Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Yes,” he said.

  “To whom your principal is to accord position, riches, and power.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Your principal is generous,” I said. “Kurik of Victoria is fortunate.”

  “And thus your cooperation,” he said, “given your hope to do well by Kurik of Victoria, is well assured.”

  “Am I yours?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I was purchased with steel,” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “May I inquire the name of my master?” I asked.

  “Tyrtaios,” he said.

  “May I look upon my master?” I asked.

  I heard him rise, behind me, and then he came about, and stood near me. I lifted my head, and looked upward.

  “What is wrong?” he said.

  “Nothing, Master,” I whispered.

  “You are frightened,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “It is well for a slave to fear her master,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “For she is subject to his whip,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, putting down my head.

  I had seen this man before, this large-handed, lean, hard man, on the wharf at Victoria, from my cage, he passing by, feral, wary and taciturn, men withdrawing from his path. He had inquired of my dealer the location of the tavern of Tasdron. To be sure, he was now dressed differently, rather nondescriptively, in a tan, pocketed work tunic. He wore, as well, a wide, double-buckled belt, from which a dagger, in its sheath, was suspended, and ankle-high, cord-laced street sandals. About his throat was a laborer’s brown sweat scarf, which might be raised about the face, to protect one from dust, or conceal the features. When I had seen him before, that morning in Victoria, he had been clad differently, more somberly, in a sable tunic, a cape, high, black, bootlike sandals. He had been armed, a short sword in its scabbard slung from the left shoulder, rather than across the body. In his left arm, cradled, had been a black helmet. In his appearance there had been a particular oddity that I recalled well. I took it to be a caste mark, or festive design. In black, painted or inked in place, small and delicate, on his forehead, was the image of an unsheathed dagger. Certainly now there was no sign of such a design or device on his forehead.

  Four men, I recalled, had been killed in the tavern of Tasdron.

  Perhaps they had displeased this man. Perhaps they had been uncooperative.

  “You are trembling,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  He reached down, amidst the furs on which I knelt, and lifted up the collar and chain, it fastened to the slave ring set in the foot of the couch.

  “Master?” I said.

  The collar was snapped about my throat. I was thus fastened to the couch.

  “You may recline,” he said.

  I lay on my side, as I had been trained, my knees drawn up, my toes pointed, to shape the calves.

  “The flight to Brundisium is long,” he said. “We depart tonight, after dark.”

  “After dark?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “That will be several Ahn,” I said. “It is not yet dawn.”

  “I am sure we will find ways to pass the time,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  “You need not look,” said Tyrtaios, lounging on the supper couch, on one elbow, looking to the circle of sand about which were arranged the tables. I was kneeling beside the couch. There was a chain on my neck; it was fastened to a ring fixed in the stone floor.

  Several days ago, my master and I had left Ar. I suspect he had disguised himself in yet another fashion. Certainly a common laborer would not be likely to be able to hire a tarn rider and tarn, and tarn basket, for a journey as far as Brundisium. I do not know how he had then attired himself in Ar, nor what identity he might have assumed, though one supposes it might have been of the Merchants, the richest caste. I would not be recognized either, for, in our peregrination afoot to the tarn cot, I had been placed in a body hood, in which, indeed, I would spend much of the journey. The body hood is somewhat reminiscent of the common slave sack, if it were half its size, and open at the bottom. It slips over the head, and comes down to the waist. It is fastened on the slave my means of a heavy belt that is anchored in the back, and drawn up snugly between the slave’s legs, and then buckled shut in front. In this arrangement the slave cannot see, as she is hooded, and she is helpless, as her arms are confined. She can walk, of course, and there is a leash ring on the hood, so that she may be leashed and led by the leash, should her master wish to do so. Normally she is freed of the body hood to be fed and watered, and such, but there is a laced flap near the mouth, that may be opened, and laced shut, if one wishes, through which she may be fed and watered. Happily I was not gagged, or put into a slave bit. That was not necessary, of course, for I was not given permission to speak. I had been silenced, as it is said, by the master’s will. On the journey itself, my master wore nondescript garments, suggestive of no caste in particular. Our rider, or driver, he on tarnback, proved discreet. That I was given to him for his pleasure several times perhaps contributed to his discretion. Some tarns, incidentally, bearing tarn baskets, are controlled from the basket itself. Indeed, as I understand it, this is the more common arrangement.

  Happily, I was later given a standing permission to speak, though I seldom dared to use it. I muchly feared my master, Tyrtaios, whom I little understood. Such a standing permission is commonly granted to slaves. Needless to say, it may be rescinded or granted anew, as the master might wish.

  I do not know where, for the body hood, in the vicinity of Brundisium, that the tarn rider brought his immense, broad-winged beast to earth, but I think it must have been near the coast, probably south of the port, as we had come from Ar, for I heard gulls and smelled Thassa, the sea. I was knelt on the wood of the platform. I heard coins shaken from a wallet. Shortly thereafter I heard the ascent of the dangling mounting ladder, the sound of restless talons on wood, and the snap of wings. I could sense the rush of the stirred, smitten air about me, tearing at the hood. Then it was quiet.

  “Up, girl,” I was told, and I struggled to my feet.

  I then heard the click of the leash lock, it secured about the leading ring on my hood.

  “The wagon,” he said, “will be closed.”

  “Then may I not, master,” I asked, “be relieved of the hood?”

  “No,” he said.

  The hood would be removed only when we reached our destination, and we were within the walls, within the walls of what place I did not know.

  The wagon ride, it was a fee wagon, took more than an Ahn. I sat, hooded, on the wood, my back against the side of the wagon bed. The road, rutted and pitted, was better graded as it neared the city, and, later, within the city, the metal-rimmed wheels would rattle over cobble stones. My master sat on the wagon bench, beside the driver. He conversed with him, pleasantly, which, I guessed, was an aspect of his disguise. Putting my head back, in the hood, I could feel canvas behind my head. Had I not been hooded, as I was alone in the wagon, I think I could not have resisted trying to peep beneath the canvas, to see where we might be. After the better part of the Ahn, we had doubtless entered one of the gates of Brundisium, as I then heard the cries of vendors, the rolling of wheels, the snorting of draft beasts, the sounds of men, music, a kalika, from somewhere. I also heard the sound of a lash. The street perhaps led past a shelf market. I myself had never felt the slave lash, even in the house of training. I was no stranger, however, to the admonitions of the supple switch. It was sufficiently unpleasant, and I would do my best to escape its attentions.

  “We disembark,” called my master back to me.

  I was lifted fro
m the wagon and set on flat stones. The driver received his coin, and the wagon rolled away.

  My master then exerted a bit of pressure on the leash ring, and I followed him. We walked for seven or eight Ehn. Surely the wagon could have approached our destination more closely, but, it seems, it had not, or did not. It was only later that I realized that my master may not have cared to have the driver know our destination, nor the nature of the fellow with whom he had so pleasantly shared the wagon bench. Indeed, perhaps the driver would not have cared to approach our destination.

  “We are here,” said my master.

  I heard a rattle of chains and the striking of some heavy object, wooden, I think descending, on stones. Then, too, I heard the noises of more chains and the creaking of iron, and a ratcheting sound. Oddly, the normal noises of the city seemed subdued, or absent, in this locale. I followed on the leash. I heard words spoken, but could not make them out.

  Later I was unhooded.

  The room was muchly barren, save for some kennels at one wall. They were empty. I, on all fours, was entered into one of these kennels, and the gate was padlocked shut.

  “You will be given a new tunic and a new collar,” he said.

  He then left.

  I lay down, curled, in the kennel.

  I think I must have slept, but I awakened rather abruptly. I strained my hearing. Far off I thought I heard the sounds of men, shouts, and the striking of metal on metal, often quick, and sharp, and sometimes so rapidly I could not distinguish the sounds. Then I was tired, and again slept.

  After a time there was a tapping on the kennel gate, and I rose to my knees, and put my head down, to the floor of the kennel, the palms of my hands beside my head, in first obeisance position.

  “Emerge,” said my master, opening the gate, “and remain on all fours, head down.”

  He carried a bit of cloth, a tiny scrap of black silk, and something wrapped within the silk. He put these things down, behind me, and he stood, too, a bit behind me and to the side. Accordingly, I could not well follow what he was doing.

  Then a circlet was placed about my neck. I heard the snap, and realized I wore a new collar.

  My original collar was still on my neck.

  “Arnold of Harfax,” he said, “kindly delivered to me, upon my request, the key to your collar.”

  My earlier collar was then removed, and cast aside. I heard it clatter on the stones. He then adjusted the new collar, which I could not see. It fitted nicely, closely. Such collars cannot be slipped.

  He then came about, before me.

  “Stand up, kajira,” he said, “and strip.”

  I swiftly removed the tunic, and handed it to him. As one receives clothing, if one receives it, at the hand of the master, so, too, commonly, one returns it to the hand of the master. It is thus clear that clothing, if it is permitted, is at the discretion of the master.

  I was then regarded, in my new collar.

  I put my head down. It seems I had not lost my shyness from Earth. Yet, too, such a posture, betokening humility, and deference, is suitable for a slave.

  But I had noted, furtively, his regard, before lowering my head. I do not think he was displeased.

  Might I not, I wondered, on this world, have become more beautiful? How a woman changes in the collar! How she becomes so much more a woman, her natural being, in her rightful place.

  What alternative has she?

  But I wanted no alternative, not with such men. And I was pleased that I would be granted none.

  How, at last, one can be what one is, oneself!

  “Here,” he said.

  He had reached down and picked up the bit of black silk, from the floor of the chamber.

  He tossed it against my body, and I clutched it.

  “Put it on, Phyllis,” he said.

  I looked at him.

  “Yes,” he said. “We will keep that name, at least for the time.”

  As the slave is an animal, she may be named as the master pleases, as any other animal.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What is your name, slave?” he said.

  “‘Phyllis, Master,” I said, well apprised of the name that had been put on me.

  I was Phyllis.

  It was the will of the master.

  I looked down at the tiny bit of silk in my hands.

  “What is it?” I asked.

  “A tunic,” he said. “Put it on. I would see it on you.”

  I slipped it over my head, and tried to pull down the hems at the side.

  “It is short, so little, almost nothing, such fine silk,” I said. “It is diaphanous. I can be seen through it.”

  “We like our girls so clad,” he said, “when we permit them clothing.”

  I did not know who “we” were. I did not understand where I was. Surely the common slave tunic, often of rep-cloth, was short enough, and well identified its occupant as a slave. At least it was usually of rep-cloth, or of some other cloth, such as the wool of the bounding hurt, and, even when of silk, it was seldom diaphanous. One could well imagine the reaction of free women to that! In the latter aspect, diaphanous, it was rather like the yellow or red dancing silk in which the tavern dancers swirled amidst their veils, their shimmering jewelries, often to the sparkle of finger cymbals.

  “Outside this house, most often,” he said, “you will wear a different tunic, and a different collar.”

  “I am pleased,” I said, “but why, Master, a different collar?”

  “Naive barbarian,” he said.

  “I do not know what my collar looks like,” I said, “nor what is on it, if anything.”

  “Follow me,” he said.

  I followed him from the room, to a nearby room, down a lamp-lit hall. In this room there was a mirror, and I regarded myself in it.

  How revealed I was in that tunic!

  “You will be found acceptable,” he said. “Indeed, you will fit in nicely.”

  “It is a strange collar,” I said. “What is on it?”

  The light of the lamp reflected from the collar.

  “It is a black-enameled collar,” he said. “There is nothing on it. The collar is enough. It would be recognized, and you would be returned to this house by guardsmen or others, and left bound, helpless, by the drawbridge and gate.”

  “There would be no reward for my return?”

  “To return you would be less hazardous than failing to do so,” he said.

  “Surely at least some copper tarsks,” I said, “perhaps a silver tarsk, perhaps, for a better slave, a piece of gold?”

  “Some pay in copper,” he said. “Some pay in silver, some in gold. Some pay in steel.”

  “When I awakened, in the kennel,” I said, “I thought I heard the shouts of men, the ringing, far off, of metal on metal.”

  “You did,” he said. “It was the sound of men engaged in the practice of arms.”

  “There are warriors here,” I said, “guardsmen?”

  “In a way,” he said.

  “What house is this?” I asked. “Where am I?”

  “You are in the Black Court of Brundisium,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “It is not necessary that you do,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Five

  “You need not look,” said Tyrtaios, lounging on the supper couch, on one elbow, looking to the circle of sand about which were arranged the tables. I was kneeling beside the couch. There was a chain on my neck; it was fastened to a ring fixed in the stone floor.

  Two men, stripped to the loins, dagger in hand, were cautiously circling one another on the sand.

  I wore a black tunic, and a black collar.

  Two slaves, similarly clad and collared, but free of impediments, both exquisite, were serving t
he tables. Their hair was long. The hair of slaves is often long. Much can be done with it, in the furs, to please masters. Some dozen or so men, in black dinner robes, were reclining on the supper couches; some attending to the circle of sand, others differently occupied, chatting, sipping ka-la-na, sampling assorted viands proffered by the serving slaves.

  The men at the tables, those attentive, those bemused, those bored, those testing and savoring beverages and dishes, wore dark chaplets upon their brow, these woven from somber dark leaves, muchly different from the tangles of aromatic blossoms worn by many Goreans at festive suppers. There was little of brightness or color in this place. It was muchly different from the bold and striking colors that, in bold display, characterize so many Gorean rooms, halls, and domiciles.

  “It is dark, Master,” I whispered.

  He had spoken to me.

  “There is the lamp,” he said.

  “So little light, for so large a place?” I said.

  “Darkness is not to be feared,” he said. “Let others fear it. For he who is at ease in the darkness, in the dusk, in the stillness before the dawn, who is patient, who waits, it is a friend, a shield, an abetment to one’s work. Who knows what lurks in the darkness, what might emerge from the night? Too, skills and strengths honed in, and augmented under, adverse conditions prepare one well for the tests of the common day. Why do you think runners train in heavy sand, and hurlers of the stone use stones twice in weight to those they will cast in the games? Why do you think that some, in training beasts, tharlarion, tarns, and slaves, weight saddles, and such things?”

  “This is a place of police,” I said, “a barrack of soldiers?”

  A fellow at a nearby table laughed, a short, unpleasant sound.

  “Many warriors,” I said, “wear the scarlet of their caste.”

  “That is true,” said Tyrtaios. “I have stained my blade with the blood of several.”

  “It is dangerous to deal with them,” said a fellow at a table.

  “Openly, to be sure,” said another fellow, peeling the rind from a larma.

  “Better a flighted quarrel in the darkness, a tethered tarn at hand, awaiting one’s departure,” said another.