable six-tusked wild boar of Gor' s temperate forests. I smiled to myself, felt the sack of coins in my tunic, bent down and pushed the door open.
I descended three steps, and found myself in a warm, dimly lit, low-ceilinged room, cluttered with the low tables common on Gor, around which huddled groups of five or six of the grey-robed men of Tharna. The murmer of conversation ceased as I entered. The men regarded me. There seemed to be no warriors in the room. None of the men appeared to be armed. I must have seemed strange to them, a scarlet-clad warrior, bearing weapons, suddenly entering, a man from another city unexpectedly in their midst.
'What is your business?' asked the proprietor of the place, a small, thin, bald-headed man wearing a short- sleeved grey tunic and slick black apron. He did not approach, but remained behind the wooden counter, slowly, deliberately wiping the puddles of spilt Kal-da from the stained surface. 'I am passing through Tharna,' I said. 'And I would like to purchase a tarn to continue my journey. Tonight I want food and lodging.'
'This is not a place,' said the man, 'for one of High Caste.'
I looked about, at the men in the room, into the dejected, haggard faces. In the light it was difficult to determine their caste for they all wore the grey robes of Tharna and only a band of colour on the shoulder indicated their station in the social fabric. What struck me most about them had nothing to do with caste, but rather their lack of spirit. I did not know if they were weak, of if they merely thought poorly of themselves. They seemed to me to be without energy, without pride, to be flat, dry, crushed men, men without self-respect.
'You are of high caste, of the Caste of Warriors,' said the proprietor. 'It is not proper that you should remain here.'
