Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  I looked at her. She was comely. I looked to the discarded chains on the stone shelf. Other girls there held out their hands to me. I looked again at the girl.

  “In another year,” I told her, “you will kneel again on the stone shelf, beneath the awnings.” I regarded her. “Then,” I said, regarding her, “you will be too beautiful to free.”

  “I must hurry home,” she said, “to prepare supper for my father.”

  I watched her run, shamed, through the streets. She was lovely. I had little doubt that, in time, she would wear slave bells. Even if she were not to be sold by the magistracy of Tor I thought it not unlikely that she would fall to the noose of a slaver.

  “Buy us! Buy us, Master!” cried the other girls on the shelf.

  “Be slaves,” I laughed to them, turning away.

  They wept. I heard the lash fall among them.

  Here and there in the bazaar I made purchases.

  Twice I was passed by pairs of guardsmen, in white robes with red sashes, bearing red-sheathed scimitars, the police of Tor.

  Not five paces behind them I saw a ragged cutpurse cut the wallet of a merchant, dropping its contents into his hand and, bowing and whining, twist away in the crowd. The merchant huffed away. The fellow had done it neatly. I recalled a girl named Tina, once of Lydius, now of Port Kar. She, too, had been an excellent thief. My own coins I kept in belt pockets, within my robes, save for a small wallet at my side. I went about Tor now as a traveler from Turia, a small merchant. I checked the wallet at my side. It was intact.

  Some other thieves had not done so well in the bazaar. Several right hands, severed, were nailed to a board on which salt prices were affixed.

  There were no feminine hands on the board. A female thief in Tor, even on the first offense, is immediately reduced to slavery.

  I glanced behind me. For the second time I saw four men, the same four. But they were only four.

  I stood aside as a chain of male slaves was herded by, with spear butts. They were bound for the brine pits of the Tahari, whence comes most of the caravan salt. I expected that less than half of them would reach the pits. Heavy collars, with rings, they wore about their necks. A heavy chain, running through the rings, linked them together by the throat. Their wrists, manacled, were behind their backs. They were naked. Men spit at them as they were herded past.

  Miss Blake-Allen was no longer in my compartment. She was now in the public pens of Tor. On the morning of the second day, in the process of my work for Priest-Kings, I had entered the shaded offices of the municipal slave master of Tor.

  “Stand here,” I told Miss Blake-Allen, indicating a place in the center of the floor, before the desk of the slave master. She stood where I had indicated. “Remove your slippers,” I told her. She slipped from the slippers, black with silver thread. She was now barefoot. The slave master came around to the front of his desk. He leaned back against it, sitting on its edge. “Remove the haik,” I told the girl. She removed the garment. She stood between us, nude.

  The slave master regarded her. Then he walked about her, slowly. She stood straight, a female examined by a man. She did not look at him. The slave master looked at me. I nodded. Her body stiffened, and she shut her eyes, as his hands, those of a Gorean flesh appraiser, informed, sensitive, professional, proficient, made swift assessment of the textures of her skin, varying at different points on the body, the tensilities of her musculature, the varying softness and firmness of her, the sweet, complex delights of her lines, the obvious exciting contours of her, the more subtle contours, too, the curve at her hip, at her shoulder, her instep, the back of her neck; he, too, made test, to her helpless, recoiling horror, of the latent pleasures of her, swiftly revealing, then passing over, it noted, the promise of an incredible responsiveness; there were tears in her eyes; how precious and beautiful, I thought, is a woman, how unsurprising that a vital man, without compromise, simply wishes to own such a fantastic, delicious creature, how unsurprising that he wishes in the full and glorious heat of his blood to overwhelm, devour, dominate and master her. On Gor, of course, men have their will, at least with lowly slaves, such as was, against her will, the lovely, unfortunate Miss Blake-Allen.

  The slave master stepped back from the slave.

  “Kneel,” I told her. She knelt.

  “Blond,” said he, “apparently determined to try to remain frigid, blue-eyed, not yet tamed, an incredible potential for helpless sexual heat, an incredible potential for helpless slave submission, excellent. Do you wish to sell her?”

  “Straighten your body, Slave,” I told her.

  Frightened, Miss Blake-Allen straightened her back, and lifted her head. She knelt back on her heels, knees wide, hands on her thighs. It was the position of the Pleasure Slave. I had taught her the position. It is one of the first things a good-looking woman, fallen slave, is taught on Gor.

  “Do you wish to sell her?” again inquired the slave master of Tor.

  I knew I would not obtain the best price from this office, for the municipal pens usually buy cheaply and sell cheaply. They exist primarily as a service for caravan masters, buying unsold girls, later retailing them to other merchants, who may be short of flesh for the oasis traffic. The municipal pens exist primarily to perform a service, not to make profit.

  “What would you offer?” I asked.

  “Eleven silver tarsks,” he said.

  I knew I could get twice that much from a private house.

  “Fifteen?” he inquired.

  “No,” I smiled, “but your bids are reassuring.”

  He smiled. “I did not think you wished to sell her,” he said. “That is why I was as honest with you as I was. Now that I know you do not wish to sell her, I will tell you that, in my opinion,” he looked down at the kneeling girl, “her potentiality is fantastic.”

  “I am glad to hear it,” I said. Miss Blake-Allen, in the position of the Pleasure Slave, was looking about the room. She could not understand us, for we spoke in Gorean. It is perhaps just as well.

  The usual buying price of the municipal office was two or three silver tarsks per wench. I had learned that Miss Blake-Allen was valuable in the Tahari. This pleased me.

  I looked at her. She was beautiful. I agreed with the slave master. Doubtless, someday, for someone, she would make an excellent slave.

  “I wish,” I said, “to board her, and purchase her some training.”

  “We cage a wench for a copper tarsk per day,” he said. “Training is extra, but, I think, reasonable.”

  “She does not speak Gorean,” I told him.

  He smiled. “She will learn swiftly,” he said.

  Then the officer and I discussed details of training. He would include in her training the regime of the stimulation cage. For the first five nights, following my recommendation, she would wear the rope harness. After that it would be used, if necessary, for discipline.

  “Let her, however,” I said, “meet the eyes of her trainer, and of other males. I do not wish her to become the love slave of the first man into whose eyes she is permitted to gaze.”

  “I understand,” said the man.

  “Is there anything else?” I asked.

  “Do we have complete food and whip rights over her?” he asked.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  I then turned to the girl. “What is your name?” I asked her, in English.

  “Priscilla Blake-Allen,” she said.

  I looked at her. Her face went white. “I have no name, Master,” she whispered. “I am only a nameless slave,” she whispered.

  I thought to myself. Priscilla Blake-Allen. Blake-Allen. Allen. Allen. Allena. Ah-leh-na. Then I had it. An excellent name, not unknown in the Gorean Tahari.

  “I will give you a name,” I said.

  She looked at me.

  “Alyena,” I told her. The “l” sound in this name is rolled, one of two common “l” sounds in Gorean. An English transliteration, though not a perfect one, would be rather a
long the lines of “Ahl-yieh-ain-nah,” where the “ain” is pronounced such that it would rhyme with the English expression “rain.” The accent falls on the first and third syllable. It is a melodic name. I thought it would improve her price. Names are often used by auctioneers. “Here, Noble Gentlemen, for your consideration, is the slave girl called Alyena. Regard her! Does she please you? Move for the noble gentlemen, Alyena. Display your beauty. Do not such masters excite you? Do you not long to serve them? Behold, Gentlemen, Alyena dances her beauty for you! How much am I bid for the fair Alyena?”

  “Alyena,” whispered the girl.

  “Alyena,” I said to her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I am not selling you,” I said. “These are the public pens of Tor. You are here for boarding and training. You will begin to learn Gorean. You will learn as a child learns, without the benefit of translation. You will learn swiftly. You will also be exercised and receive slave instruction.”

  “Slave instruction?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “Is this clear, Alyena?”

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “If you are uncooperative, or slow in your lessons, you may be starved or beaten—lashed—you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” said the girl, her eyes wide.

  I threw a silver tarsk to the official. He clapped his hands. Through a silver curtain, of silver strings, came a large, powerful slave girl. She wore a plain iron collar, with ring. She wore a halter of leather; she wore a belt of leather; two strips of leather girded her, falling to her knees; about her calves, crossing, leather straps bound heavy sandals on her feet. In her hand she carried a long supple kaiila quirt of leather, about a half inch in width and a yard long.

  The large female slave feasted her eyes on the slender, lovely Alyena. Then she gestured with her quirt toward the threshold of silver strings. “Hurry, Pretty One,” she said to Alyena in Gorean, harshly.

  Miserably, Alyena, understanding what was required of her, fled to the threshold.

  There she turned to regard me. The quirt fell, viciously, across her shoulder. Crying out with pain, the lovely Alyena turned, and, weeping, stumbling, fled through the curtain of silver strings, to the pens of Tor.

  “By the way,” I asked the officer, casually, though it was my main reason for visiting his office, “there was a girl of interest to me who, I understand it, was named Veema, and was at one time one of your guests. I should like to discover what became of her. Would you have records on her?”

  “Do you know her number in the pens?” asked the officer.

  “87432,” I said.

  “Information such as this is usually confidential to the municipality,” said the officer.

  I placed a silver tarsk on the table.

  Without taking it he went to a set of heavy, leaved books, bound in heavy, black leather, on a nearby shelf.

  “She was bought for two tarsks, from a caravan master named Zad of the Oasis of Farad,” he said.

  “I am more interested,” I said, “in who purchased her.”

  “She was sold for four tarsks,” said the officer.

  “To whom?” I asked.

  “Keep your tarsk,” said the man, wryly. “There is no name given.”

  “Do you remember the girl?” I asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why have you not recorded a name?” I asked.

  “No name was given, apparently,” he said.

  “Do you often sell women thusly?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said. “It is the money in which we are interested. What is it to us what might be the name of the buyer?”

  I checked the book myself. Its entries were not coded.

  “Keep the tarsk,” I said to the man. Then I left the office of the slave master of Tor. I had failed to learn who it was who had purchased the girl Veema, who perhaps had sent her as a message girl to Samos of Port Kar. To me the slave master of Tor, within the normal discrepancies of the office, seemed an honest enough fellow.

  I was satisfied that he did not know to whom had been sold the girl Veema, 87432, Turian Pen Number. I recalled the message which she had borne. “Beware Abdul.”

  In the bazaar I stopped, seeming to contemplate mirrors. The four men I had seen earlier, two large ones, two small ones, in white burnooses, still followed.

  I had assumed the name Hakim, a Tahari name, one suitable for a merchant.

  I would choose the place with some care.

  I passed a stall of perfumers, and thought of Saphrar of Turia. Then I passed a shop where the high, light kaiila saddles were being made. One could also buy there saddle blankets, quirts, bells and kaiila reins. The kaiila rein is a single rein, very light, plaited of various leathers. There are often ten to a dozen strips of tanned, dyed leather in a single rein. Each individual strip, interestingly, given the strength of the rein, is little thicker than a stout thread. The strips are cut with knives, and it requires great skill to cut them. The rein, carefully plaited, is tied through a hole drilled in the right nostril of the kaiila. It passes under the animal’s jaw to the left. When one wishes to guide the animal to the left one draws the rein left; when one wishes to guide it right one pulls right, drawing the rein over the animal’s neck, with pressure against the left cheek. To stop the animal one draws back. To start or hasten the animal, one kicks it in the flanks, or uses the long kaiila quirt.

  I passed one of the wells of Tor. There were steps, broad, flat, worn, in concentric circles, leading down to the water. At this time of year eight of the steps were uncovered by the water. Many came there for water. I saw children on their hands and knees lapping water, women filling jugs, men submerging bags, the air bubbling up as the bags filled. Like most water in the Tahari the water of Tor was slightly salty and unclear.

  Casually glancing about I saw the four men. I assessed them, determining in my mind who would be the swiftest, the most dangerous, the leader; who would be the next most dangerous; and then the others.

  I saw the water carrier, too, with the brass cups. It struck me suddenly strange that he should be in the area of the bazaar, which, in the lower area in the city, is in the vicinity of the wells. Surely few would care to purchase water where it lay free at hand. He descended the steps and submerged his bag, grinning at me, remembering me from earlier in the day. I smiled at him, turning away. He was a simple, poor fellow, harmless, servile, slight. I felt myself a fool. Of course he would have to come to the bazaar area. What would I have him do, fill his bag with the white dust of Tor’s higher terraces?

  I chose a side street, and another street from that, which terminated in a blind wall. There were few about.

  I heard the men hurrying toward me. I swung the walking chains I had purchased lightly in my hand, not looking back, noting the shadows.

  They would think I was trapped in the alley, with its blind wall. I had chosen this alley, that they might make their move swiftly, at my choosing, not truly theirs. Also, the alley was open behind them. I gave them access to flight. I had no wish to kill them. It seemed to me most probable they were simple brigands.

  I saw the shadows, darting, heard the rush of robes.

  Laughing, with the elation of the warrior, I turned, swiftly hurling the walking chains, spinning once, through the air. They lashed about the face of the leader. It had taken only an instant, the chain leaving my hand, to determine that he was exactly where I had expected him to be, as he would have been at any time in following me, had I earlier turned, slightly to my right. He cried out, the chains whipping about his face. I used his body to block the two men on my left. I leaped, knees bent, body turned, legs like compressed springs, toward the man on the leader’s left. One foot struck him in the chest, the other snapped his head back. I slipped behind the leader, seized the small fellow to his right by the arm and hurled him headfirst into the wall. The last fellow I lifted from his feet and, turning, hurled him against the same wall as the other. He struck it, u
pside down, full along his back and head, and, tumbling, fell beside the other fellow, who lay inert. The leader, face bleeding, wiped the blood from his forehead from his eyes, stepping back.

  “You are of the warriors,” he whispered. Then he turned about, and fled.

  I did not pursue him.

  I returned to the bazaar, and inquired where steel might be purchased, and kaiila. I was informed by a ragged youngster, whom I rewarded with a copper tarsk. The weapon makers’ street was close on the bazaar. The kaiila pens in Tor are outside her south gate.

  On the way to the street of weapon makers I again passed the water carrier. His bag on his shoulder was now, again, damp, dark, bulging.

  “Tal, Master,” said he to me.

  “Tal,” said I to him.

  I walked to the street of the weapon makers. I was anxious to make the acquaintance of the Tahari scimitar.

  “There will be war between the Kavars and the Aretai,” I heard a man say.

  I walked to the street of the weapon makers. Lightly, in my right hand, I swung walking chains. They would look well on the slim ankles of the lovely Alyena, a slave girl I was having boarded and trained in the pens of Tor.

  This night I thought I would have my supper at the Pomegranate. I had heard their dancers were superb.

  3

  I do not Participate in What Occurs in a Courtyard;

  I Recover a Silver Tarsk

  The war kaiila, its claws, however, sheathed, lunged at the other animal, its clawed back feet thrusting with an explosion of sand away from the ground, its fanged jaws, bound shut with leather, striking at the man astride the other beast. He thrust the jaws away with the buckler, and, rearing in the stirrups of his high saddle, slashed at me with the leather-sheathed curved blade. I turned the stroke with my own sheathed blade, it, too, in the light, ornamented exercise sheath.

  The kaiila, both of them, with the swiftness, the agility of cats, spun, half crouching, squealing in frustration, and again lunged toward one another. With the light rein I pulled my kaiila to the left as we passed, and the man, trying to reach me, was, startled, off balance. With a backward sweeping cut the sheathed blade struck him, as he hung from his saddle, on the back of the neck.