Magicians of Gor (30 page)

haughtiness in bondage.”

“Please,” she said. “Give me the coins.”

I did not release them.

“Give them to me!” she said, angrily.

“Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness?’ I asked.

She looked at me, angrily.

“Women learn it quickly in bondage,” I said.

“It is in their best interest to do so,” said Marcus.

“Yes,” I said.

“Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?” inquired Marcus.

She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters.

“But then,” I said, “you may not be attractive enough to be a slave.”

She did not speak.

I put the pouch inside my tunic.

“Oh!” she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands.

“We shall see,” I said.

“Oh!” she said, startled.

Marcus held her from behind, by the arms.

I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and

surveyed her features.

“I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave,” I said.

She squirmed.

“Hold her wrists together,” I said. I then tied them together, behind her back,

with her veil.

She moaned.

She could not now readjust the veil.

(pg. 172) “Please,” she begged. “Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!”

“You were not pleasing,” I said.

I then took the pouch of coins in my hands and lofted it to the group of lads

some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran.

The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast.

“Your lips are pretty,” I said. “They could possibly be trained to kiss well.”

Tears sprang to her eyes.

“And lest you return home too quickly,” I said, “we shall do this.” I then

crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to

offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a

bond, fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of

slack, rather like a slave girl’s hobble chains.

“She might even bring a good price in a market,” said Marcus.

“I am sure of it,” I said.

“Sleen!” said a free woman, bundled in the robes of concealment, heavily veiled,

hurrying by. Doubtless she had witnessed, from a distance, the fate of her

compatriot.

“The woman of Ar should be slaves,” said Marcus.

“Yes,” I said. I could think of one in particular.

“It would much improve them,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. Slavery, of course, much improves any woman. this is because of

the psychological dimorphism of the human species, that the female’s fulfillment

lies in her subjection to, and subjugation by, a strong male.

“But do not confuse the men of Ar with the women of Ar,” I said.

“I do not feel sorry for them,” he said.

“I do,” I said. “They have been confused, misled and robbed.”

“And not only of their goods,” said Marcus.

“No,” I said, “but of their pride, as well.”

“And their manhood,” said Marcus, bitterly.

“I do not know,” I said. “I do not know.”

(pg. 173) “Their women belong at the feet of men,” said Marcus.

“So, too, do all women,” I said.

“True,” said Marcus.

Women taken in a given city, incidentally, are usually sold out of the city, to

wear their collars elsewhere. In this fashion the transition from their former

to their subsequent condition is made particularly clear to them. They must

begin anew, as a new form of being, that of a lovely animal, the female slave.

Also, given the xenophobia common on Gor, often obtaining among cities, the

distrust of a stranger, the contempt for the outsider, and such, there is a

special ease in a master’s relating to a foreign slave, one with whom he has

never shared a Home Stone. Similarly, of course, there is a special urgency and

terror on the part of the slave, in finding that she now belongs helplessly to

one of a different polity. She understands that it may be difficult to please

such a master, one likely to be harsh and demanding, who may despise her, who

may think nothing of subjecting her to cruel punishments, and that she must

accordingly, if she would even live, strive desperately to be pleasing to him.

They can thus, the girl’s antecedents, like her name and clothing, stripped

away, and his unknown to her, begin as pure master and slave. What, if anything,

will then, from this basic fiat of their relationship, develop between them?

Will she, in and of herself, alone, aside from the trivia of her now-irrelevant

history, become his special, unique slave? Will he, on his part, in and of

himself, alone, aside from his antecedents, his station, caste, and such, become

to her a very special, very individual master, perhaps even her master of

masters?

We then continued on.

“You are still troubled,” said Marcus.

“It is like seeing a larl tricked into destroying himself,” I said, “as though

he were told that the only good larl is a sick, apologetic, self-suspecting,

guilt-ridden larl. It is like vulos legislating for tarns, the end of which

legislation is the death of the tarn, or is transformation into something new,

something reduced, pathological and sick, celebrated then as the true tarn.”

“I do not even understand what you are saying,” said Marcus.

“That is because you are Gorean,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he shrugged.

“But you see such things occurring in Ar,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“The larl makes a poor verr,” I said. “The tarn makes a pathetic vulo. Cannot

you imagine it hunching down, and pretending to be little and weak? Is the image

not revolting? Why (pg. 174) it is not soaring among the cliffs, uttering its

challenge scream to the skies?”

Marcus looked at me, puzzled.

“The beast who was born to live on flesh is not to be nourished on the nibblings

of urts,” I said.

“It is hard to understand you,” he said.

“It is long since I have heard the roar of the larl, the cry of the tarn,” I

said.

“In Ar,” he said, “there are no larls, there are no tarns.”

“I do not know if that is true or not,” I said.

“There are only women there,” he said, “and men pretending to be like women.”

“Each should be true to himself,” I said.

“Perhaps neither should be true to himself, or to the other,” said Marcus.

“Perhaps each should try to be true to those who can be true to neither.”

“Perhaps,” said Marcus.

I drove my fist into the palm of my hand.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“Ar must be roused!” I said.

“It cannot be done,” he said.

“Ar lacks leadership, will, a resistance!” I said.

“Lead Ar,” suggested Marcus.

“I cannot do that,” I said. “I am not even of Ar.”

Marcus shrugged.

“There must be another!” I said.

“Marlenus is dead,” he said.

“There must be another!” I wept.

“There is no other,” said Marcus.

“There must be a way,” I said.

“There is no way,” said Marcus.

“There must be!” I said.

“Do not concern yourself,” said Marcus. “Ar is dead. She died in the delta.”

“In the delta?” I said.

“In the delta,” said Marcus. “Indeed, we were there.”

“That is possibly it,” I whispered. “The delta!”

Marcus looked at me, a little wildly. Perhaps he suspected that I had gone mad.

Indeed, perhaps I had.

“That may be the key,” I said. “The delta!”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Are you with me?” I asked.

“Has this anything to do with the recovery of the Home Stone of Ar’s Station?”

he asked.

(pg. 175) “Oh, yes,” I said. “Yes, indeed!”

“Then I am surely with you,” he said.

“Is your sword still thirsty?” I asked.

“Parched,” he said, smiling.

“Good,” I said.

11
   
The Delka

“Stop babbling, man!” ordered the guardsman, an officer in the scarlet of Ar,

though his accent proclaimed him Cosian.

“It was so quick!” wept the merchant. “My shop, my wares, ruined!”

“Aii,” said another of the guardsmen with the officer. There were four such men

with him. They were, I think, of Ar. They were looking about the shop, one of

ceramics. There were many shards about. Shelves had been pulled down. Among the

shards and wreckage, by count, there were seven bodies, all Cosian merchants.

“Who are you?” asked the officer, looking up.

“Auxiliaries, Captain,” said I, “in the vicinity.”

“See what carnage has been wrought here,” said the officer, angrily.

“Looters?” I asked.

“Explain now,” said the captain to the merchant, “what occurred. Control

yourself. Be calm.”

“I am sick!” wept the merchant.

“I am not of the physicians,” said the officer. “I must have an account of this.

There must be a report made.”

“It was at the ninth Ahn,” said the merchant, sitting on a stool.

“Yes?” said the officer.

“These fellows entered the shop,” he said. “They claimed to be tax collectors.”

“These fellows presented their credentials?” asked the captain.

“They are not tax collectors” said one of the guardsmen. “They are fellows come

in from the camp, on passes. They are well known on the avenue. They pose as tax

collectors, and then, in that guise, take what they wish.”

“What did they want?” asked the captain of the merchant.

“Money,” he said.

“You gave it to them?” asked the officer.

(pg. 176) “I gave them what I had,” he said, “but it was little enough. The

collectors had come only five days earlier. They leave us destitute!”

“You murdered these men?” inquired the captain, skeptically.

“I did nothing,” said the merchant. “They grew angry at not receiving more

money. To be sure, had I any, I would have given it to them readily. Glory to

Cos!”

“Glory to Cos,” growled the officer. “Continue.”

“Angry at the pittance they obtained they began to wreck the shop.”

“Yes?” inquired the officer.

“My shop! My beautiful wares!” he moaned.

“Continue!” said the officer.

“It was then that two fellows entered the shop, in silence, like darkness and

wind, behind them,” he said.

“And?” inquired the officer.

“And this was done!” said the merchant, gesturing to the floor.

“There were only two who entered behind them?” asked the officer.

“Yes,” said the merchant.

“I do not believe you,” said the officer. “These fallen fellows are swordsmen,

known in the camp.”

“I swear it!” said the merchant.

“There appears to be only one mark on the body of each of these fellows,” said

one of the guardsmen, who had been examining the bodies.

“Warriors,” said another of the guardsmen.

“I do not even know if they realized what was among them,” said the merchant.

“It seems to have been professionally done,” said the captain.

“Yes, Captain,” said one of the men.

“Whose work could it be?” asked the captain.

“Surely there is little doubt about the matter,” said another of the guardsmen.

The captain regarded the guardsmen.

“See, Captain?” asked the guardsmen. He rolled one of the bodies to its back. On

the chest was a bloody triangle, the “delka.” That is the fourth letter in the

Gorean alphabet, and formed identically to the fourth letter of the Greek

alphabet, the ‘delta’, to which letter it doubtless owes its origin. In Gorean,

the delta of a river is referred to as its, “delka.” The reasoning here is the

same as in Greek, and, derivatively, in English, namely the resemblance of a

delta region to a cartographical triangle.

(pg. 177) “It was the same five days ago,” said one of the men, “with the five

brigands found slain in the Trevelyan district, and the two mercenaries cut down

on Wagon Street, at the second Ahn, only the bloody delka left behind, scrawled

on the wall.”

“In the blood of the brigands, and of the mercenaries,” said one of the men.

“Ar takes vengeance,” said one of the guardsmen.

“Sooner could a verr snarl!” snapped the officer.

“We are not all urts,” said one of the men.

“Your swords are pledged to Ar,” said the officer, “Ar under the hegemony of

Cos!”

“Is that other than to Cos herself?” asked a man.

“We obey our Ubara,” said another.

“And whom does she obey?” asked the fellow.

“Silence,” said the officer.

“Glory to Cos,” I said.

“Let an auxiliary teach you your manners, your duties to the alliance,” said the

officer.

The guardsman shrugged.

“Good fellow,” said the officer.

“Thank you, Captain,” I said.

The officer turned to the tradesman. “Those assailants who slew these poor lads

and wrecked your shop, surely several of them, not two, could you recognize

them?”

“There were but two, as I said,” said the tradesman, “and it was not they but

those who now lie about, drenched in their own blood, who disturbed my wares.”

“I see,” said the officer, angrily.

“I would follow Marlenus,” said a guardsman.

“Follow his daughter,” said the officer.

“One whom he himself repudiated?” asked the man.

“False,” said the officer.

“She was disowned,” said the man.

“False!” said the officer.

“As you say, Captain,” said one of the guardsmen.

“In following his daughter, you follow him,” said the officer.