Morning in Ven’dara

The drums of Ven'dara have not yet sounded.

You awaken as Ubar of Ven'dara - stone-walled chamber high in the Central Cylinder, shutters thrown open to the Vosk wind.

The Home Stone of Ven'dara rests on its pedestal in the corner, lit by a single oil lamp that has burned all night. You rise from the furs, and the night kajira, silent, kneels head-down by the couch, having kept vigil.

"The City stands, Master," she whispers, as is the custom. "The watch reports no tarn aloft."

You pull on the simple scarlet tunic of the Ubar - no gold, no jewels. In Gor, the Ubar shows his power not by ornament, but by being the one man in the room who 

The doors open. The high windows catch the first sun over the Vosk.

Your War General enters first, helmet under his arm.

"Ubar," he says. "Two merchants from Port Kar seek license to dock. A caravan from Ar reports bosk fever on the eastern trail. And the High Initiate requests audience regarding the new aqueduct's dedication."

Your Scribe follows with the ledger stone and the day's edicts. The scent of fresh bread and black wine rises from the lower kitchens - the City is waking below you. Tarnsmen calling from the high cots, the hammer of the forge, the market criers.

Your kajira returns, kneeling, offering the morning bowl and black wine on a low tray, eyes lowered.

Outside, Ven'dara - your Ven'dara - begins to stir. The banners on the walls snap in the wind.

You nod to the guard at the door. "Send in the men of Port Kar."

The doors heave open and the smell comes with them - salt, tar, and sea rancid.

Two men enter. Not merchants as Ar would reckon merchants. These are of Port Kar - shaven heads, gold hoops in their ears, leather vests dark with oil. One is tall and lean, with a scar that runs from eye to jaw. The other is short, thick, his hands still stained from the oars. They do not kneel as free men of other cities would before an Ubar. Men of Port Kar bow to no one but the tides.

"I am Surbus," says the tall one. "This is Hark. We come with license from Samos himself, First Slaver of Port Kar."

He unrolls a parchment, weighted with the seal of Port Kar - the bosk with the chain.

"Two galleys, Ubar. Fifty oars each. We seek mooring in Ven'dara for ten days. We bring salt, Ka-la-na from Cos, and silks from the eastern islands. We ask your peace on the river front, and your law to protect our goods while we trade."

Hark, the short one, grins, showing black teeth. "And we will pay your wharf tax, of course, great Ubar. In silver. As honest men."

Every man in your council knows the truth. No man of Port Kar comes up the Vosk with only salt and silk. They come to buy - steel, rope, and girls for the rowing benches. And to look at your walls.

Your War General's hand tightens on his sword hilt.

Your Scribe leans in and whispers, "Ubar, if we refuse them, we risk Samos. If we allow them, the Caste of Merchants will cry that we let pirates into the market."

The two men of Port Kar watch you, waiting to see what manner of Ubar Ven'dara has.

You nod to the guard at the door. "Send in the men of Port Kar."

The doors heave open and the smell comes with them - salt, tar, and sea rancid.

Two men enter. Not merchants as Ar would reckon merchants. These are of Port Kar - shaven heads, gold hoops in their ears, leather vests dark with oil. One is tall and lean, with a scar that runs from eye to jaw. The other is short, thick, his hands still stained from the oars. They do not kneel as free men of other cities would before an Ubar. Men of Port Kar bow to no one but the tides.

"I am Surbus," says the tall one. "This is Hark. We come with license from Samos himself, First Slaver of Port Kar."

Your Scribe leans in and whispers, "Ubar, if we refuse them, we risk Samos. If we allow them, the Caste of Merchants will cry that we let pirates into the market."

The two men of Port Kar watch you, waiting to see what manner of Ubar Ven'dara has.

You rise from the curule chair.

"Let it be known," you say, your voice carrying in the stone chamber, "that Ven'dara fears no man, whether he comes from Ar or from the swamps of Port Kar."

You look at Surbus directly.

"Your license is granted. Fully. Two galleys. Ten days. Moor at the south wharf. Your men may walk free in the city, trade in the market, drink in the taverns. They will be bound by the same law as any man of Ven'dara - no steel drawn in anger, no theft, no brawling. Break that peace, and I will have you flogged from the wharf to your own decks."

Surbus's scar twitches. He had expected bargaining, confinement. Not this.

Hark laughs outright, a harsh bark. "By the Priest-Kings! A Ubar with stones! Samos will hear of this, Ubar. Samos will hear Ven'dara is a city that knows profit!"

"You will pay the standard wharf tax," you continue, "one-twentieth, not one-tenth. For I will have much profit from you."

Your War General steps forward, displeased, but he says nothing. To countermand an Ubar in open council would be death. Your Scribe, however, smiles - the merchants' caste will be pleased. The market will be flush with southern goods, and the taverns will run full for ten days.

"Place the seal," you order.

The Scribe presses the seal of Ven'dara - the silver tarn in flight over the Vosk - beside the seal of Port Kar.

Surbus rolls the parchment. "We will send for our ships at once. They wait downriver, past the bend."

Of course they wait. Men of Port Kar never ask permission before they arrive.

They back out, not turning their backs until the threshold - the only respect they will give.

When the doors close, your War General speaks.

"Ubar, you are bold. Perhaps too bold. Men of Port Kar steal when they cannot buy. And they have long memories for an insult - and for a weakness."

From below, a new sound rises through the open shutters - the morning horn of the market, and beneath it, the distant call of tarn drums from the cots. The city has heard that southern galleys are coming. Word travels fast in a river city.

Your Scribe asks, "Shall I inform the Caste of Merchants and the tavern keepers, Ubar? 

"Do it," you say to your Scribe. "Inform the Merchants. Inform the Innkeepers. And tell the Captain of the Guard - double the watch on the south wharf and the low market. Not in armor. In leather. I do not want Port Kar to think we fear them. I want them to feel watched."

"It will be done, Ubar," your Scribe says, already scratching on his wax tablet.

Your War General nods, satisfied for the first time this morning. "Wise. A velvet glove, but with a fist of steel beneath. I will send my best men - men who have fought Port Kar before and know their tricks. They will drink with them, dice with them, and count every crate that comes off those galleys."

You step to the high window. Far below, Ven'dara spreads out in the morning light - the white and red cylinders, the bustling agora, the broad, brown Vosk winding south. And there, at the southern bend, you can already see it if you know where to look - two dark specks on the water, waiting.

Your council is dismissed with a gesture. The chamber empties, leaving only the scent of black wine and oil.

You have ruled well this morning. Trade secured, honor kept, and guard doubled.

But the day of an Ubar is never done.

A soft chime sounds at the side entrance - the private entrance, used only by the First Scribe and by...

The curtain moves. It is the High Initiate, as if summoned by your thought of him. He is tall, in white and yellow robes, his head shaved clean, his face unreadable.

"Ubar of Ven'dara," he says, his voice calm. "I have seen the smoke of Port Kar in my meditations. The Priest-Kings are not pleased that their river carries pirates so freely. The Home Stone must be secured."

He does not wait to be invited. Initiates never do.

"The people will look for a blessing before the galleys dock. Will you come to the temple at tenth ahn for the dedication of the day?"

To refuse an Initiate is to risk unrest among the common castes. To accept is to kneel while he places his hands over you, and all the city knows that even the Ubar bows to the Priest-Kings.

You do not step back. You do not kneel.

"High Initiate," you say, your voice even. "Ven'dara honors the Priest-Kings, as all cities do. But I will not kneel in the temple today while pirates moor at my wharf. My place is on the walls, not on the temple stones."

His eyes narrow, just slightly. The only sign of anger an Initiate will ever show.

"And so you place the city above the gods, Ubar?"

"I place the safety of the city above ceremony," you answer. "That is what a Ubar is for. Take a tarn of silver to the temple from my own coffers. Let it be melted for the altar. Let the people see that Ven'dara is pious and strong. But I will not leave the wharf unguarded to sit while you chant."

A long silence. The oil lamp crackles beside the Home Stone.

Then, slowly, the High Initiate inclines his head. Not a bow. Never a bow from an Initiate to an Ubar.

"Silver buys no favor with the Priest-Kings, Ubar of Ven'dara. But the people love silver. It will be done as you say."

He turns, his white robes whispering. At the curtain he pauses.

"Be careful on your walls today, Ubar. The wind from Port Kar carries more than salt."

He is gone.

Your War General returns at that moment, grinning.

"Ubar! You told the Initiate to take coin and leave you be? By the Priest-Kings, I have served three Ubars of Ven'dara, and none had the iron to do that. The Guard loves you for it. The common castes... they are not sure."

He leans over the balcony with you. Down below, the south wharf is now alive. Your guards - in brown leather, not scarlet - are moving into position, casual, as if by accident. Merchants are rolling out bright awnings. And on the river, the two black galleys of Port Kar are moving now, oars flashing, coming fast up the Vosk toward your city.

They will dock within the ahn.

The whole city is watching to see what kind of Ubar you truly are.

"A wise choice, Ubar," your War General says, pounding his fist to his chest. "Let them see Ven'dara is not a one-man city. That it has captains, and steel."

"You will meet them," you command. "In my name. Tell Surbus and Hark that the Ubar of Ven'dara welcomes them to his river. Their peace will be kept, their tax will be fair, and tonight they will feast in the great hall as guests of the City. But tell them also - any man of theirs who draws a blade in my market will lose his hand at the wharf before sunset. Make sure they understand it is not a threat. It is law."

"It will be done," he says, and his eyes gleam. He loves this work - meeting pirates on their own ground.

He strides out, his cape snapping behind him.

You turn to your Scribe and to the steward who waits in shadow.

"Now - a feast. Tonight. Ninth ahn. In the great hall."

The steward bows low. "For how many, Ubar?"

"For my council, for the captains of the Guard, for the Firsts of the Merchant and Scribe Castes... and for two guests from Port Kar."

You think for a moment.

"Roast bosk. Red Ka-la-na wine from Ar, not the Cosian swill. Black wine. And paga - hot paga from the stills. Let them taste what Ven'dara has."

"And entertainment, Ubar?"

"Musicians. And a dancer. One of the city dancers, not a tavern girl. Let Port Kar see that even our slaves are more beautiful than their free women."

The steward nods and vanishes - already calculating, already sending runners to the kitchens, to the cellars, to the slave pens.

You are alone again in the high chamber. The Home Stone glows in the lamplight. Below, you hear the distant shouting from the wharf, the thud of heavy hulls against wood, the clatter of oars being shipped. The galleys have docked.

Your War General is doing his work.

Your city is doing yours.

Tonight, the true negotiation begins - not over wharf taxes, but over who Ven'dara will be. A city that trades with wolves, or a city that becomes one.

The sun climbs toward tenth ahn. You have a few hours to ready yourself.