“Then we are in no danger of being enslaved by them?” I pressed. He shrugged.
“I should not think it likely. But it would be best if we permitted the caravan to pass us by without discovering our presence. We have been in enough trouble on this adventure, as it is. But there is something strange here … .”
“What is that?”
He shifted about to a more comfortable position in the grasses.
“I have never heard that the Iommon indulge in overland trading expeditions, and cannot imagine why they should bother to do so, since they enjoy a monopoly on sea trade. And I cannot help wondering where they have been, and where they are going. Their wains seem full of goods, their mounts travel-stained and covered with road dust; from this, I would assume that they have completed a successful trading venture and are en route home again.”
It took a moment for this to sink in. As it did, and as I began to realize the implications of this, my heart sank.
“You mean you think they are heading for Soraba?” I asked, hollowly.
“I must assume so. And they could only have come from Tharkol, for there is no other city hereabouts.”
“That means we have been traveling in the wrong direction, all this while!” I groaned.
He nodded, grimly. “I’m afraid so, Jandar.”
“Then every hour we have ridden has only put more distance between us and Shondakor,” I said in despair. He nodded again.
“I can only think so. We are headed due north, towards the shores of the Corund Laj, where the city of Soraba rises at the head of the Sorabanian peninsula.” He nodded over his shoulder. “We should have been traveling in that direction, all this while!”
Just then we heard a despairing cry from behind us. We whirled to see mounted warriors cantering in a circle about Darloona, Glypto, and Zamara. They were caravan guards, from the emblems on their tunics, and they had ridden through the hillocks behind us, taking the women by surprise.
“Well, that blows it,” I said grimly.
“Do not bother to translate, Jandar,” Ergon grunted. “I think I can guess your meaning.”
Since we were discovered, there was no point in trying to hide our position, and I had no wish to be parted from Darloona again. Ergon and I rose to our feet and hurried down the slope. One of the caravan guards spied our approach and cantered toward us.
He was a sulky-faced, grim-looking specimen, with a squat neck and a bullethead and surly, suspicious eyes, hard and mean and wary. A curved scimitar or cutlass hung at his girdle and in his left hand he carried a long war spear tufted with scarlet and black feathers, these being the heraldic colors of the House of Iommon.
The blade of this spear was pointed at our chests. We came to a halt and stood there empty-handed. My dagger was concealed beneath my tunic, as was Ergon’s, or so I suppose.
Breathing heavily, Ergon stood in silence as the guard cantered up to look us over.
“What have we here?” the guard growled, eyeing us up and down with curiosity.
`Harmless travelers,” Ergon said quietly. “Why do you molest our women and our servant?”
“Why do you spy on the caravan of Lord Shaphur from a place of concealment?” the guard countered. Ergon had no ready answer for this and wisely held his tongue.
“We are no bandits, as you can see for yourself,” I spoke up. “Two unarmed men, two women, and a servant pose no threat to your caravan. We were merely observing it from a place of safety, to see what it was and if it posed any threat to us. We are harmless travelers, bound for Shondakor.”
His eyes were still wary and suspicious.
“Perhaps this is true,” he grunted. “Then again, perhaps it is not. You are certainly a long way from the Golden City, and if that indeed be the goal of your journey, then you are taking a very roundabout way of getting there. Or so I gather from your tracks, which are heading in the wrong direction.”
I was sweating, but tried not to show it.
“So we have just discovered from observing the direction in which your caravan seems to be traveling. I’m afraid we have been lost for some days, and, if your caravan is returning to Soraba, as we assume, then we have indeed strayed from our path. With your permission we will mount and be off.”
“Not so fast,” he growled, jabbing the spear in my direction. “I cannot permit you to pass on my own judgment; the Lord Shaphur himself will interrogate you and decide what should be done.”
“That sinks it,” I ‘breathed to Ergon. And again I did not have to translate my terrestrial idiom for him to understand my meaning.
The master of the caravan―Lord Shaphur of the House of Iommon―was an immense, obese Soraban who rode at the head of the procession in a wain outfitted with great luxury and comfort. Cushions were heaped into a cozy nest at one end of the luxuriously carpeted wagon, and therein the merchant princeling sprawled at his ease, sipping a brandy-like cordial called quarra and munching sweetmeats and small pastries from a huge tray of glittering silver.
Shaphur of Soraba was one of the fattest men I have ever met. He must have weighed close to three hundred pounds, with his vast paunch and wobbling jowls and several chins. He was dressed in the fantastical manner affected by the Perushtarians of the great houses, in a loose robe of silken stuff edged with gold fringe, hung about with tassels, adorned with sashes, and pinned with gaudy jeweled brooches.
His robes were an incredible, eye-hurting clash of colors―olive green, fuchsia, violet, canary, three shades of pink, indigo, umber, and carnation. The Perushtarians are a gaudy, mercantile people whose civilization always reminds me of the Carthaginians or Phoenicians of my own Earth―a nation of shopkeepers, an empire of merchants. They have the flashy Semitic bad taste of their terrestrial counterparts, and overdress to a fault.
This Shaphur was no fool, for all his appearance. He looked to be a jolly fat man, beaming with good humor, his paunch and chins and jowls quivering as he chuckled at his own jests, but behind the fat, scarlet, merry face was a first-rate brain, and his eyes were small, shrewd, cool, and intelligent.
He received us informally, squatting comfortably in his nest, in the shade of a striped awning. Gauzy-pantalooned slave girls knelt to either side of him, making certain that his goblet was never empty and his store of sweetmeats ever replenished. He looked us up and down with clever, measuring eyes, all the while stuffing himself with sugary pastries, which he conveyed in a never-ending stream from platter to gullet, shoving them in with both fat hands whose greasy fingers were glittering with a profusion of gems.
“What an oddly mixed traveling party, to be sure!” he chuckled to himself in a husky, gasping voice, beaming all the while a broad, benign smile. I could not help noticing that this genial smirk did not extend as far as his eyes, which were cold and cunning and watchful.
“A Shondakorian lady of noble birth, quite obviously, accompanied by three Perushtarians from very different levels of society: a lovely and highborn lady of evident breeding, a burly rogue who seems suited to be a warrior or a gladiator, and a scrawny starveling from the gutters who would seem to have run afoul of the law―if I mistake me not the brand of thievery on the creature’s brow―ho, hot”
Glypto tugged a greasy forelock in an obsequious manner.
“Not so―not so at all, mighty and gracious lord! Glypto, the son of Glypto, the grandson of Glypto, at your Magnificence’s service! A nobly born chanthan, alas, upon whom Fortune has declined to smile … .”
“Ah, so; of course,” Shaphur chuckled. “The borders between chark and chanthan are narrow, at best, eh? Ho, hot A merry rogue!”