Mercenaries of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “True,” I said, though remaining uneasy.

  “The only thing you truly need to fear,” said Hurtha, “is that your honor might be lost.”

  “I suppose you are right,” I said. “Still I would not look forward to being boiled in oil.”

  “Of course not,” said Hurtha. “It would be extremely painful.”

  “Stop pushing,” I said to the fellow behind me.

  “Move up,” he said.

  “You could always sing,” said Hurtha.

  “What?” I asked.

  “That is what the chieftain, Hendix, did,” he said, “in Alar legend, when captured by his enemies and put in oil. He shouted at them, and laughed at them, insulting them all the while. And then while boiling he sang merry Alar songs. In that way he showed his contempt for his enemies.”

  “Perhaps toward the end he lost the tempo or was a bit off key,” I speculated.

  “Perhaps,” said Hurtha. “I was not there.”

  “Greetings,” said a fellow, coming up to me.

  I remembered him. He was the fellow I had spoken to in the Teiban Market.

  “Did you find lodging?” he asked.

  “Yes, thanks,” I said. “In the insula of Achiates.”

  “He is a splendid fellow,” said the man, “though a bit of an avaricious scoundrel.”

  “Excuse me,” I said.

  “Yes?” he said.

  “Come closer,” I said.

  “Yes?” he asked, coming over.

  “Is it true,” I asked, “that only citizens of Ar are permitted to approach the regent on this day?”

  “You certainly need not fear,” he said, “for though you came in from Torcadino, clearly you are of Ar.”

  “But what if I were not?” I asked.

  “Are you not?” he asked, interested.

  I considered judicious replies, rapidly.

  “To be sure,” he said, “your accent, now that I think of it, does not ring quite true. Perhaps you have been away from the city for a long time.” Those of Ar commonly have a gentle, liquid accent. I think it is one of the loveliest of the Gorean accents.

  “What if perchance I were not of Ar?” I asked. I looked about myself, noting the distance to the nearest guardsmen. I considered how long it might take to remove the ribbon and, hastily, hopefully without combat, disappear down a side street.

  “Your question is purely academic, of course,” he said.

  I reached for the ribbon.

  “No,” he laughed, putting out his hand. “Stay in your place. I know you are not of Ar, or do not think you are of Ar, for that seems clear from your speech. I am just teasing you.” He might have found his humor a bit less delightful had he seen Hurtha behind him with his ax. Hurtha lowered the ax. “Ones who are not citizens of Ar may approach the regent on this day as well as citizens, if they can get a place on the rope. It is all part of the meaning of the day, of the generosity and benevolence of those of Ar, and such.”

  “I was told by a fellow earlier that only citizens might be on the rope,” I said.

  “No,” smiled the fellow. “He was just trying to get your place.”

  “Is that true?” I asked the fellow behind me.

  “I hope so,” he said. “I am from Venna.”

  “It is true,” said a fellow behind him.

  “Move ahead,” said a Taurentian. We shuffled forward.

  “You, there,” said the Taurentian to Hurtha. “Move away from the rope.”

  The crowd must now stay to the sides, away from the rope.

  A fellow moved in behind me, with a ribbon.

  “Where did you come from?” asked the man from Venna. “The ribbons were gone.”

  “They are seldom really gone, at least until late,” said the fellow.

  “What are things like at the back of the line?” asked a man.

  “Bloody,” said the fellow. “But the guardsmen are dispersing people now.”

  “How did you get a ribbon?” I asked. I knew how I had gotten mine. Hurtha had given it to me. He had received it as a donation, of sorts, from a fellow who was not at the time in a condition to use it. I wondered if the regent was aware of the mayhem that attended the acquisition of the ribbons. To be sure, most folks who had come early had probably received them in a civilized and orderly fashion. I had had difficulty in getting Hurtha up this morning. It was our third day in Ar. Yesterday we had spent a great deal of time walking about the city. It is pleasant to see the slave girls. Feiqa, too, who was heeling us, I gathered, from the men turning about, the occasional intakes of breath, the various comments and observations, and sometimes the literal sex calls, some of the bold, obtrusive, hooting sort by which young men impolitely signify that something of extreme sexual interest has been spotted, and others of the sort, done as a compliment and joke, with which masters sometimes summon their girls running to them, attracted more than her share of appreciative appraisals. This was understandable. She was superb slave meat. I did not know where Boabissia was now. She was probably somewhere in the city. She had wanted to see more of it. Feiqa had probably been left in the insula.

  “The guardsmen hold out some,” he said. “I paid a silver tarsk for this one.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Move along,” said a Taurentian.

  “Hail, Gnieus Lelius!” called a man. One could now see the chair on the dais. He was not wearing the purple of the ubar, but his shoulders were covered with a brown cloak, rather of the sort worn by Administrators in certain cities, civilian statesmen, servants of the people, so to speak. I wondered if the regent knew about the business of selling the ribbons. Some, too, I supposed, would be sold by citizens who had received them earlier in the legal distributions.

  “Move forward,” said a Taurentian.

  I clutched the letters from Dietrich of Tarnburg within my tunic. My hand was sweaty.

  A fellow two places ahead of me, for some petition or other, received ten pieces of gold. That is a considerable sum. There were cries of pleasure and wonder from the crowd. “Hail, Gnieus Lelius!” I heard. “Hail, Gnieus Lelius!” Most of the folks, as far as I could tell, however, received only a kind word from the regent, or an earnest assurance that their petitions would be examined with care. Several individuals, however, to be fair, did receive handfuls of coins, mostly copper, from the regent, who, smiling, would dip his hand into heaping coin bowls near him, and then spill coins into the outstretched hands of the grateful recipients. “Hail, Gnieus Lelius!” I heard. Taurentians were about the regent, and, too, some scribes. Notes, it seemed, and names, were being taken. Doubtless a record of the claims, grievances, petitions, and such, was being kept. It seemed there were not many guards about. So loved, it seemed, was the regent.

  “Yes, Citizen?” said the regent. I looked up. He was a regal looking fellow, tall and gaunt. He seemed fair, and kindly. I thought he would probably be a conscientious and dedicated public servant, perhaps even a gifted statesman. Certainly he had been high councilor in Ar. Indeed, he was now regent.

  “Citizen?” he asked. His voice was not sharp. It was kindly. He was not impatient. I supposed it was not unusual for a common citizen suddenly finding himself in the presence of one so great, to find words failing him.

  I reached inside my tunic and drew forth the letters. “He has a petition, or petitions,” said one of the scribes. “Give them to me, fellow.”

  I drew back the letters, not handing them to the scribe.

  “These papers,” I said, “excellency, are for you. I will deliver them only to you. I am not a citizen. I have come a long way.”

  I turned the letters in my hand. On them, then, could be seen the seal of the silver tarn. I then turned them again in such a way that the seals could not be seen. Two or three of the scribes reacted. I saw that they recognized the seal. Another scribe moved toward me. He seemed dangerous, not like a scribe. I suspected, then, that some of the scribes about were perhaps not truly scribes, but guards.
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  “Thank you,” said the regent, kindly. He took the letters, keeping the seals down.

  “Who are you?” he asked. “And where do you lodge?” His voice was not other than it had been when he had spoken to others. Yet I was sure he had seen the seals.

  “I am Tarl,” I said, “of the city of Port Kar, and I am now lodging in the insula of Achiates, in the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla.” This information was taken down.

  “Write down,” said the regent to the scribe nearest him, “that we have received petitions from Tarl of Port Kar, who is lodging in the house of Achiates, which we will take under careful consideration.” This was done.

  “I am grateful,” I said, “that you will be pleased to ponder carefully the contents of these petitions. I assure you that I am quite earnest in this matter, and I attest with conviction to the veracity of what I take to be their contents.”

  “I understand,” he said.

  I bowed to him. “Excellency,” I said. He inclined his head, graciously responding to my salute. I removed the ribbon from my body. My commission had been accomplished. I had delivered the letters. Dietrich of Tarnburg, and Ar, had been served. More I could not do.

  The regent motioned that I should approach more closely. “Thank you,” he said. “I have waited for such word for a long time.”

  “It is nothing,” I said.

  “Wait,” said he.

  I turned about. He poured coins into my hands, copper tarsks.

  “My thanks, Excellency,” I said, gratefully, as though I might have been another petitioner.

  “Hail, Gnieus Lelius! Hail, Gnieus Lelius!” I heard, the crowd acclaiming yet again the regent’s generosity.

  I then turned about, and took my leave.

  24

  The Origins of Boabissia;

  She Learns Them

  “And this was found about your throat as a baby, in the wreckage of a caravan, by Alars?” he asked. He stood close to her. He looked at it in the light, holding it between his fingers. It was still on its thong about her neck.

  “Yes,” said Boabissia.

  “It was on your neck?” he asked.

  “Yes,” said Boabissia. “And I have continued to wear it.”

  “I see,” he said.

  “Are you acquainted with the young woman inside?” an attendant had asked at the gate.

  “Yes,” I said. “I think so.”

  “It was here she entered,” said Feiqa.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Please come in,” had said the attendant. We had entered and followed him through the gardened courtyard, with its fountains, and, on the other side of the court, across the shaded portico and into the recesses of the house.

  Hurtha and I had returned around noon to the insula, after leaving the area before the Central Cylinder. As soon as we had entered through the shuttered gate into the insula’s small, dim vestibule, there, in the light, the dust in it, we had seen Feiqa. “Masters,” she said, eagerly, rising to her feet, moving toward us. Then she stopped short. The shackle on her left ankle, fastening her to a floor ring, saw to this. She knelt at the end of the chain. The shackle looked well on her ankle. “Masters,” she said.

  “Where is Boabissia?” I asked. “I thought you would have been left upstairs.”

  “I was,” she said. “But Mistress returned and fetched me. She had found something which greatly excited her. I must accompany her that I would know the place, and then, presently when you returned, lead you there.”

  “That is why you are chained here?” I asked.

  “Perhaps, Master,” she said. “But Mistress also, of course, may have thought of a slave’s comfort.”

  I smiled. Boabissia was not the sort of person who would think of a slave’s comfort. Indeed, she believed that slaves should be treated with great strictness and subjected to ruthless and uncompromising discipline.

  “Why did she not wait for us?” I asked.

  “She could not wait,” said Feiqa. “She was in too great a hurry to get back.”

  “What is this all about?” I asked.

  “She thinks she may have found the house of her people,” said Feiqa, “that she might enter, that incredible fortune might be hers, that she might be able to claim her patrimony.”

  “I gather it was a fine house,” I said.

  “I think it is probably very beautiful,” said Feiqa. “I caught a glimpse of the garden within, in the courtyard, and the house beyond, a large, lovely house, with a shaded portico, when she was admitted. Whoever owns it must be very rich.”

  “What makes her think that it might be the house of her people?” I asked.

  “The tiny sign near the call rope,” said Feiqa. “It is a Tau, much as on her neck ornament.”

  “The same form of Tau?” I asked.

  “It is very similar,” she said.

  “Exactly similar?” I asked.

  “No,” she said.

  “But very similar?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Some clue, then, as to her origins, may be there,” I said. Goreans are usually rather careful about such things as crests, signs, family emblems, and such. Sometimes such things are actually registered, and legally restricted in their use to given lines.

  “I really think it is possible, Master,” said Feiqa.

  “If all is well then,” I said, “let us rejoice for Boabissia, and her good fortune.”

  “It looks like a fine house?” asked Hurtha.

  “Yes, Master,” said Feiqa.

  “Boabissia will like that,” he said. “She has always been a spoiled, greedy little thing. It will not displease her to be rich.”

  “The family, too, if there is a fine house, and grounds, and such,” I said, “may be powerful and of high station.”

  “She will not object to that either,” said Hurtha.

  “Where is this house?” I asked.

  “It is not far, Master,” said Feiqa.

  “That is interesting,” I said.

  “There are some fine houses in this district,” said Hurtha, “particularly over several blocks. We saw some yesterday.”

  “True,” I said. Ar, as many cities, sometimes had rather contrasting neighborhoods in surprising proximity to one another. For example, the Avenue of Turia, nearby, was one of the finest streets in Ar. Yet, behind it, reached by a crevice between some buildings, only a walk of some two or three Ehn away, was the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla.

  “Where is the key to your shackle?” I asked.

  “Over there, Master,” said Feiqa, pointing. It hung on a hook, where it might be convenient to tenants or visitors, near the door that led to the apartment of Achiates.

  I fetched the key. I returned to where she knelt, shackled. I looked down upon her. I wondered if it might not be pleasant to have her, there, suddenly, on the floor of the insula’s vestibule, before I unshackled her. She was very beautiful.

  Sometimes, of course, one wants a slave—now—instantly. Sometimes one cannot wait to get them to the blankets or furs. Perhaps it is only a matter of feet, but it is too far. They can be taken anywhere, anytime, and as one pleases, in a garden, on a bench, against a wall, in a doorway, on a carpet, across coils of rope, over a saddle, cast upon bales of produce, beside a highway, in the gravel or mud, on a street, on a polished hardwood floor, on the tiles of a plaza, in a market, privately, publicly, as one pleases. This is totally at the discretion of the master. They are slaves.

  “Master?” she asked.

  This sort of thing, of course, is in marked contrast to the usual unhurried, leisurely, patient nature of Gorean love making, at least with slaves. Commonly, presumably because it is so pleasurable, he is in no hurry for it to end. The Gorean master, then, will often devote a morning, or an afternoon, or an evening, or even the better part of a day, or an entire day, to these enjoyments. The culture is perhaps different from one with which you might be more familiar. It is a culture more
at ease with itself, one less frenetic, one whose sense of time is more indexed to the sun and seasons than the periodic movements of mechanical devices, one with more in common with grass and flowers, and the grazings of animals, and the combing of a girl’s hair, than with pollutions and machines, one to whom industrial and technological regimens and constraints, however awesome, are of little interest, and might well be found foreign and distasteful. For example, it would be quite unusual for a Gorean to make love in less than a full Ahn. And he enjoys, of course, devoting his full and undivided attention to her, listening to her, licking and kissing her, caressing her, and then bringing her to orgasm again and again, as he wishes, and then, of course, having her later serve him, perhaps refreshing him, say, bathing and grooming him, perhaps then humbly preparing and serving viands, and pouring his wine, and perhaps conversing with him, naked, while perhaps performing small tasks under his supervision, say, polishing his leather, and then he may have her pose for him, or dance for him, and then he may permit her to kiss his whip and beg for more pleasure, and he will then again, if he wishes, put her, perhaps helplessly chained, again and again to the delicious sexual torments which will bring her again and again, she at his mercy, helpless in his hands, pleading, begging, to slave ecstasy. Even in a paga tavern he is unlikely to quickly relinquish the girl he has ordered to an alcove, who has simply come with the price of a drink.

  To the Gorean pleasure is not an object of suspicion, of apprehension, or dread, but a lovely part of life.

  To be sure, cultures differ in their values, attitudes, and requirements. If all this is relative and subjective, then it seems there is nothing to choose from between pleasure and happiness and pain and misery.

  This seems to me unlikely, but I am content to express my views, at whatever hazard. I do not insist that others share them. In this it is my hope that I am not unique.

  Let each choose as he wishes.

  “Master?” she asked.

  I thrust her back to the floor, in a rattle of chain. “Oh!” she cried. It did not matter. She was only a slave. “Oh!” she gasped, and then was clutching me. “Disgusting,” said a free woman, entering the insula, and then proceeding upstairs. I stood up. Feiqa was at my feet, gasping, shaken. Such things may be done to such as she. They are only slaves.