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

Norman, John - Gor 20 - Players of Gor.txt Page 41

by Players of Gor [lit]

  short of me. Then they turned about, hurrying back the way they had come. They

  perhaps had tharlarion somewhere. I then turned, and climbed through the broken,

  cerrated edges of this natural stone bowl, found myself in the open fields, and

  began to run, with the long, slow warrior’s pace, that pace in which warriors

  are trained, that pace which may be maintained, even under the weight of

  weapons, accouterments and a shield, for pasangs.

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  15 What Occurred in the Camp of Boots Tarsk-Bit

  “Here he is!” cried Boots. “We have caught him for you!”

  Lecchio and Chino held my arms.

  In a moment, led by Boots, running, puffing, at the side of them, with a swirl

  of dust from the paws of the tharlarion, they were in the camp, the riders.

  “Sleen! Sleen!” I cried to those of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit.

  The tharlarions now swirled about me.

  I shook Chino and Lecchio violently in the swirling dust, my head down, almost

  dislodging them from me. But they retained their grip.

  “Hold him! Hold him!” cried the Lady Yanina. “Do not let him escape!”

  “Have no fear! He is in the keeping of Boots Tarsk-Bit,” called Boots, “actor,

  promoter, entrepreneur and friend to noble citizens of Brundisium!” he then

  approached me, carrying manacles. “It is you who are the sleen,” he said. Then

  he said to Chino and Lecchio, “Pull the sleen’s hands behind him!” this was

  done, and the manacles were snapped on me. Chino and Lecchio, however, continued

  to hold my arms. Petrucchio, with the great wooden sword he used in playing the

  parts of the “Captain,” stood resolutely by. Publius Andronicus stood near, a

  look of great satisfaction on his face. The player stood a bit away, his arms

  folded, dispassionately observing the proceedings.

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  Rowena, Lady Telitsia and Bina knelt in terror to one side, slaves, fearful in

  the presence of free persons, trembling in the face of this sudden invasion of

  the camp. Besides her collar, which was Boots’s, to whom she belonged, Bina wore

  a slave bracelet. It had been put on her wrist by the player, whose bracelet it

  was, signifying that her use was his.

  I pulled at the manacles. “Do not attempt to free yourself, fool,” said Boots.

  “You have been manacled by Boots Tarsk-Bit!”

  “Well done, friend to Brundisium!” cried Lady Yanina.

  Boots bowed low to the Lady Yanina and then, beaming, handed her the key to the

  manacles. She seized it, laughing, and lifted it, in triumph, showing it to her

  men.

  “I thought you might return here!” she said to me, in triumph, brandishing the

  key at me. “Flaminius did not think so! He is looking elsewhere! He is scouring

  the countryside! ‘He would not be so much a fool as to return there,’ he laughed

  at me. But I am more clever than he, a thousand times more clever! I thought

  that just for such a reason y ou would dare to return here, the one place most

  would be sure you would not go! I was right! I begged men and tharlarion from

  Belnar! Almost against his better judgment he granted them to me. We rode here,

  in all haste. My judgment is vindicated! Let Flaminius writhe in envy! It is I

  who was right! It is I who am triumphant! You are my prisoner, my prisoner

  alone, Bosk of Port Kar, the prisoner of the Lady Yanina!” Again she brandished

  the key at me, I looking up at her, she on the tharlarion. Then, laughing, she

  dropped the key triumphantly into the bosom of her garment.

  “Your face is naked,” I said.

  “Stand away from him!” she cried. Then she drew forth a coiled whip from beside

  her saddle and struck me with it twice.

  “Your legs look well,” I said.

  Again she struck me, and then again.

  “I note that you have not yet been permitted footwear,” I said. Her feet, bare

  in the stirrups of the saddle, were dark with dirt, as were her lower legs, from

  her ride. Her legs did indeed look well, covered with dust though they might be,

  shapely against the leather of the saddle, and the thick, scaled hide of the

  tharlarion. The skirt she had been permitted was almost slave short and was cut

  at the sides. She had not been permitted sleeves in the garment. She was

  attractive. Probably most men would have wanted to clean her up a bit before

  using her. It was interesting to conjecture what she might look like washed and

  combed, and perfumed, and put in a bit of slave silk, and appropriately

  collared, of course. The skirt she wore, though it

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  came high on her thighs, and was cut at the sides, had a very high waist, its

  belting cord cinched just under her breasts. Yes, altogether it was a fetching

  ensemble. Men who had an eye for women must have designed it and she, doubtless,

  had been given no choice but to wear it. It was opaque, of course. That was

  surely a concession to her status, that of the free woman. If I came to own her

  I thought I might give her a similar garment, but one of diaphanous silk. Too, I

  might shorten it a bit. The inmates of such garment, incidentally, suitable

  collared, of course, also look well bedecked with barbaric Gorean slave jewelry.

  Some women, in the beginning, object strenuously to such jewelry, but soon they

  are begging for it. Her hair, I noted, was loose. This was also doubtless

  meaningful. Slaves must often wear their hair in such a fashion.

  She struck me twice more with the whip, wheeling about on the tharlarion.

  “Your hair is loose,” I observed.

  “Sleen! Sleen!” she screamed.

  Again and again the whip fell. I closed my eyes, that I not be blinded. I was

  pleased she did not have a man’s strength. Then, sweating, angrily, she replaced

  the whip at the side of her saddle.

  I grinned at her. Yes, she would look well, properly attired, or properly

  unattired, cringing at my feet in a collar, knowing that her least discrepancy

  from the absolute perfections of slave service would instantly bring upon down

  her the stroke of the five-stranded slave lash, or worse.

  “Laugh, fool!” she cried. “It is you who are in manacles! It is you who are my

  prisoner!”

  I looked up at her, not speaking.

  “You were the cause of my reduction in rank,” she cried. “You were the cause of

  my loss of status in Brundisium, my descent from favor in the eyes of my Ubar,

  Belnar, the reason I have been denied the right to conceal my features, my right

  as a free female, the reason I have been placed in brief, shameful garments,

  forcing me to make clear to men my femaleness, the reason I may not bind my

  hair, but must wear it as though it might be that of a slave, but that is all

  finished now. Now all changes! No, fool, you will be the reason not only for my

  restoration to privilege and station in Brundisium, the reason for my new rise

  to favor in the court, in the eyes of Belnar, my Ubar, but the cause, as well,

  of my attaining there, in the palace and in the service of my Ubar and the

  state, new heights o
f

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  prestige, status and power! Let Flaminius weep with envy! I shall be a thousand

  times higher than he!”

  “How is it that you follow a woman?” I asked one of the men.

  “We follow the orders of Belnar,” he said.

  “I see,” I said. Women, although they may occasionally function as artifacts, or

  symbols, or mystical objects, or something along these lines, seldom release the

  following instinct in men. Men, accordingly, do not on the whole, care to follow

  them. In doing so they generally feel uncomfortable. It makes them uneasy. They

  sense the absurdity, the unnaturalness, of the relationship. It is thus that

  normal men commonly follow women only unwillingly, and only with reservations,

  usually also only within an artificial context or within the confines of a

  misguided, choiceless or naive institution, where their discipline may be relied

  upon. Their compliance with orders in such a situation cannot help but be more

  critical, more skeptical. Their activities tend then to be performed with less

  confidence, and more hesitantly. This often produces serious consequences to the

  efficiency of their actions. It is interesting to note that even women seldom

  care to follow women, particularly in critical situations. The male,

  biologically, for better or for worse, appears to be the natural leader. In the

  perversion of nature, of course, anything may occur. It is ironic that certain

  leaders will place women over subordinates, for one reason or another, whom they

  would never accept as their own leaders. Most men, of course, find it easier to

  inflict inconvenience and pain on others than on themselves.

  I looked up at the Lady Yanina. How small and soft, and luscious, she was. How

  absurd then, and how unnatural, seemed her position of power, temporary though

  it might be, over these men. how envious she seemed of men, particularly of her

  rival, Flaminius. How she was straining to seem a leader, how she must have

  studied what she took to be its lessons well, how she must have firmly resolved

  to act that role with determination. Perhaps if she did it well she could fool

  men; perhaps, if she did it well, she would be accepted almost as though she

  were a real leader, a true leader. Perhaps, if she did it well, no one would

  notice that she was really only a small, soft, shapely, lovely creature, one

  whose natural destiny would be found quite elsewhere than in the saddle of a

  tharlarion, at the head of troops.

  “You are a despicable sleen,” she said to me.

  “Doubtless,” I said. There was probably much in what she

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  said. I regarded her. How absurd that she could be in power over these men. They

  were soldiers. She should be put in her place, the place of the female, kneeling

  and serving. Perhaps on e day someone would put her there, and she would then

  come to understand finally and profoundly what she was, a female.

  “Smile, if you will, for whatever secret reason, fool,” she said, “but it is you

  who wear the manacles, you who are held in irons at my stirrup.”

  “It would seem so,” I said.

  “You are my key to power,” she said.

  How insolent she was, how arrogant.

  “Because of you,” she said, “my fortunes will be made in Brundisium! Because of

  you I will climb there to hitherto undreamed of heights!”

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “It is I who am victorious,” she said. “It is I who am triumphant!”

  I recalled she had whipped me.

  She turned to one of her men, he whom I had taken, apparently rightly, to be her

  immediate subordinate. “Put a chain on his neck,” she said.

  “We anticipated that one of your astuteness might not be deceived by the

  trickery of the fugitive,” said Boots, “that you might suspect his bold return

  to this camp. Accordingly, we seized him and held him for you.”

  “Our thanks, actor,” she said. “Have no fear. You will be rewarded.”

  Her man unlooped a chain.

  “But moreover,” said Boots, “we have arranged things in such a way as to enhance

  your triumph.”

  “How is that?” she asked, curious.

  “That your prisoner, whom I gather is important to you, may be presented with

  drama, with flair, nothing so common, so mundane and predictable, as being led

  in like a pet tarsk.”

  “What do you have in mind?” she asked, interested.

  “I envisage a feast,” said Boots, “a triumphal feast.”

  “No,” I said, “no!”

  “Hold him,” suggested Boots, apprehensively, to Chino and Lecchio. They again

  seized my arms.

  “Anyone,” said Boots, “could lead him in on a chain. That fellow Flaminius did

  it that way, as I recall.”

  “yes,” said the Lady Yanina. Indeed, she had been brought in on a chain by

  Flaminius at the same time, marched at the stirrup of one of his men, barefoot,

  her wrists bound behind her,

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  wearing only a sack, that which had been her common garment in the camp, that in

  which I had put her long ago for my amusement, that which had once contained

  Sa-Tarna flour. It must have been a difficult moment for the proud Lady Yanina,

  to have been so returned to her city.

  “Imagine this,” cried Boots, expansively, with a great gesture, his eyes

  lighting up, “an incredible banquet, a glorious feast, a feast of victory, a

  triumphal feast, the most abundant and delicate viands, the finest of

  entertainment, and then, at the climax of this great feast, you bring forth a

  great locked trunk! You open it! Within it there is a slave sack! You untie this

  slave sack! You have its occupant drawn forth. He is helpless and in chains. You

  display him to the crowd! He is your prisoner! He is your prize! You give him

  then to your Ubar! It is your moment of triumph!”

  “Yes,” she cried. “Yes!”

  “No!” I cried. “Never! Never! No such triumph for you! No such humiliation for

  me!” I shook Chino and Lecchio about, fiercely, throwing them even from their

  feet, but they clung, tenaciously, desperately, like sleen, to my arms. Then, in

  their grip, still in place, held now again below her, she in the high saddle of

  the tharlarion, I looked up at the Lady Yanina. She was smiling.

  “Never!” I cried.

  She did not respond.

  “Do not subject me to such humiliation,” I said.

  She did not respond.

  “How can you even think of such a thing,” I asked.

  She smiled.

  “Please, no,” I said.

  “Bring the slave sack,” she said.

  page 291

  16 What Occurred in the Feasting Hall

  “Here,” I said, snapping my fingers. The naked blond slave ran swiftly to me and

  knelt before me. “My fingers are greasy,” I said. “Yes, Master,” she said, and,

  putting down her head, she began to lick the palms of my hands, as I held them
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  out to her, and then about my hands, and then to run her tongue down between my

  fingers and the hands, and then, not touching them with her own hands of

  fingers, carefully and delicately, to kiss and suck my fingers individually. She

  then extended her head towards me and I dried my hands and fingers on her long

  blond hair. She looked at me. The collar looked well on her throat. I pulled her

  across the low table on her stomach, scattering vessels and plates, and then,

  turning her, threw her to her back on the tiles behind the table. Swiftly then I

  had her. Those near me took no note of this. I stood then over her. She looked

  up at me, gasping, fearful, one knee raised, the palms her hands facing down.

  Her fingernails had scratched at the tiles. I kicked her. “Return to your work,”

  I told her. “Yes, Master,” she said, hastening to rise, then hurrying away.

  “More food,” I said, returning to my place, “and clear this mess!” “Yes,

  Master,” said a naked brunet. “Yes, Master!” said a naked redhead. They hurried

  to serve, kneeling. They looked well in their collars. The collar accentuates

  the nudity and beauty of a slave, and, too, of course, it proclaims her bondage.

  I retrieved a large grape, about the size of a small plum, from the

  page 292

  table, before they could clear it away. It lay near an overturned wine goblet,

  in a wine stain. It had rolled there, across the sparkling cloth, when it had

  been dislodged from its position in its shallow, golden bowl in the blonde’s

  transit. It was peeled and pitted, doubtless laboriously by female slaves. It

  was a Ta grape. One often associates them with the terraces of Cos, but they are

  grown, of course, in many other places, as well. I thrust it in my mouth. then I

  gave my attention to the performance in progress between the tables, on a small,

  raised platform.

  “Ho, varlets, craven churls, away!” cried lanky Petrucchio, drawing his great

  wooden sword form the preposterous sheath which dragged behind him. This took

  some time. “Away, away!” I say, he kept repeating, and at last had managed, bit

  by bit, yank by yank, to free the sword. he now waved it about, menacingly,

  seemingly almost as though it might decapitate anyone within a range of several

 

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