Explorers of Gor (31 page)

“Yes, Master,” said Sasi.

“She is an ignorant girl, and a natural slave,” I said, “so keep her under strict discipline.”

“Yes, Master,” said Sasi.

“Do not hesitate to use the whip on her,” I said.

“No, Master,” said Sasi.

“Remember that she is a natural slave,” I told Sasi.

“We are all natural slaves, Master,” she said. “But have no fear. I will keep her under a very strict discipline.”

“As is fitting for any slave,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” smiled Sasi.

I had then kissed her and left.

“Why do you not give me the notes and the ring?” asked Msaliti.

“My orders,” I said, “are to exchange them with Shaba for the authentic shield ring.”

“To whom will you return the ring?” he asked.

“To Belisarius, in Cos,” I said.

“Do you know his house?” asked Msaliti.

“Certainly not,” I said. “I will be contacted.”

“Where will the contact be made?” asked Msaliti, regarding me narrowly.

“At the Chatka and Curla,” I said, “in Cos.”

“Who is Master of the Chatka and Curla?” asked Msaliti.

“Aurelion of Cos,” I said. “Of course.”

“Yes,” said Msaliti.

“Have no fear,” I said, “I will do my best to see that the ring reaches the proper authorities.”

Msaliti nodded. I smiled.

“Why would you wish the ring?” I asked.

“To assure that it reaches the beasts,” he said. “They would not be pleased, should it be again lost.”

“Your concern for their cause is commendable,” I said.

“I have no wish to be torn to pieces,” he said.

“That is understandable,” I said. “Neither would I cheerfully look forward to such a termination.”

“You seem in a good mood,” he said.

“Surely you, too, should be in a pleasant frame of mind,” I said. “Is our business not nearly completed?”

“That is my hope,” said Msaliti.

“Do you truly fear the beasts so?” I asked.

“Our business has been delayed,” he said. “It is my fear that the beasts themselves will come for the ring.”

“But I am to pick up the ring,” I said.

“I do not even know you,” said Msaliti.

“I do not know you either, really,” I said.

“We were looking for the blond girl,” he said.

“She was delayed,” I said. “She was enslaved,” I pointed out, cheerfully.

“A pity,” he said.

“Nonsense,” I said. “Slavery is good for a woman.”

“I do not trust Shaba,” he said.

“I am sure he does not trust us either,” I said. “At least we trust each other.”

Msaliti drummed his fingers on the low table.

“Are you sure we are alone?” I asked.

“Of course,” said Msaliti. “None have entered. Before I came the askaris, in the anteroom, guarded the door.”

“They neglected, I see,” I said, “to replace the peas on their threads in this room,, those dislodged by my peregrination of yesterday evening on the roof.”

“Of course they replaced them,” said Msaliti.

“I would not he too sure then,” I said, “that we are alone.”

Msaliti looked quickly upward. Several of the strings, with the tiny peas attached, dangled downward.

“The grille, too, I note,” I said, “has been removed.”

“You are observant,” said Shaba.

Msaliti staggered to his feet. stumbling backward.

Across the table from us, in his customary place, sat Shaba. There had been a momentary blurring in the area, a sort of twisting swirl of light, something like a whirlpool of light, and then, calmly, he had sat before us.

“I did not think you would be late,” I said. “You seemed a punctual fellow.”

“It is you who were late,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “I am sorry about that I was detained.”

“Was she pretty?” asked Shaba.

I nodded. “Yes,” I said.

“Matters of great moment are afoot here,” said Msaliti. “With your permission, that of both of you, if you please, I would like to attend to them.”

“It is my understanding,” said Shaba to me, “that you have brought the notes and the false ring.”

“Yes,” I said. I put the notes on the table.

“Where is the false ring?” asked Msaliti.

“I have it,” I told him.

Shaba looked at the notes, carefully. He did not hurry. “These notes seem to be in order,” he said.

“May I see them?” asked Msaliti.

Shaba handed him the notes. “You do not trust our broad-shouldered courier?” he asked.

“I trust as few people as possible,” said Msaliti. He looked at the notes, very closely. Then he handed them back to Shaba. “I know the seals and signatures,” he said. “They may truly be drawn on the banks indicated.”

“There are twenty thousand tarns of gold there,” I said.

“Cash them before you carry the false ring to the Sardar,” said Msaliti. “It is in our interest, in these circumstances, to bargain in good faith.”

“But what if I do not carry the false ring to the Sardar?” asked Shaba.

“I would do so if I were you,” said Msaliti.

“I see,” said Shaba.

“The beasts,” he said, “do not deal lightly with traitors.”

“That is understandable,” said Shaba.

“This business could be conducted in the morning,” I said, “at the banks in question. You might then verify the notes and withdraw or redeposit the gold as you please.”

“Kunguni the beggar,” said Msaliti, “cannot well enter the edifices on Schendi’s Street of Coins.”

“Then enter as Msaliti,” I said.

Msaliti laughed. “Do not speak foolishly,” he said.

I did not understand his answer.

“I am satisfied to do the business tonight,” said Shaba. “If the notes are not genuine, obviously I would not carry the ring to the Sardar.”

“Remember,” said Msaliti, “do not depress the switch on the false ring. It must be depressed only in the Sardar.”

The hair on the back of my neck rose. I then realized that what I had suspected must be true, that the false ring was of great danger.

Shaba put the notes within his robes. He then, from about his neck, removed a long, light chain. It had hung hitherto within the robes, concealed. He opened the chain.

I saw the ring on the chain.

My heart was pounding.

He extended his hand. “May I have the false ring?” he asked.

“I think there is little point in carrying the false ring to the Sardar,” I said. “The delay has surely been such as to provoke suspicion.” This was true. Actually I was not eager, for a personal reason, for Shaba to deliver the ring. I respected what he had done in the exploration of Gor. I knew him to be a man of intelligence and courage. He was a traitor, yes, but there was something about him, indefinable, which I found to my liking. I did not particularly wish to see him subjected to whatever Priest-Kings, or their human allies, might deem fit as the fate of a traitor. I did not think that if they set their minds to it they would be less ingenious than Kurii. Perhaps it would be better if I slew him. I would do so swiftly, mercifully.

“The ring, please,” said Shaba.

“Give him the ring,” said Msaliti.

I handed Shaba the false ring and he slipped it on the chain.

“Were there not eleven strings dangling from the ceiling?” he asked.

Msaliti quickly turned and looked. “I do not know,” he said. “Are there more now?”

I had not taken my eyes from Shaba. “There were twelve” I said.

“There are twelve now,” said Msaliti, counting.

“Then there are the same number now as before,” said Shaba.

“Yes,” I said, regarding him evenly.

“I must commend you,” said Shaba. “You have powers of observation worthy of a scribe—or of a warrior.”

He turned the chain and slipped a ring from it, handing it to me.

Geographers and cartographers, of course, are members of the Scribes.

I allowed for the turning of the chain. I received in my hand the ring which had originally hung on the chain.

Shaba, the false ring on the chain, again fastened the chain behind his neck.

He stood up, and so, too, did Msaliti and myself. “I am leaving Schendi tonight,” said Shaba.

“I, too,” said Msaliti. “I have lingered too long here.”

“It would not be well for you to be too much missed,” smiled Shaba.

“No,” said Msaliti. I did not understand their exchange.

“I wish you well, my colleagues in treachery,” said Shaba.

“Farewell,” said we to him. He then, bowing, took his leave.

“Give me now the ring,” said Msaliti.

“I will keep it,” I said.

“Give it to me,” said Msaliti, not pleasantly.

“No,” I said. I then looked at the ring. I turned it in my hand. I wished to see the minute scratch which would, for me, identify the Tahari ring. I turned the ring feverishly. My hand shook. “Stop Shaba!” I said. “This is not the ring!”

“He is gone,” said Msaliti. “That is the ring from the chain on his neck, where he carried the shield ring.”

“It is not the shield ring,” I said, miserably.

I had been outwitted. Shaba was a brilliant man. He had established for us, earlier, yesterday evening, that the ring on the chain had been the shield ring. Tonight, however, he had substituted a new ring. I might have discerned this had he not appeared to be intent on misdirecting our attention, calling it to the simple warning system, that of the threads and peas, in the ceiling, presumably to effect switch of the rings while our attention was diverted. I had not permitted my attention, however, to be diverted. Too, when he had turned the chain, I had made certain that the ring which he had surrendered to me had been the ring originally on the chain. The exchange of rings, of course, had actually taken place earlier, in privacy. The ring he had apparently intended to exchange for the true ring would have been the false ring, returning it to us as the true ring. I had not permitted this. My smugness at preventing this exchange had blinded me, foolishly, to the possibility that the ring on the chain this evening might not have been the true ring to begin with.

Msaliti looked sick. I gave him the ring.

Shaba now had both the true ring, the Tahari ring, and the false ring, that which Kurii had intended to be delivered to the Sardar in lieu of the true ring.

“How do you know it is not the true ring?” asked Msaliti.

“Surely you have been taught to identify the true ring?” I asked.

I thought swiftly.

“No,” said Msaliti.

The copy of the true ring was well done. At the edge of the silver plate, that held in the ring’s bezel, there was indeed a minute scratch. It was similar to, but it was not the identical marring which I recalled from the Tahari. The jeweler who had duplicated the ring for Shaba had failed slightly in that particular. There was a slight difference in the depth of the scratches, and one small difference in the angulation.

“This resembles the true ring closely,” I told Msaliti. “It is large, and of gold, and, in its bezel, has a rectangular silver plate. On the back of the ring, when you turn it, there is a circular, depressible switch.”

“Yes, yes,” said Msaliti.

“But look here,” I said. “See this scratch?”

“Yes,” he said.

“The true ring, according to my information, possesses no such identifying marks,” I said. “It is supposedly perfect in its appearance. Had it been thusly marred I would have been informed of this. Such a sign would make identification simple.”

“You are a fool,” said Msaliti. “Doubtless Shaba scratched it.”

“Would you yourself treat so valuable an object with harshness?” I asked.

Msaliti turned the ring about. He looked at me. Then he depressed the switch. Nothing happened. He howled with rage, the ring clutched in his fist.

“You were tricked!” he cried.

“We have been tricked,” I corrected him.

“Shaba then has the perfect ring,” he said.

“True,” I said. Shaba had the perfect ring, which was the false ring. He also had the true Tahari ring, which the ring in Msaliti’s hand so ingeniously resembled.

“You must put men upon Schendi’s Street of Coins,” I said. “Shaba must not be permitted to cash the notes he carries.”

“Surely he must realize that could be done,” said Msaliti. “He is not mad. How does he expect to get his gold?”

“He is quite intelligent, even brilliant,” I mused. “Doubtless he has anticipated such a move. Yet it must be made.”

“It will be made,” said Msaliti, angrily.

“How then. I wonder,” said I, “does he intend to obtain the gold?”

Msaliti looked at me, in fury.

“He must have a plan,” I said.

“I am leaving,” said Msaliti.

“Surely you will wish to don your disguise,” I said.

“I do not need it longer,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” I asked.

“I must move swiftly,” he said. “There are many instructions to be issued. There must be an apprehension of Shaba.”

“How may I be of assistance?” I asked.

“I will handle matters from here on out,” he said. “Do not trouble yourself about them.”

He threw a brocaded aba about his shoulders and, angrily, strode from the room.

“‘Wait!” I called.

He had left the room.

Angrily I followed him. As soon as I had passed through the anteroom and stepped across the threshold, to the street outside, I felt my arms pinioned behind me. A dozen or more men were there waiting, beside the building, on either side of the door. Some seven or eight were askaris, including the two huge fellows whom I had seen yesterday, black giants in skins and feathers, with golden armlets. Another five or six were guardsmen of Schendi. There was also an officer there of the merchant council of Schendi.

“Is this he?” asked the officer of the merchant council.

“That is he,” said Msaliti turning about. “He claims to be Tarl of Teletus but he will be unable to substantiate that identity.”

“What is going on here?” I shouted. I struggled, trying to free myself of the four men who held me. Then I felt two daggers pressed through the fabric of my tunic.

I ceased struggling, feeling the points in my flesh. Both could be driven home before I could hurl my captors from me.

My hands were taken behind me and tied.