Magicians of Gor (35 page)

“I hate him!” she said.

“And love him,” I said. “You will always love him.”

“He is a coward!” she cried.

“No,” I said.

“I know him!” she said.

“You do not,” I said.

“Surely you do not claim he is a brave man?” said Marcus.

“He did not identify us,” I said.

“He did not recognize us,” said Marcus.

“But he did,” I said.

Marcus looked at me, angrily.

“Yes,” I said.

“Our features were concealed,” said Marcus.

“Do you think he would not recognize our builds,” I asked, “our clothing, our

sandals? Do you think this would be so hard to do, within moments of having seen

us before?”

“If you feared this,” he asked, “why did you reenter the shop?”

“Because of the patrol,” I said. “I feared they might kill him, in vengeance for

the carnage wrought in the shop. Too, we were in the vicinity, and it might seem

unusual, surely, if we did not add our presence to the investigation. That might

have attracted comment and inquiry, had it been noticed. Too, who knows, perhaps

there could be more swordplay within.”

“But you did not attack the patrol,” he said.

“They were, as it turned out,” I said, “mostly lads of Ar, and thusly it would

have been not only impolitic but, in my opinion, actually objectionable to have

done so. After all, we are, in our way, acting in support of Ar, the old Ar, the

true Ar, and the officer, through obviously a Cosian sleen, was not a bad

fellow. We cannot blame him for being angry that the carnage was wrought within

his precinct, almost under his nose, and he could, at least, recognize, as her

father could not, the true nature of this little slave slut before us.”

The girl put down her head.

“You think the tradesman recognized us?” asked Marcus.

“Yes,” I said.

“How do you know?” he asked.

“I saw it, in a flash, at first, in his eyes,” I said.

(pg. 202) “But he did not betray us.”

“No,” I said.

“He might have won much favor with Cos has he done so,” said Marcus.

“Undoubtedly,” I said.

“He is a brave man,” said Marcus.

“And only a tradesman,” I reminded him.

“There are brave men in all castes,” smiled Marcus.

“Look,” I said, pointing to a wall on Lorna, near where we stood. I had not seen

it before. “The delka,” I said.

“We did not put it there,” said Marus.

“And Lorna is a muchly frequented street,” I said.

“Interesting,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

I looked down at the kneeling, leashed girl.

“I want to be forced to fear, and serve, and yield, totally to my master,” she

said.

“And undoubtedly in time it will be so,” I told her.

“I am not ready, you think?” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Perhaps in a day or two,” grumbled Marcus.

“Why will you return me to my father?” she asked.

“Because you are young,” I said.

“And?” she asked, skeptically.

“Because we owe your father something,” I said.

“And you owe me nothing?” she said.

“No,” I said. “We owe you nothing.” Then I added, “Nothing is owed a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“On your feet,” I said.

“I will get my collar!” she said. “If necessary I will slacken my veil. I will

lift my robes in ascending a curb, that my ankles may be glimpsed. I will dare

to walk the remote districts, and to tread high bridges!”

“Must a command be repeated?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said, quickly, rising.

“I will get my collar!” she repeated.

“I wonder if you will be as eager to wear it,” I said, “when it is found on your

throat and you cannot remove it, when you find that you are truly a helpless

slave.”

She turned white.

“I will try to serve my master well,” she whispered.

“Let us hope he is a kind one,” I said.

She looked at me, frightened.

“You could be bought by anyone,” I said.

(pg. 203) “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Precede us,” I said.

She went left, as I had directed, on Lorna.

“Walk well,” I cautioned her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Surely it is an error to let such a lovely slut go free,” said Marcus.

“One as attractive as she will probably not be permitted to go free for long,” I

said.

We would keep to the main streets for a time. it would attract more attention, I

feared, to march our captive between buildings, through backways and alleys, as

though we wished to hide her. As it was, she was, in her way, well disguised, as

her clothing could not be recognized nor, as she would customarily, at her age,

be veiled, her face. When we reached the vicinity of delivery. In the meantime I

thought it would do the exciting little chit good to be marched naked through

the streets. Too, it was not unpleasant to walk behind her.

In time we had come to the vicinity of the shop and I directed her to the alley

behind it.

We paused before the rear door of the shop.

I took up some of the slack in the leash and she turned and faced me, defiantly.

“So I am rejected as a female,” she said, “and you return me here?”

I handed the leash to Marcus.

I turned her about and freed her hands. The leash was still on her neck.

“Do you think I am not beautiful enough, or intelligent enough,” she said,

angrily, not facing me, “to be a slave?”

“Oh!” she gasped, suddenly, turned about, rudely, forcibly, by me, and held

helplessly before me, by the upper arms. She was frightened. “You’re hurting

me,” she whispered. “Oh!” she said, wincing, as I tightened my grip. She knew

herself helpless. “Yes, Master,” she suddenly breathed, her eyes closed. I saw

that she understood masculine power, and would respond well to it.

I then, reluctantly, with some force of will, removed my hands from her.

“You are both beautiful enough and intelligent enough to be a slave,” I said.

She looked at me. The prints of my grip lingered on her arms.

“Yes,” I assured her.

(pg. 204) “Then do not bring me back here,” she whispered. “Take me to the loot

pits, or keep me, or sell me, but do not bring me back here. No longer is this

my home. My home I now know is in my master’s house, or, if he will have it so,

in his kennels.”

I regarded her.

“Shall I knock?” asked Marcus.

I looked at the girl. She looked well, leashed.

“Yes,” I said.

“If it were not for what you owed my father.” She asked, “would you have brought

me here?”

I considered the matter, and regarded her. “No,” I said.

She smiled, through her tears, almost defiantly.

I suddenly seized her by the hair, and twisted her head back, and regarded her,

her lovely throat and face. “No,” I said.

“Then I am beautiful enough and intelligent enough to be a slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She sobbed.

“Beauty and intelligence are well and good,” I said, “but the best slave is she

who loves most deeply.”

“My master will be all to me,” she said. I regarded her. She would never be

truly happy until she was in her place, at a man’s feet.

“Someone is coming,” said Marcus.

I released her.

“So it is all the will of men?” she said, through her tears. “All the debts, all

the owing, all the payments? And nothing is owed to me?”

“No,” I said. “Nothing is owed to you. You are a slave.”

“Yes, Master!” she said.

We heard a fumbling with the bolts and chains on the door, and a lifting of the

two bars. Gorean doors are often firmly secured.

“Remove the leash,” I said to Marcus. In a moment he had freed her neck of it.

“Kneel here,” I said to the girl, “head down, and cover yourself.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

The door opened.

“Hurry inside,” said the tradesman to the girl. She rose up and sped within,

covering herself as she could. She turned once, inside the threshold, cast a

wild glance at Marcus and myself, and hurried further within.

“I have been waiting for you,” said the tradesman.

“How did you know we would return?” asked Marcus.

(pg. 205) “You are men of honor,” he said.

“I think it would be well,” I said, “if you changed your name, and set up your

business elsewhere.”

“I have already considered the arrangements,” he said.

We heard the girl cry out, startled inside.

“They have not yet come for the bodies,” said the tradesman.

“They are sending a wagon,” I said. “Doubtless it will not arrive until after

dark.” The girl, of course, would have only a very imperfect idea of what had

occurred, as her father had doubtless hurried her to the chest upon the entry of

the brigands. The details of the afternoon, however, would presumably be made

clear to her by her father. He too, would presumably be interested in her

afternoon. I suspected that her account to him would not be accurate or, at

least, complete, in all aspects.

Marcus and I turned to go.

“Warriors,” said he.

We again faced him.

“My thanks,” said he.

“It is nothing,” I said.

“Warriors!” said he.

“Yes?” I said.

“Glory to the Delta Brigade,” he whispered.

“Glory to Ar,” I said.

“Yes, to Ar!” he said, though naught but a simple tradesman.

“Glory, too, to Ar’s Station,” said Marcus, angrily.

“As you say,” said the tradesman, puzzled. “Glory, too, then, to Ar’s Station!”

We then took our leave. It was time to report back to our headquarters, after

which we would return to our own quarters in the Metellan district.

“He does not even know that his daughter is a slave,” said Marcus.

She is legally free,” I reminded him.

“A mere technicality,” he said.

“It is not a mere technicality to those who fine themselves in legal bondage,” I

said.

“I suppose not,” he granted me.

“Of course not,” I said.

“But she is a slave anyway,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you think he knows?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

“But she knows,” he said.

“Obviously,” I said.

13
   
A Difference Seems Afoot in Ar

(pg. 206) “There is another delka,” I said to Marcus.

“Bold that it should be in such a place,” said Marcus.

Marcus and I, some days after the incident of the shop, were strolling on the

Avenue of the Central Cylinder, which is, I suppose, in a sense, the major

thoroughfare in Ar. It is at any rate her most famous, if not busiest, avenue,

and it gives access to the park of the Central Cylinder, which edifice is

itself, of course, located within the park of that name. It is a long, shaded,

wide, elegant avenue, with expensive shops and fountains.

“A barracks was burned last night,” said Marcus. “I heard that.”

“If it is true,” I said, “I do not think it will be found on the public boards.”

“Does there not seem a new spirit in Ar?” he asked.

“It seems quiet here,” I said.

“Nonetheless,” he said. “Things are different.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“There, listen!” said Marcus.

We turned to look at the street. Approaching, singing, was a group of youths, in

rows, a sports team, marching together. Their colors were of both Ar and Cos.

Such teams, drawn from various parts of the city, competed in various games, in

hurling the stone, in hurling the thonged javelin, both for distance and

accuracy, in races of various sorts, in jumping, in wrestling, and such. There

were meets, and local championships, with awards, such as fillets of the wool of

the bounding hurt, dyed different colors, and for champions, crowns woven of the

leaves of the mighty Tur tree. Eventually various teams, in their respective age

brackets, would become city champions. Such sports as there were familiar to

Goreans, and had for years been privately practiced at numerous palestrae

throughout the city. Indeed, such palestrae, upon occasion, would compete with

one another.

“That is different,” said Marcus.

“There used to be such teams,” I said.

“They have been revived,” said Marcus.

“You see in this something of significance?” I asked.

(pg. 207) “Of course,” he said. “Why would Cos revive such things?’

“To help them rule?” I asked. “To appear noble, well disposed, benevolent? To

give the public baubles and toys, items of interest with which to beguile

themselves? To create diversions, to distract Ar’s attention from her defeat and

sorry state?”

“They did not do this before,” he said. “Why just now?”

We watched the youths as they passed us and continued on, down the street.

“Why?” I asked.

“To counteract the Delta Brigade,” he said. “To lessen its influence!”

“Cos does not even know we exist,” I said.

“The Ubara knows,” he said, “and Seremides, and the Polemarkos.”

“I think you are mad,” I said.

“This time,” he said, “I think my Kaissa is more subtle than yours.”

“I should like to think so,” I said.

“What of the new art center?” he said.

“What of it?” I asked.

“That is the same thing,” he said.

I laughed.

“No,” he said. “I am serious! That is the same thing, but for the intellectuals,

the scribes, the high castes!”

“And will they bring back the marbles from Cos for the art center?” I asked.

“I am serious, Tarl,” he said.