He reminded himself of his good fortune as he neared a familiar tavern on the Street of Brands. He decided he had ample time to stop and have a paga before returning to the tarn cot where he worked. Goreans are not exactly lazy, but they do tend to take life at a liesurely pace. When the span of ones lifetime is measured in centuries, there is little need to hurry to get things done. "What cannot be accomplished in a hundred years can be accomplished in three," goes the saying.

Hamish paused a moment to allow his eyes to adjust to the dim torchlit tavern. Sitting at a table not too near the door was a huge brute of a man in a plain brown rep-cloth robe. A hardwood staff the size of a small tree lay near him. Hamish plopped to a cross-legged sitting position near the huge man. The contrast between the wiry little Tarn Keeper and the huge Peasant was startling.

Hamish sniffed the air noisily. "Smells like ox dung in here!" he declared, trying unsuccessfully to hide the quiver of mirth on the corner of his mouth.

The big man turned slowly and deep brown eyes peered out from under a bony ridge. A moment of silence passed before the big mans mouth broke into a smile and he said slowly, through thick lips, "Tal, Hamish!" His voice carried well, having a deep rumbling tone to it. A huge hand encapsulated Hamishs upper arm and shoulder and the big man said, "It is good to see you."

"And you, Mog," Hamish replied. "Spend the night in the tavern again?" he asked.

"Yes," Mog said, "once again. I make a few tarsk bits and I spend them." Huge shoulders moved up and down in a massive shrug. Just then a jingle of bells caught their attention.

Hamish and Mog both looked down to find a slave girl kneeling by the table. Being early in the day, she was clad in a simple slave tunic of coarse rep-cloth. In some respects it was much like the clothing Mog wore. But even though the material was much the same, it was also in many respects a totally different garment. Mogs robe was designed to cover and protect the wearer. The slaves meager tunic was, by contrast, designed to enhance and display the female form. Even though it was the cheapest of fabrics, and crudely made, it was cut and placed on the girl to subtly but powerfully suggest the pleasures that lie immediately beneath it. The girl wore no other garments, of course. Gorean men will have access to their slaves.

The girl was short and sleek but with a delicious flare to her hips and the delicate roundness to her belly just below the navel that seems to be a common feature of Gorean slave girls. Perhaps this feature is common because it pleases Gorean men or perhaps Gorean men favor it because it is common. The girl had a golden brown skin tone, with shining dark auburn hair and pale green eyes. She was, by all respects, a notably beautiful girl. The crevace of her ample bosom was clearly revealed by the deeply cut cloth. Perhaps later in the evening her owner might adorn her in dancers silk, or bells and chains, but at this early hour she was still in a working garment. Despite that, it was still, obviously, the garment of a slave.

The girl kept her position rigid and her head tilted slightly down, but she allowed herself enough vision to note when the two men regarded her. Only then, when she felt he presence was acknowledged did she speak.

"May a girl speak, Masters?" she first inquired.

Hamish nodded.

"May a girl provide the masters with anything?" she next asked.

"Bring a bottle of paga and a couple of bowls" Hamish instructed her. She backed away quickly and scampered off.

Mog looked inquisitively at the wiry Tarn Keeper. "Im buying," said Hamish and he gave Mog a wink, "I got lucky at Shell and Bone today."

"When you play Shell and Bone," Mog said slowly, "luck has nothing to do with it."

"As a pure game of chance it holds no interest whatsoever. One chance in three is a simple concept to grasp. The game becomes of interest when one considers the skill of the operators sleight of hand and his ability to work the customers in such a way that they leave the table both poorer and happy for the experience. Some people elevate it to an art form." Just then, the slave girl returned with the bottle of paga and two bowls. Hamish pressed a coin between her teeth and bid her leave.

The two men sat and talked quietly as they enjoyed the paga. They were old friends and enjoyed talking of many things. Although Mog had somewhat the outward appearance of a subhuman precursor to modern man, he was rather intelligent. He was also, despite his bulk, rather agile and, although not nearly as swift as little Hamish, quite fast on his feet. Survival on Gor often depends on ones ability to defend ones self and those of the Caste of Warriors are not the only ones who know how to fight. Many an arrogant young Warrior, fresh out of his training, has choked to death on his own blood by picking a fight with the wrong Scribe or Pot Maker. Mogs ancestors had tilled the soil with rudementary tools and fought over tracts of arable land for hundreds of generations.

Hamish, too, was a result of breeding. Although Goreans do not consciously seek to breed themselves, the relatively inflexible caste system tends to produce differentiation. Those of the Caste of Tarn Keepers tend to be light and agile. As the joke goes among those of the caste, "What do you call a slow Tarn Keeper? Lunch." Hamish himself specialized in racing tarns. He wasnt well enough established to own his own tarncot, but the tarncot he did work for was rather well known. Some of the racing tarncots are faction owned, but the one Hamish worked at was independent and sold its birds to whichever faction wanted them. Hamish was old enough, at 240, to be a respected trainer. He was quite proud of the fact that three of the birds he personally trained had raced in the Ubars Race, the race that culminates the season, in various years.

The two men talked quietly until the door of the tavern burst open and a large man in the uniform of the City Guard walked in. The single crest of brown sleen hair on his helmet identified him as a minor Captain of the Guard. He pulled the helmet off his head and looked around the room. His face had a scowl that looked more or less permanent.