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

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  “Some even have signs about their necks,” said Marcus.

  “I am not familiar with the politics of Ar,” I said, “so I do not recognize the

  names.”

  “I know the name of the last fellow,” said Marcus. “Mirus Torus.”

  The sign about his neck had that name on it, and also the word, “Traitor.”

  “Who is he?” I asked.

  “I assume,” said Marcus, “that he is the Mirus Torus who was the executive

  officer of the High Council before Gnieus Lelius, and later held the same office

  under the regency of Gnieus Lelius.”

  “I think I have heard of him,” I said.

  “For some months he was under house arrest,” said Marcus.

  “The Central Cylinder,” I said, “seems now to be very sure of its power.”

  “Doubtless it was encouraged by its success in the matter of the Home Stone,”

  said Marcus.

  “Undoubtedly,” I said.

  “You seem troubled,” he said.

  “It is nothing,” I said.

  We watched the coffle of prisoners move away, south on the Avenue of the Central

  Cylinder. For a long time we could hear the music of the flute girl who brought

  up the rear.

  “What is it?” asked Marcus.

  “There seems nothing to arouse Ar,” I said.

  “Forget Ar,” said Marcus. “The men of Ar have become spineless urts.”

  “These men,” I said, “were once among the strongest and finest in the world.”

  “Ar dies in the delta,” said Marcus.

  “Perhaps,” I said. There seemed much to the sobering suggestion of the young

  warrior.

  “What is Ar to you?” he asked.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  “Cos loots with impunity,” said Marcus, “tearing even the marbles from the

  walls. She disguises her depredations under absurd, meretricious rhetorics. It

  is as though the sleen pretended (pg. 167) to be the friend of the verr. And

  what do the men of Ar do? They smile, they hasten to give up their riches, they

  beat their breasts, they lament their unworthiness, they cannot sufficiently

  praise those who despoil them, they rush to sacrifice at the great temples. They

  burn their gates, they dismantle their walls, they hide in their houses at

  night. They cheer while women who might be theirs are instead marched to Cosian

  ports. Do not concern yourself with them, my friend. They are unworthy of your

  concern.”

  I looked at Marcus.

  He smiled. “You are angry,” he said.

  “Ho! One side, buffoons of Ar!” said a voice, that of a mercenary, one of two,

  with blue armbands.

  We stepped to one side as they swaggered past.

  “I am not of Ar,” I said to Marcus.

  “Nor am I,” he said.

  “Thus they could not have been speaking to us,” I said.

  “We could kill them,” said Marcus.

  “In broad daylight?” I asked.

  “Perhaps they are nice fellows,” said Marcus.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “But then one cannot always permit oneself to be deterred by such

  considerations,” he said.

  “True,” I said.

  “They think they own the street,” he said.

  “Doubtless an impression they have gathered from those of Ar,” I said.

  “Surely,” he said.

  “There is nothing to arouse Ar,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “If Marlenus were alive, and might return,” I said, “that might bring Ar to her

  feet, angry and mighty, like an awakened larl.”

  “If Marlenus were alive,” said Marcus, “he would have returned to Ar long ago.”

  “Then there is no hope,” I said.

  “No,” said Marcus. “There is no hope.”

  I regarded him.

  “Ar died last summer,” he said, “ in the delta.”

  I did not respond to him. I feared he was right.

  We walked on then, not speaking, with rage, a helpless warrior’s fury

  irrepressibly welling up within me.

  A passer-by regarded me, startled, and hurried quickly past.

  (pg. 168) “You are angry,” said Marcus.

  “Are you not angry?” I asked.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  We heard then, behind us, running feet, laughter, a tearing of cloth, and a

  woman’s cry. A group of young fellows was running past. We, too, were buffeted

  but I seized one of the lads by the wrist and, drawing him quickly across and

  about my body, and over my extended right leg, flung him to the stones, where I

  held him, my grip shifted now to the palm of his hand, his wrist bent, far back.

  He screamed with pain. Another fraction of a hort, the least additional

  pressure, and his wrist would be broken. Almost at the same instant I heard

  Marcus’ sword leave its sheath, warning back the other lads, some six of them.

  Marcus, I noted, was suddenly, relievedly, in an eager, elated mood. He hoped

  for their advance. He was quite ready, even eager, for the release of shedding

  blood. I felt my own nostrils flare as I suddenly, excitedly, drank in the air

  of Ar, exhilarated, fiercely alive. The six lads backed away. I had little doubt

  he would have cut them down had they come with the compass of his blade. One of

  the lads, the leader it seemed, clutched the woman’s pouch, torn from her belt,

  and another held her veil. I looked back tot he woman, who had been struck to

  her knees. She had drawn her hood about her face, that her features not be

  exposed publicly. Her eyes were wild in the opening within the hood.

  “Do not hurt me!” screamed the lad on his knees.

  I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other

  lads had knives.

  “You are “Cosians”?” I said to them.

  They looked at one another.

  Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian

  garments and haircuts. These were called “Cosians.” Such things are common where

  an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by

  some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a

  form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own

  people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they

  will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and

  mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome

  feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such

  charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one’s alienation

  from one’s own society, one’s repudiation of it, and one’s contempt (pg. 169) of

  it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible,

  if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, from of protest. Too, of course, such

  costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an

/>   additional advantage.

  “Do not hurt him!” said the leader.

  “You are “Cosians”?” I asked.

  “No,” said their leader, “we are of Ar.”

  “I can probably reach at least two of them,” said Marcus.

  The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.

  “We are only lads!” said the leader, keeping his distance.

  I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her

  feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her

  features.

  “Do you think she is some slave girl,” I asked, “that you may strip her on the

  street, for your sport?”

  “No,” said one of the lads.

  “She is a free woman, of your own city,” I said.

  “There is no Home Stone in Ar,” he said.

  “That is true,” said Marcus.

  “Do you make war on boys?” asked the leader.

  “Now you are “boys,” ” I said.

  They were silent.

  “Sheath your knives,” I said.

  They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of

  the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was

  of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons

  drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I

  thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust,

  and the second too, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade

  withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter.

  Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect

  themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit

  plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean

  much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than

  they were.

  “And bring forward the pouch and veil.”

  “Release Decius,” said the leader.

  “I am not bargaining,” I said.

  The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then

  signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward,

  too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released

  the (pg. 170) hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away,

  holding his wrist.

  “Give me my veil!” demanded the woman, coming forward.

  I handed it to her.

  She turned about, adjusting it.

  “Pick up my pouch,” she said, her back to us. “Give it to me.”

  I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away.

  They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm

  behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.

  “Give me my pouch!” she demanded.

  I looked at the group of youths.

  The fellow’s wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.

  One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not

  think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that.

  His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in

  causing the lady further inconvenience.

  I felt the woman’s hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively,

  closed on the pouch.

  Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted.

  “Give it to me!” she said.

  “It was our mistake to interfere,” said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade.

  “Give it to me!” said the woman.

  “You are rude,” I said.

  She tugged at the pouch.

  “Are you not grateful?” I asked.

  “It demeans a free woman to express gratitude,” she said.

  “I do not think so,” I said.

  “Are you not paid for your work?” she asked.

  “Are you not grateful?’ I asked.

  “I am not a slave!” she asked.

  “Are you not grateful?” I asked, again.

  “Yes,” she said. “I am grateful! Now, give it to me!”

  “Ah,” I said. “Perhaps you are a slave.”

  “No!” she said.

  “What do you think of this free woman?” I asked Marcus.

  She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.

  “Do you think she might be more civil,” I asked, “if she were stripped?”

  (pg. 171) “Yes,” he said, “particularly if she were also branded and collared.”

  “She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness,” I said.

  “It would be in her best interest to do so,” said Marcus.

  “Yes,” I said.

  She released the pouch and stepped back a little.

  Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.

  “Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel,” I said, “to be

  brought forth when one wishes, for various labors.”

  “Such women are all haughty wenches,” he said. “But they quickly lose their

  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 spra
ng 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