Tribesmen of Gor

11 Red Rock, Where Salt is Shared; Hassan and I Encounter Tarna

“You do not wear bells on your kaiila harness!” said the man, threatening its with his lance.

“We come in peace,” said Hassan. “Have you seen, or heard aught, of a tower of steel?”

“You are mad!” cried the man.

Hassan turned aside his kaiila, with its single rein, and continued our journey, his nine men, myself, and the slave girl, Alyena, following, on our kaiila.

Standing afoot, in the dust, with his lance, the nomad watched us turn away.

Behind him was a herd of eleven verr, browsing on brownish snatches of verr grass. He would have defended the small animals with his life. Their milk and wool was his livelihood, and that of his family.

“Perhaps there is no steel tower,” I suggested to Hassan.

“Let us continue our search,” he said.

I had now seen the Tahari in many moods. For twenty days we had been upon the desert.

Once, when a rising edge of blackness, whipping with dust, had risen in the south, we had dismounted, hobbled our kaiila and turned their backs to the wind.

We had made a wall with our packs and crouched behind it, drawing our burnooses about us. Hassan, in his own burnoose, sheltered the girl, Alyena, commonly keeping her wrists braceleted behind her, that she not forget she was slave. For two days the sand bad hurtled about us, and we had waited, in the manner of the Tahari, patiently in the blasting half darkness of the sand. We had scarcely moved, save to pass about a verrskin of water and a leather pouch of Sa-Tarna meal. Then, as swiftly as it had come, the sand fled, and the sun, bright and immediate, raw with its ferocity and beauty, held again, untroubled, forgetful, the scepter, the constant, merciless mace, of its light and heat over the wide land.

Hassan was the first to stand. He shook the sand from his burnoose. He unbraceleted Alyena. She stretched like a she-sleen. Sand was banked against the wall of packs.

“A terrible storm,” I said.

He smiled. “You are not of the Tahari,” he said. “Be pleased that now, in the spring, the wind did not blow from the east.” Then he said to Alyena, “Make tea.” “Yes, Master,” she said, happily.

Two days later there had been rain.

The flies had now gone.

I had, at first, welcomed the clouds, and thrown back my burnoose to feel the swift, fierce rain pelt my face. The temperature fell by more than fifty degrees in a matter of Ehn. Alyena, too, was much pleased. The men of the Tahari, however, sought quickly the highest ground in the vicinity. There is little rain erosion in the Tahari, with the result that there are few natural and ready paths to convey water. When it falls, it often falls heavily, and on flat land, in the loose dust. Within minutes of the rain beginning to fall we had to dismount, to drag and pull our struggling, frightened kaiila to higher ground, They sank to their knees in the mud, snorting, eyes rolling, and we, mud to our hips, pushing and pulling, sometimes actually seizing one of their mired limbs, freeing it and moving it, brought them to the place Hassan had designated, the Joe side of a rocky formation.

Hassan put Alyena, whom be had carried, beside him.

“This is only the fourth time,’’ he said, “I have seen rain.”

“It is beautiful!” cried Alyena.

“Can one drown in such mud?” I asked.

“It is unlikely,” said Hassan. “It is not as deep as a man. Small animals, in effect, swim in it. The danger is primarily that the kaiila may, struggling, and falling, break their limbs.” I noted that Hassan’s men had thrown blankets over the heads of the kaiila, to prevent them from seeing the storm, and keep rain from striking their faces, which phenomenon, frightening them, tends to make them unmanageable.

“One must not, of course,” said Hassan, “camp in a dried watercourse. A storm, of which one is unaware, perhaps pasangs away, can fill such a bed with a sudden flow of water, washing away one’s camp and endangering life.”

“Are men often drowned in such accidents?” I asked.

“No,” said Hassan. “Men of the Tahari do not camp in such places. Further, those who are foolish enough to do so, can usually, struggling and washed along, save themselves.”

Many men of the Tahari, incidentally, and interestingly, can swim. Nomad boys learn this in the spring, when the waterholes are filled. Those who live at the larger, more populous oases can learn in the baths. The “bath” in the Tahari is not a matter of crawling into a small tub but is more in the nature, as on Gor generally, of a combination of cleaning and swimming, and reveling in the water, usually connected with various oils and towelings. One of the pleasures at the larger oases is the opportunity to bathe. At Nine Wells, for example, there are two public baths.

Within an Ahn after the cessation of the rain, the sun again paramount, merciless, in the now-cloudless sky, the footing was sufficiently firm, the water lost under the dust and sand, to support the footing of kaiila. The animals were unhooded, we mounted, and again our quest continued.

It was only a day later that the flies appeared. I had thought, first, it was another storm. It was not. The sun itself, for more than four Ehn, was darkened, as the great clouds moved over us. Suddenly, like darting, black, dry rain, the insects swarmed about us. I spit them from my mouth. I heard Alyena scream. The main swarms had passed but, clinging about us, like crawling spots on our garments, and in and among the hairs of the kaiila, in their thousands, crept the residue of the infestation. I struck at them, and crushed them, until I realized the foolishness of doing so. In less than four Ahn, twittering, fluttering, small, tawny, sharp-billed, following the black clouds, came flights of zadits. We dismounted and led the kaiila, and let the birds hunt them for flies. The zadits remained with us for more than two days. Then they departed.

The sun was again merciless. I did not find myself, however, longing for a swift return of rain.

“Where, friend,” asked Hassan, of another no-mad, “is the steel tower?” “I have never heard of such,” said he, warily. “Surely in the Tahari there are no towers of steel.”

And we continued our quest.

The Tahari is perhaps most beautiful at night. During the day one can scarcely look upon it, for the heats and reflections. During the day it seems menacing, whitish, shimmering with heat, blinding, burning, men must shade their eyes; some go blind: women and children remain within the tents: but, with the coming of the evening, with The departure of the sun, there is a softening, a gentling, of this vast, rocky harsh terrain. It is at this time that Hassan, the bandit, would make his camps. As the sun sank, the hills, the dust and sky, would become red in a hundred shades, and, as the light fades, these reds would become gradually transformed into a thousand of the glowing tones of gold which, with the final fading light in the west, yield to a world of luminous, then dusky, blues and purples. Then, it seems suddenly, the sky is black and wide and high and is rich with the reflected sands of stars, like clear bright diamonds burning in the soft, sable silence of the desert’s innocent quietude. At these times, Hassan, cross-legged, would sometimes sit silently before his tent. We did not then disturb him. Oddly enough he permitted no one near him at such times but the collared slave girl, Alyena. She, alone, only female and slave, would be beside him, lying beside him, her head at his left knee. Sometimes he would, in these times, stroke her hair, or touch the side of her face, almost gently, almost as though her throat were not encircled by a collar. Then after the stars would be high for an Ahn or so, he would, suddenly, laughing, seize the girl by the arms and throw her on her back on the mats, thrust up her dress and rape her as the mere slave she was. Then he would, knot her skirt over her head, confining her arms within it, and throw her, she laughing, to his men, and to me, for our sport.

“No,” said a man, I have seen no tower of steel nor have I heard of such. How can there be such a thing?”

“My thanks, Herder,” said Hassan, and again led us on our quest.

The camps of nomads were becoming less frequent. Oases were becoming rare.

We were moving east in the Tahari.

Some of the nomads veil their women, and some do not. Some of the girls decorate their faces with designs, drawn in charcoal. Some of the nomad girls are very lovely. The children of nomads, both male and female, until they are five or six years of age, wear no clothing. During the day they do not venture from the shade of the tents. At night, as the sun goes down, they emerge happily from the tents and romp and play. They are taught written Taharic by their mothers, who draw the characters in the sand, during the day, in the shade of the tents. Most of the nomads in this area were Tashid, Which is a tribe vassal to the Aretai.

It might be of interest to note that children of the nomads are suckled for some eighteen months, which is nearly twice the normal length of time for Earth infants, and half again the normal time for Gorean infants. These children, if it is significant, are almost uniformly secure in their families, sturdy, outspoken and self-reliant. Among the nomads, interestingly, an adult will always listen to a child. He is of the tribe. Another habit of nomads, or of nomad mothers, is to frequently bathe small children even if it is only with a cloth and a cup of water. There is a very low infant mortality rate among nomads, in spite of their limited diet and harsh environment. Adults, on the other hand, may go months without washing. After a time one grows used to the layers of dirt and sweat which accumulate, and the smell, offensive at first, is no longer noticed.

“Young warrior,” asked Hassan, of a youth, no more than eight, “have you heard aught of a tower of steel?”

His sister, standing behind him, laughed. Verr moved about them, brushing against their legs.

The boy went to the kaiila of Alyena. “Dismount, Slave,” he said to her.

She did so, and knelt before him, a free male. The boy’s sister crowded behind him. Verr bleated.

“Put back your hood and strip yourself to the waist,” said the boy. Alyena shook loose her hair; she then dropped her cloak back, and removed her blouse.

“See how white she is!” said the nomad girl.

“Pull down your skirt,” said the boy.

Alyena, furious, did so, it lying over her calves.

“How white!” said the nomad girl.

The boy walked about her, and took her hair in his bands. “Look,” said he to his sister, “silky, fine and yellow and long.’’ She, too, felt the hair. The boy then walked before Alyena. “Look up,” said he. Alyena lifted her eyes, regarding him. “See,” said he to his sister, bending down. “She has blue eyes!”

“She is white, and ugly,” said the girl, standing up, backing off.

“No,” said the boy, “she is pretty.”

“If you like white girls,” said his sister.

“Is she expensive?” asked the boy of Hassan.

“Yes,” said Hassan, “young warrior. Do you wish to bid for her?”

“My father will not yet let me own a girl,” said the youngster.

“Ah,” said Hassan, understanding.

“But when I grow up,” said he’ “I shall become a raider, like you, and have ten such girls. When I see one I want, I will carry her away, and make her my slave.” He looked at Hassan. “They will serve me well, and make me happy.

“She is ugly,” said the boy’s sister. “Her body is white.”

“Is she a good slave?” asked the boy of Hassan.

“She is a stupid, miserable girl,” said Hassan, “who must be often beaten.”

“Too bad,” said the boy.

“Tend the verr,” said his sister, unpleasantly.

“If you were mine,” said the boy to Alyena, “I would tolerate no nonsense from you. I would make you be a perfect slave.”

“Yes, Master,” said Alyena, stripped before him, her teeth gritted.

“You may clothe yourself,” said the boy.

“Thank you, Master,” said Alyena. She pulled up her skirt and drew on her blouse, adjusted her cloak and hood. Whereas she could dismount from the kaiila blanket, which served her as saddle, she could not, unaided, reach its back. I, with my left band under her foot, lifted her to her place. “The little beast!” whispered Alyena to me, in English. I smiled.

“Have you seen, or heard, aught, young warrior,” asked Hassan, “of a tower of steel?”

The boy looked at him and laughed. “Your slave, Raider,” said he, indicating the irritated Alyena, now again mounted, well vexed, on her kaiila, “apparently makes your tea too strong.”

Hassan nodded his head, graciously. “My thanks, young warrior,” said he.

We then left the boy, and his sister, and their verr. She was scolding him about the verr. “Be quiet,” he told her, “or I will sell you to raiders from Red Rock.

In a year or two you will be pretty enough for a collar.” He then skipped away as she, shouting abuse, flung a rock after him. When we looked back again they were prodding their verr, leading them, doubtless, away from their camp. On our kaiila harness, we knew, we wore no bells.

“The oasis of the Battle of Red Rock,” said Hassan to me, “is one of the few outpost oases maintained by the Aretai. To its west and south is mostly Kavar country.”

At noon of the next day, I cried out, “There is the oasis.”

“No,” said Hassan.

I could see the buildings, whitish, with domes, the palms, the gardens, the high, circling walls of red clay.

I blinked. This seemed to me no illusion. “Can you not see it?” I asked Hassan, the others.

“I see it!” said Alyena.

“We, too, see it,” said Hassan, “but it is not there.”

“You speak in riddles, “ I said.

“It is a mirage,” said he.

I looked again. It seemed to me unlikely that this was a mirage. I was familiar with two sorts of mirages on the desert, of the sort which might be, and often were, seen by normal individuals under normal circumstances, not the mirages of the dehydrated body, the sun-crazed brain, not private hallucinatory images. The most common sort of mirage is simply the interpretation of heat waves, shimmering on, the desert, as the ripples in water, as in a lake or pond. When the sky is reflected in this rising, heated air, the mirage is even more striking, because then the surface of the “lake,” reflecting the sky, seems blue, and, thus, even more waterlike. A second common sort of mirage, more private than the first, but quite normal, is the interpretation of a mixed terrain, usually rocks and scrub brush, mixed with rising heat waves, as an oasis with water, palms and buildings. Perception is a quite complicated business, involving the playing of energies on the sensors, and the transduction of this energy into an interpreted visual world. All we are in physical contact with, of course, is the energy applied to the sensors. These physical energies are quite different from the “human world” of our experience, replete with color, sound and light. There is, of course, a topological congruence between the world of physics and the world of experience. Evolution has selected for such a congruence. Our experiential world, though quite unlike the world of physics, is well coordinated with it. If it were not we could not move our physical bodies conveniently among physical objects, manage to put our hands on things we wished to touch, and so on. Different sensory systems, as in various types of organisms, mean different experiential worlds. Each of these, however, the world of the man, the cuttlefish, the butterfly, the ant, the sleen, the Priest-King is congruent, though perhaps in unusual ways, with the presumably singular, unique physical world. Beyond this, perception is largely a matter of interpreting a flood of cues, or coded bits, out of which we construct a unified, coherent, harmonious world. Though the eye is a necessary condition for seeing, one does not, so to speak, “see” with the eye, but, oddly enough, with the brain. If the optic nerve, or, indeed, certain areas of the brain, could be appropriately stimulated one could have visual experiences without the use of eyes. Similarly, if the eye were in perfect condition, but the visual centers of the brain were defective, one could not “see.” Perhaps it is more correct to speak of a system of components necessary for visual experience, but, even if so, it is well to understand that what impinges upon the eyes are not visual realities but electromagnetic radiations. Further, what one sees is a function not simply of what exists in the external world, but of a number of other factors as well, for example, what one has familiarly seen before, what one expects to see, what others claim is there to be seen, what one wants to see, the physical condition of the organism, its conditioning and socialization, the conceptual and linguistic categories available to the organism, and so on. It is thus not unusual that, in a desert situation, a calm, normal person may, misinterpreting physical cues, make an oasis, complete with buildings and trees, out of energies reflected over a heated surface from rock and brush. There is nothing unusual in this sort of thing.

But this did not seem to me a mirage sort of experience. I rubbed my eyes. I changed the position of my head. I closed and opened my eyes.

“No,” I said. “I see an oasis clearly.”

“It is not there,” said Hassan.

“Does the oasis of the Battle of Red Rock have, at its northeast rim, a kasbah, with four towers?”

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“Then I see it,” I said.

“No,” said Hassan.

“There are palm groves, five of them,” I said.

“Yes.” he said.

“Pomegranate orchards lie at the east of the oasis.” I said. “Gardens lie inward. There is even a pond, between two of the groves of date palms.”

“True,” said Hassan.

“There is Red Rock,” I said.

“No.” said Hassan.

“I could not imagine these things,” I said. “I have never been to Red Rock.

Look. There is a single gate in the kasbah, facing us. On the towers two flags fly.”

Petitions,” said Hassan, “of the Tashid and Aretai.”

“I shall race you to the oasis,” I said.

“It is not there,” he said. “We shall not arrive there until tomorrow, past noon.”

“I see it!” I protested.

“I shall speak clearly,” said Hassan. “You see it and you do not see it.”

“I am glad,” I said, “that you have chosen to speak clearly. Had you spoken obscurely I might not have understood.”

“Ride ahead,” suggested Hassan.

I shrugged, and kicked the kaiila in the flanks, urging downward, from the sloping hill, toward the oasis. I had ridden for no more than five Ehn when the oasis vanished. I reined in the kaiila. Before me was nothing but the desert.

I was sweating. I was hot. Before me was nothing but the desert.

“It is an interesting phenomenon, is it not?” asked Hassan, when he, and the others, had joined me. “The oasis, which is some seventy pasangs distant, is reflected in the mirror of air above it, and then again reflected downward and away, at an angle.”

“It is like mirrors?” I asked.

“Precisely,” said Hassan, “with layers of air the glass. A triangle of reflected light is formed. Red Rock, more than seventy pasangs away, is seen, in its image, here.”

“It is only then an optical illusion?’’ I asked.

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“But did it not seem real to you?” I asked.

“Of course,” he said.

“How did you know it was not Red Rock?” I asked.

“I am of the Tahari,” he said.

“Did it look different to you?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“Then how could you tell?” I asked.

He shrugged. “I am of the Tahari,” he said.

“But how could you tell?” I asked.

“By distances and times,” he said. “We had not come far enough, nor at our pace, fast enough, for it to be Red Rock.”

“Seeing it,” I said, “one who was unwise, and not of the Tahari, might ration water unwisely, and die.”

“In the Tahari,” said Hassan, “it is well to be of the Tahari, if one would live.”

“I will try to be of the Tahari,” I said.

“I will help you,” said Hassan.

It was the next day, at the eleventh Ahn, one Ahn past the Gorean noon, that we arrived at the Oasis of Red Rock.

It was dominated by the kasbah of its pasha, Turem a’Din, commander of the local Tashid clans, on its rim to the northeast. There were five palm groves. At the east of the oasis lay pomegranate orchards. Toward its lower parts, in its center, were the gardens. Between two of the groves of date palms there was a large pool. The kasbah contained a single gate. On the summits of its four towers flew petitions, those of the Tashid and Aretai.

“Do you fear to enter the oasis of a vassal tribe of the Aretai?” asked Hassan.

“We are far from Nine Wells,” I said.

“I think, too, there is little danger,” said Hassan.

We entered the oasis slowly, single file, in caravan style. There is almost always a constant, hot wind on the Tahari. Our burnooses lifted behind us, slowly, swelling, over the flanks of our animals. The girl, Alyena rode next to the last in our line, in the position of least status; she was followed by one of Hassan’s men, the guard; such a guard is commonly posted; he, from time to time, watches the trail behind the caravan and, of course, prevents the escape of slave girls.

The oasis, which we were entering, is named for the Battle of Red Rock, which is a large shelf of reddish sandstone behind the oasis, north by northeast from its lowest point, and center. It was used as the vantage point for the Aretai commander at that time, Hammaran, who also launched at a crucial point in the struggle, his picked cavalry, and bodyguard, from that height, turning the battle’s tide. The Tashid commander of the time, Ba’Arub, died on the shelf of red stone, with ten men, trying to reach Hammaran. It was said that he came within ten yards of him. Ba’Arub was, it was said, a brave man. It was also believed that if he had stood siege in his kasbah, in time Hammaran would have been forced to retire. It is difficult to maintain a lengthy siege in the Tahari. Food supplies at the oasis are short, except for the stores in the kasbah, and supply lines are long, and difficult to defend. Had Ba’Arub destroyed or fouled the public wells at Red Rock, those outside the walls of the kasbah, Hammaran would have been forced to retire in twenty-four hours, and perhaps lose most of his men on the return march to his country. But, being of the Tahari, Ba’Arub, as it is told in the stories, related about the campfires, would not do this. It is said he came within ten yards of Hammaran.

Men regarded us with some curiosity, as is common when newcomers arrive at an oasis, but I detected neither apprehension nor hostility. The wars and raids, I gathered, had not touched Red Rock.

A child ran beside the stirrup of Hassan, playing. “You have no bells on your kaiila,” said the child.

“They were stolen by raiders,” said Hassan. The boy laughed and ran beside him.

“We shall seek an inn,” said Hassan.

The battle of Red Rock, for which the oasis is named, took place more than seventy years ago, in 10,051 C.A., or in the sixth year of the reign of Ba’Arub Pasha. Since that time the Tashid have been a vassal tribe of the Aretai. Though there are some token tributes involved, exemptions for Aretai merchants from caravan taxes, and such, the vassal tribe is, in its own areas, almost completely autonomous, with its own leaders, magistrates, judges and soldiers.

The significance of the relationship is, crucially, interestingly, military alliance. The vassal tribe is bound, by its Tahari oaths, sworn over water and salt, to support the conquering tribe in its military endeavors, with supplies, kaiila and men. The vassal tribe is, in effect, a military unit subordinate to the conquering tribe which it, then, may count among its forces. Enemies conquered become allies enlisted. One’s foe of yesterday becomes one’s pledged friend of today. The man of the Tahari, conquered, stands ready, his scimitar returned to him, to defend his conqueror to the death. The conqueror, by his might and cunning, and victory, has won, by the right of the Tahari, a soldier to his cause. I am not clear on the historical roots of this unusual social institution but it does tend, in its practice, to pacify great sections of the Tahari. War, for example, between conquering tribes and rebellious vassal tribes is, although not unknown, quite rare, Another result, perhaps unfortunate, however, is that the various tribes tend to build into larger and larger confederations of militarily related communities. Thus, if war should erupt between the high tribes, the conquering tribes, the entire desert might become engulfed in hostilities. This was what was in danger of happening now, for the Aretai and the Kavars were the two high tribes of the Tahari. Not all tribes, of course, are vassal or conquering tribes. Some are independent. War, incidentally, between vassal tribes is not unknown. The high tribes need not, though often they do, support vassal tribes in their squabbles; the vassal tribes, however, are expected to support the high, or noble, tribes, in their altercations. Sometimes, it is made quite clear, by messenger and proclamation, whether a war is local or not, say, between only the Ta’Kara and the Luraz, who have some point of dispute between them. All in all, the relation of vassal tribe to conquering tribe probably contributes more to the peace of the Tahari than to its hostilities. It is fortunate that some such arrangement exists for the men of the Tahari, like Goreans generally, are extremely proud, high-strung, easily offended men, with a sense of honor that is highly touchy. Furthermore, enjoying war, they need very little to send them to their saddles with their scimitars loose in their sheaths. A rumor of an insult or outrage, not inquired closely into, perhaps by intent, will suffice, A good fight, I have heard men of the Tahari say, licking their lips, justifies any cause. It may be appropriate here to mention that the reason that Hammaran came to Red Rock seventy years ago is not even known, by either Aretai or Tashid. The cause of the war was forgotten, but its deeds are still recounted about the fires. There were seventy men in the bodyguard of Hammaran. When the battle was lost to him, Ba’Arub tried to reach him. It is said he came within ten yards.

“We shall stop here,” said Hassan, reining in before an inn. We dismounted. We took the packs from our kaiila, the saddles and accouterments. Boys came out to meet us, to take our kaiila to the stables. Two of Hassan’s men went with them, to see that the animals were well cared for. One of Hassan’s men helped Aleyna to dismount. She took short steps and went to kneel beside Hassan, her head down, at his left thigh.

“Stand, Slave,” he said to her.

“Yes, Master.” she said.

He took one of the water bags, which was still full, which held some twenty gallons of water.

“Carry this burden, Slave,” he said.

“Yes. Master,” she said.

He threw it over her shoulders. She gasped. She bent forward, her hands steadying the bag. It was heavy for the slight beauty. She almost lost her balance. If she dropped it, she would be much beaten.

The men then gathered their saddles, their weapons, the other water and goods, and their belongings. Alyena waited for us, bent, face strained, bearing across her small shoulders the weight of the water.

Each man carried his own saddle. Saddles are prized on the Tahari and each man cares for his own, and sees to its safety. Among nomads they are brought into the tent each night, and placed on the right side of the tent, at the back.

The water which we had brought with us would not now be wasted but, by Tahari custom, emptied into the cistern of the inn. In this fashion the water is still used, and, to some extent, it saves the inn boys from carrying as much water as they might otherwise do, from the wells of the oasis, to the inn’s cistern. In leaving an oasis, of course, similarly, as a courtesy to the inn, and its hospitality, the bags are commonly filled not at the cistern, but at the public well.

Hassan then, carrying his saddle and other belongings, went into the inn. His men, and I, followed him. Last to enter the inn, head down, was Alyena.

“Here, Slave,” said one of the inn boys to her, indicating the way to the inn’s cistern. Alyena, slowly, half stumbling, followed him. He did not, of course, help her. She emptied the water into the cistern. Those of Hassan’s men who carried water, too, emptied the water into the cistern. Before Alyena returned to us, the boy brushed back her hood, revealing her hair and face. His hand was in her hair. “You are a pretty slave,” he said. “Thank you, Master,” whispered Alyena. He turned her head from side to side. Then he released her, snapping his fingers and pointing to his feet. She knelt before him, and kissed his feet, her hair falling over them. He then turned away. She rose to her feet and went to kneel beside Hassan, who was sitting at a bench before a table. She knelt perpendicular to his thigh, and put her head gently, sideways, on his left leg.

He handled her head and hair with a rough gentleness, sometimes running his fingers, caressing her, between her throat and the collar.

“Have you heard aught of a tower of steel?” Hassan was asking the master of the inn.

None, it seemed, at Red Rock had either seen, or heard, of so strange an architectural oddity as a tower of steel in the desert.

This was irritating to Hassan, and did not much please me either, for the oasis of the Battle of Red Rock was the last of the major oases of the Tahari for more than two thousand pasangs eastward; it lay, in effect, on the borders of the dreaded dune country; there are oases in the dune country but they are small and infrequent, and often lie more than two hundred pasangs apart; in the sands they are not always easy to find: among the dunes one can, unknowingly, pass within ten pasangs of an oasis, missing it entirely. Little but salt caravans ply the dune country. Caravans with goods tend to travel the western. Or distant eastern edge of the Tahari; caravans do, it might be mentioned, occasionally travel from Tor or Kasra to Turmas, a Turian outpost and kasbah, in the southeastern edge of the Tahari, but even these commonly avoid the dune country, either moving south, then east, or east, then south, skirting the sands. Few men, without good reason, enter the dune country.

I had little doubt, nor did Hassan, that it was within the dune country that lay the steel tower, if there was indeed such an unusual edifice.

It seemed reasonably clear that if such were not the case someone, nomad or merchant, or innkeeper or drover, or guide or soldier, would have heard of it.

But such a tower might exist in the dune country for ten thousand years, remote and undiscovered.

The Others, the Kurii, had stopped slave runs from Earth to Gor. “Surrender Gor,” had been the ultimatum delivered to the Sardar. A Kur, alone, had been apprehended, apparently on his way to the dune country. A message had been inscribed on a rock: Beware the steel tower. And a message girl had been brought to Samos, of Port Kar. Her message, revealed in the shaving of her bead, had been “Beware Abdul.” Only that portion of the mystery seemed well solved. Abdul had been the lowly water carrier in Tor, a minor agent, presumably of Others, the Kurii, who had wished to keep me from the Tahari. That part of the mystery only had I now well solved. Still, however, I did not know who had sent the message. I wondered on the Kur, which had entered, invisible, my cell at Nine Wells. He had been much wounded. He had not killed me. Ihn Saran had told me the beast had been slain. There was much, yet, which I did not understand.

“We shall leave in the morning,” said Hassan to me, stretching. “None here seem to know of a steel tower.”

Indeed, to my surprise, word of the attack, putatively by Aretai, on the Bakah oasis of Two Scimitars, of some days ago, had not yet seemed to reach Red Rock.

None here spoke of it. Had they known of the raid it would, surely, have been the topic of pervasive converse in the oasis. It seemed to me clear that none here, at least of the common population, knew of it. Had it truly been by Aretai I had no doubt but what the oasis would be preparing itself, even now, for Kavar reprisals. It was not odd, of course-, for Red Rock not to have yet heard of the attack. It was explained so simply as by no man yet having brought them the news. No one had yet journeyed to them, who knew of the attack, or knew of it and would tell them. Since Red Rock was an oasis under the governance of the Tashid, a vassal tribe of Aretai, of course, no Bakah, or other member of the Kavar confederation, would be likely, particularly in such times, to drop in and, in friendly fashion, convey this intelligence to them. Indeed, they would tend to avoid Aretai and Aretai-dominant oases, at least until they could come in force, paying the respects of the Tahari with steel.

“I am weary,” said Hassan. “I shall retire.” Already he had sent Alyena up to his room. His men, too, were lodged on the second floor.

Hassan looked about himself. “What is the hour?” asked Hassan.

One of the inn boys, sitting in an apron, on a bench near the large, cylindrical sand clock, glanced at it. “Past the nineteenth hour,” he said. He yawned. He would stay up until the twentieth hour, the Gorean midnight, at which time he would turn the clock, and retire.

“Are masters well content in my house?” asked the innkeeper.

“Yes,” said Hassan. Then Hassan said, “Soldiers are returning.”

I listened carefully I had not noticed the sound. Hassan’s fingers, on the table, had caught the subtle vibration.

I could now hear the drumming of galloping kaiila.

“No soldiers, are out,” said the innkeeper.

Hassan leaned to his feet, throwing over the table. In a bound he had fled upstairs.

“Do not go to the window,” I cried.

But already the innkeeper had thrown back the shutters. I heard Hassan shouting upstairs. I heard the sound of feet. The innkeeper turned to face me, his face white: he fell rolling to the floor, snapping off the shaft of the arrow.

“Kavars supreme!” I heard. I rushed to the window and my scimitar thrust through and the figure, in burnoose, screamed, clutched at the side of the window, and fell back, bloodied, into the darkness. I reached to close the shutters. Two arrows struck the wood, splintering needles of wood into my cheek: then the shutters were pulled closed, fastened: another arrow burst half through one, hanging on our side. The inn boy stood by the sand clock, looking wildly about.

We heard the paws of kaiila, their squeals and snorts, and hisses. I beard a man cry out. Somewhere I beard a door splintering, though not, I thought, of the inn. “Kavars supreme!” I heard.

“Upstairs!” cried Hassan. “To the roof!”

I took the stairs four at a time, climbing to the second floor. The inn boy, terrified, fled through a door to the kitchen.

Alyena, white faced, stood, her arm held in the grip of one of Hassan’s men.

“Follow me,” said Hassan. Other guests at the inn fled downstairs. A woman screamed.

We climbed a narrow ladder, pushing up a trap door to the roof. We stood under the three moons of Gor. The desert looked white. Beneath us, in the streets, people were running, some carrying belongings. “To the kasbah!” cried a man.

“Seek safety in the kasbah!” Among the running people rode warriors, slashing about themselves, slaying and freeing for themselves a path for their mounts.

“Kavars supreme!” they cried.

“Kavars!” I cried.

Hassan looked at me, wildly, angrily. “To the stable yard,” he said. We ran across the roof to the walled stable yard. He cried orders, swiftly. Saddles were fetched, two men leaped down from the roof to the ground below, then leaped up, running to the stables. I saw a fire arrow loop in the sky over palms. I heard the sounds of axes. There was, on the other side of the wall, much screaming. We heard the door of the inn splintering. Below us, in the stable yard, holding the reins of kaiila, came Hassan’s men. “Guard the trap door,” said Hassan to one of his men. Almost at that moment the trap door thrust up and a man’s face appeared; Hassan’s man thrust his scimitar through the jaw and wrenched it free, loose with blood and teeth and kicked shut the door.

“To the kasbah!” cried a man below in the street, terrified.

“Into the desert!” cried a woman. “The kasbah is bolted against raiders! People die at the gate, cut down, pounding to enter!”

“Fire!” I cried. An arrow had fallen within the stable yard, striking through the straw in the storage stall at the right. We saw a man climbing over the gate to the stable yard. He fell back, thrust from the gate by a lance in the hands of one of Hassan’s men. The interior of the stable yard was now well lit, by the blazing straw. The kaiila squealed in fright. Hassan’s men threw their burnooses over the heads of the animals. Two were saddled.

“Look there!” I cried. Two raiders had climbed to the roof, leaping from their kaiila. Hassan and I met them, fiercely, forcing them back over the edge, into the crowded, dark, screaming throng below. I saw a palm tree falling. Four buildings were afire.

A woman screamed below.

More riders, slashing, pressed by, below us. “Their garments, their saddles,” said Hassan, “are Kavar!”

From the roof we could see men and women, and children, running through the palm groves and gardens.

Another building, this time to our left, caught fire. I smelled smoke.

“The inn is afire,” I said.

“Tarna!” we heard. “Tarna!”

Hassan went to the edge of the wall looking down into the now blazing stable yard. “Follow them!” cried Hassan, indicating his two men below, to the rest of his men, even to he who guarded the trap door. They vaulted the edge of the roof, striking below in the stable yard. Hastily they saddled their kaiila. I could now see fire, in a bright, geometrical, right-angled line, glowing from below, about the trap door’s edge.

Hassan tore off his own burnoose and, putting it under Alyena’s arms, lowered her from the roof to the arms of one of his men, mounted on his kaiila. Alyena looked upward at Hassan, wildly. “Master!” she cried. But he had gone.

We ran again to the other edge of the roof. We could see more raiders coming There were flights of them, paced out, perhaps hundreds altogether.

“On my signal,” said Hassan, “have them throw open the gate to the stable yard, and ride!”

I went to the edge of the roof overlooking the burning yard. I saw the man to whom Alyena had been lowered. She was now on her own kaiila. It was wedged in, among the others.

“I relay the signal of Hassan,” said I. “Upon this signal, take flight!”

“Two kaiila are saddled for you,” said he, indicating two mounts.

“Upon the signal,” said I, “take flight.”

“What of you,” he cried “and Hassan!”

“Upon the signal.” I said, “take flight.”

“Prepare to open the gate.” said-the man to two of his fellows, who, mounted, waited near it. Each would draw back one of the bars.

“Hassan!” screamed Alyena. “Hassan!”

One must watch, to see when the escape might best emerge, from the yard, another must convey the signal.

“Hassan!” screamed Alyena, from below.

I smiled to myself. She had dared to soil the name of her master by putting it on her lips which, though beautiful, were only those of a slave. Girls are not, commonly, permitted to speak the name of their master. He is addressed as, or responded to, as “Master” or “my Master.” If Hassan survived, he would. I suspected, well beat her for this lapse. Some masters, it might be noted.

However, permit the girl to speak their name, if it is accompanied by an acknowledgement of title, as in, say, “Hassan, Master,” or “Hassan, my Master.”

Hassan, however, was not so lenient: he had, as yet, not permitted his pretty Alyena this liberty. I had little doubt, should he survive, the lovely, little wench would be well whipped for her oversight, her agonized outburst, bordering on insolence.

His hand was lifted. His bead was low, looking over the ledge. I heard a flight of riders thunder by. His hand fell.

“Go!” I said.

The bars were withdrawn; the gates swung wide; the burnooses were thrown from the heads of the animals, and the kaiila bolted from the blazing stable yard into the suddenly illuminated street.

We heard men shouting.

In moments the kaiila and their riders had vanished down the street.

“There are two kaiila remaining, saddled,” I called to Hassan. “Hurry!”

“Take one!” he cried. “Be off! There is time! Be off!”

Instead I joined him at the edge of the roof.

Now another flight of the kaiila riders sped by beneath the roof. We kept our heads low.

“Are you not coming?” I asked.

“Be off!” he whispered. “Wait!” he said.

Then, below, through the streets, in swirling purple and yellow burnooses, came eleven riders.

“Tarna!” we heard. “Tarna!”

They reined in, almost below the edge of the roof. Several other riders, raiders, were with them, behind.

“Tarna!” we heard.

The leader of the riders, in blue and purple burnoose, stood in the stirrups, surveying the carnage.

Reports were made by lieutenants to this leader. Orders were issued to these men and they, on their kaiila, sped away. The leader, graceful, slight, vital, stood in the stirrups, scimitar in hand.

“The wells?” asked a man.

“Destroy them,” she said.

He sped away, followed by a cloud of riders. The leader sat back in the saddle, burnoose swelling in the wind, light, wickedly curved scimitar across the pommel.

“Destroy the palms, burn the buildings,” she said.

“Yes, Tarna said lieutenants, and they wheeled their mounts, going to their men.

The girl looked about and then, rapidly, with a scattering of dust, she moved her kaiila in the direction of the kasbah. She was followed, swiftly, by the ten riders who had accompanied her, and several others of the raiders.

“Get your kaiila, escape!” said Hassan. The roof was hot; the inn, below, was burning; to our right, through the roof, flames licked upwards.

“Are you not coming?” I asked.

“Presently,” he said. “I am curious to see one of these Kavars.”

“I am coming with you,” I said.

“Save yourself,” said he.

“I am coming with you,” I said.

“We have not even shared salt,” he said.

“I shall accompany you,” I said.

He looked at me, for a long time. Then he thrust back the sleeve of his right hand. I pressed my lips to the back of his right wrist, tasting there, in the sweat, the salt. I extended to him the back of my right wrist, and he put his lips and tongue to it.

“Do you understand this?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“Follow me,” said he. “We have work to do, my brother.”

Hassan and I leaped from the roof, which was now partly aflame, to the stable yard there, tethered, shifting, their nostrils stung with smoke, their heads covered with saddle blankets, were our two kaiila. By the reins we led them from the yard, once outside removing the saddle blankets. I saw the body of one of the inn boys to one side, against the wall of the opposite building. It must have been past the twentieth Gorean hour. The sand clock had not been turned. We heard the roof of the inn fall. Far off there was screaming. We led the beasts through the streets of the oasis. Twice we skirted pockets of fighting men.

Once, four Tashid soldiers sped by.

Once, looking through an alley, to the street at its end, we saw mounted men fighting, There were some ten Tashid soldiers, on kaiila, attacking the command group of the raiders. Then they were forced back, with lances, by dozens of raiders. They wheeled away, pursued by the raiders, the command group, in its purple and yellow burnooses following. I saw Tarna, the leader of the raiders, standing in her stirrups, scimitar high, urging her men forward, then joining in the pursuit.

“Who are you?’’ cried a voice.

We spun about.

‘‘Aretai sleen!’’ cried the man. He, mounted on his kaiila, urged the beast forward. We blocked the charge with our kaiila. The animals squealed and grunted. None of us, because of the animals, could get a good stroke at the other. The man, with a cry of rage, pulled his animal back, and sped into the darkness. It was not unwise on his part. In the alley, with two of us, it might not have gone well for him.

“We have lost him,” I said.

“There are others,” said Hassan.

In a few moments we came to a high, thick wall of red clay. Before this wall were some six of the raiders, four with scimitars drawn. Against the wall, kneeling, stripped, bellies pressed tight against it, points of the scimitars against their backs, between their shoulder blades, chins high, against the wall, hands high over their heads, palms pressed tight against the wall, were four beautiful girls. One of the men with sheathed scimitar was preparing to bracelet the first girl; the other man with sheathed scimitar was unlooping a light slave chain with snaplocks to put the lovely prisoners in throat coffle.

“Tal,” said Hassan, greeting them.

They spun to face him. Each wore the garments, the agal cording of the Kavars.

The saddles on their nearby kaiila were Kavar.

They rushed toward us, the two with sheathed scimitars last, freeing their weapons. By the time they reached us, the other four were down. They backed away, then turned and ran. We did not pursue them.

The girls remained as they had been placed. They did not even dare to turn their heads.

Hassan kissed one on the back of the neck. “Oh!” she cried.

“Are you female slaves?” he asked.

“No, Masters!” cried one.

“Run then to the desert,” said Hassan.

They turned about, crouching, by the wall, trying to cover themselves.

“But we are stripped,” cried one.

“Run!” said Hassan, smacking her smartly with the flat of his blade.

“Oh!” she cried and fled, the others following, into the darkness.

We laughed.

“They are pretty,” said Hassan. “Perhaps we should have kept them.”

“Perhaps,” I admitted. One, a wide-hipped little brunet, I thought, would have looked well at my feet.

“Yet,” said Hassan, “this seems scarcely a time propitious for the braceleting of wenches’’ “You are right’’ I observed.

“Besides,” said Hassan, “they were young. In two years or so they would be more ripe for the picking.”

“Others may have them then,” I said.

He shrugged. “There are always young, beautiful wenches to make slaves,” he said.

“True,” I said.

He looked at our fallen foes. We saw in the light of the moons, and in the light of a torch in a ring on a wall opposite the wall.

“Here,” said Hassan, kneeling beside one of the fallen men. I joined him. Hassan thrust up the left sleeve.

“He is Kavar,” I said. I saw on the man’s left forearm the blue scimitar.

“No,” said Hassan. “Look. The point of the scimitar curves inward, toward the body.”

“So?” I asked.

“The Kavar scimitar,” be said, “points away from the body, to the outside, toward the foe.”

I looked at him.

Hassan smiled. He thrust up his left sleeve. Startled, I saw the mark on his left forearm.

“This,” said Hassan, smiling, “is the Kavar scimitar.”

I saw the point, as he had said, was curved away from the body, to the outside, as be had said, toward foes.

“You are Kavar,” I said.

“Of course,” said Hassan.

We spun about. We heard the tiny noise. We looked up. We stood within a ring of mounted warriors, with purple and yellow burnooses, others behind them in more common desert garb. Lances threatened us, pinning us at the wall. Arrows, fitted to bows, were trained upon our hearts.

“There they are.” said the man whom we had skirmished with earlier in the alley.

“Shall we kill them?” asked one of the men in the purple and yellow burnoose.

“Discard your weapons,” said Tarna.

We did so.

“Stand.” she said.

We did so.

“Shall we kill them?” asked the man.

“Lift your heads,” said the girl.

We did as she bad commanded.

“Tarna?” be asked.

“No,” she said. “They are handsome and strong. They are not without interest to me. Take them as slaves.”

“Yes, Tarna,” said the man.

“This one,” said the girl, looking down at me, calmly, strip him, and chain him to my stirrup.”