“I managed to put away a couple of Vardors,” I said, wondering what he’d say if I showed him a few of my mind-boggling calisthenics.
“Why are you heading for Brynda?”
“Kodres gave me a message to deliver. Apparently it’s important. It’s verbal, not written. And I am interested in seeing that beautiful jadiriyah of ours again, if I can find employment in Brynda.” I wondered what skills I had. I’d had enough of the adventurous life to have no further desire for secretarying.
He nodded. He was a broad man, full-bearded beneath his cowl, which was white—and lined with black, like Kro Kodres’ cloak. “I will not ask you the message,” he said. “Who is to receive it?”
“Uh—I don’t think I should tell you that, either,” I said, hoping that would be acceptable. I had no idea who was to receive Kro Kodres’ cryptic words. The Jadiriyah, I supposed: Shayhara Sorah.
“All right. We are about to enter the jungle. Will you put your slook in the caravan and accompany us?”
“Will you give me a receipt for my pack slook?”
He laughed. “I will give you a receipt, Hank Ardor, and I think we are well-met.”
“I hope so,” I said, and I went back over the dune with them and down to their caravan. It was within thirty feet of the jungle, which was pierced by a broad clearing lane of grass. Some of it was rather high, but jungles have always been reluctant to allow any permanent encroachments. Stro Fentris introduced me to the caravan master—Fentris was commander of the Protectors—and I watched them insert Kline into the line of slooks.
The next day they were given the opportunity to decide for themselves if we were well-met or not, and if I was or wasn’t a warrior.
9. Sophia Loren and Dejah Thoris
I wasn’t a captive, I wasn’t a guest, and I didn’t really belong. I was a foreigner, and worse, a foreigner from someplace they’d never heard of. I had the appearance of a warrior and I told a story to go with the appearance, which would be easy enough to check in Brynda. I wasn’t exactly accepted, but I wasn’t rejected or shunned either. I was reminded of Western movies. This guy or group of guys meets another guy or group out on the plains somewhere. All are armed: every man a castle. The groups or individuals join, or camp together, friendly but not overly so, nor loquacious, and wary. The newcomer(s) may be OK and he may not. We’ll let him join us, sort of, but he has yet to prove himself. This was the way I felt the Bryndoys looked upon me.
It beat being taken prisoner, or press-ganged, though, and I wasn’t too uncomfortable.
The caravan had decided to camp here at the edge of the jungle; it would set out early in the morning and be out of the trees by the end of the day. The men I’d joined stayed apart from the others, aloof. They were Guildsmen, Protectors: professional warriors employed as escort. Their leader was Protector Chief Stro Fentris. While the caravan had a Master, Fentris did not take orders from him. The Master would, I learned, take orders from Fentris in the event of trouble. Which seemed to indicate a caste system, with warriors on top. I wondered about a priesthood, hovering above them all like vultures, collecting money by officiating at births, namings, weddings, funerals. And reading auguries, probably.
Aware of my position and the American Western analogy I’d mentally drawn, I didn’t ask much in the way of questions. There were no priests with the caravan, at any rate.
As we ate—the Guildsmen having reversed their cloaks to the dark sides, as I’d anticipated—Stro Fentris asked me a little about my trans-desert, trans-mountain “country”: Earth. I told him we had a ruler and a senate of old men, controlled by businessmen and the military. He nodded.
“It was nearly so in Brynda, once, before my birth. Warriors and merchants were so far down the scale they contemplated forming some sort of government in which everybody shared.
“Why are you heading for Brynda?”
“Kodres gave me a message to deliver. Apparently it’s important. It’s verbal, not written. And I am interested in seeing that beautiful jadiriyah of ours again, if I can find employment in Brynda.” I wondered what skills I had. I’d had enough of the adventurous life to have no further desire for secretarying.
He nodded. He was a broad man, full-bearded beneath his cowl, which was white—and lined with black, like Kro Kodres’ cloak. “I will not ask you the message,” he said. “Who is to receive it?”
“Uh—I don’t think I should tell you that, either,” I said, hoping that would be acceptable. I had no idea who was to receive Kro Kodres’ cryptic words. The Jadiriyah, I supposed: Shayhara Sorah.
“All right. We are about to enter the jungle. Will you put your slook in the caravan and accompany us?”
“Will you give me a receipt for my pack slook?”
He laughed. “I will give you a receipt, Hank Ardor, and I think we are well-met.”
“I hope so,” I said, and I went back over the dune with them and down to their caravan. It was within thirty feet of the jungle, which was pierced by a broad clearing lane of grass. Some of it was rather high, but jungles have always been reluctant to allow any permanent encroachments. Stro Fentris introduced me to the caravan master—Fentris was commander of the Protectors—and I watched them insert Kline into the line of slooks.
The next day they were given the opportunity to decide for themselves if we were well-met or not, and if I was or wasn’t a warrior.
9. Sophia Loren and Dejah Thoris
I wasn’t a captive, I wasn’t a guest, and I didn’t really belong. I was a foreigner, and worse, a foreigner from someplace they’d never heard of. I had the appearance of a warrior and I told a story to go with the appearance, which would be easy enough to check in Brynda. I wasn’t exactly accepted, but I wasn’t rejected or shunned either. I was reminded of Western movies. This guy or group of guys meets another guy or group out on the plains somewhere. All are armed: every man a castle. The groups or individuals join, or camp together, friendly but not overly so, nor loquacious, and wary. The newcomer(s) may be OK and he may not. We’ll let him join us, sort of, but he has yet to prove himself. This was the way I felt the Bryndoys looked upon me.
It beat being taken prisoner, or press-ganged, though, and I wasn’t too uncomfortable.
The caravan had decided to camp here at the edge of the jungle; it would set out early in the morning and be out of the trees by the end of the day. The men I’d joined stayed apart from the others, aloof. They were Guildsmen, Protectors: professional warriors employed as escort. Their leader was Protector Chief Stro Fentris. While the caravan had a Master, Fentris did not take orders from him. The Master would, I learned, take orders from Fentris in the event of trouble. Which seemed to indicate a caste system, with warriors on top. I wondered about a priesthood, hovering above them all like vultures, collecting money by officiating at births, namings, weddings, funerals. And reading auguries, probably.
Aware of my position and the American Western analogy I’d mentally drawn, I didn’t ask much in the way of questions. There were no priests with the caravan, at any rate.
As we ate—the Guildsmen having reversed their cloaks to the dark sides, as I’d anticipated—Stro Fentris asked me a little about my trans-desert, trans-mountain “country”: Earth. I told him we had a ruler and a senate of old men, controlled by businessmen and the military. He nodded.
“It was nearly so in Brynda, once, before my birth. Warriors and merchants were so far down the scale they contemplated forming some sort of government in which everybody shared.
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