Smugglers of Gor - By John Norman Page 0,61

larls, usually released at night, which were trained to track, seek out, and fall upon any who might be so foolish or unwary as to have left the camp without authorization or accompaniment. The beasts responded to certain signals associated with food, which signals were changed from time to time. One was reasonably safe if one knew the signals. The beasts were occasionally brought in, even at night, their normal release time, if lanes were to be opened, for one reason or another. To be sure, few knew when the larls were to be released, whether during the day or at night, though, as suggested, the night release was more common, probably because desertions took place most frequently under the cover of darkness. Whereas I had heard them in the forest, on our column’s march to Tarncamp, I had not seen them. In any event, as far as I knew, our column had not been threatened. To be sure, we had kept to a particular trail, one, I had gathered, of several, and had been approaching, not attempting to exit, Tarncamp.

“My superior,” he said, “is troubled by one matter.”

“Who is your superior?” I asked.

“It is not necessary that you know,” he said.

“Lord Okimoto?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said, “perhaps not.”

“You came to speak,” I said.

“My superior,” he said, “has had you watched.”

“And perhaps others are watched, as well?” I said.

“Doubtless,” he said.

“And you amongst them?” I ventured.

“I would suppose so,” he said.

Many are the strands of intrigue, and a tremor in one strand, as in the web of the urt spider, is often registered in several others. Not unoften he who presumes himself a spy, secure in station and privileged in access, reporting upon others, is himself under suspicion. Is it not often the case that the first is concerned with the second, and the second with the third, and the third with the first, and in the center of all this, attending to the strands, rather like the urt spider itself, there is something which observes and waits. But here the web is invisible, and what observes and waits is unseen.

“Should I be flattered,” I asked, “that I might be watched?”

“That you are watched more than others?” he said.

“Yes,” I said. I knew the camp was tense. The men brought here were mostly mercenaries, strong, rough men, many of whom were fugitives from the forces which had garrisoned and exploited Ar. They expected, and were hungry for, the prizes of war. Among them, too, were thieves, brigands, and cutthroats, some of whose names and descriptions adorned the public boards in more than one city. Some of the higher sort had been collaborators in Ar, who had fled the city to avoid impalement. Several had mocked and forsworn Home Stones. Such men were dangerous. They had not come to the wilderness to weary themselves with prolonged, arduous tasks. In almost every case, it had been supposed that the silver stater which had brought them north was the harbinger of others to follow. But none had followed. There was much discontent in the camp. A weapon unsheathed by silver, when the silver is gone, remains unsheathed, and dangerous. Squabbles were frequent, over gambling, and slaves. Some had attacked Pani warriors, and had fared badly. I had heard of several desertions. Perhaps some were successful, but the remains of bodies had been frequently dragged to the camp. The jaws of more than one larl, returning to its housing in the morning, had been stained, dark with matted, dried blood. Some days ago there had been a failed attempt on the life of Lord Nishida, which attempt had been shortly followed by a presumably coordinated, large-scale attack on the camp, one beaten away, on the ground, by Pani and mercenaries, and in the air, by Lord Nishida’s tarn cavalry, commanded by the tarnsman, Tarl Cabot. I knew him only by reputation. His relationship to the Pani seemed obscure. It was said his sword was quick and his temper short. I supposed him an able officer. It was said some men would risk their life to serve under him. This made little sense to me. He was, of course, a tarnsman. Few men are such. Few dare the tarn, and, of those, many but once. It had become clear, after the attack, that this wilderness was not only a remote, miserable, dangerous venue in which we, far from civilization, were for most practical purposes incarcerated, and, under discipline, were put to manual tasks befitting the

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