"New Text Document" - читать интересную книгу автора (Norman John - Gor 04 - Nomads of Gor)

"Have you heard," he asked, "that the Wagon Peoples slay strangers?"

"Yes," I said, "I have heard that."

"It is true," he said, and turned his mount back to his fellows.

Last to approach me was the warrior of the Paravaci, with his hood and cape of white fur, and the glistening broad necklace of precious stones encircling his throat.

He pointed to the necklace. "It is beautiful, is it not?" he asked.

"Yes," I said.

"It will buy ten bosks," said he, "twenty wagons covered with golden cloth, a hundred she-slaves from Turia."

I looked away.

"Do you not covet the stones," he prodded, "these riches?"

"No," I said.

Anger crossed his face. "You may have them," he said.

"What must I do?" I asked.

"Slay me!" he laughed.

I looked at him steadily. "They are probably false stones," I said, "amber droplets, the pearls of the Vosk sorp, the polished shell of the Tamber clam, glass coloured and cut in Ar for trade with ignorant southern peoples."

The face of the Paravaci, rich with its terrible furrowed scars, contorted with rage.

He tore the necklace from his throat and flung it to my feet.

"Regard the worth of those stones!" he cried. I fished the necklace from the dust with the point of my sword, it in the sun. It hung like a belt of light, sparkling with a spectrum of riches hundred merchants.

"Excellent," I admitted, handing it back to him on the tip of the spear.

Angrily he wound it about the pommel of the saddle.

"But I am of the Caste of Warriors," I said, "of a high city and we do not stain our spears for the stones of men—not even such stones as these."

The Paravaci was speechless.

"You dare to tempt me," I said, feigning anger, "as if I were of the Caste of Assassins or a common thief with his dagger in the night." I frowned at him. "Beware," I warned, "lest I take your words as insult."

The Paravaci, in his cape and hood of white fur, with the priceless necklace wrapped about the pommel of his saddle, sat stiff, not moving, utterly enraged. Then, furiously, the scars wild in his face, he sprang up in the stirrups and lifted both hands to the sky. "Spirit of the Sky," he cried, "let the lance fall to me—to me!" Then abruptly, furious, he wheeled the kaiila and joined the others, whence he turned to regard me.

As I watched, the Tuchuk took his long, slender lance and thrust it into the ground, point upward. Then, slowly, the four riders began to walk their mounts about the lance, watching it, right hands free to seize it should it begin to fall.

The wind seemed to rise.