Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt Page 19

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Do you beg use?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she whispered, tensely.

  “Perhaps some other time,” I said.

  “Do not kill me,” she said.

  I took my knife and, from the back of her head, gathered together a large

  handful of her long dark hair, and then cut it off, close to the scalp. I then,

  using her hair, bound her hands together behind her back.

  “You have not earned a use,” I said.

  I then cut another gout of her hair from the back of her head and used it to tie

  the flute about her neck. I did not crop the hair about her head with the knife,

  rather in the manner of shaving it off, as is sometimes done as a punishment for

  female slaves. I did no more than take the two gouts. To be sure, these two

  gouts, thick as they were, cleared an irregular space of several square inches

  of the back of her head. This cleared (pg. 126) area, thought not evident from

  the front, was only too obvious from the back. it would doubtless occasion much

  merriment upon its discovery by her chain sisters, as she was a beauty, and

  might be envied by them. Too, given her personality, I suspected that they would

  be likely to find her plight even more amusing. Perhaps she could wear a scarf

  for a time, or have her hair shortened or tied in such a way as to conceal or

  minimize the rather liberal extent of this local cropping. One advantage of

  shaving a girl’s head, incidentally, is the duration of the punishment. It is

  recalled to her, for example, every time she touches her head or sees her

  reflection. By the time it had grown out, and even by the time that it begins to

  grow out a little, she had usually determined to do all in her power to be such

  that her master will permit her to keep her hair. if he wishes, or thinks it

  judicious, of course, he may keep her with a shaved head. It might also be noted

  that certain slaves, rather as an occupational mark or precaution, for example,

  girls working in foundries and mills, often have their heads shaved. Too, it is

  common to have a girl completely if she it to be transported in a slave ship.

  This is to protect her against vermin of various sort, in particular, lice.

  I dragged the slave up to her knees and knelt her before us. She trembled,

  daring not to meet our eyes.

  “Go to the other flute girls,” I said, “to all those about whether on the street

  or on the wall. Inform them that their work for the day is finished.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “Tell them to hurry home to their chains.”

  “Master!” she said.

  “Do you understand?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you dally in the carrying out of a command?” I asked.

  “No, Master!” she said, and leaped to her feet, running across the Wall Road,

  her hands tied behind her, wisps of silk fluttering about her waist, the flute

  dangling from her neck.

  “She is very pretty,” said Marcus.

  “More so then I?” asked Phoebe.

  “Is the slave jealous?” inquired Marcus, teasingly.

  “Please, Master,” begged Phoebe.

  “Are you jealous?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” said Phoebe, defiantly.

  “You do not sound humble,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, quickly, frightened.

  “Who is jealous?” he inquired.

  “Phoebe is jealous,” she whispered.

  (pg. 127) “You are a thousand times more beautiful than she,” said Marcus.

  “Master sports with his helpless slave,” pouted Phoebe.

  “To me,” said Marcus, teasingly.

  “How shall I ever hold you, Master?” she wept. “I am yours, and only a slave.

  You may put me aside or keep me with others, s you might please. There are

  thousands of intelligent, pretty women who would be eager to serve you. You may

  have your pick. You may buy and sell as you please. How shall I ever keep you?”

  “It is mine to keep you—if I wish,” said Marcus.

  “Yes, Maser!” she wept.

  I considered the unilaterally of the master/slave relationship. All power is

  with the master. This, of course, has its effect upon the slave. Let her strive

  to be such that her master will keep her.

  “Look,” I said, pointing to the foot of the wall, where the flute girl was

  together with others of her station. She seemed distraught, bound, turning

  about, to look at me. They all, excited, confused, looked in this direction. To

  be sure, several of them, and many on the wall, too, both flute girls and

  laborers, had paused in their various activities, to follow the sequence of

  events on the Wall Road. But Marcus and Phoebe paid me no attention. They were

  in one another’s arms.

  “I love you, Master,” was saying Phoebe, looking up at him, “totally and

  helplessly.”

  “And I,” he was saying, brushing back hair from her forehead, “fear that I might

  find myself growing fond of you.”

  “Use me, Master, use me!” she begged.

  “Not here,” said Marcus. “Perhaps in a darkened doorway, on the way back to our

  lodging.”

  Quickly she pulled from him, and hurried a few steps back, toward Harness

  Street, turning them to look back, pleadingly at him.

  I was pleased to see that she was much in his power.

  “I see,” said Marcus. The flute girls at the foot of the wall, looking this way,

  knelt, putting their heads down to the stones, doing obeisance in our direction.

  The command of a free man had been conveyed to them. I then say the lovely

  brunet picking her way with difficulty up a path to the higher part of the

  breach. She was communicating my message, I gather, to the girls she

  encountered, on the different levels. I looked up toward the height of the

  breach. There, girl after girl, especially as she saw my eyes upon her, knelt,

  putting her head down. (pg. 128) Those that were sitting cross-legged swiftly

  abandoned that position, also performing obeisance. Then, one by one, as the

  brunet hurried among them, they picked their way down the paths from the breach

  to the Wall Road and hurried away. In a few moments the breach was cleared of

  flute girls. Doubtless all of them, at one time or another, had been under an

  excellent discipline and now, fearful of an impending restoration of such

  rigors, would lose no time in recalling, and manifesting, suitable attitudes and

  behaviors. No woman who has ever felt the whip forgets it.

  “Was that wise?” asked Marcus.

  “No,” I said.

  “Tomorrow they will be back, and things will be the same,” he said.

  “Undoubtedly,” I said.

  “Nothing will be changed,” he said.

  “True,” I said.

  “Then why did you do it?” he asked.

  “I felt like it,” I said.

  “I was afraid you might not have had a good reason,” he said.

&n
bsp; “Master,” said Phoebe, pleadingly.

  “It could be dangerous here,” said Marcus.

  “For whom?” I asked.

  “I see,” said Marcus.

  “Master,” begged Phoebe.

  “The men of Ar, and the woman, and youth,” he said, looking over to the wall,

  “remain on the breach.”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “Master!” said Phoebe, suddenly, again. But this time, from the note in her

  voice, we turned about, instantly.

  “You there, hold!” cried an angry voice, that of a guardsman in the uniform of

  Ar, hurrying toward us. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.

  We turned to face him, separating ourselves. This permits outflanking, the

  engagement by one, the death stroke by the other.

  Instantly the guardsmen stopped. He was then some four or five yards from us.

  “You are armed,” he said.

  “It is lawful,” I said. “We are not of Ar.”

  He drew his blade.

  We, too, drew ours.

  “You have drawn before a guardsman!” he said.

  (pg. 129) “Did you think we would not?” I asked.

  “It is against the law,” he said.

  “Not our law,” I said.

  “What have you done here?” he asked.’’

  “The flute girls have worked enough today,” I said. “We have sent them home.”

  “By whose authority?” he asked.

  “By mine,” I said.

  “You are an officer?” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “You are Cosian,” said Marcus.

  “I am a guardsman of Ar,” said a fellow.

  “You are Cosian,” said Marcus.

  “You have drawn a weapon against me,” I said.

  “You are of the warriors?” said the fellow. He wavered. He, too, knew the codes.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “And he?” asked the fellow.

  “He, too,” I said.

  “You are not in scarlet,” he said.

  “True,” I said. Did he think that the color of a fellow’s garments was what made

  him a warrior? Surely he must realize that one not of the warriors might affect

  the scarlet, and that one who wore the grimed gray of a peasant, one barefoot,

  and armed only with the great staff, might be of the scarlet caste. It is not

  the uniform which makes the warrior, the soldier.

  “There are two of you,” he said, stepping back a pace.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Be off,” said he, “before I place you under arrest.”

  “Perhaps you fellows should go about in squads of ten,” I said.

  “It is not necessary,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “I suppose it is not necessary.”

  “Are you going to kill him?” Marcus asked me.

  “I have not decided,” I said.

  “There are two of you,” he said.

  “You are a brave fellow,” I said, “not to turn about, and flee.” The odds, you

  see, were much against him, even were we mediocre swordsmen. One need only

  engage and defend, and the other strike.

  “You dare not attack,” he said. “It is day. Those of Ar watch.”

  “Is it true?” I asked Marcus, not taking my eyes off the fellow.

  (pg. 130) Marcus stepped back, shielding himself behind me. “Yes,” he said.

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “You see,” he said. “There are many witnesses.”

  “They are not rushing for aid are they?” I asked Marcus.

  “No,” he said.

  “I suspect they will have seen nothing,” I said.

  The fellow turned pale.

  “You are cowards!” he said.

  “Which of us will kill him?” asked Marcus.

  “It does not matter,” I said.

  The fellow stepped back another pace.

  “Why do you not run?” I asked.

  “Those of Ar watch,” he said.

  “And not to show fear before them you would stand your ground against two?”

  “I am Cosian,” he said.

  “Now,” I said to Marcus, “perhaps the victory of Cos is clearer to you.”

  “Yes,” said Marcus.

  “Under the circumstances,” I said to the guardsman, “I would nonetheless

  recommend a discretionary withdrawal.”

  “No,” said the man.

  “We are prepared to permit it,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “No dishonor is involved in such a thing,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “You need not even make haste,” I said.

  “I do not fear you singly,” he said.

  “On guard,” I said.

  He immediately entered readiness.

  “Stay back,” I said to Marcus.

  I had scarcely uttered my injunction to Marcus when, Phoebe screaming, the

  fellow lunged. Our blades met perhaps three times and I was under his guard. He

  drew back, shaken, white faced. Again we engaged and, again, in a moment, I was

  behind his guards. Again he drew back, this time staggering, off balance. “Aii,”

  he wept and lunged again, and then, tripped, scrambling about, pressed back with

  my foot, was on his back, my sword at his throat. He looked up, wildly.

  “Strike!” he said.

  “Get up,” I said. “Sheath your sword.”

  He staggered to his feet, watching me, and sheathed his sword. I then sheathed

  mine.

  (pg. 131) “Why did you not kill me?” he asked.

  “I told you earlier,” I said, “I had decided not to kill you.”

  “I am an expert swordsman,” he said, looking at me.

  “I agree,” I said.

  “I have never seen such speed, such subtlety,” he said. “It is like defending

  oneself against wind, or lightning.”

  I did not respond to him. In a way I felt sad, and helpless. In many ways I was

  an average man, if that. too, I have many lacks, and many faults. How ironic

  then it was, I thought, that among the few gifts which I might possess, those

  few things which might distinguish me among other men, were such as are commonly

  associated with destructiveness. Of what value is it, I asked myself, to have

  certain talents. Of what dreadful value are such skills? Of what value, really,

  is it to be able to bring down a running man with the great bow at two hundred

  yards, to throw the quiva into a two-hort circle at twenty paces, to wield a

  sword with an agility others might bring to the handling of a knife? Of what use

  are such dreadful skills? Then I reminded myself that such skills are often of

  great use and that culture, with its glories of art, and music and literature,

  can flourish only within the perimeters of their employments. Perhaps there is

  then a role for the lonely fellows on the wall, for the border guards, for the


  garrisons of far-flung outposts, for the guardsmen in the city treading their

  lonely rounds. All these, too, in their humble, unnoticed way, serve. Without

  them the glory is not possible. Without them even their critics could not exist.

  “Are you all right?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I recalled, too, the games of war. They, too, in their awesomeness, must not be

  forgotten. Why is it that some men seek wars, traveling to the ends of the earth

  to find them? It is because they have a taste for such things. It is because

  there, where others fear to tread, they find themselves most alive. He who has

  been on the field of battle knows the misery, the terror, the tenseness, the

  racing of the blood, the pounding of the heart, the exhilaration, the

  meaningfulness. In what other arena, and for what lesser stakes, can so much of

  man be summoned forth, man with his brutality, his cruelty, his mercilessness,

  his ruthlessness, his terribleness, these ancient virtues, and man with his

  devotion, his camaraderie, his fellowship, his courage, his discipline, his

  glory? In what other endeavor is man, in his frailty and strength, in his

  terribleness and nobility, so fully manifested? What is the meaning of war to

  the warrior? Surely it is not merely to be found in the beholding of flaming

  cities and the treading of bloody fields. Surely it is not merely (pg. 132) to

  be found in silver plate and golden vessels, nor even in women lying naked in

  their chains, huddled together, trembling in the mud, knowing that they are now

  properties and must please. It is rather, I think, primarily, the contest, and

  that for which all is risked, victory. To be sure, this is a war of warriors,

  not of technicians and engineers, a war of men, not of machines, not of

  explosives, not of microscopic allies, not of poisoned atmospheres, wars in

  which the tiny, numerous meek, in their swarms, crawling on six legs, will

  inherit the earth.

  “You are not of Ar,” said the guardsman.

  “No,” I said.

  “I did not think so,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Cos,” he said, “can use blades such as yours.”

  “I seek employment,” I said.

  “Go to the barracks of guardsmen,” said he.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “I would now leave this area,” he said. “Too, I would not attempt to interfere

 

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