Tal Goreans,
Greetings visitors,

Welcome once again to the Booknotes column. As we prepare to embark on another volume of Tarl Cabot’s adventures, we may remark that he is indeed going once more by his right name, after a heroic undertaking in Torvaldsland that seems to have awoken a new, more fully Gorean, spirit within him, and persuaded him that life does hold more promise than can be realised by clinging permanently to the old threads of his anguish and remorse over his enslavement in the Vosk Delta. He has even advised Samos, friend and agent of Priest-Kings, that he might be willing once more to undertake some service on behalf of Gor’s august rulers, and we may be sure that Samos will have no trouble putting an adventure his way. As to what kind of an adventure, we have yet to find out - and the answer awaits us between the covers of the tenth volume of the Chronicles of Counter-Earth, “Tribesmen of Gor”.

Chapter One

We begin in the hall of that same Samos, in Port Kar, where he and Tarl ponder weighty matters of the destiny of the world. As a slave dances in the background, they discuss the present silence of the Others, the Kurii as we now know them, following the defeat of their native-Kurii uprising in Torvaldsland. Samos is not altogether sure what is going on; but he has several strands of information. Firstly, an Earth girl newly brought to Gor, one Priscilla Blake-Allen, passes on a remark she overheard made by the slavers on her spaceship. Opportunely, the remark was made in English, not Gorean, to the effect that the slave-acquisition voyages were to be suspended until further notice. Samos does not think that this is the prelude to a Kur invasion, but only says “I have much fear” - which Tarl finds disquieting, in that he knows that there isn’t a single streak of yellow in Samos’s make-up.

Additionally, deep in the dungeons below Samos’s hall, past the many slave cells where kajirae are kept in various states of market-readiness, there is an extremely secure cell where a single Kur is kept prisoner. Samos bought this creature from hunters who found it south-east of Ar, heading south-east. This, we’re told, is an unusual place to find any sane creature and an unusual course for one to be undertaking, although we have yet to learn why. Next, Samos has a house-guest, one Ibn Saran, a salt merchant from Kasra, whose name, dress and mannerisms are all evocative of the Arabian Nights at least, if not of actual Earth Arabs or Moslems. Ibn Saran has an interesting tale to tell of a mysterious traveller found dead in the desert, who before dying had managed to inscribe a message “Beware the steel tower” on a rock. Then, to provide another apparently random piece of the puzzle, there is a message-girl, a slave with a tattoo on her scalp reading “Beware Abdul”.

Samos and Tarl discuss these various pointers, including the fact that the captive Kur’s intended course would have taken it into the desert, and that the Priest-Kings have received a terse order from the Kurii: “Surrender Gor”. They do not, of course, intend to do any such thing without clarification as to why, and this is not forthcoming from the Kurii of the steel worlds, their multi-generation spaceships in orbit beyond Jupiter. The order does not seem to make sense; the reference to a steel tower is not understood, nor is the purpose of the captive Kur which, unfortunately, does not speak Gorean (or does not admit to such); and the “Abdul” of the message is unknown.

But as Samos says, the answer to all these questions is to be found within the borders of Gor’s great desert, the Tahari, or “Wastes” (the resemblance of the name to that of Earth’s greatest desert is no doubt intended to evoke appropriate mental pictures), and it is there that Tarl resolves to go. Ibn Saran volunteers to accompany him on his journey, but Tarl confides in Samos that he does not trust Ibn Saran and will travel alone. Additionally, he suggests to Samos that the captive Kur should be freed, to which Samos agrees.

Chapter Two

The scene shifts to Tor, the greatest city of the Tahari, where Tarl is buying himself a drink of water. He remarks upon the local customs, ecology and economy, and mentions that he has brought Priscilla Blake-Allen with him as part of his disguise. We are treated to a lengthy diatribe, of the kind that will become the author’s trademark, concerning the branding of slaves and the awakening of their sexual nature, that does not have enough to do with the plot that we need to give it much attention for the time being. Tarl first poses as a mercenary tarnsman and then, on arriving in Tor, as a desert-dwelling herdsman. Here he takes a tour of the local fleshpots and hears of rumours of war, which he does not relish inasmuch as it would interfere with his mission.

After performing one of his occasional acts of philanthropy - freeing a young girl who was being sold into slavery to pay her feckless father’s debts - Tarl sees about getting Miss Blake-Allen some slave training. He bestows upon her a more suitable name for her new locality, “Alyena”, and sees her handed over to a fearsomely burly female slave. While he is there he tries to find out about the message slave mentioned above, but the records don’t prove helpful.

Shortly afterwards, after remarking the poor water-seller he bought his drink from, Tarl is attacked by a small gang of thugs, but with no other armament than a set of slave chains and his sandalled feet he puts the four of them to flight, before finding out where he can purchase weapons, training and a kaiila. (We have seen kaiila before in “Nomads of Gor”. These are a different breed, with a slight overtone of camel to them.)

Chapter Three

Of course, anyone who has been following Tarl’s career to date will not expect him to have the slightest difficulty in mastering the desert scimitar whether mounted or on foot. (When we encountered kaiila before, their riders, the Wagon Peoples, did not use the scimitar, but this was because their traditional foes rode the much taller high tharlarion, and a scimitar would not have been much use. In the Tahari, everyone rides the kaiila and so the playing field is level.) Indeed, after a bare ten days’ training he has proved such an adept that his teacher does him the honour of a salt-sharing ceremony and refunds his tuition fees.

After making arrangements to travel to the Oasis of Nine Wells, to investigate the story about the message concerning the steel tower, Tarl is again attacked. This time he has his newly-acquired scimitar, and the assailants’ five to one odds do not much profit them; but as the fight is getting properly started, suddenly the attackers flee - those that can - and shortly afterwards Tarl hears sounds of carnage coming from inside a gated courtyard that he would otherwise have crossed on his way back to his compartments. When the mayhem stops Tarl sees the results: carnage of a type he last saw in Torvaldsland, from which we must assume that Kurii were responsible. Yet there don’t appear to be any Kurii about the place.

Putting this strangeness to one side, Tarl, noticing the water carrier once again, enquires as to his name from a passer-by, as well as finding out what he can about the men who attacked him. The water carrier’s name is Abdul; as for the men, he quickly tracks down their boss, one Zev Mahmoud, and brings his career to an end along with his last two henchmen. Shortly after Tarl meets Abdul again, who volunteers to act as a native guide; but Tarl lets him know that the game is up, and amuses himself at the sight of Abdul’s retreating back.

Chapter Four

We rejoin Tarl a little later wending his way across the desert as part of a kaiila caravan. He is still enjoying the company of Alyena, whom he retrieved from the training pens before leaving. There she had successfully undergone some basic training, within the limitations of an Earth-born girl, raised to be a cog in a machine and taught that she was the same as a man.

Although Gorean slave training would ordinarily disabuse her of this notion, it is unfortunate for her that much of her training has been done by the fearsomely burly female slave mentioned above, whom Alyena inevitably regards with awe as “a match for any man”. Tarl corrects her misapprehension by borrowing a male slave of a reasonable match in size and weight and ordering the two slaves to fight, which sees the slave-trainer beaten in very little time. This convinces her, at least, than men are the masters, and the lesson is not lost on Alyena, though she resents it.

The caravan is intercepted by outriders of the tribe called Aretai, whose ruler is Suleiman of Nine Wells. They are on the lookout for their traditional enemies, the Kavars, and give Tarl something of a grilling, especially one of the lieutenants who is of the opinion that Tarl is a Kavar spy and should be killed. However, his assumed identity holds up, and the caravan continues on its way. Tarl notes with amusement Alyena’s reaction to being given the once-over by these Aretai, and reflects that she is already becoming a slave in truth.

Chapter Five

The author once again indulges his occasionally-annoying habit of jumping the action ahead in time and then, from that later viewpoint, recapping what has happened in between. To save the reader the trouble, I shall put the chronology back in working order.

While the caravan is making its way under escort to Nine Wells, the slimeball lieutenant earlier mentioned tries to hustle Tarl out of his trade goods and is, of course, foiled. However, perhaps we should make note of the name Hamid for future reference. Shortly afterwards the caravan is attacked by Kavars, who have the numbers to drive off the Aretai escort and intimidate the caravan-master into surrendering rather than throwing his own caravan-guards’ lives away. However, even as the Kavars are helping themselves to plunder and arranging the female slaves in order of desirability (ranking Alyena first, much to her delight), Tarl banters with them and points out to them that they have surely been duped into a still larger Aretai ambush. This is quite correct; but with Tarl’s timely advice, albeit more mocking than benevolent, they are able to beat a hasty retreat.

On arriving at Nine Wells, Tarl is obliged to wait for an audience with Suleiman Pasha, and it is not until Ibn Saran arrives that Tarl is fortunate enough to get one. He suspects that Ibn Saran might have something to do with this, but he is unable to determine exactly where Ibn Saran stands in the scheme of things. At any rate, and having procured some more slave training for Alyena, Tarl gains his opportunity to trade with Suleiman, to lend weight to his assumed identity as a merchant and so to be able to hire himself native guides for his adventure into the desert.

While the audience is going on, Tarl notices that the spooky hand of coincidence has reached out to touch him yet again, for there, as one of Ibn Saran’s matching set of black-wine slaves, is none other than the former Elizabeth Cardwell, later Vella. He indulges himself in a spot of somewhat revisionist reminiscence as to their former relationship and last meeting, in a tavern in Lydius (see “Hunters of Gor”) where Elizabeth acknowledged herself the loser in their latest planet-wide round of hide-and-seek and was dismayed to learn that Tarl didn’t intend to free her and pick up where they left off. But he has no opportunity to speak to her for now (nor advertises any interest in doing so).

When the time comes to trade, Tarl secures a fair price for his trade gems, which Suleiman promptly ups to a generous one in order to do credit to himself and his position. But hardly is the deal concluded when an intruder bursts into the audience chamber on kaiila-back, announce that he has come for a slave, and helps himself to Alyena before departing. Amid the confusion and cries of “It is the bandit, Hassan!”, Suleiman is stabbed; Tarl sees the sneaky Hamid disappearing behind the curtains with a bloody dagger; but Ibn Saran denounces Tarl as the culprit and cries out for him to be cut down as a Kavar spy and assassin.

And on that note, with Tarl surrounded by hordes of enraged scimitar-wielding guards, and no doubt keenly wondering what the hell is going on here, and what his chances are of living through the next half minute, we must take our leave of him until next time.

I wish you well,

Socrates