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

Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt Page 28

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I would be obliged if you would see to the chest, and the slave.”

  I suppose the young woman within the chest could hear our conversation. I would

  have supposed that she would then have pounded and wept, and scratched at the

  inside of the chest, begging mercy, but she did not. Slaves, those fit by nature

  for this elegant disposition, and whose minds and bodies crave it profoundly,

  and will not be happy without it, pretending that they are actually free women,

  commonly do such things. They are often among the most express in their

  protestive behaviors, the most demonstrative in their lamentations, and such,

  believing such things are expected of them, fearing only that they will be taken

  seriously. But this girl was actually very quiet, lying like a caressable,

  silken little urt in the chest. Indeed, for a moment, I feared there might be

  insufficient air in the chest and that she might have fainted, or otherwise lost

  consciousness. (pg. 187) But then I noted that the chest was well ventilated, as

  made sense, considering it had probably been prepared to conceal her days ago,

  if not months ago. She had doubtless not, however, expected to have its lid

  nailed shut, and to find herself helplessly, nakedly, at the mercy of strong

  men, imprisoned within it, and perhaps timidly, fearfully, trying to understand

  her feelings.

  “My fellow and I,” I said, “if you wish, will see to the chest, and the girl.”

  “The slave,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said, “the slave.”

  “I wish you well,” said the captain.

  “I wish you well,” I said.

  He then, and his men, took their leave.

  “Why did you not wish the bodies placed outside the shop?” Marcus asked of me,

  when the officer with his small squad had departed.

  I motioned him to one side, that the girl in the chest might not overhear our

  conversation.

  “Surely it would have been better if the bodies had been put outside,” said

  Marcus, “that the strength of the Delta Brigade, as it is spoken of, and the

  effectiveness of its work, might seem displayed.”

  I spoke softly. “No, dear friend,” I said. “Better that the carnage wrought

  within the shop should seem that those of Cos feared it to be known, that they

  were concerned to conceal it from the public.”

  “Ah!” said Marcus.

  “But, too,” I said, “do not fear that it is not known. The shop is muchly open.

  The door was ajar. I am confident men have spied within and see what lies strewn

  upon its tiles. And even if they had not, the bodies will presumably be removed

  and be seen then. And, too, if not this either, surely we may depend upon the

  tradesman to speak of such things.”

  “That the bodies were not put outside,” said Marcus, “makes it seem as though

  Cos feared the Delta Brigade, and did not wish that the effectiveness of its

  work be known, and that is much more to the advantage of the Brigade.”

  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  “Accordingly,” said Marcus, “its work is known, or likely to be known, but it is

  also made to seem that Cos fears the making broadcast of such intelligence.”

  “Precisely,” I said.

  (pg. 188) “Thusly increasing the reputation of the Delta Brigade,” he said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “It is a form of Kaissa, is it not?” he asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Well played,” he said.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “But it is difficult to foresee the continuations.”

  “I do not like such games,” he said.

  “You prefer a fellow at sword point, in an open field, at noon?” I asked.

  “Of course,” he said.

  I was sympathetic with his view. The board had a thousand sides, and surfaces

  and dimensions, the pieces were of unknown number, and nature and value, the

  rules were uncertain, often you did not know whom you played, or where they

  were, often the moves must be made in darkness, in ignorance of your opponent’s

  position, his pieces, his strengths, his skills, his moves.

  “Perhaps, I too,” I mused. Yet I had known men who enjoyed such Kaissa, the

  games of politics and men. My friend, Samos, of Port Kar, was one such.

  “You enjoy such things,” said Marcus.

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I am not sure.” It is often easier to know others than

  ourselves. Perhaps that is because there is less need to tell lies about them.

  Few of us recognize the stranger in the shadows, who is ourself.

  “I am a simple warrior,” said Marcus. “Set me a formation, or a field, or a

  city. I think I know how to solve them, or set about the matter. Let things be

  clear and plain. Let me see my foe, let me meet him face to face.”

  “Subtlety and deception are not new weapons in the arsenal of war,” I said.

  “They are undoubtedly as ancient as the club, the stone, the sharpened stick.”

  Marcus regarded me, angrily.

  “Study the campaigns of Dietrich of Tarnburg,” I said.

  Marcus shrugged, angrily.

  “He has sowed silver and harvested cities,” I said.

  “More gates are opened with gold than iron,” he said.

  “You pretend to simplicity,” I said. “Yet you quote from the Diaries.” These

  were the field diaries attributed by many to Carl Commenius of Argentum. The

  reference would be clear to Marcus, a trained warrior.

  “That I do not care for such games,” said Marcus, “does not mean I cannot play

  them.”

  “How many are in the Delta Brigade? I asked him.

  “Two,” he smiled. “We are the Delta Brigade.”

  (pg. 189) “No,” I said, “there are more.”

  He looked at me, puzzled.

  “This morning,” I said, “four soldiers, doubtless Cosians, were found slain in

  the vicinity of the Avenue of Turia. The delka was found there.”

  Marcus was silent.

  “We have allies,” I said. “Too, I have learned that the delka appears elsewhere

  in Ar, presumably mostly in poorer districts.”

  “I do not welcome unknown allies,” he said.

  “At least we cannot betray them under torture, nor they us.”

  “Am I to derive comfort from that thought?” he asked.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “We cannot control them,” he said.

  “Nor they us,” I said.

  “We began this,” said Marcus. “But I do not know where it will end.”

  “Cos will be forced to unsheath her claws.”

  “And then?” he asked.

  “And then we do not know where it will end,” I said.

  “What of the Home Stone of Ar’s Station?” he asked.

  “Is that your only concern?” I asked.

  “For all I care, traitorous Ar may be burned to the ground,” he said.

  â�
�œIt will be again publicly displayed,” I said.

  “That is part of your Kaissa?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “You see far ahead,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “It is a forced continuation.”

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “Ar will have no choice,” I said.

  “And if the Home Stone of Ar’s Station is again displayed, what then?” he asked.

  “It was displayed before.”

  “I know a fellow who can obtain it for you,” I said.

  “A magician?” he asked.

  I smiled.

  “The Delta Brigade,” he asked, “the two of us?”

  “I think there are more,” I said.

  He looked at the delka, scratched on the exterior wall of the shop.

  “You are curious as to its meaning, and its power?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “So, too, am I,” I said.

  “I am afraid,” he said.

  (pg. 190) “So, too, am I” I said.

  “And what of this?” asked Marcus, indicating the chest on the street, near us.

  “Bring it along,” I said.

  “What are we going to do with it?” he asked.

  “You will see,” I said.

  “You saw her mouth was uncovered,” he said. “She belongs with other lewd women

  in the loot pits of the Anbar district, awaiting their brands and collars.”

  “With other needful women,” I said.

  “She is a slave slut,” he said.

  “And will perhaps one day find her rightful master,” I said.

  “What are we going to do with her?” he asked.

  “You will see,” I said.

  We then went to the chest. “Help me lift it,” I said.

  In a moment we had it in hand. It was a bit bulky to be easily carried by one

  man, but it was not heavy.

  We felt its contents more within it.

  12 The Countries of Courage

  “Put it down here,” I said.

  We were in a deserted alleyway, about two pasangs from the shop, rather between

  it and the Anbar district. It might well appear that we had been on our way to

  that district.

  “Over her, more,” I said. Marcus and I put the chest against one wall, that it

  might not move further in that direction. I then stepped back a bit and

  forcibly, with the flat of my foot, with four or five blows, kicked back the

  side of the chest, forcing it some inches inward, breaking it muchly from the

  ends, tearing it free of the nails and the lid. I delivered similar blows to the

  two ends of the chest, splintering it loose of nails and the back. the girl

  within cried out in misery. I then, with my hands, seizing it, now muchly freed,

  flung up the lid, revealing her within, and she cried out again, and hid her

  head, putting her hands over it. She lay there, terrified, among the splinters

  and nails, the sides and ends muchly loosened, collapsed about her. I then

  turned to the shambles of the chest to its side, spilling her to the stones of

  the alley. Shuddering she was on her belly to us and crawled to my feet,

  pressing her lips to them.

  “She desires to please, as a slave,” observed Marcus.

  (pg. 191) “Do you object?” I asked.

  She now pressed her lips similarly upon the feet of Marcus.

  “No,” he said. “She is obviously a slave, and is both comely and desirable. Too,

  she is of Ar, and all of the women of Ar should be slaves.”

  She then knelt before us, the palms of her hands on the stones, her head down to

  them, as well.

  “Doubtless she has seen slaves kneel in such a way,” said Marcus.

  “Probably,” I said. It was a common position of slave obeisance.

  “She is a slave,” he said.

  “She is frightened,” I said.

  “She is a slave,” he said.

  “That, too,” I granted him.

  “Look up, girl,” said Marcus.

  She looked up, frightened.

  “Are you a slave?” asked Marcus.

  Her lip trembled.

  “She is legally free,” I pointed out.

  “Are you a slave?” pressed Marcus.

  “Yes,” she whispered.

  “Yes, what?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered. I suspected she had used that word to men before

  only in her imagination, or speaking it softly to her pillow in the night.

  “Legally free,” he said, “but still a slave, and rightfully so?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Lacking only the legalities of the brand and collar?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Yet she is young to be a slave,” I said.

  “Do you think we cannot be slaves?” she asked.

  “Some men enjoy them,” said Marcus, “squirming in the furs, panting, begging for

  more.”

  The girl closed her eyes, and sobbed. I wondered if she understood these things.

  “She is young,” I said.

  “Do you scorn me for my youth?” she asked. “Do you think we do have feelings? Do

  you think we are not yet capable of love, that we are not yet women? You are

  wrong! How little you understand us! We are young and desirable, and ready to

  serve!”

  “You are young,” I said. “Your surrender cannot be the full surrender of the

  mature woman, the woman experienced in life, (pg. 192) the woman who has come to

  understand the barrenness of the conventions by which she is expected to abide,

  who has discerned the vacuity of the principles to which she is expected to

  mindlessly subscribe, who has learned the emptiness of the roles imposed upon

  her by society, roles alien to, and inimical to, the needs of her deepest self.

  You are not such a woman, a full, mature, knowledgeable, cognizant woman, a

  woman profoundly in touch with her passion and deepest self, one who has come to

  understand that her only hope for true happiness and fulfillment lies in

  obedience, love and service, one craving the collar, one yearning for a master.”

  “No, no, no!” she wept. “I am young, but I am a woman, and alive! Do you think

  that intelligence and maturity are prerogatives only of such as you! No! I am

  quick at my studies! I am alert! I think much! I am dutiful! I want to make a

  man happy, truly happy, in the fullest dimensions of his being, not a part of

  him, leaving the rest to hide, or shrivel and die! I cannot know my bondage if

  he does not learn his mastery! Why should his birthright be denied to him, and

  mine to me? As the master needs the slave so, too, the slave needs the master!

  I was taken aback by her words. I recalled how quietly she had lain in the box,

  that her veil had been disarranged when first the guardsmen, and Marcus and

  myself, had looked upon her. She was undoubtedly of high intelligence. Such is

  valued considerably, of course, in a slave. It makes them much better slaves.

  How much more tactful, sensitive and inventive are intelligent
slaves! Indeed,

  the intelligence of some slaves blossoms in bondage, seemingly at last finding

  the apt environment for its flowering. To be sure, when a girl knows she may

  feel the lash for a mistake, she tends to become considerably more alert.

  “What have we here,” asked Marcus, “a little scribe?”

  “I am no stranger to scrolls,” she said.

  “You are still young,” I said.

  “That does not mean I cannot feel,” she said. “That does not mean I am stupid.”

  I had no doubt that in time she would make an excellent slave. Indeed, I could

  well imagine her, even now, serving in a house, deferentially, with belled

  ankles.

  “I heard one speaking earlier,” she said, “of the loot area in the district of

  Anbar.”

  “Can you not wait to be shackled and thrown into the loot pits with other women,

  to await the collar and brand?” inquired Marcus.

  “Take me there!” she demanded.

  (pg. 193) Instantly, appropriately, he lashed her head to the side with the back

  of his right hand.

  She was struck to the ground with the force of the blow and at a snapping of his

  fingers, and his gesture, she struggled again to her knees before us, her mouth

  bloody. Her eyes were wide. It was perhaps the first time she had been cuffed.

  Marcus glared down at her. He did not have much patience with slaves. Phoebe had

  often learned that to her dismay. To be sure, she was scarcely ever struck or

  beaten now. She had become a superb slave in the past few months, under Marcus’

  tutelage.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said. “I was not respectful. It was appropriate that I

  be cuffed.”

  In her eyes there were awe and admiration for Marcus. She saw that he would not

  hesitate to impose discipline upon her.

  “It is common,” I said, “for a slave to request permission to speak.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, putting down her head.

  “You said you were no stranger to scrolls,” I said.

  “To some, Master,” she said. “I did not mean to be arrogant. If I have not been

  pleasing, lash me.”

  “Have you read,” I asked, “the Manuals of the Pens of Mira, Leonora’s

  Compendium, the Songs of Dina, or Hargon’s The Nature and Arts of the Female

 

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