I searched among the wagons long before I found, sitting cross-legged beneath a wagon, wrapped in a worn bosk robe, his weapons at hand folded in leathers the young man whose name was Harold, the blond-haired, blue-eyed fellow who had been so victimized by Hereena, she of the First Wagon, who had fallen spoils to Turia in the games of Love War. He was eating a piece of bask meat in the Tuchuk fashion, holding He meat in his left hand and between his teeth, and cutting pieces from it with a quiva scarcely a quarter inch from his lips, then chewing the severed bite and then again holding the meat in his hand and teeth and cutting again. Without speaking I sat down near him and watched him eat. He eyed me warily, and neither did he speak. After a time I said to him, "How are the bask?"
"They are doing as well as night be expected," he said. "Are the quivas sharp?" I inquired.
"We try to keep them that way," he said.
"It is important," I observed, "to keep the axles of wagons greased."
"Yes," he said, "I think so."
He handed me a piece of meat and I chewed on it.
"You are Tart Cabot, the Koroban," he said.
"Yes," I said, "and you are Harold the Tuchuk."
He looked at me and smiled. "Yes," he said, "I am Harold the Tuchuk."
"I am going to Turia," I said.
'That is interesting," said Harold, "I, too, am going to Turia."
"On an important matter?" I inquired.
"No," he said.
"What is it you think to do?" I asked.
"Acquire a girl," he said.
"Ah," I said.
"What is it you wish in Turia?" inquired Harold.
"Nothing important," I remarked.
"A woman?" he asked.
"No," I said, "a golden sphere."
"I know of it," said Harold, "it was stolen from the wagon of Kutaituchik." He looked at me. "It is shill to lie worth- less."
"Perhaps," I admitted, "but I think I shall go to Turia and look about for it. Should I chance to see it I might pick it up and bring it back with me."
"Where do you think this golden sphere will be lying about?" asked Harold.
"I expect," I said "it might be found here or there in the House of Saphrar, a merchant of Turia."
"That is interesting," said Harold, "for I had thought I might try chain luck in the Pleasure Gardens of a Turian merchant named Saphrar."
"That is interesting indeed," I said, "perhaps it is the same."
"It is possible," granted Harold. "Is he the smallish fellow, rather fat, with two yellow teeth."
"Yes," l said.
"Then I shall attempt not to he hitter," I said.
"I think that is a good idea," granted Harold.
Then we sat there together for a time, not speaking further, he eating, I watching while he cut and chewed the meat that was his supper. There was a fire nearby, but it was not his fire. The wagon over his head was not his wagon. There was no kaiila tethered at hand. As far as he could gather Harold had little more than the clothes on his back, a boskhide robe, his weapons and his supper.
"You will be slain in Turia," said Harold, finishing his meat and wiping his mouth in Tuchuk fashion on the back of his right sleeve.
"Perhaps," I admitted.
"You do riot even know how to enter the city," he said. "That is true," I admitted.
"I can enter Turia when I wish," he said. "I know a way." "Perhaps," I suggested, "I might accompany you."
"Perhaps," he granted, carefully wiping the quiva on the back of his left sleeve.
"When are you going to Turia?" I asked.