Players of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I turned away, troubled by some thought, but I could not, at the moment, determine what it was. It was now growing late and I thought that perhaps I should consider returning to my holding. It was then that I recalled my earlier conversation with Henrius. He had told me that someone was looking for me. I wondered who this might be. Perhaps it had to do with Samos. Surely Samos, the last time I had been in his holding, had been evasive. Someone wished to see me, as I recalled, in Booth Seventeen. I turned my steps, curious as to what might be involved, toward the purple booths. The purple booths are normally maintained by slavers, used as locations in which girls, usually higher-quality slaves, more expensive merchandise, may be inspected and tried by bona-fide buyers or their agents. Such booths are usually set up in the courtyards of slavers’ houses and at special times, generally in the neighborhood of holidays and festivals. At other times, of course, such girls may be examined and tested in private chambers in the slavers’ houses. The purple booths set up now in the piazza, however, had to do with the time of carnival. They were, in effect, good-will and promotional devices, donated to the festivities, for the pleasures of free men, by the houses of various slavers. The house of Samos, for example, provided the first five booths, each complete with its furnishings, including a charming occupant. His fifth booth, as I had heard, contained the slave, Rowena. He wished to bring her along quickly. As I recalled, he intended to soon sell her, with several others, at the Fair of En’Kara, near the Sardar. Some men think that the girls in the public purple booths are much the same as those vended from the private purple booths on other occasions. Generally, however, as most men know, this is not the case. For example, Rowena was a new slave. Thus, even though she was very beautiful, she would probably not, in virtue of her inexperience, even be considered for a private-booth showing for several months or a year. It takes time for a girl to develop adequate skills.

  I walked along the line of the booths until I came to Booth Seventeen. Most of the booths had the curtains drawn, and the lining of the booths and curtains is usually opaque. In two booths the threshold curtains were partly open. In one I saw a slave, naked, writhing slowly in chains before a man, his hands upon her. In another I saw a slave and her lover-master of the moment in one another’s arms, half off the large, soft love cushion beside which the slave, customarily, kneeling, head to the carpet in obeisance, greets the booth’s entrant. She then takes whatever position she is instructed to assume, usually on the cushion. Outside most of the booths two or three men were waiting. Interestingly enough, on Booth Seventeen, there was a sign pinned on the front of the booth, near the entrance curtain. It said, “Closed.” The curtain itself was drawn shut, but it did not appear, from the look of it, from its lack of tautness, to be secured from the inside. I looked about. There were men about, some with carnival masks, but none seemed concerned with this booth. I waited outside the booth for a few moments. No one, however, approached me. To be sure, I was supposed to meet the individual in Booth Seventeen, according to what Henrius had been told. I wondered who had spoken to him. I wondered if this matter had to do with Priest-Kings. To be sure, it seemed mysterious. Any normal business, I supposed, would have been conducted in more normal fashions.

  I brushed aside the curtain and entered the booth, permitting the curtain, not much drawn on its rings, to fall shut behind me. A small tharlarion-oil lamp lit the interior of the booth, but not well. The booth was the only one furnished by the house of Vart, once Publius Quintus of Ar, a minor slaver in Port Kar. I had not seen him around outside. I wondered why the booth was closed. He had perhaps rented the space to someone for an Ahn or so. Perhaps the whole matter was a mistake. On the large cushion, soft, and some five feet in diameter, toward the back of the booth, half sunk in it, there lay a small, lovely body.

  It was not easy to make out, in the dim light.

  I approached more closely.

  It was a tiny, luscious redhead.

  She was doubtless expensive. Most Gorean slaves are brunettes. Blondes and redheads occasionally bring higher prices, as they are rarer. Interestingly, auburn hair, with its reddish brown, is favored in many Gorean markets. I do not know why that would be so. It is, of course, rare, and a lovely color. But then any color is lovely, in a slave. As mentioned, most Gorean slaves are brunettes. There is a theory that brunettes make the best slaves, are the most responsive and such, but it depends, of course, on the particular woman. Slave value, except possibly for collectors, is independent of hair color. The human female makes a superb slave. This requires little more than being mastered. This has nothing to do with the color of her hair. It has everything to do with her sex, and nature.

  It is in this sense, that of natural selection, of biology, of genetics, needs, dispositions, and such, that one may speak of women having been “bred for the collar.” Indeed, they cannot find their complete fulfillment outside of it. This is not to be confused, of course, with the meticulous, directed breeding that takes place on the slave farms.

  Much attention is commonly paid by slaves to their appearance, and they are careful to keep themselves neat and clean, well groomed and attractive. The slovenliness acceptable in a free woman is not acceptable in a slave. Accordingly, much attention is paid by slaves, amongst other things, to the arrangement, condition and quality of their hair; it is usually worn long, and is almost invariably clean, glossy, brushed, and combed. They tend to be vain of their hair, but one effects nothing critical in this regard. They are females. It is a serious punishment, incidentally, for a slave to have her head shaved, or to be shorn. This is a terrible blow to their beauty, vanity and self-esteem. They know they are susceptible to this punishment, and will do much to avoid it. On the other hand, work slaves, such as are used in public laundries, or in the mines, or mills, are often shorn. Presumably this makes them appear more uniform, and may assist in discipline. Too, it makes these forms of slavery, and similar forms, less desirable to them. Better surely to be the silked love slave of a private master about whose feet one learns to curl lovingly than to spend long Ahn over tubs of scalding water, or, yoked, bent over, again and again, miserable, carrying water to mine slaves, or standing aching, seemingly endlessly, at a loom to which one is chained. Shearing is also done, often, when a lengthy transportation on a slave ship is anticipated, as a protection against vermin. There is a market for hair, incidentally, for wigs, falls, and such. Female hair is also prized, incidentally, for catapult ropes. Slavers sometimes refer to the hair of a slave as her “pelt.” One would not use this expression of the hair of a free woman, save in a context of vulgarity. The slave, of course, is an animal, as is, for example, a tarsk, verr, or sleen. She is an animal—completely. That must be understood. That is what she is. Thus one thinks little or nothing of inquiring as to her “pelting.”

  For a moment I was angry. Why had she not knelt and put her head to the carpet as I had entered? My hand went to my belt. A swift stroke or two is usually sufficient to correct a momentary lapse in a slave, to recall her to the civilities and proprieties attendant upon her condition.

  Then I was puzzled.

  Clearly she was unconscious.

  Perhaps she was asleep.

  Then I began to suspect something was amiss, perhaps terribly so.

  Her hands were behind her; her ankles were crossed. I surmised she might be bound.

  This is not unusual with slaves, of course.

  One sometimes binds a slave, and leaves her to simmer, until one is ready for her. She is not going anywhere, of course.

  Binding is something a slave must expect. It helps her to keep in mind that she is a slave.

  She lay terribly still, extremely still. I approached her and, crouching down beside her, put my fingertips to the side of her throat, by the collar. She was alive. I pulled her to a seated position on the cushion and smelled her mouth and lips, and, gently, carefully, delicately, touched her lips with my tongue. I detected nothing. There was a smear of Ka-la-na wine at the left side of her
mouth. Tassa powder had doubtless been used on her. It is traceless, and effective. I did not think she would awaken for hours. The lamp flickered slightly. Her wrists had been thonged behind her; her ankles, too, had been crossed and thonged. The thongs were narrow, dark and tight. I put her back on the cushion.

  So she had indeed been bound, and well.

  Bound as a slave may be bound.

  I jerked my body suddenly to the side, to evade the grasping left arm, seeking to hold the target in place for the short, low right-handed thrust of the knife, or the throat attack, if the assailant was right-handed, and of the assassins or the warriors. The small tharlarion-oil lamp had been placed in such a way that no shadow would be cast by it of a figure entering through the curtain. Warriors notice such things. Too, in permitting the curtain to fall shut behind me, I had not interfered with the natural closure of the booth. Had it not closed in this fashion I would have adjusted it shut. It is difficult to move such a curtain, heavy and lined as it is, customary in purple booths, without a rustle of fabric, or the scraping of one or more of the rings. Too, of course, the air in the booth changes slightly as the curtain is moved, admitting it. The flame of the tiny lamp had flickered, too, in this shifting of air. The knife and arm, however, descending, passed over my body. The high stroke has various disadvantages. It begins from farther back and thus makes it difficult to use the left hand or arm to secure the target. It is easier to block. It does not have the same power as the short blow. The blade that has only six inches to move, with a full weight behind it, other things being equal, effects a deeper penetration than a blade which must move farther and has behind it primarily the weight of a shoulder and arm. Too, of course, the stab from a shorter distance at closer range, point-blank range, so to speak, is likely to be more accurate. The target, after the initiation of the blow, even if it is not held in place, has very little time, given the mathematics of reflexes, to shift its position. My assailant, I gathered, was neither of the assassins or warriors.

  I rolled to the side, my hand going instinctively for the blade in my sheath, but the sheath, the weapon earlier surrendered at the check point through which I had entered the piazza, was empty. The man adjusted quickly, very quickly. He was fast. He wore a half mask. The blade had cut into the cushion. Before I could rise to my feet he was upon me. We grappled. I caught his wrist, turning the blade inward. Suddenly he relaxed. I left the blade in him. I was breathing heavily. I pulled away the half mask. He was the fellow whom I had seen at the check point. Too, we had spoken together near the magician’s stage.

  I rifled through his robes. I could find no identification. Probably he had seen me throw the golden tarn disk to the stage. His motivation, doubtless, had been robbery. Yet I had seen him earlier at the check point. That could have been a coincidence, I supposed. I opened his wallet. It was filled with golden staters, from Brundisium, a port on the coast of Thassa, on the mainland, a hundred pasangs or so south of the Vosk’s delta, one reported to have alliances with Ar. Robbery, then, did not seem a likely motivation. I knew little about Brundisium. Supposedly it had relations with Ar. I wondered if this were the fellow who had arranged to meet with me in Booth Seventeen. I did not think Vart, the slaver whose booth this was, was likely to be involved. He had probably just rented the booth. If he was involved he would have been stupid to use his own booth. Too, I suspected he had little love for Ar, and perhaps thus for Brundisium. He had once been banished from Ar, and nearly impaled, for the falsification of slave data, misrepresenting merchandise as to its level of training and skill.

  I, too, had once been denied salt, bread and fire in Ar, and banished from the city. I did not think, however, that Marlenus, of Ar, her Ubar, he who had banished me, would be likely to send a covert assassin from Brundisium against me, from Brundisium perhaps to make the connection with Ar seem unlikely or tenuous. If he wished to have it out with me, presumably he would do so, with his own blade. Marlenus was too direct and proud for such deviousness. Too, we were not really enemies. Too, if he had wished to send an assassin against me, presumably he would have done so long ago. Too, the fact that the staters in the fellow’s wallet were from Brundisium did not mean that he himself was from that city. Anyone might have paid him in the staters of Brundisium. What enemies did I have? Perhaps, after all, robbery was the fellow’s motivation.

  I shuddered. I did not understand what had happened. I did not like what had happened.

  I looked to the slave. I turned her to her belly on the cushion, putting her head to the side. I was disturbed, shaken and tense. I untied her ankles. Too, I had made a kill. I must calm myself. It is one of the things women are for. She whimpered, pounded, her small hands twisting in the tight leather thongs. I then tied her ankles together again, and then, this time, fastened her wrists to her ankles. I then tied the wallet, filled with the golden staters of Brundisium, about her collar. That would give Vart some consolation, I suspected, for the scandal he would find in his booth.

  “Tarl,” I heard, a voice speaking softly, outside the curtain. It was the voice of Samos.

  “Enter,” I said.

  “I have been looking all over for you,” he said. “I saw Henrius. He suggested you might be here.” Samos’ eyes opened widely. “What is going on here?” he asked. “Who is that?”

  “Do you know him?” I asked.

  “No,” said Samos, examining the body.

  “He tried to kill me,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked. “The slave?”

  “No,” I said. “I think perhaps robbery.”

  “His robes seem rich,” said Samos.

  “In his wallet were several staters, of gold, from Brundisium,” I said.

  “That is a valuable stater,” said Samos. “It has good weight.”

  “He knew I was carrying gold,” I said. “I had given evidence of this in rewarding a magician in the carnival.”

  “Even so,” said Samos, “it would seem, from what you say, that he stood in no need of money.”

  “I do not think so,” I said. “Yet robbery seems the only likely explanation.”

  “I do not know,” said Samos. “Perhaps you are right.”

  “You sound doubtful,” I observed.

  “Thieves, my friend,” said Samos, “seldom carry gold on their persons.”

  “Perhaps he had stolen it this evening,” I said.

  “No considerable theft has been reported this evening,” said Samos, “as far as I know. It was not in the recent reports of the guards.”

  “Perhaps he slew the individual from whom he stole the coins and then thrust the body into a canal,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” said Samos. “But his mode of garb does not suggest that of the elusive, quick-moving thief.”

  “It might make it easier to approach a victim,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps,” said Samos.

  “Too, robes would make it easier to get a knife through the check points at carnival,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” said Samos.

  “You do not seem convinced,” I said.

  “I am not,” said Samos.

  “This booth is closed,” I said. “I gather that you did not rent it and close it.”

  “No,” said Samos.

  “Henrius,” I said, “told me that someone wished to see me here.”

  “Was that before this fellow saw you reward the magician?” asked Samos.

  “No,” I said. “Afterwards.”

  “Perhaps that is the explanation, then,” said Samos.

  “I do not think so,” I said. “It was really not very long after I left the magician’s platform that I saw Henrius. I do not think it likely that the arrangement could have been made that quickly. Too, Henrius, as I recall, did not speak as though he had just been contacted.”

  “He did not deny it, either, did he?” asked Samos.

  “No,” I said. “But if the fellow was a stranger, a common thief, how would he be likely to know my name, or of any connec
tion between myself and Henrius, or others?”

  “That is true,” said Samos.

  “The booth, too, presumably would have to be rented, and the slave drugged,” I said.

  “I see,” said Samos. “It seems likely then, if he is a common thief, that he would have merely followed you here, and is not the fellow who spoke to Henrius, or who would be connected with the booth in some way.”

  “Yes,” I said, “but then who would have rented the booth, who would have wanted to see me here?”

  “What have we there?” asked Samos, gesturing to the girl, bound hand and foot on the cushion, the wallet tied at her collar.

  “A drugged slave,” I said.

  “Was she unconscious when you entered the booth?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Then she probably would not be able to give helpful witness,” he said.

  “She might know who drugged her,” I said.

  “Presumably she would only know that it was some fellow in a mask,” said Samos. “Too, it may very well have been done to her by her master, Vart, whose booth this is, he doing this under instructions.”

  “We could contact Vart,” I said.