“It was funny, too,” said Boots, “when you pretended to fall off the rope. Perhaps you should include that regularly in the act.”
“I did not do it on purpose,” said Lecchio. “I am out of practice. I nearly broke my neck.”
I supposed I might as well soon depart from the neighborhood of Boots’s company. Surely there seemed little point in continuing any longer in its vicinity. My own small camp was within two hundred yards. To be sure, there was little there but a bedroll, some supplies and weapons, purchased at the fair. I had not seen fit to purchase a shield or spear, or even a bow, with sheaf arrows. Such things, I feared, might mark me as one to be reckoned with, or watched, one perhaps familiar with weapons. I supposed I would arouse enough suspicion in the neighborhood of Brundisium as it was, coming to their city as a lone male with no obvious business. I did have a sword and I had also purchased a set of Tuchuk quivas, their famed saddle knives. The set consists of seven knives, one for each of the seven sheaths in the Tuchuk saddle. They are balanced for throwing. I was rather skillful with them. I had learned their use long ago in the lands of the Wagon Peoples, or, as some might say, on the plains of Turia. I must soon leave the tent. I must return to my own small camp. I must get a good night’s sleep, and start out early in the morning.
“Ho!” I heard Boots call, suddenly. “Who is there?”
I was suddenly alert. It was a bit late now. The performances had been over for some hours. I was not at all sure that villagers or travelers would be about at this time.
“What is wrong?” asked the girl, sensing the change in me.
“Be silent,” I said.
“Who are you?” called Boots. There was no answer. Whoever it was had not identified themselves.
I slipped into my tunic and picked up my sword, in its scabbard, the belt looped about the scabbard.
“Come forward,” called Boots. “I know you are out there. Do not be afraid. Identify yourselves. Come into the light.”
“If they wish to know if one was with you,” I said to the girl, “tell them that he fled.”
“What is going on?” she said.
I cautioned her to silence, holding my finger across my lips. This is a very natural gesture. I do not know if the gesture, considered as a Gorean gesture, had an independent development, or if, specifically, somewhere in the remote past, it had an Earth origin. There are many Gorean gestures, of course, some of which are very similar to Earth gestures and some of which are not. Another way of warning an individual to silence, incidentally, is to touch the fingers twice, lightly, to the lips. The origin of that gesture, as far as I know, is uniquely Gorean. I looked back at the female. Her lip trembled. She was frightened. She wanted desperately to speak. She could not speak, of course. She was a slave. She had been silenced. I lifted up the back of the tent, and inspected the terrain behind it. I would take my leave in this fashion. I looked back once more at the girl. She was now kneeling, looking after me, frightened. She would remain, of course, exactly where she was. The chain on her ankle would see to that. How beautiful they are in collars. I then slipped from the tent.
8
I Make Myself Useful to Boots Tarsk-Bit;
I Will Also Show Him What I Have Found in the Woods
“Release us!” demanded Boots Tarsk-Bit, on his knees, near the campfire, his arms roped to his sides.
The leader of the brigands, a bearded fellow, with a cloth wrapped about his head, lashed him across the mouth with the back of his hand. This was inappropriate as Boots was a free person. He was not a female slave.
“Your conduct,” sputtered Boots, “is deplorable. I am Boots Tarsk-Bit, actor, promoter and entrepreneur. Doubtless you have heard of me. I am not a slave. I demand to be treated with civility, with courtesy and respect.”
“Shall I cut his throat?” asked one of the brigands, taking Boots by the hair and pulling his head back.
“Not yet,” said the leader of the brigands.
“Where are the keys to the ankle rings of your tent sluts?” inquired the leader of the brigands.
Boots grunted as his head was jerked farther back. The blade of the fellow’s knife pressed against his throat.
“You had only to ask,” said Boots.
“Where are they?” asked the leader of the brigands.
“On a nail, inside of the door of my wagon, the large wagon with the red roof, on the left,” said Boots.
“Bring the two tent sluts here, bound, to the edge of the fire,” said the leader of the brigands. “We shall then see if they are worth keeping or should be left here, with the others.”
“What are you going to do with us?” asked Boots.
I saw two of the brigands exchange glances, grinning at one another. I saw another fellow start toward Boots’s wagon, presumably to fetch the keys to Bina’s and Rowena’s ankle rings. I gathered if they were found sufficiently beautiful, or sufficiently desirable, they might be spared. It is in the modality of slavery, on the terms of masters, that females historically have sought, and sometimes have been granted, at least provisionally, their survival.
“Do you call this money?” asked the leader of the brigands, shaking the coin kettle under Boots’s nose.
“Why, yes,” said Boots, looking into the kettle.
The leader of the brigands again struck him.
“There is scarcely a silver tarsk here,” snarled the leader of the brigands.
“I agree,” said Boots. “It is a piteous sum, not even worth taking. Leave it, if you wish.” He then shrank back, but the chief of the brigands lowered his hand, angrily.
The fellow who had gone to fetch the girls now returned. He had the two girls with him. The hands of each, by a cord knotted about their waist, were tied before their bodies. He drew them after him, in leading position, each bent over, by the hair. He then twisted them about and flung them to their backs in the dirt, by the fire. The leader of the brigands then took a flaming brand from the fire and holding it over the girls passed it back and forth, over their bodies, scanning them, examining them in the dancing light. He tossed the brand back into the flames. “We will keep them,” he said.
The girls shuddered with relief. They had been found acceptable.
“Tie them,” said the leader of the brigands, “kneeling, left ankle to right ankle, right ankle to left ankle.”
In a moment this was done. They were knelt, back to back. Two cords are used. One cord fastens the first girl’s left ankle to the other girl’s right ankle, the same cord looped tight about both ankles, binding them closely together. The other cord, similarly, fastens her right ankle to the other’s left ankle. It is a lovely, efficient tie, fastening both girls helplessly in a posture of submission. In this tie they will not leap to their feet and flee away. They will remain, waiting, where they have been placed.
“What moneys are there here?” demanded the chief of the brigands of Boots.
Boots was silent.
The chief of the brigands looked down, near the fire. There the other male members of Boots’s company lay on their stomachs, bound, sly, agile Chino, simple Lecchio, Petrucchio, the tall, doleful “captain,” and Publius Andronicus, supposedly the most famous actor in the company, saving perhaps the incredible Boots Tarsk-Bit himself. I had not yet, as a matter of fact, seen Publius Andronicus act. I supposed that he was capable of doing so. He was quite impressive, in a ponderous way, rather like a mountain range, in figure and visage. He also had a deep bass voice, which, when he wished, he could make boom like thunder. Boots was quite impressed with him. He was apparently holding himself in reserve for major leads, such as those of tragic statesmen, tormented poets, confused ubars, and such. I thought that perhaps he was in the wrong company. At any rate it did not seem that the repertory of Boots’s company, as I was familiar with it at least, was richly or unusually endowed with roles of such a nature. Too, bound, still hooded, the player, he called the “monster,” lay with the others.
“Take what you wa
nt,” said Boots. “Then be gone.”
“That one,” said the chief of the brigands, indicating Chino, “kill him.”
“No!” cried Boots. “Hold! You cannot be serious! Such an act would desecrate the theater! That is the finest Chino on all Gor!”
“I do not like the idea either,” said Chino, “on independent grounds.”
“If only I had my sword!” cried Petrucchio. I really doubted that Petrucchio’s huge, clumsy wooden sword, no more than a comic theatrical prop really, would be likely to turn the tide of battle. Still his courage I found admirable.
“Cut his throat,” said the leader of the brigands.
“No,” said Boots. “In my wagon, in the right-hand corner of the tray in my trunk there is a knotted sock which contains coins and there are some coins, too, thrust in the toe of a slipper at the side of the trunk.”
“Fetch them,” said the leader of the brigands.
The fellow who had seized Chino thrust him back to the dirt. He then made his way to Boots’s wagon.
“What else?” demanded the leader of the brigands.
“I know of little else that might be of value to you,” said Boots. “You may look about and take what you like. I cannot speak for the others.”
“Where is Bort?” asked the leader of the brigands.
“He was keeping watch, at the road,” said one of the men.
“We have them now,” said the leader of the brigands. “We have called the guards in. Where is he?”
“Doubtless he will be in in a moment,” said one of the men.
He was mistaken.
“Bort! Bort!” called a fellow.
I had counted, all told, counting the leader, seven brigands. It is important, for obvious reasons, to be as clear as possible on such matters.
“Bort!” the man called out, again, more loudly.
I had made the acquaintance of Bort, briefly, near the road. He had not had a great deal of time, however, to savor the relationship. His attention had been distracted by a tiny sound, the sound of a falling pebble, to one side. I had then approached him from the opposite direction.
“Bort!” called out the man.
The brigands were now six in number. They did not realize this, as yet.
“Where is he?” said one of the men.
“Sleeping at his post,” said a man.
“Lost,” said another.
“Let him go,” said a fellow. “There will be more loot for us that way.”
“Go find him,” said the leader of the brigands.
Interestingly enough, only one man, he who had been calling Bort, came forth to locate him.
“Bort?” he inquired, warily, peering into the darkness. “Is that you?” I killed him. “No,” I said.
I then circled about the camp, approaching from the other side of the wagons. The leader of the brigands, and one other fellow, were near the prisoners. The others were rummaging through the wagons and goods. They were intent only on their loot. I caught one from behind and dragged him back into the darkness. I left him there. I used the same quiva I had on the other two.
“Titus!” called one of the brigands, emerging from a wagon, pausing on the steps at the rear. “See what I have found!” He brandished a large inlaid cup. I had seen such cups before. “Titus!” he called. “Titus?”
“Where is Crassius?” called the leader of the brigands to him. “Is he with you?”
“No,” said the man. “Has he not yet returned?”
“No,” said the leader.
The man lowered his arm with the cup.
“He should be back with Bort by now,” said the man on the wagon steps.
“Bort!” called the leader into the darkness. “Crassius!” He then turned about. “Titus!” he called. “Titus!” He regarded the fellow with him. “I do not like it,” he said.
“What is wrong?” asked another fellow, emerging from one of the wagons.
“Bort is missing,” said the leader. “Crassius has not yet returned. We have called Titus. He does not respond.”
The men looked about themselves, apprehensively.
“Sleen,” said one of the men.
It is true that sleen sometimes make kills swiftly and silently.
“It could be a panther come from the woods, or a strayed larl,” said one of the men. This was less likely than a sleen attack. Though panthers and larls can be extremely dangerous to men they will usually attack men only if they are disturbed or other prey is not available. Sleen, which tend to be fine hunters and splendid trackers, which are swiftly moving, aggressive, serpentine, generally nocturnal animals, particularly in the wild state, are less fastidious about their eating habits.
“It could be urts,” said a man. “It is near the time of the year for their movements.” Certain species of urts migrate twice a year. At such times, annually, it is usually necessary only to avoid them. People usually remain indoors when a pack is in their vicinity. There is little danger from these migrations unless one finds oneself in their direct path. The urt, on the whole, most species of which are quite small, large enough to be lifted in one hand, does not pose much direct threat to human beings. They can destroy Sa-Tarna fields and force their way into granaries. Similarly urts of the sort which live on garbage cast into the canals will often, unhesitantly, attack swimmers. Certain forms of large, domesticated urt, incidentally, should be excepted from these remarks. They are especially bred for attacking and killing. Such animals, however, are inferior to sleen for such purposes. They also lack the tracking capabilities of the sleen. Similarly they lack its intelligence. There was at least one good additional reason, incidentally, for supposing that whatever might be perplexing the brigands was not urts. The urts do not make their kills neatly and silently. They normally attack in a pack. It is usually a messy business. There is usually much blood and screaming.
“Gather in what you can,” said the leader of the brigands. “Then we will be on our way.” He looked about himself. Then he threw some more wood on the fire. The fire, of course, would be useful in keeping sleen at bay. It also, from my point of view, was useful in illuminating the camp area.
The two men at the rear doors of the wagons, on the steps, looked across at one another.
“Get busy,” said the leader.
“You are near the fire,” said one of the men on the wagons.
“We have enough,” said the other.
“Cowards,” said the brigand near their chief, near the fire.
“Let us be on our way,” said the first fellow, holding the cup in his hand.
“Do you dispute me?” asked the leader.
The fellow put down the cup. His hand went to the hilt of his sword. I was pleased that the cup had been put down. I would not have wanted it to be dropped.
“Perhaps you are right,” said the leader. “Come here, by the fire.”
The fellow descended from the steps of the wagon, warily.
“You are right,” said the leader. “We have enough.”
“Good,” said the fellow.
“Fetch the cup,” said the leader.
As soon as the man turned about, however, the leader leaped toward him, seized him from behind, his arm locked about his throat, and plunged a dagger, to the hilt, into his back.
“Teibar!” cried the other fellow on the steps.
The leader, his knife bloody, whirled to face him. “Do you gainsay me in this?” he asked.
“No, no!” said the other fellow, quickly.
“Put leashes on the females,” said the leader, straightening up, “and then untie their legs, to make it possible for them to move.” This is common Gorean practice, to place one bond before removing another.
“You shall be led as befits slaves, as befits animals, as chattels,” said the leader to the girls.
“Yes, Master,” said Rowena.
“Yes, Master,” said pretty Bina.
Had they enjoyed any special privileges, or laxities, in the camp, c
learly such negligences and leniencies were now at an end.
Women leashed are very lovely. Too, the collar and leash are instructive to them. Pretty Bina, in particular, I thought, might profit from finding herself on a leash.
“What of the wagons and the men?” asked the fellow who was near the leader.
“We will burn the wagons,” said the leader. “We will cut the throats of the men.”
“Excellent,” said his fellow.
“Fetch the cup,” said the leader to the fellow who had now descended from the steps of the wagon.
“I do not want it,” said the fellow, shakily, looking at his fallen fellow, near the fire.
“Coward,” laughed the leader. He then moved past the fellow, proceeding toward the wagon.
The leader had not noticed, it seemed, that although the fellow’s voice had surely suggested uncertainty and fear, his hand had been perfectly steady. The fellow’s draw was swift and smooth. The leader had barely time to turn, taking the blade, descending, diagonally across the neck. He fell away from the blade, his head awry. The girls screamed. The assailant turned to face the other brigand.
“Do not strike!” cried the other brigand.
Momentarily the assailant hesitated. For an instant he was indecisive. He had not considered matters, it seemed, beyond the slaying of the leader. That had perhaps been short-sighted on his part. Surely the other man should have been included, in one way or another, in his original plan. Obviously he was going to be there, after the original blow. Obviously, in some fashion, he would have to be dealt with or related to. At any rate he had hesitated for a moment. Such dalliance can be costly. The other fellow now had his own blade free of its sheath.
“Let us not fight,” said the fellow who had just drawn his blade. “I am with you! There is enough loot for two.”
Players of Gor Page 24
