Outlaw of Gor

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."

"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."

I did not much care for the prospect of emerging again into the cold, rainy night, of tramping once more through the streets, miserable, chilled to the bone, looking for a place to eat and sleep. I took a coin from the leather sack and threw it to the proprietor. He snatched it expertly from the air like a skeptical cormorant. He examined the coin. It was a silver tarn disk. He bit against the metal, the muscles on his jaw bulging in the lamplight. A trace of avaricious pleasure appeared in his eyes. I knew he would not care to return it.

"What caste is it?" I demanded.

The proprietor smiled. "Money has no caste," he said.

"Bring me food and drink," I said.

I went to an obscure, deserted table near the back of the room, where I could face the door. I leaned my shield and spear against the wall, set the helmet beside the table, unslung the sword belt, laying the weapon across the table before me, and prepared to wait.

I had hardly settled myself behind the table when the proprietor had placed a large, fat pot of steaming Kal-da before me. It almost burned my hands to lift the pot. I took a long, burning swig of the brew and though, on another occasion, I might have thought it foul, tonight it sang through my body like the bubbling fire it was, a sizzling, brutal irritant that tasted so bad and yet charmed me so much I had to laugh.

And laugh I did.

The men of Tharna who were crowded in that place looked upon me as though I might be mad. Disbelief, lack of comprehension, was written on their features. This man had laughed. I woundered if men laughed often in Tharna. It was a dreary place, but the Kal-da had already made it appear somewhat more promising.

"Talk, laugh!" I said to the men of Tharna, who had said not a word since my entrance. I glared at them. I took another long swig of Kal-da and shook my head to throw the swirling fire from eyes and brain. I seized my spear from the wall and pounded it on the table.

"If you cannot talk," I said, "if you cannot laugh, then sing!" They were convinced they were in the presence of one demented. It was, I suppose, the Kal-da, but I like to think, too, it was just impatience with the males of Tharna, the intemperate expression of my exasperation with this grey, dismal place, its glum, solemn, listless inhabitants. The men of Tharna resfused to budge from their silence.

"Do we not speak the Language?" I asked, referring to the beautiful mother tongue spoken in common by most of the Gorean cities. "Is the Language not yours?" I demanded.

"It is," mumbled one of the men.

"Then why do you not speak it?" I challenged.

The man was silent.

The proprietor arrived with hot bread, honey, salt and, to my delight, a huge, hot roasted chunk of tarsk. I crammed my mouth with food and washed it down with another thundering draught of Kal-da.

"Proprietor!" I cried, pounding on the table with my spear.

"Yes, Warrior," cried he.

"Where are the Pleasure Slaves?" I demanded.

The proprietor seemed stunned.

"I would see a woman dance," I said.

The men of Tharna seemed horrified. One whispered, "There are no Pleasure Slaves in Tharna."

"Alas!" I cried, "not a bangle in all Tharna!"

Two or three of the men laughed. At last I had touched them.

"Those creatures that float in the street behind masks of silver," I asked, "are they truly women?"

"Truly," said one of the men, restraining a laugh.

"I doubt it," I cried. "Shall I fetch one, to see if she will dance for us?"

The men laughed.

I had pretended to rise to my feet, and the proprietor, with horror, had shoved me back down, and rushed for more Kal-da. His strategy was to pour so much Kal-da down my throat that I would be unable to do anything but roll under the table and sleep. Some of the men crowded around the table now.

"Where are you from?" asked one eagerly.

"I have lived all my life in Tharna," I told them.

There was a great roar of laughter.

Soon, pounding the time on the table with the butt of my spear, I was leading a raucous round of songs, mostly wild drinking songs, warrior songs, songs of the encampment and march, but too I taught them songs I had learned in the caravan of Mintar the Merchant, so long ago, when I had first loved Talena, songs of love, of loneliness, of the beauties of one" s cities, and of the fields of Gor.

The Kal-da flowed free that night and thrice the oil in the hanging tharlarion lamps needed to be renewed by the sweating, joyful proprietor of the Kal-da shop. Men from the streets, dumbfounded by the sounds which came from within, pressed through the squat door and soon had joined in. Some warriors entered, too, and instead of attempting to restore order had incredibly taken off their helmets, filled them with Kal-da and sat cross-legged with us, to sing and drink their fill.

The lights in the tharlarion lamps had finally flickered and gone out, and the chill light of dawn at last bleakly illuminated the room. Many of the men had left, more had perhaps fallen on the tables, or lay along the sides of the room. Even the proprietor slept, his head across his folded arms on the counter, behind which stood the great Kal-da brewing pots, at last empty and cold. I rubbed the sleep from my eyes. There was a hand on my shoulder.

"Wake up," demanded a voice.

"He" s the one," said another voice, I seemed to remember.

I struggled to my feet, and confronted the small, lemon-faced conspirator. "We" ve been looking for you," said the other voice, which I now saw belonged to a burly guardsman of Tharna. Behind him in their blue helmets stood three others.

"He" s the thief," said the lemon-faced man, pointing to me. His hand darted to the table where the bag of coins lay, half spilled out in the dried puddles of Kal-da.

"These are my coins," said the conspirator. "My name is stitched into the leather of the sack." He shoved the sack under the nose of the guardsman. "Ost," read the guardsman. It was also the name of a species of tiny, brightly orange reptile, the most venemous on Gor.

"I am not a thief," I said. "He gave me the coins."

"He is lying," said Ost.

"I am not," I said.

"You are under arrest," said the guardsman.

"In whose name?" I demanded.

"In the name of Lara," said the man, "Tatrix of Tharna."