Free Outlaw of Gor by John Norman Page A

incomprehensibly, I found myself depressed by Tharna, and wondered if it, in its way, were not somehow, subtly, more barbaric, more harsh, less human than its ruder, less noble, more beautiful sisters. I determined that I should try to secure a tarn and proceed as quickly as possible to tha Sardar Mountains, to keep my appointment with the Priest-Kings.
    “Stranger,” said a voice.
    I turned.
    One of the two nondescript men who had been following me had approached. His face was concealed in the folds of his robe. With one hand he held the folds together, lest the wind should lift the cloth and reveal his face, and with the other hand, he clutched the rail on the bridge, as if uncomfortable, uneasy at the height.
    A slight rain had begun to fall.
    “Tal,” I said to the man, lifting my arm in the common Gorean greeting.
    “Tal,” he responded, not taking his arm from the rail. He approached me, more closely than I liked.
    “You are a stranger in this city,” he said.
    “Yes,” I said.
    “Who are you, Stranger?”
    “I am a man of no city,” I said, “whose name is Tarl.” I wanted no more of the havoc I had wreaked earlier by the mere mention of the name of Ko-ro-ba.
    “What is your business in Tharna?” he asked.
    “I should like to obtain a tarn,” I said, “for a journey I have in mind.” I had answered him rather directly. I assumed him to be a spy, charged with learning my reasons for visiting Tharna. I scorned to conceal this reason, though the object of my journey I reserved to myself. That I was determined to reach the Sardar Mountains he need not know. That I had business with the Priest-Kings was not his concern.
    “A tarn is expensive,” he said.
    “I know,” I said.
    “Have you money?” he asked.
    “No,” I said.
    “How then,” he asked, “do you propose to obtain your tarn?”
    “I am not an outlaw,” I said, “though I wear no insignia on my tunic, or shield.”
    “Of course not,” he said quickly. “There is no place in Tharna for an outlaw. We are a hard-working and honest folk.”
    I could see that he did not believe me, and somehow I did not believe him either. For no good reason I began to dislike him. With both hands I reached to his hood and jerked it from his face. He snatched at the cloth and replaced it quickly. I had caught a brief glimpse of a sallow face, with skin like a dried lemon and pale blue eyes. His comrade, who had been furtively peering about, started forward and then stopped. The sallow-faced man, clutching the folds of the hood about his face, twisted his head to the left and the right to see if anyone might be near, if anyone might have observed.
    “I like to see to whom I speak,” I said.
    “Of course,” said the man ingratiatingly, a bit unsteadily, drawing the hood even more closely about his features.
    “I want to obtain a tarn,” I said. “Can you help me?” If he could not, I had decided to terminate the interview.
    “Yes,” said the man.
    I was interested.
    “I can help you obtain not only a tarn,” said the man, “but a thousand golden tarn disks and provisions for as lengthy a journey as you might wish.”
    “I am not an assassin,” I said.
    “Ah!” said the man.
    Since the siege of Ar, when Pa-Kur, Master Assassin, had violated the limits of his caste and had presumed, in contradiction to the traditions of Gor, to lead a horde upon the city, intending to make himself Ubar, the Caste of Assassins had lived as hated, hunted men, no longer esteemed mercenaries whose services were sought by cities, and, as often by factions within cities. Now many assassins roamed Gor, fearing to wear the sombre black tunic of their caste, disguised as members of other castes, not infrequently as warriors.
    “I am not an assassin,” I repeated.
    “Of course not,” said the man. “The Caste of Assassins no longer exists.”
    I doubted that.
    “But are you not intrigued, Stranger,” asked the man, his pale eyes squinting up at me through