“But are these reports true,” I asked, “or only, sincerely, believed to be true?”

“They could, of course, be implanted memories,” admitted Ibn Saran. “It could be a trick to lure an attack into a trap.”

I was silent.

“We are not unaware of such possibilities,” he said. “We have typically proceeded with caution.”

“But now it may matter less?” I asked.

“Now,” said he, “it may matter not at all. No longer need we listen with such care to the blabbering of slave girls.”

“You have a new strategy?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said, smiling.

“Perhaps you would share it with one bound for the brine pits of Klima?” I asked.

He laughed. “And you might speak it to guards, or others!”

“My tongue could be cut out,” I said.

“And your hands cut off?” he laughed. “And then good would you be in the pits?”

“How did you learn that the slave, purchased only for her beauty in Lydius, was the former Elizabeth Cardwell?” I asked.

“Fingerprints,” he said. “Her accent, certain mannerisms, suggested Earth origin. We took her prints, curious. On our records they matched those of Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, Earth, who had been brought to Gor to wear the message collar to the Tuchuks.”

I recalled the collar. When first I had seen her, her stockings in shreds, her brief, yellow, Oxford-cloth shift dusty and stained, her neck bound to a capture lance, her wrists bound behind her, on the plains of the Wagon Peoples, a captive of Tuchuks, she had worn it. She had understood so little then, been so innocent of the affairs of worlds.

Now the girl was less innocent.

“The message collar,” said Ibn Saran, “failed to bring about your death, the termination of your quest for the last egg of Priest-Kings,” He smiled. “Indeed, the girl even became your slave.”

“I freed her,” I said.

“Courtly fool,” he said. “Investigating her further, understanding she accompanied you to the Sardar, with the last egg of Priest-Kings, we looked for further connections. Soon it became clear that she had been your confederate, spying for you, in contriving the downfall of the house of Cernus, one of our ablest operatives.”

“How could you know this?” I asked.

“One who knew the house of Cernus, freed from slavery, was brought to my palace.

To her terror, he immediately identified her. We then stripped her and put her in shackles in the dungeon, with the urts. In an Ahn she begged to tell us all, and did.’’ “She betrayed Priest-Kings?” I asked.

“Completely.” said Ibn Saran.

“She serves Kurii now?” I asked.

“She serves us well,” he said. “And her body is exquisite, and delicious.”

“You are fortunate,” said I, “to possess such a slave.”

Ibn Saran nodded.

“I was interested to note, as well, said I, “that she testified that I had struck Suleiman Pasha.”

“So, too, did Zaya,” said Ibn Saran.

“That is true,” I said.

“Neither needed urging,” said Ibn Saran. “Both are slaves.”

“Vella,” said I, “is a highly intelligent, complex woman.”

“Such make the best slaves,” said Ibn Saran.

“True,” I said. Indeed, who would want to collar any other sort of woman? To take the most brilliant, the most imaginative, the most beautiful women, and put them at your feet, impassioned, helpless slaves is victory.

“She hates you,” said Ibn Saran.

“I see,” I said.

“It has to do with Lydius, it seems,” said he.

I smiled.

“It was with much pleasure that the vicious little slave falsely testified that it had been your blade which had struck Suleiman Pasha. It is with much pleasure that she sends you to the brine pits.”

“I see,” I said.

“A woman’s vengeance is not a light thing,” said Ibn Saran.

“Doubtless,” said I.

“But one thing troubled her,” said Ibn Saran, “a matter in which, fearing for herself, she was apprehensive.”

“What was that?” I asked.

“The security of Klima,” he said. “She feared you might escape.”

“Oh?” I said.

“But I assured her that there was no escape from the pits of Klima, and, thus encouraged, it was with enthusiasm that she rehearsed her testimony.”

“Pretty Vella,” I said.

He smiled.

“It is no accident,” I said, “that she was, her identity discovered, brought to the Tahari.”

“Of course not,” said Ibn Saran. “She was brought here collared, to serve me.”

“She has served you well,” I said.

“She has much aided, as we had anticipated, in your reception. She, permitted once, secretly, to look upon you in streets of Nine Wells, through the tiny veil of a haik, nude beneath, in the keeping of one of my men, later firmed, stripped on her knees before me, her lips to my feet, your identity-as Tarl Cabot, agent of Priest-Kings. And what she did not accomplish, with the message collar in land of the Wagon Peoples, she has well accomplished here on the rack in the chamber of justice.”

“She has served you well,” I said.

“She is an excellent little slave,” said Ibn Saran, “and most pleasing on the cushions.”

“Pretty Vella,” I said.

“Think often of her, Salt Slave,” said Ibn Saran, “in the pits of Klima.”

He turned, cloak swirling, and left the chamber followed by his men, the last bearing the tharlarion-oil lamp.

Outside the three moons were full.

I did not think, truly, I would be sent to the brine pits of Klima.

I was thus not surprised when, an Ahn later, that same moonlight night, before I was to be taken to Klima in the morning, two men, hooded, cloaked, furtive, appeared in the hall outside the cell door.

There would be danger in conducting or transporting a slave to Klima in these times of unrest between the Kavars and the Aretai and their vassal tribes.

It was not impossible that the penal caravan, with me, and presumably, others, would be intercepted.

If I had been Ibn Saran I would not have taken this risk.

The door to the cell opened.

“Tal, noble Ibn Saran,” said I, “and gracious Hamid, lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai.”

In Ibn Saran’s hand was his scimitar, unsheathed. I moved in the chains. They carried no light, but the moonlight, streaming through the barred window into the cell, permitted us to regard one another.

“It seems,” I said, “I am not to reach the brine pits of Klima.”

I observed the scimitar. I did not think they would slay me in the cell. This would seem, to the magistrates of Nine Wells, inexplicable, an accident demanding the most rigorous and exacting inquiry.

“You mistake us,” said Ibn Saran.

“Of course,” I said. “Actually you are agents of Priest-Kings, secretly seeming to work for Kurii. Before your men you were forced to conduct your charade of complicity in their schemes, lest your true loyalties be discovered. Doubtless you have fooled them all, and well, but not me.”

“You are perceptive,” said Ibn Saran.

“Obviously it was the intention of Kurii to kill me, for they sent one of their kind to do so. You, however, saved me from its merciless fangs.”

Ibn Saran inclined his head. He sheathed his scimitar.

“We have little time,” he said. “Outside your kaiila awaits, saddled, with a weapon, the scimitar, and water.”

“But is there no guard?” I asked.

“He was outside,” said Ibn Saran. “We have slain him for you.”

“Ah,” I said.

“We will drag the body into the cell when you have made good your swift escape.”

The manacles on my wrists and ankles were lock shackles. Hamid thrust the key in, unsnapping them. “And Hamid,” I said, “by intent, did not strike Suleiman to the death, but feigning clumsiness, wounded him only.”

“Precisely,” said Ibn Saran.

“Had I wished to kill,” hissed Hamid, “the blow would have told.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“It was essential for us, to protect appearances with Kurii, to appear to attempt to delay you, to forestall you in the completion of your inquiry for Priest-Kings.”