by John Norman
Then he took his goblet of Paga and drained it, watching the girls swaying to the caress of Turian melodies.
“Are they not delightful?” spurred Aphris, after a time.
“We have many girls among the wagons quite as good,” said Kamchak.
“Oh?” asked Aphris.
“Yes,” said Kamchak, “Turians — slaves — such as you will be.”
“You are aware, of course,” she said, “that if you were not an ambassador of the Wagon Peoples at this time I would order you slain.”
Kamchak laughed. “It is one thing to order the death of a Tuchuk,” he said. “It is another to kill him.”
“I’m sure both could be arranged,” remarked Aphris.
Kamchak laughed. “I shall enjoy owning you,” he said.
The girl laughed. “You are a fool,” she said. Then she added, unpleasantly, “But beware — for if you cease to amuse me — you will not leave these tables alive.”
Kamchak was swilling down another bolt of Paga, part of it running out at the side of his mouth.
Aphris then turned to Saphrar. “Surely our guests would enjoy seeing the others” she suggested.
I wondered what she meant.
“Please, Aphris,” said Saphrar, shaking his fat, pinkish head, sweating. “No trouble, no trouble.”
“Ho!” cried Aphris of Turia, summoning the feast steward to her, through the turning bodies of the girls dancing among the tables. “The others!” ordered Aphris, “— for the amusement of our guests!”
The feast steward turned a wary eye toward Saphrar, who, defeated, nodded his head.
The feast steward then clapped his hands twice, dismissing the girls, who rushed from the room; and then he clapped his hands twice more, paused a moment, then twice more.
I heard the sound of slave bells attached to ankle rings, to locked wrist bracelets, to Turian collars.
More girls approached rapidly, their feet taking small running steps in a turning line that sped forth from a small room in the back and to the right.
My hand clenched on the goblet. Aphris of Turia was bold indeed. I wondered if Kamchak would rise to do war in the very room.
The girls that now stood before us, barefoot, in swirling Pleasure Silks, belled and collared, were wenches of the Wagon Peoples, now, as could be determined even beneath the silks they wore, the branded slaves of Turians. Their leader, to her surprise, seeing Kamchak, fell in shame to her knees before him, much to the fury of the feast steward; the others did so as well.
The feast steward was handed a slave whip and stood towelling over the leader of the girls.
His hand drew back but the blow never fell, for with a cry of pain he reeled away, the hilt of a quiva pressed against the inside of his forearm, the balance of the blade emerging on the other side.
Even I had not seen Kamchak throw the knife, Now, to my satisfaction, another of the blades was poised in his finger tips. Several of the men had leaped from behind the tables, including Kamras, but they hesitated, seeing Kamchak so armed. I, too, was on my feet. “Weapons,” said Kamras, “are not permitted at the banquet.”
“Ah,” said Kamchak, bowing to him, “I did not know.”
“Let us sit down and enjoy ourselves, recommended Saphrar. “If the Tuchuk does not wish to see the girls, let us dismiss them.”
“I wish to see them perform,” said Aphris of Turia, though she stood within arm’s reach of Kamchak’s quiva.
Kamchak laughed, looking at her. Then, to my relief, and doubtless to the relief of several at the table, he thrust the quiva in his sash and sat back down.
“Dance,” ordered Aphris.
The trembling girl before her did not move.
“Dance!” screamed Aphris, rising to her feet.
“What shall I do?” begged the kneeling girl of Kamchak. She looked not too unlike Hereena, and was perhaps a similar sort of girl, raised and trained much the same. Like Hereena, of course, she wore the tiny golden nose ring.
Kamchak spoke to her, very gently. “You are slave,” he said. “Dance for your masters.”
The girl looked at him gratefully and she, with the others, rose to her feet and to the astounding barbarity of the music performed the savage love dances of the Kassars, the Paravaci, the Kataii, the Tuchuks.
They were magnificent.
One girl, the leader of the dancers, she who had spoken to Kamchak, was a Tuchuk girl, and was particularly startling, vital, uncontrollable, wild.
It was then clear to me why the Turian men so hungered for the wenches of the Wagon Peoples.
At the height of one of her dances, called the Dance of the Tuchuk Slave Girl, Kamchak turned to Aphris of Turia, who was watching the dance, eyes bright, as astounded as I at the savage spectacle. “I will see to it,” said Kamchak, “when you are my slave, that you are taught that dance.”
The back and head of Aphris of Turia was rigid with fury, but she gave no sign that she had heard him.
Kamchak waited until the girls of the Wagon Peoples had performed their dances and then, when they had been dismissed, he rose to his booted feet. “We must go” he said.
I nodded, and struggled to my feet, well ready to return to his wagon.
“What is in the box?” asked Aphris of Turia, as she saw Kamchak pick up the small black box which, throughout the banquet, he had kept at his right knee. The girl was clearly curious, female.
Kamchak shrugged.
I remembered that two years before, as I had learned, he had brought Aphris of Turia a five-string diamond necklace, which she had scorned, and had, according to her report at least, given to a slave. It had been at that time that she had called him a Tuchuk sleen, presumably because he had dared present her with a gift.
But, I could see, she was interested in the box. Indeed, at certain times during the evening, I had seen her casting furtive glances at it.
“It is nothing,” said Kamchak, “only a trinket.”
“But is it for someone?” she asked.
“I had thought,” said Kamchak, “that I might give it to you.”
“Oh?” asked Aphris, clearly intrigued.
“But you would not like it,” he said.
“How do you know,” she said, rather airily, “I have not seen it.”
“I will take it home with me,” said Kamchak.
“If you wish,” she said.
“But you may have it if you wish,” he said.
“Is it other,” she asked, “than a mere necklace of diamonds?” Aphris of Turia was no fool. She knew that the Wagon Peoples, plunderers of hundreds of caravans, occasionally possessed objects and riches as costly as any on Gor.
“Yes,” said Kamchak, “it is other than a necklace of diamonds.”
“Ah!” she said. I then suspected that she had not actually given the five-string diamond necklace to a slave. Undoubtedly it still reposed in one of her several chests of jewellery.
“But you would not like it,” said Kamchak, diffidently.
“Perhaps I might,” she said.
“No,” said Kamchak, “you would not like it.”
“You brought it for me, did you not?” she said.
Kamchak shrugged and looked down at the box in his hand. “Yes,” he said, “I brought it for you.”
The box was about the size in which a necklace, perhaps on black velvet, might be displayed.
“I want it,” said Aphris of Turia.
“Truly?” asked Kamchak. “Do you want it?”
“Yes,” said Aphris. “Give it to me!”
“Very well,” said Kamchak, “but I must ask to place it on you myself.”
Kamras, the Champion of Turia, half rose from his position. “Bold Tuchuk sleen!” he hissed.
“Very well,” said Aphris of Turia. “You may place it on me yourself.”
So then Kamchak bent down to where Aphris of Turia knelt, her back straight, her head very high, before the low table. He stepped behind her and she lifted her chin del
icately. Her eyes were shining with curiosity. I could see the quickness of her breath marked in the soft silk of her white and gold veil.
“Now,” said Aphris.
Kamchak then opened the box.
When Aphris heard the delicate click of the box lid it was all she could do not to turn and regard the prize that was to be hers, but she did not do so. She remained looking away, only lifting her chin a bit more.
“Now!” said Aphris of Turia, trembling with anticipation.
What happened then was done very swiftly. Kamchak lifted from the box an object indeed intended to grace the throat of a girl. But it was a round metal ring, a Turian collar, the collar of a slave. There was a firm snap of the heavy lock in the back of the collar and the throat of Aphris of Turia had been encircled with slave steel! At the same instant Kamchak lifted her startled to her feet and turned her to face him, with both hands tearing the veil from her face! Then, before any of the startled Turians could stop him, he had purchased by his audacity a bold kiss from the lips of the astounded Aphris of Turia! Then he hurled her from him across and over the low table until she fell to the floor where Tuchuk slaves had danced for her pleasure. The quiva, appearing as if by magic in his hand, warned back those who would press in upon him to revenge the daughter of their city. I stood beside Kamchak, ready to defend him with my life, yet as startled as any in the room at what had been done.
The girl now had struggled to her knees tearing at the collar. Her tiny gloved fingers were locked in it, pulling at it, as though by brute force she would tear it from her throat.
Kamchak was looking at her. “Beneath your robes of white and gold,” he said, “I smelled the body of a slave girl.”
“Sleen! Sleen! Sleen!” she cried.
“Replace your veil!” ordered Saphrar.
“Remove the collar immediately,” commanded Kamras, plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia.
Kamchak smiled. “It seems,” he said, “that I have forgotten the key.”
“Send for one of the Caste of Metal Workers!” cried Saphrar.
There were cries on all sides, “Slay the Tuchuk sleen!” “Torture for him!” “The oil of tharlarions!” “Leech plants!” “Impalement!” “Tongs and fire!” But Kamchak seemed unmoved. And none rushed upon him, for in his hand, and he was Tuchuk, there gleamed the quiva.
“Slay him!” screamed Aphris of Turia, “Slay him!”
“Replace your veil,” repeated Saphrar to the girl. “Have you no shame?”
The girl attempted to rearrange the folds of the veil, but could only hold it before her face, for Kamchak had ripped away the pins by which it was customarily fastened.
Her eyes were wild with fury and tears.
He, a Tuchuk, had looked upon her face.
I was pleased, though I would not have admitted it, at Kamchak’s boldness, for it was a face for which a man might risk much, even death in the torture dungeons of Turia, utterly beautiful though now, of course, transformed with rage, far more beautiful than had been that of the most beautiful of the slave girls who had served us or given us of the beauty of their dances.
“You recall, of course,” Kamchak was saying, “that I am an ambassador of the Wagon Peoples and am entitled to the courtesies of your city.”
“Impale him!” cried a number of voices.
“It is a joke,” cried out Saphrar. “A joke! A Tuchuk joke!”
“Slay him!” screamed Aphris of Turia.
But no one would move against the quiva.
“Now, gentle Aphris,” Saphrar was purring, “you must be calm — soon one from the Caste of Metal Workers will appear to free you — all will be well — return to your own chambers.”
“No!” screamed Aphris. “The Tuchuk must be slain!”
“It is not possible, my dear,” wheezed Saphrar.
“You are challenged!” said Kamras, spitting to the floor at Kamchak’s booted feet.
For an instant I saw Kamchak’s eyes gleam and thought he might at the very table at which he stood accept the challenge of the Champion of Turia, but instead, he shrugged and grinned. “Why should I fight?” he asked.
It did not sound like Kamchak speaking.
“You are a coward!” cried Kamras.
I wondered if Kamras knew the meaning of the word which he had dared to address to one who wore the Courage Scar of the Wagon Peoples.
But to my amazement, Kamchak only smiled. “Why should I fight?” he asked.
“What do you mean?” demanded Kamras.
“What is to be gained?” inquired Kamchak.
“Aphris of Turia!” cried the girl.
There were cries of horror, or protest, from the men crowded about.
“Yes!” cried Aphris of Turia. “If you will meet Kamras, Champion of Turia, I — Aphris of Turia — will stand at the stake in Love War!”
Kamchak looked at her. “I will fight,” he said.
There was a silence in the room.
I saw Saphrar, a bit in the background, close his eyes and nod his head. “Wily Tuchuk,” I heard him mutter. Yes, I said to myself, wily Tuchuk. Kamchak had, by means of the very pride of Aphris of Turia, of Kamras, and the offended Turians, brought the girl by her own will to the stake of Love War. It was something he would not buy with the golden sphere from Saphrar the merchant; it was something he was clearly capable of arranging, with Tuchuk cunning, by himself. I supposed, naturally, however, that Saphrar, guardian of Aphris of Turia, would not permit this to occur.
“No, my dear,” Saphrar was saying to the girl, “you must not expect satisfaction for this frightful injury which has been wrought upon you — you must not even think of the games — you must forget this unpleasant evening — you must try not to think of the stories that will be told of you concerning this evening — what the Tuchuk did and how he was permitted to escape with impunity.”
“Never!” cried Aphris. “I will stand, I tell you! I will! I will!”
“No,” said Saphrar, “I cannot permit it — it is better that the people laugh at Aphris of Turia — and perhaps, in some years, they may forget.”
“I demand to be permitted to stand,” cried the girl. Then she cried, “I beg of you Saphrar — permit me!”
“But in a few days,” said Saphrar, “you will attain your majority and receive your fortunes — then you may do as you wish.”
“But it will be after the games!” cried the girl.
“Yes,” said Saphrar, as though thinking, “that is true.”
“I will defend her,” said Kamras. “I will not lose.”
“It is true you have never lost,” wavered Saphrar.
“Permit it!” cried several of those present.
“Unless you permit this,” wept Aphris, “my honour will be forever stained.”
“Unless you permit it,” said Kamras sternly, “I may never have an opportunity to cross steel with this barbaric sleen.”
It then occurred to me, suddenly, that, following Gorean civic law, the properties and titles, assets and goods of a given individual who is reduced to slavery are automatically regarded as having been transferred to the nearest male relative — or nearest relative if no adult male relative is available — or to the city — or to, if pertinent, a guardian. Thus, if Aphris of Turia, by some mischance, were to fall to Kamchak, and surely slavery, her considerable riches would be immediately assigned to Saphrar, merchant of Turia. Moreover, to avoid legal complications and free the assets for investment and manipulation, the transfer is asymmetrical, in the sense that the individual, even should he somehow later recover his freedom, retains no legal claim whatsoever on the transferred assets.
“All right,” said Saphrar, his eyes cast down, as though making a decision against his better judgment, “I will permit my ward, the Lady Aphris of Turia, to stand at the stake in Love War.”
There was a cry of delight from the crowd, confident now that the Tuchuk sleen would be fittingly punished for his bold use of the r
ichest daughter of Turia.
“Thank you, my guardian,” said Aphris of Turia, and with one last vicious look at Kamchak threw back her head and with a swirl of her white gown, bordered with gold, walked regally from between the tables.
“To see her walk,” remarked Kamchak, rather loudly, “one would hardly suspect that she wears the collar of a slave.”
Aphris spun to face him, her right fist clenched, her left hand muffling her veil about her face, her eyes flashing. The circle of steel gleamed on the silk at her throat.
“I meant only, little Aphris,” said Kamchak, “— that you wear your collar well.”
The girl cried out in helpless rage and turned, stumbling and clutching at the banister on the stairs. Then she ran up the stairs, weeping, veil disarranged, both hands jerking at the collar. With a cry she disappeared.
“Have no fear, Saphrar of Turia,” Kamras was saying, “I shall slay the Tuchuk sleen — and I shall do so slowly.”
Chapter 10
LOVE WAR
It was early in the morning, several days after Saphrar’s banquet, that Kamchak and myself, among some hundreds of others of the Four Wagon Peoples, came the Plains of a Thousand Stakes, some pasangs distant from lofty Turia.
Judges and craftsmen from Ar, hundreds of pasangs away, across the Cartius, were already at the stakes, inspecting than and preparing the ground between them. These men, as in every year, I learned, had been guaranteed safe passage across the southern plains for this event. The journey, even so, was not without its dangers, but they had been well recompensed, from the treasure chests of both Turia and the Wagon Peoples. Some of the judges, now wealthy, had officiated several times at the games. The fee for even one of their accompanying craftsmen was sufficient to support a man for a year in luxurious Ar.
We moved slowly, walking the kaiila, in four long lines, the Tuchuks, the Kassars, the Kataii, the Paravaci, some two hundred or so warriors of each. Kamchak rode near the head of the Tuchuk line. The standard bearer, holding aloft on a lance a representation of the four bosk horns, carved from wood, rode near us. At the head of our line, on a huge kaiila, rode Kutaituchik, his eyes closed, his head nodding, his body swaying with the stately movement of the animal, a half-chewed string of kanda dangling from his mouth.
