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

Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt Page 37

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  For a moment the prisoner turned white. Then he said, boldly, “Yes, that is the

  true Ar.”

  “And you further acknowledge that Seremides and the Ubara are traitors to Ar,

  and puppets of Cos?”

  “Of course,” he said, after a moment.

  Here and there there were gasps in the crowd. Whereas presumably there were few

  in the crowd who were not prepared to resent, and as possible, oppose Cos, not

  all were convinced of the depth and extent of the treason which had contributed

  so significantly to her victory. I thought it well to have the crowd hear these

  sentiments from the lips of the prisoner. To be sure, such understandings were

  surely not new to the Cosians of Ar, nor to many of the more reflective in Ar

  herself.

  “Treason on the part of Seremides?” asked a man.

  “Talena a traitor?” said another.

  “Yes!” said the prisoner.

  “Clearly he is of the Delta Brigade,” said a man. “Release him!”

  “You would have us hide you?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the prisoner.

  (pg. 249) “Take you into our confidence, bring you to our secret places, tell

  you our plans, introduce you to our leaders, our pervasive, secret networks of

  communication?”

  “Only if later you deem me worthy of such trust,” he said.

  I hoped by this last question to lead the crowd to believe that the Delta

  Brigade was a determined, disciplined, extensive, well-organized force in Ar,

  one which might realistically inspire hope in the populace and fear in the

  forces of occupation. Actually, of course, I had no idea of the nature or

  extent, or power, or resources, of the Delta Brigade. I was not even sure there

  was such an organization. At one time Marcus and I thought we were the Delta

  Brigade. Certainly at that time there had been no organization. Then, later, it

  seemed, there had been acts performed in the name of the Delta Brigade,

  sabotage, and such, in which we had had no part. These might have been the acts

  of individuals, or groups of individuals, for all we knew, perhaps patriots, or

  criminals, or fools, but not of an organization. There had apparently been

  concerted action in the existence of the “brigade”. It could have been done by a

  small group of men, presumably mostly veterans of the delta, interested in

  making it difficult for Cos to trace there identities.

  “Were you in the delta?” I asked.

  “Certainly,” said he.

  “Who was the commander of the vanguard?” I asked.

  “Labienus,” said he, “of this city.”

  “And his first subaltern?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” he said. “I was not of the vanguard.”

  “Who commanded the 17th?” I asked.

  “I do not remember,” he said.

  “Vinicius?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Vininius.”

  “And the 11th?”

  “I do not know,” he said.

  “Toron, of Venna,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said. “Toron, of Venna.”

  “In which command were you?”

  “In the 14th,” he said.

  “Who commanded the 14th?”

  “Honorius.”

  “And his first subaltern?”

  “Falvius.”

  “His second?”

  “Camillus.”

  (pg. 250) “You were with the 14th then when it was defeated in the northern

  tracts of the delta?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “With the 7th, the 11th and the 9th?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  I then removed the armband with the delka on it and tucked it in my belt. I then

  tore loose a part of his tunic and thrust it in his mouth. I then tied it in

  place with the armband. His eyes regarded me, questionably, over it, frightened.

  I then crossed his ankles, causing him to fall, and tied them together, crossed.

  He tried, ineffectually, to speak. He tried to sit up but I thrust him back, my

  sandal on his chest, supine on the pavement, and looked down at him. He looked

  up at me. He was as helpless as a slave girl.

  “Vicinius,” I said, “did not command the 17th, nor Toron the 11th. Vicinius

  commanded the 4th, and Toron the 3rd. Your answers with respect to the chain of

  command in the 14th were correct, but the 14th was not defeated in the northern

  tracts, but in the southern tracts, with the 7th, 9th and 11th. It was the 3rd,

  the 4th and the 17th which were defeated in the north.”

  He struggled, futilely.

  “He is a Cosian spy,” I said.

  Men cried out in fury.

  The prisoner, now truly a prisoner, looked up at us, terrified. He tried to rise

  up a little, to lift his shoulders from the pavement, but angry staffs thrust

  him back down, and in a moment he was kept in place, on his back on the

  pavement, pinioned by staffs, some caging him at the sides, others pressing down

  upon him.

  “Bring a sack,” I said. “Put him in it.”

  “We shall bring one,” said a fellow.

  “Let it be a sack such as we use for tarsk meat,” said another.

  “Yes,” said another.

  “We will hang it with the meat,” said a fellow. “In that way it will attract

  little notice.”

  “And we shall beat it well with our staffs,” said a fellow, grimly, “as we

  tenderize the sacked meat of tarsks.”

  “That is fitting,” laughed a fellow.

  “That, too, will attract little attention,” said another.

  “We will break every bone in his body,” said another.

  “In the morning see that it is found on the steps of the Central Cylinder.”

  “It will be so,” said a fellow.

  (pg. 251) “And on the sack,” I said, “let there be inscribed a delka.”

  “It will be so!” laughed a man.

  In moments a sack was brought and the fellow, his eyes wild, was thrust, bound

  and gagged, into it. I then saw it tied shut over his head, and saw it being

  dragged behind two peasants toward the far side of the market, to the area where

  the butchers and meat dressers have their stalls.

  “What if he survives?” asked Marcus.

  “I hope he does,” I said. “I think his broken bones, his bruises, his blood, his

  groans, his gibbering, his accounts of what occurred, his terror, such things,

  would better serve the Delta Brigade than this death.”

  “It is for that reason that you have sparred him?” he asked.

  “Not only that,” I said. “He seemed a nice fellow, and he did know the chain of

  command in the 14th.”

  “With you,” said Marcus, “it is a game, but it is not so with certain others.”

  “You are referring to the two fellows who were found hung in an alley, near a

  tavern in the Anbar district?” I asked.

  “Yes, with bloody delkas cut into their chest
s,” he said.

  “I heard of it, too,” I said.

  “It is speculated they were attempting to infiltrate the Delta Brigade.”

  “Interesting,” I said.

  “I fear there may actually be a Delta Brigade,” he said.

  “I do not know,” I said. “But I, too, think that it is possible.”

  “Did you discern the support of the crowd for the Delta Brigade?” he asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And so, too, did the mercenaries.”

  “And the spy,”

  “Of course,” I said. “Let us hope he lives to make a report on the matter.”

  “And, further, their support for the delta veterans?”

  “Yes,” I said. “They were much in support of the spy when he claimed to be

  such.”

  “That is very different from a few months ago,” said Marcus.

  “Only lately has Ar become aware of what those men did for her, what they

  suffered, and how much she owes them.”

  “Better led they could have turned back Cos at the Vosk and stopped her at

  Torcadino,” he said.

  “You see what the Cosians here must now do, do you not?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked.

  “At this stage of the game?”

  “What?”

  (pg. 252) “They must attempt to discredit the Delta Brigade.”

  “Of course,” said Marcus.

  “But no longer by identifying it with the veterans of the delta,” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because of the popular support now rising in favor of the veterans,” I said.

  “Seremides no doubt links the Delta Brigade with the veterans of the delta, and

  perhaps on the whole correctly, but he is clever enough to recognize that the

  popularity of the actions of the Delta Brigade has increased support for the

  veterans. He must now attempt to drive a wedge between the veterans and the

  Delta Brigade.”

  In what fashion?” asked Marcus.

  “It is not obvious?” I asked.

  “Speak,” said Marcus.

  “Seremides needs something, or someone, to dissociate the Delta Brigade from the

  veterans.”

  “Continue,” said Marcus.

  “He desires to turn the population away from the Delta Brigade.”

  “Yes?”

  “Therefore the Delta Brigade must be presented as inimical to Ar, as the tool of

  her enemies.”

  “What enemies?” asked Marcus. “Surely not her true enemies, Cos and Tyros.”

  “Who betrayed Ar in the north? I asked. “What city open her gates to the

  expeditionary force of Cos?”

  “No city,” said Marcus, angrily.

  “Ar’s Station!” I smiled

  “I see,” he said.

  “This had to happen,” I said. “Cos require an enemy for Ar which is not herself.

  She must divert attentions from her tyranny. If we dismiss the delta veterans

  the only practical choice is Ar’s Station. As you know, many in Ar blame Ar’s

  Station, and her supposed surrender in the north, not only for her current

  misfortunes but for the disaster in the delta.”

  “Absurd,” said Marcus.

  “Not if you do not know the truth,” I said, “but have at your disposal only the

  propaganda of Cos and the lies of a traitorous government in the Central

  Cylinder.”

  “That is your Kaissa?” he said.

  “Yes,” I said. “In our way, and in what we began, for better or for worse, we

  have forced Seremides to renew the vilification of Ar’s Station.”

  (pg. 253) “And in this campaign of vilification will be brought forth once more

  the Home Stone of Ar’s Station?”

  “Exactly,” I said.

  “You have planned this?” he said.

  “For both our sakes,” I said.

  “For yours as well?”

  “I, too, have a interest in these matter,” I said.

  “But I do not think it has to do with the Home Stone of Ar’s Station.”

  “No,” I said. “It has to do with something else.”

  “The crowd has dissipated,” said Marcus. “I think it would be well for us, too,

  to withdraw.”

  “Yes,” I said, and, in a few moments, in a sheltered place, between buildings,

  we had resumed our customary guise, that of auxiliary guardsmen, police in the

  pay of Cos.

  “How do you plan on attacking the place of the Home Stone’s display, if

  Seremides chooses to expose it once more to the abuse of Ar?”

  “He will,” I said.

  “And how do you plan on attacking the place of its display?” asked Marcus.

  “I do not plan on attacking anything,” I said.

  “How will you obtain it?” he asked.

  “I intend to have it picked up,” I said.

  “Picked up?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you think it might be missed?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “Because it will still be there,” I said.

  “You are mad,” he said.

  17 Magic

  “Where has she gone!” cried a man.

  “My senses reel!” exclaimed Marcus. “But a moment ago she was within the

  palanquin!”

  “Shhh,” I said.

  “I cannot understand what I have seen on this street!” he said.

  Marcus and I stood in the pit, shoulder to shoulder with (pg. 254) others,

  before the low stage. There were tiers behind us for those who wished to pay two

  tarsk bits, rather than one, for the entertainments.

  The four fellows, in turbans, with plumes, in stately fashion, as though nothing

  unusual had occurred, carried the palanquin, its curtains now open again,

  offstage.

  “She has vanished,” said a fellow, wonderingly.

  “But to where?” asked another.

  “She cannot disappear into thin air,” said a fellow.

  “But she has done so!” said another, in awe.

  We were in a small, shabby theater. It had an open proscenium. The house was

  only some twenty yards in depth. This was the fourth such establishment we had

  entered this evening. To be sure, there were many other entertainments on the

  streets outside, in stalls, and set in the open, behind tables, and such, in

  which were displayed mostly tricks with small objects, ostraka, rings, scarves,

  coins and such. I am fond of such things, and a great admirer of the subtlety,

  the adroitness, dexterity and skills which are often involved in making them

  possible.

  “Alas,” cried the ponderous fellow waddling about the stage, yet, if one noticed

  it, with a certain lightness and grace, considering his weight,” have I lost my

  slave?”

  “Find her!” cried a fellow.

  “Recover her!” cried another.

  The
se fellows, I think, were serious. It might be mentioned, at any rate, that

  many Goreans, particularly those of lower caste, and who are likely to have had

  access only to the “first knowledge”, take things of this sort very seriously,

  believing they are witness not to tricks and illusions but to marvelous

  phenomena consequent upon the gifts and powers of unusual individuals, sorcerers

  or magicians. This ingenuousness is doubtless dependent upon several factors,

  such as the primitiveness of the world, the isolation and uniqueness of the

  cities, the disparateness of cultures and the tenuousness of communication. Also

  the Gorean tends neither to view the world as a mechanical clockwork of

  interdependent parts, as a great, regular, predictable machine, docile to

  equations, obedient to abstractions, not as a game of chance, inexplicable,

  meaningless and random at the core. His fundamental metaphor in terms of which

  he would defend himself from the glory and mystery of the world is neither the

  machine nor the die. It is rather, if one may so speak, the stalk of grass, the

  rooted tree, the flower. He feels the world as alive and real. He paints eyes

  upon his ships, that they may see their way. And if he feels so even about this

  vessels, then so much more the awed and reverent must he feel (pg. 255) when he

  contemplates the immensity and grandeur, the beauty, the power, and the

  mightiness within which he finds himself. Why is there anything? Why is there

  anything at all? Why not just nothing? Wouldn’t “nothing” be more likely, more

  rational, more scientific? When did time begin? Where does space end? On a line,

  at the surface of a sphere? Do our definitions constrain reality? What if

  reality does not know our language, the boundaries of our perceptions, the

  limitations of our minds? How is it that one wills to raise one’s hand and the

  hand rises? How is it that an aggregation of molecules can cry out with joy in

  the darkness? The Gorean sees the world less as a puzzle than an opportunity,

  less as a datum to be explained than a bounty in which to rejoice, less as a

  problem to be solved than a gift to be gratefully received. It might be also be

  noted, interestingly, that the Gorean, in spite of his awe of Priest-Kings, and

  the reverence he accords them, the gods of his world, does not think of them as

  having formed the world, not of the world being in some sense consequent upon

 

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