“Should you not return to Nine Wells?” asked Haroun of Suleiman.
“No,” said Suleiman. Then be said, “I go to marshal my men.”
The pashas and their guards who bad surrounded us returned to their forces.
Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, handed the lance and pennon of his office to one of the men with Baram, his vizier.
“Shall we kill these sleen?” asked Baram, indicating the kneeling, groveling wretches tethered to the pommel of Haroun’s saddle. They put their heads to the gravel and sand, trembling.
“No,” said Haroun. “Take them to the tents and chain them there as slaves. There will be more later. They will bring a high price in Tor.”
The tethers of the wretches were given to a rider. They were taken from the field.
Orders were given. In a short time, great lines, strung out, began to move across the desert. In the center were the Kavars and the Aretai. On the right flank, riding together, were the Ta`Kara and the Luraz, the Bakahs and the Tashid, the Char, the Kashani and the Raviri. On the left were the Ti’ the Arani and the Zevar, and, holding the extremity of the flank, forty deep, the Tajuks.
Behind us, behind Haroun and myself, who rode alone, we leading, strung out, were the long lines of riders, the gathered tribesmen of the Tahari.
“How did things go in the dune country?” asked Haroun.
“Well,” I told him.
He dropped the wind veil about his shoulders. “I see you still wear about your left wrist a bit of silk,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You must, in the march, inform me of what occurred in the dune country,” he said.
“I shall be pleased to do so,” I said. “By what name should I address you?”
“By the name, by which you know me best,” he said.
“Excellent,” said I, “Hassan.”
24 I Bind a Girl, Reserving Her for Myself, I Then Address Myself to the Duties of Steel
The outcome of the battle, some twenty pasangs from the kasbah of the Salt Ubar, had never been in doubt. That Ibn Saran met us at all, with the twenty-five hundred mercenaries be could muster does him much credit.
He was swiftly enveloped. Many of his men, I believe, did not understand the nature of the forces they faced until we swept over the hills upon them. We outnumbered them four or five to one. Many of the mercenaries, unable to escape, discarded their bucklers and dismounted, thrusting their lances and scimitars into the ground. There was hard fighting, however, in the vicinity of Ibn Saran’s own men, those of the Salt Ubar and his allies, those who had fought with Tarna. I came once within one hundred and fifty yards of Ibn Saran; Hassan, or Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, came within twenty yards of him, fighting like a wild animal, but was turned back at last by a wall of bucklers, a hedge of lances. I did not see Tarna in the battle. I did see her men, but they fought under Ibn Saran. I gathered she had been relieved of her command.
Late in the afternoon, Ibn Saran, with four hundred riders, broke through our lines and fled northwest.
We did not pursue him but consolidated our victory.
“He will take refuge in his kasbah,” said Hassan. “It will be difficult to take the kasbah.”
That was true. If it could not be taken swiftly, it might not be possible to take it at all. We did not have enough water to maintain our men in the field.
At best we might be able, failing to take the kasbah, to invest it with a smaller force that it would be practical to supply with water from Red Rock.
Such a siege might last for months. Our extended, thinned lines would invite attack; it would be difficult, too, even if our investing lines were not broken in force, to prevent the escape of small parties at night.
“Ibn Saran,” I said, “may slip through your fingers.”
“We must take the kasbah.” said Hassan.
“Perhaps I can help you,” I said. I fingered the ring of the Kurii, which hung about my neck on its leather string.
The girl knelt before the low vanity with the natural, insolent grace of the trained slave. She combed, with a broad, curved comb of kailiauk horn, her long, dark hair. The comb was yellow. She wore a bit of yellow slave silk, her collar.
She was beautiful in the mirror. How like a fool I felt that I had ever surrendered her. She knelt on broad, smooth scarlet tiles. About her left ankle, looped, were several golden slave bangles. The light in the room was from two tharlarion-oil lamps, one on each side of the mirror.
She had not yet noticed the bit of silk I had left to the side.
I regarded the slave, as she combed her hair. She, in a dungeon, in a holding somewhere of agents of Kurii, had betrayed Priest-Kings. Chained nude in a dungeon, in the darkness, among the urts, she had screamed for mercy. She had revealed all she knew of the Sardar, the plans of Priest-Kings, their practices and devices, the weakness of the Nest. If she fell into the hands of Samos I had little doubt he would have her bound and thrown to the urts, among the garbage, in the canals of Port Kar. Emptied of information she had been brought by Ibn Saran to the Tahari. Here she had, for him, identified me, when I entered the Tahari. I remembered her as one of the slaves who, bangled, in the high, tight vest of red silk, the sashed, diaphanous chalwar, had served wine in the palace of Suleiman at Nine Wells. She had been in the audience chamber when Suleiman had been struck. She had testified that it bad been I who had attacked him, I had seen her smile, when taken from the rack, after her testimony. Once she had served Priest-Kings; then, later, she had well served others, the Kurii and their agents; I watched her comb her hair, now I suspected she was for most practical purposes useless in the politics of planets; but she had been spared; I watched her movements; I smiled; I, too, would have spared her; surely she was not now completely without use; she retained. I noted, doubtless the reason for which she had been spared, the general utilities of my charming, pretty slave girl. Her flesh would bring a high price. To see her was to wish to own her.
Pretty Vella. She put down the comb and reached for a tiny bottle of perfume.
She touched her neck, below the ears, and her body, about the shoulders, with the scent. I knew the scent.
I had carried it with me to Klima. I had not forgotten it.
Her eye, as she put aside the tiny bottle of perfume, was caught by the bit of silk, lying to one side on the vanity.
She looked at it, puzzled, curious.
I recalled the morning I had, in chains, waited to be herded with other wretches to Klima. I had looked up. In a narrow window in the wall of the kasbah, high over my head, there had stood a woman, a slave girl, veiled and robed in yellow, a slave master behind her. With the permission of the slave master she had removed her veil. With what contempt, and scorn, and triumph she bad looked upon me, a mere male slave, chained and bound for Klima, below her. She had thrown me a token, a square of silk, slave silk, red, some eighteen inches square, redolent with the perfume fitted by some perfumer, on the order of her master, to her slave personality, her slave nature and slave body. It was something by which I might remember her at Klima, I had vowed to return from Klima. She had wished to see me hooded and led away. This treat, as useful discipline, despite her pleas, had been denied her by the slave master. She had thrown me a kiss, and then, before the slave master, hurried from the window.
I stood back in the room. I flicked the switch on the ring I wore, that I might be visible to her.
She picked up the bit of silk. She opened it. It was tattered, faded, almost white. She held it open before her, looking at it. She took it in her hands and held it to her face, inhaling it. Suddenly she cried out in joy “Tarl!” She turned, springing to her feet. “Tarl!” she cried. “Tarl!” She ran to me, with a clash of bangles, and took me in her arms, her head at my chest, weeping. Tarl!” she wept. “Tarl! Tarl! I love you! I love you!”