Norman, John - Gor 20 - Players of Gor.txt

by Players of Gor [lit]

a win; in a draw each player obtains a half point.

  “you must manage to lose once in a while,” said the paunchy fellow. “That will

  bring them back! That way, in the the long run, we will make much more money!”

  “I play to win,” siad the fellow, looking at the board.

  “I do not know why I put up with you!” said the paunchy fellow. “You are only a

  roustabout and vagabond!”

  I noted the configuration of the pieces on the board. The hooded fellow had not

  begun from the opening position, arriving at the configuration after a series of

  moves. he had simply set the pieces up originally in that position. Something

  about the position seemed familiar. I suddenly realized, with a start, that I

  had seen it before. It was the position which would be arrived at on the

  seventeenth move of the Ubara’s Gambit Declined, Yellow Home stone having been

  placed at Ubara’s Builder One, providing red had, on the eleventh move, departed

  from the main line, transposing into the Turian line. Normally, at this point,

  one continues with the advancement of the Ubara’s Initiate’s Spearman,

  supporting the attack being generated on the adjacent file, that of the Ubara’s

  Builder. he, however, advanced the Ubar’s Initiate’s Spearman in a

  two-square-option move, grining it to Ubar’s Initiate Five. I wondered if he

  knew anything about kaissa. Then, suddenly, the move seemed interesting to me.

  It would, in effect, launch a second attack, and one which might force yellow to

  bring pieces to the Ubar’s side of the board, thereby weakening the position of

  the Ubara’s Builder’s File, making it more vulnerable, then, of course, to the

  major attack. It was an interesting idea, I wondered if it had ever been

  seriously played.

  “You must learn to lose!” said the paunchy fellow.

  “I have lost,” said the hooded fellow, “I know what it is like.”

  “You, Sir,” siad the paunchy fellow turning to me, “do you play kaissa?”

  “A little,” I said.

  “Hazard a game,” he invited. “Only a tarsk bit!” he then glanced meaningfully at

  the hooded fellow, and then turned and again regarded me. “I can almost

  guarantee that you will win.” he said.

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  “Why is your player hooded?” I asked. It did not seem the kind of disguising

  that might be appropriate for carnival.

  “It is something from infancy, or almost from infancy,” said the paunchy fellow,

  shuddering, “from flames, a great fire. It left him as he is, beneath the mask.

  He is a disfigured monster. Free women would swoon at the sight. The stomachs of

  strong men would be turned. They would cry out with horror and strike at him.

  Such grotesquerie, such hideousness, is not to be tolerated in public view.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Only a tarsk bit,” the paunchy fellow reminded me.

  “Do not fear that you will not win,” said the hooded fellow, in fury, placing

  the pieces in position for the opening of play. He then, imperiously, removed

  his Ubar, Ubara, and his Builders and Physicians, from the board, six major

  pieces. He looked angrily at me, and then, too, he threw his tarnsmen into the

  leather bag, with drawstrings, at the side of the table. he spun the board about

  so that I might have Yellow, and the first move. Thus I would have the

  initiative. Thus I could, in effect, for most purposes, choose my preferred

  opening. “Make your first move,” he said. “I shall then tip my Ubar and the game

  will be yours.”

  “Can you not be somewhat more subtle?” inquired the paunchy fellow of the hooded

  man.

  “I would not consider playing under such conditions,” I said.

  “Why not?” aske dthe paunchy fellow, pained. “You could then say truthfully that

  you had won. Others need not know the sort of game it was.”

  “It is an insult to kaissa,” I said.

  “He is right,” said the hooded fellow.

  The slave girl, whimpered, looking up at me. The pastry, which she had been

  diminishing, bit by miniscule bit, flake by tiny, damp flake, with her tongue,

  was clutched in both her hands. As she ate thus, the palcement of her arms

  constituted a provocative modesty, on e terminable, of course, at my will.

  Similarly, her small, delicate wrists were close together, so close that they

  might have been linked by slave bracelets.

  “Please, Master,” she whimpered.

  “Hazard a game,” suggested the paunchy fellow.

  I looked down into the eyes of the slave girl. She looked up at me, and slowly

  and sensuously, with exquisite care, licked at the sugary, white glazing on the

  pastry. She might be helpless with need, but I saw she had had training.

  “I have another game in mind,” I said.

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  She looked up at me, flakes of the pastry and glazing about her mouth, and

  kissed me. “I want to love you,” she said. I tasted the sugar on her lips.

  “I can understand such games,” said the paunchy fellow. “It is pleasant to have

  a naked islave in one’s arms.”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Put them all in collars,” he said. “Teach them what they are for, and about. No

  woman is worth antying until she is put in a collar. None of them have any worth

  until they are made worthless.”

  “What do you think?” I asked the slave.

  “It is true, Master,” she said.

  “Now that fellow,” said the paunchy fellow, gesturing to the hooded fellow, “is

  different from us. He lives only for kaissa. He does not so much as touch a

  woman. To be sure, it is probably just as well. They would doubtless faint with

  terror at the very sight of him.”

  “Do you wish to play, or not?” asked the hooded fellow, looking up at me.

  “Under the conditions you propose,” I said, “I would not accept a win from you,

  if you were Centius of Cos.” Centius of Cos was perhaps the finest player on

  Gor. He had been the champion at the En’Kara tournaments three out of the last

  five years. IN one of those years, 10,127 C.A., he had chosen not to compete,

  giving the time to study. In that year the champion had been Terence of Turia.

  In 10,128 C. A., Centius had returned but was defeated by Ajax of Ti, of the

  Salerian Confederation, who had overcome Terence in the semifinals. In 10,129

  C.A., last En’Kara, Centius had decisively bested Ajax and recovered the

  championship.

  At the metnion of the name Centius of Cos, the hooded player had stiffened

  angrily. “I assure you I am not Centius of Cos,” he said. He then, angrily,

  thrust the pieces intot he leather bag tied to his belt, put the board under his

  arm, and, limping, withdrew.

  “It is still early!” called the paunchy fellow after the hooded man. “Where are

  you going?”

  But the hooded fellow had disappeared between the booths, going somewhere to th
e

  rear.

  “I am sorry,” I said. “I did not mean to upset him.”

  “Do not worry about it,” said the paunchy fellow. “It is always happening. He is

  a touchy fellow, impetuous, arrogant and reckless. Doubtless the ground should

  be grateful that he

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  deigns to tread upon it. His kaissa, on the other hand, seems strong. It is

  probably too good, really, for what we need.”

  “Perhaps he should apply for membership in the caste of players,” I suggested.

  “He does not seem interested in that,” he said.

  “Oh,” I said.

  “Besides, he is a grotesque monster,” he said. “Even the slaves fear him.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Too, if he were really any good, honestly speaking, between you and me, he

  would not be with us.”

  “I see,” I smiled. To be sure, there was more moeny to be made in the kaissa

  clubs and on the high bridges. It was interesting to me that the fellow had

  limped. I had once known a kaissa player who had done that. To be sure, it was

  long ago.

  “Have you, yourself, ever played him?” I asked.

  “No,” said the fellow. “I do not play kaissa.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “You are Boots Tarsk-Bit?” asked a voice.

  The voice came from behind us. The paunchy fellow with me turned white.

  I turned about.

  “Greetings, Captain,” siad the man.

  “Greetings,” I said to him. It was the officer of the Master of Revels. Behind

  him were the two members of the Council Guard.

  “Hold,” said the officer to the paunchy fellow, who, it seemed, had backed away,

  turned, and was bout to disappear between the stage and the kaissa booth.

  “Did you call?” asked the paunchy fellow, pleasantly, turning. A meaningful

  gesture from the officer, pointing to a spot in front of him, brought the

  puanchy fellow alertly back into our presence. “Yes,” he inquired, pleasantly.

  “I believe you are Boots Tarsk-Bit,” siad the officer, “of the company of Boots

  Tarsk-Bit.”

  “He must be somewehre about,” siad the paunchy fellow. “If you like, I shall

  attempt to search him out for you.”

  “Hold,” said the officer.

  The paunchy fellow returned to the spot in front of the officer.

  “That is he,” siad one of the guards wiht him.

  “No offense meant, good sir,” siad that paunchy fellow, “A mere jest!”

  “You are Boots Tarsk-Bit,” said the officer, consulting an

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  inked handbill, clipped wiht other papers. “Actor, Entrepreneur, and Impresario,

  of the company of Boots Tarsk-Bit?”

  “At your service,” said the paunchy fellow, bowing low. “What may I do for you?”

  The girl was now kneeling beside me, with her head down. She had assumed this

  position immediately upon the appearance of the officer and ghe guards.

  “We are here in connection with the matter of a license,” said the officer.

  “Yes,” said the paunchy fellow, Boots Tarsk-Bit, pleasantly.

  “Do you have one?” asked the officer.

  “Would you care to come to my quarters?” asked Boots. “We have some lovely

  larmas there, and perhaps you and your men would like to try my Bina and

  Brigella.”

  “In the license,” said the officer, “there is the provision that girls

  associated with companies such as yours, if slaves, may be commanded to the

  apartments and service of whomsoever the council, or a delegated officer of the

  council, directs.”

  “I scarcely ever read all the provisions of the licenses,” said Boots. “Such

  things are so tedious.”

  “Do you have a license?” asked the officer.

  “Of course!” said Boots, indignantly. “They are required, as is well known. No

  fellow with the least sense of ethics would think of being without one.”

  “May I see your license?” inquired the officer.

  “Certainly,” said Boots, fumbling about in his robes. “It is right

  here—somewhere.” He examined his wallet. “Somewhere,” he assured the officer.

  “Alas,” he said, after the second ransacking of his robes, and his third

  examination of the wallet. “it must be in my quarters, perhaps in the wardrobe

  trunk. I shall return in a nonce. I trust that I shall not discover that I have

  been robbed!”

  “Hold,” said the officer.

  “Yes?” said Boots, turning back.

  “According to our records,” said the officer, “you have no license. You did not

  petition to perform, and you did not obtain a license.”

  “I remember distinctly obtaining the license!” said Boots.

  The officer glared at him.

  “Of course, it might have been last year,” said Boots. “Or maybe the year

  before?”

  The officer was silent.

  “Could I have neglected such a detail?” asked Boots, horrified. “Could such a

  thing have slipped my mind? It seems impossible!”

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  “It is not really so hard to believe,” observed the officer. “It has happened

  three years in a row.”

  “No!” cried Boots, in horror.

  “It is folks like you who give scoundrels and rogues a bad name,” said the

  officer.

  “What are you writing?” asked Boots anxiously.

  “A disposition order,” said the officer.

  “To what effect, may I inquire?” pressed Boots.

  “Your properties,” said the officer, “including your actresses, will be

  confiscated. They will look well in state chains. You yourself will be

  publically flogged in the piazza, and the, for five years, banished from Port

  Kar.”

  “It is carnival time,” I said to the officer.

  “Captain?” he asked.

  “What is owed?” I asked.

  “The licensing fee is a silver tarsk,” he said.

  “Surely,” I said to Boots Tarsk-Bit, “your players have taken in a silver

  tarsk?”

  “No,” he said. “We have, so far tonight, taken in only ninety-seven tarsk-bits,

  not even ten copper tarsks.” Coinage on Gor baries considerably from city to

  city. IN Port Kar, and genreally in the Vosk Basin, there are ten tarsk bits to

  a copper tarsk and one hundred copper tarsks to a silver tarsk.

  Surely you have some money saved,” I said.

  “Not enough,” he said. “We live from day to day. Sometimes there is nothing to

  eat.”

  “More than a silver tarsk is actually involved, Captain,” said the officer.

  “There is the matter of the last two years, as well, considerations of interest,

  and the customary emluments.”

  “I am runed,” said Boots Tarsk-Bit.

  â
€œLet us not be hasty, officer,” I said. “Boots Tarsk-Bit is an old friend of

  mine, a friend from long ago.”

  Boots looked at me, startled. Then he nodded, earnestly. We had known one

  another for quite some time now, at least ten Ehn.

  “If you wish, Captain,” smiled the officer, “I shall not pursue the matter

  further.” He knew me. He had been with the fleet on the 25th of Se’Kara.

  “Boots, of course, as is well known,” I said, “is an honest fellow.”

  Boots looked startled.

  “He always pays his debts,” I assured the officer.

  “I do?” asked Boots. “I do!” he then said quickly, firmly, to the officer.

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  “So pay the man,” I said.

  “With what?” inquired Boots, speaking to me in an intense whisper.

  “With your earnings,” I told him.

  “They are not even ten tarsks!” hissed Boots to me, his eyes bulging.

  “Check the pots of your Bina and Brigella,” I said.

  “I have checked them,” He said.

  “Check them again,” I said.

  He turned away, and then turned back, to stopp down and pick up the copper pot

  by the kaissa table.

  “Leave it,” I said.

  He shrugged and then, straightening up, took his leave.

  “he will doubtless be back for it,” smiled the officer.

  “He cannot, in any event, escape from the city,” said one of the guards.

  I reached down and picked up the pot from beside the kaissa table.

  I looked down at the slave kneeling on the tiels of the piazza beside me, naked

  and in her collar, clutching the pastry. “You may now eat the pastry,” I said.

  “You may now finish it.” “Thank you, Master,” she said, happily. She had now

  been under my total command for something like half of an Ahn.

  I put three silver tarsks into the pot. “These cover the licesneing fees for

  three years,” I said. It then put another silver tarsk into the pot. “This,” I

  said, “should more than cover any interst due on the debts outstanding.”

  “More than enough,” granted the officer.

  “This tarsk,” I then said, slipping it into the pot, “is for the Master of

  Revels.”

  “You are most generous,” Captain,” said the officer, impressed. “That is more