Free Outlaw of Gor by John Norman Page B

the folds of the grey robe, “by the offer of a tarn, gold and provisions?”
    “What must I do to earn this?” I asked.
    “You need kill no one,” said the man.
    “What then?” I said.
    “You are bold and strong,” he said.
    “What must I do?” I asked.
    “You have undoubtedely had experience in affairs of this sort,” suggested the man.
    “What would you have me do?” I demanded.
    “Carry off a woman,” he said.
    The light drizzle of rain, almost a gray mist matching the miserable solemnity of Tharna, had not abated, and had, by now, soaked through my garments. The wind, which I had not noticed before now, seemed cold.
    “What woman?” I asked.
    “Lara,” said he.
    “And who is Lara?” I asked.
    “Tatrix of Tharna,” he said.

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