I now revised my estimate of the intelligence of the fellow who had struck down the leader. It seemed reasonably clear, from the voice and attitude of the fellow who had just drawn his weapon, that he was clearly alarmed. I did not think he was acting in this matter. At any rate it seemed to me that his fear was genuine.
“Sheath your sword,” said the fellow who had struck the leader.
“Sheath yours,” invited he who had been with the leader.
It was now my assessment of the situation that he who had struck the leader had been confident of his capacity to deal with the other fellow. It was thus, apparently, that he had been willing to postpone, for a moment or so, at least, his decision as to how to deal with him. He was now, it seemed, considering it.
“Let us not quarrel,” urged the fellow who had been the confidant of the leader. “There may be sleen about.”
The first fellow, scarcely taking his eyes off the other, glanced uneasily about. He could not see me, as I stood back in the darkness. Both were within the cast of a quiva. I turned the blade in my hand.
“Put away your sword,” urged the fellow who had been the confidant of the leader.
“I do not trust you,” said the other.
“Let us not fight,” said the fellow who had been with the leader. “There is little enough here to justify our war.”
“There is enough,” said the fellow who had struck the leader. I saw that his decision had now been made.
“It is enough for two!” said he who had been with the leader.
“It will be more for one,” said he who had struck the leader. “What is wrong?”
The fellow facing him had suddenly stiffened, drawing his shoulders close together. Then his hand fell, lowering the blade. He stumbled forward a step. The other, he who had struck the leader, tensed, his sword poised to fend any possible blow. Then the other, he who had been the confidant of the leader, pitched forward, falling near the fire. The girls, slaves, kneeling, still bound helplessly, naked, their small hands jerking at the cords holding their wrists tight to their belly, screamed. Men, too, bound, cried out. From the fellow’s back there protruded the handle of a knife, the hilt of a particular sort of knife, that of a saddle knife, that of the sort common in the land of the Wagon Peoples, that commonly known as a “quiva.” I had not thrown it hard enough, intentionally, to bring the point fully through the body. It is not necessary. The cast, as recommended, had been easy and smooth. The quiva itself, in its sharpness and weight, does the work. I turned another blade in my hand.
The fellow leaped backward from the fire. Perhaps, after all, he was not as intelligent as I had supposed. He had not destroyed the fire. He had only retreated from it. I could still see him. Understandably, of course, he was unwilling to flee headlong, blindly, from the camp, into an unknown, unexplored darkness, one in which the number and position of enemies was unknown.
“Who is there?” he cried.
Only the night noises of the nearby woods answered him.
“If you are magistrates,” he cried, “know that I have come on this camp of brigands and, in cognizance of my jeopardy, was making ready to defend myself!” He looked about, wildly, drawing back another pace or so. “Show yourself,” he cried, “as befits your office, that of those who courageously do war with brigands, that of those who do nobly defend and support the law, or as plain honest men, if that you be, that I may ally myself with you, that we may then offer to one another, no, then pledge to one another, mutual protection and succor on these dark and dangerous roads.”
It was very quiet, save mostly for the rustling and clicking of insects. Too I heard, intermittently, from somewhere far off, the cries of a tiny, horned gim.
“You do not show yourselves,” called the man. “Good! Know then that I am a brigand, too! I feared you might be magistrates. It was thus that I spoke as I did. A falling out occurred here in which I was forced to defend myself. I am Abdar, who was of the band of Ho-Dan. Perhaps you have heard of me. I am wanted in five cities. Approach. Though the loot here is meager I am pleased to share it with you, or, if you wish, surrender it to you, as a token of my good faith. Consider the females, if you can see them. Both, I am sure, you would find acceptable as slaves. If you desire them, I give them to you. Show yourselves! Let us enmesh our destinies. I desire to enleague myself with you. Who are you! Show yourselves!”
I did not respond to him. I measured the distance between us.
“Are you still there?” he cried. “Are you still there?”
Then, suddenly, with a cry of misery, the fellow spun about and broke into a run. I took one step and released the blade. He grunted and fell forward, sprawling to the dirt, and then lay on his stomach, a few feet from the fire. He rose to his knees and crawled a pace or two, and then again sank to his stomach. Then he lifted his upper body and head, and then fell forward again. He squirmed. He tried, vainly, clutching with his hand behind him, to reach the blade in his back. He could not do so. Then he shuddered and lay still.
I came forward and regarded the body. I removed the knife from it, cleaning it on his tunic. Then I resheathed the blade, in one of the seven sheaths sewn on the common, supple leather backing, slung now from its shoulder strap, at and about my left hip. Someone, as it had turned out, had been still there.
“You!” cried Boots Tarsk-Bit.
I regarded the two slaves. They knew that they were now being scrutinized as females, basically and radically. It is a fundamental sort of inspection. The girl must hope that she passes it. They straightened their bodies. They did not dare to meet my eyes. It is important for slaves to be pleasing. Their lives depend upon it.
I looked at Boots. He swallowed, hard.
I then crouched down near him. I began to free his arms, where they were bound to his body. His sigh of relief was audible.
“Where are the other brigands?” he asked.
I freed his arms. “They are here and there,” I said. “Do not fear. They are all accounted for.”
“How many are with you?” he asked.
“I am alone,” I said.
“By yourself you did this?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Where did you learn to throw a knife like that?” he asked.
“In the south,” I said, “far in the south.”
“You have saved our lives,” he said. “Those rascals, I fear, had no intent to spare us.”
“Except the slaves,” I said.
“Of course,” he said. They, after all, were usable, beautiful, salable animals.
We then began to free the others, all but the slaves.
“We are grateful,” Boots assured me.
“Thank you,” said the player, surlily, begrudgingly, as I freed his hands from behind his back. He then bent quickly, angrily, to untie the ropes on his ankles.
“Do not mind him,” said Boots. “He is a puzzling chap. He would probably have preferred to have had his throat cut.”
“But you are grateful?” I said to Boots.
“Yes,” he said. “I am grateful.”
“Eternally, undyingly?” I asked Boots, smiling.
“Of course,” he said. “Eternally, undyingly!”
“I think I may be of further service to you,” I said.
“How is that?” asked Boots, interested. We finished untying Chino, Lecchio, Petrucchio and Publius Andronicus. We left the girls, for the time, of course, as they were, as they were slaves. They would await our pleasure, that of free men.
“Come with me,” I said. “And bring a torch.”
“What is it?” asked Boots.
“It is something I would like to show you,” I said. “I found it nearby in the woods, when I returned to my camp, to fetch weapons, a few Ehn ago.”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Come with me,” I said. “I will show you.”
“Very well,” he said.
“Bring a torch,” I said.
“Very well,” he s
aid.
9
Two Women, One Free, One Bond;
I Join the Company of Boots Tarsk-Bit
“Here,” I said. “See?”
We were in a small clearing in the woods, not far from the road.
“Yes!” said Boots, appreciatively.
“Lower the torch,” I said. “Look more closely.”
The two women whimpered, looking up, blinking against the light. The torch, Boots crouching down, was passed slowly over their bodies. One wore a long gown, sleeveless and white. It was all she wore, however, and it was thin. I did not think it was what she would have chosen to wear. It had apparently been picked out for her. The fullness of her beauty, at any rate, in its delicious amplitudes, was not difficult to conjecture beneath it. The other was excitingly curvaceous, too. About her beauty, however, there could be no possible mistake. She was absolutely naked. Both were bound tightly, helplessly, hand and foot.
“Pretty,” said Boots.
“Yes,” said Chino.
“Yes,” said Lecchio.
Petrucchio and Publius Andronicus, too, voiced their assent. The surly, hooded player was not with us. After he had finished freeing himself from the ropes on his ankles, he had hurried to recover the cup which had been of such interest to the brigands. It seemed he did not wish others to see it, or understand its meaning. He had then, taking the cup, gone into his wagon. It seemed then that he had chosen, at least for the time, to remain there. He had not, at any rate, come with us. It seemed he was not particularly appreciative of what had been done for him. Perhaps he was too proud a man. Perhaps he resented fiercely the thought that he might owe anything to another. Perhaps, on the other hand, given his hatred, and the shame in which he seemed to live, he might not have found the cruelty of a brigand’s knife that unwelcome.
I looked down at the woman in the long, thin white gown. “Have you been branded?” I asked.
“No!” she said, tensely. “I am free!” This seemed to me probably true, as she had been put in the gown, doubtless, at least for the time, to protect her modesty.
“You must understand,” I said, “that we must make a determination on that matter.”
“Of course,” she said. The results of this determination could make an important difference in how she was treated and what might be, as a matter of course, expected of her. A free woman is one thing, and a female slave is quite another.
I put her on her side and thrust up her gown, and turned her about, from one side to the other. In a moment or two I had checked the normal brand sites for a Gorean female. The most typical brand site is high on the left thigh, high enough, under the hip, to be covered even by the brevity of a typical slave tunic. In this way one often does not know what brand the girl wears. In this way a bit of mystery, I suppose, might be thought to be added to her.
The mystery in most cases, however, if one is truly interested, is usually no more than temporary. It is only necessary to lift her skirt. Sometimes bets are made on this matter. In such bets, of course, the odds are with he who wagers on the graceful, cursive Kef. This is the most common Kajira brand. “Kef” is the first letter in “Kajira,” the most common expression in Gorean for a female slave. It is sometimes, too, spoken of as the “Staff and Fronds.” This is doubtless because of a fancied resemblance to such objects. Also, of course, this involves an allusion to beauty under discipline, indeed, to helpless beauty under absolutely uncompromising discipline. I also checked certain less common brand sites, such as the lower left abdomen, the interior of the left forearm and the high instep area of the left foot. If there is such a mark on a girl, it would not be well to miss it. Imagine the embarrassment of relating to a woman as though she were free and then discovering only later that she had been a legally embonded slave all the time! Too, how dreadfully perilous would such a deception be for the female! I would surely not wish to be the female who might be found out in such a deception.
“Her body seems clear of brands,” I said. “Apparently she is free.”
“Yes,” she said. “Yes!”
I pulled her gown down from where I had thrust it up, above her breasts, for my convenience in examining her body for brands, and then I worked it down, inching it, carefully, over her body and hips. It was thin and fit her closely. I did not wish to tear it. I then pulled its hem down to where it was supposed to be, at about her ankles. I then made my final adjustments of the gown, that her modesty might be as well protected, or about as well protected, as such a flimsy garment permitted. To be sure, I did, here and there, pull it a bit more snugly about her body than was perhaps necessary. This was excusable, of course. She was beautiful and bound.
I had made a stop at my own camp, incidentally, before coming to this place in the woods.
“As she seems to be free,” I said, “I will claim her, she in the modality of the free captive.”
“No!” she cried.
“Very well,” said Boots.
“No, no!” she wept, struggling in the ropes.
I knew this female.
I pulled her to a seated position. I looked into her eyes. “You are my captive,” I said.
“Please, no!” she said.
“It is up to you, at least for the time,” I said, “to decide what sort of captive you will be.”
She looked at me, frightened.
I removed some metal from my pouch, that which I had brought from my camp, but moments ago, to this clearing in the woods. I dangled it, in its small, sturdy rings and four heavy, close-set links, before her eyes. “Do you desire it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered. “Close-chains.”
I put the shackles on her ankles. Her ankles were now shackled only some four inches apart. She had decided that she wished to be kept in honor and modesty. To be sure, aside from the obvious consideration of the inflexible efficiency of the shackling itself, given the large number of ways in which a woman may be used for a man’s pleasure, the matter was primarily symbolic. The ankle rings snug on her I removed the bonds of the brigands from her ankles. Her ankles parted, to the brief extent permitted by the chain linkage of my shackles. Her wrists were still tied behind her. “How did you come to be captured by the brigands?” I asked.
“My superiors were dissatisfied with me,” she said. “My lackeys were removed from me. I was put in a brief tunic, almost as though I might be a slave. I was forbidden even to wear a veil. I was given a small purse of coins, one sufficient for my projected expenses, and instructed to report back to my headquarters, alone and on foot.”
“Alone, and on foot?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, bitterly.
“It is my conjecture,” I said, “that they did not expect you to complete your journey successfully.”
“It seems they were right,” she said, bitterly.
I smiled. I did not think that her superiors were likely to be any more unaware of the dangers of Gorean highways than anyone else. A lovely woman, scantily clad, not even veiled, alone, on foot, did not seem a likely candidate to travel the Gorean wilderness with impunity. Their instructions, it seemed, had been, for most practical purposes, tantamount to an enslavement sentence. I did not think they expected to see her again, unless it might be in the rag of a slave and a collar.
But how beautiful women look, so clad, so adorned.
Doubtless doing this to her had seemed a rich joke. Perhaps there was a vengeance of sorts involved.
I did not doubt that.
I wondered what chance she might have thought she had had. Clearly her superiors had finished with her.
Yes, it was a rich joke.
The thought passed through my mind of hot, bloody meat cast amongst hungry sleen.
I wondered if they had speculated on how long she might last, or how far she might get.
I thought of vulos swarming forth to peck up scattered feed, of urts in the canals of Port Kar nosing swiftly toward emptied garbage, of sharks following a galley, of a larl lifting its head, to
test the night air, of a sleen emerging from its burrow, silent, serpentine, hungry, intent.
Something such as she, exposed, vulnerable, defenseless, afoot, alone, trekking broad fields, wandering overland, is not likely on Gor to remain long at large; it cries out for the taking. It would be in a sense a race, one between the fangs of sleen, or such, one supposes, and the large, sawdust-littered, gently concave, surface of an auction block.
She had not been taken by sleen.
Sleen, of course, prefer tabuk, or wild verr.
She had been taken by men.
Men prefer female.
“I was caught by the brigands last night,” she said.
“You do not appear to be clad as might be a slave,” I said.
“The garments in which my superiors had placed me,” she said, “were removed by the brigands. They regarded them as inappropriate for a free woman. They put me, instead, in the gown in which you now see me.”
“That was thoughtful of them,” I said.
“But it is so thin and flimsy!” she protested.
“Of course,” I said.
“I suppose it does mark me as a free woman,” she said, “and in that sense might perhaps raise my price somewhat in case they were readying me for sale to a slave merchant.”
“Too,” I said, “with all due respect it is, in spite of its length and nature, rather flattering and revealing. Doubtless, too, it would give the merchant pleasure to remove it from you in your assessment, thereby revealing your beauty, that then of a potential slave.”
“Yes,” she said, bitterly.
“Have no fear,” I said. “I will find you something else to wear.”
“Thank you,” she said.
“Is there another camp about, or somewhere,” I asked, “used by the brigands?”
“No,” she said. “There was one, but they broke it this morning. This afternoon they surreptitiously met a fellow in the woods. He had a wagon. They sold most of their loot to him.”
“Apparently they did not sell all of it to him,” I said, regarding her, glancing, too, at the other bound woman, she naked in the dirt.
Players of Gor Page 25
