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

by Players of Gor [lit]

  properly branded and collared, and will begin to be taught the lessons, intimate

  and otherwise, appropriate to their new condition in life. The lowered ring

  dangled near the center of the hall, in the space between the tables. Bina was

  dragged to the ring and her bound wrists tied over her head to it. She was tied

  in such a way that her heels were slightly off the floor. She was beautiful

  then, her legs extended, her heels slightly lifted from the floor, her back

  straight, her stomach flat, her small breasts arched, the entire line of her

  slim, lovely body lifted by her upraised wrists, helpless under the duress of

  the thongs and ring, tied in place, displayed as stake.

  A table was brought and placed near the ring. Too, a board and pieces were

  brought. Bina looked down upon it with a lack of understanding. Once or twice,

  long ago when she had been haughty and cruel, before she had come to learn her

  slavery properly, the player would have been willing to teach her the moves of

  the game but after she had come into his use, his attitude towards her had

  significantly changed. He was then no longer interested in trying to please her.

  It had then been up to her to try and please him, and perfectly. Their

  relationship had completely changed. She was then to him only as slave to

  master. It was perhaps just as well. Bina did not have the sort of intellect

  that lent itself naturally to the game, nor the patience for it.

  Her intelligence, which was considerable, tended to find its most natural

  statement in a different domain, in the modalities of the sensuous. Indeed, she

  had proved herself extremely gifted in matters of sexuality and love. Clearly

  the collar belonged on her neck. Perhaps it was just as well that the player had

  not tried.

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  to force her to become a player, an activity for which she was not naturally

  suited, and in which she would have, at best, after years of work, achieved only

  a hard-won and mediocre success, but had instead forced her to become that for

  which she was most deeply suited and that which, ultimately, she was and wished

  to be, a profoundly marvelous female. At any rate, whatever might be the truth

  and falsity in such matters, poor Bina would not now be permitted to so much as

  touch the pieces of the game. She was a slave. She looked down at the board

  without understanding, but with misery. On it her ownership would be decided.

  Her placement, standing, near the board, of course, was not a mistake. IT is

  thought amusing to place the slave in this position. The informed slave, perhaps

  once a free woman who has some comprehension of the game, may thus observe

  fearfully the careful processes that will determine her disposition; and even

  the uninformed slave, such as Bina, who in her fearful, agonized observation of

  the board may understand next to nothing, not even being certain often who is

  winning, may sense such things as the shifting tides of battle and the removals

  of pieces from the board; in both cases, of course, the reactions of the slaves,

  tied as they are, are available for the delectation of the crowd. The major

  reason, however, for tying the slaves in this position is doubtless that the

  game’s stakes and their value, so prominently displayed, may be properly

  considered and appreciated.

  The player and Temenides, of Cos, came to the board. “You may surrender the

  woman, and withdraw,” said Temenides.

  “Temenides is generous,” said the player.

  Temenides nodded, and then he said, “Cut down the woman, and take her to my

  place at the table.”

  “No,” said the player.

  “No?’ asked Temenides, startled.

  “Let the pieces be put in place,” said the player.

  “You are a fool,” said Temenides. “You will pay dearly for your folly.”

  The pieces, with the exception of the Home Stones, were marshaled on the board.

  They were tall, and of weighted, painted wood. The two Home Stones cannot be

  placed on the board before the second move, nor later than the tenth.

  “Who will move first?” asked the player.

  “You may move first,” said Temenides.

  “No,” said Belnar, Ubar of Brundisium.

  “Come now, Ubar,” said Temenides. “Let the fool extend the game, if he can, by

  two or three moves.”

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  “He of Cos is our guest,” said Belnar. “He will move first.”

  “Spearmen might be chosen,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said another.

  There are many ways in which this can be done. If the pieces are small enough a

  red spearman can be held in one hand and a yellow spearman in the other. He not

  holding the spearmen then guesses a hand. If the guesser guesses the hand in

  which the yellow spearman is held, he moves first. If he guesses the hand in

  which the red spearman is held he moves second. Yellow, of course, moves first,

  red, second. Another common way of doing this is to place the two pieces behind

  a cloth or board, or to wrap them in two opaque clothes, the guessing proceeding

  similarly.

  “I will conceal the pieces,” volunteered Boots Tarsk-Bit, helpfully.

  “No,” said the player.

  “I will hold them,” said Belnar.

  “Ubar,” conceded Temenides.

  Belnar then, disdaining subterfuge, picked up two yellow spearmen. There were

  gasps in the audience. Bina moaned, in her ropes. Even she knew this much, that

  her champion was to be categorically denied the privilege of the initial move,

  with its weight and influence in determining the nature of the game. “Choose,”

  said Belnar, to Temenides. Temenides shrugged. “Choose,” said Belnar, to

  Temenides. Temenides, angrily, pointed to Belnar’s right hand.

  Belnar, grinning, lifted up the yellow spearman in his right hand, showing it to

  the crowd. Then he put the pieces down.

  “You have won the guess,” observed the player. “Congratulations.”

  “I was willing to show you mercy, if only to protect my honor,” said Temenides.

  “But now I shall destroy you, swiftly and brutally.”

  “I, on the other hand, will take my time with you,” said the player.

  “Arrogant sleen!” cried Temenides. “Recall my conditions, and intentions!”

  “I do,” said the player.

  “The mountebank grows tiresome,” said Belnar. “Let a vat of tharlarion oil,

  suitable for the immersion of a human being, be prepared.”

  “Yes, Ubar,” said a soldier.

  “With stout neck ropes,” said Belnar.

  “Yes, Ubar,” said the man, turning about, to leave the hall. The purpose of the

  neck ropes, stretched form holes drilled near

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  the top of the vat, is to hold the victim, whose hands are usually bound behind

  him, in place, preventing him not only from attempting to leave the vat but also

  from trying to drown himself. The oil is heated slowly.

  “Play,” said Belnar, turning to the player and Temenides.

  â�
��œI beg you once more, Ubar,” said Temenides, “not to perpetrate this farce.”

  “Play,” called men, standing about. Bina moaned.

  “Play,” said Belnar.

  “Ubar’s Spearman to Ubar Five,” said Temenides, angrily.

  A man made the move.

  “Ubara’s Rider of the High Tharlarion to Ubara’s Builder Three,” said the

  player.

  “Have you ever played before?” asked Temenides.

  “Occasionally,” said the player.

  “Do you understand the moves of the pieces?” asked Temenides.

  “Somewhat,” said the player.

  “That is an absurd move,” said Temenides.

  “I believe it is a legal move,” said the player.

  “I have never seen anything like it,” said Temenides. “It violates all the

  orthodox principles of opening play.”

  “Orthodoxy is not invariably equivalent to soundness,” said the player. “Your

  great master, Centius of Cos, should have taught you that. Does it not blossom

  from the root of heresy? Is it not true that today’s orthodoxy is commonly

  little more than yesterday’s heresy triumphant?”

  “You are mad,” said Temenides.

  “Similarly,” said the player, “the more orthodox your play the more predictable

  it will be, and thus the more easily exploited.”

  “Sleen!” hissed Temenides.

  The player’s move brought Temenides’ Ubar’s Spearman under immediate attack by

  the player’s Ubara’s Initiate. This might lure Temenides into wasting a move,

  advancing the Spearman again, perhaps overextending his position, or even,

  perhaps, defending prematurely. Still, I did not think I would have made the

  move.

  “To be sure, if I respected you more highly,” said the player, “I might have

  selected a different opening move.”

  “Sleen! Urt!” said Temenides.

  “It is your move?” asked a man of the player.

  “Yes,” said the player.

  The man moved the piece.

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  “Thank you,” said the player.

  “I think this fellow may not be such a fool as we thought,” said Belnar.

  “Nonsense,” said Temenides, angrily. “He is a mountebank, a bumpkin!”

  “It is warm in here,” said the player. He casually opened the light, dark robe

  he wore. Beneath it, as I had suspected, was the robe of the players, the

  red-and-yellow-checked robe that marked those of that caste. I think it must

  have been years since he had worn it openly. There were cries of astonishment.

  Bina looked at him, startled, her hands twisting in the cruel thongs that

  confined them.

  “He is of the players,” gasped a man.

  “I had suspected it,” said Belnar. “He did not seem truly insane.”

  “It matters not,” said Temenides. “I hold a high board in Cos. I shall destroy

  him. It means only that the game may be somewhat more interesting than I had

  originally anticipated.”

  “Are you truly of the players?” asked the man.

  “It is my caste,” said the player. The hair on the back of my neck rose up. I

  think in that moment the player had come home to himself.

  “And in what minor ranks of the players do you locate yourself?” asked

  Temenides, scornfully. Ranking among players, incidentally, resulting from play

  in selected tournaments and official matches, are kept with great exactness.

  “I was a champion,” said the player.

  “And of what small town, or village?” inquired Temenides, scornfully.

  “Of Ar,” said the player.

  “Ar!” cried Temenides. “Ar!” cried others.

  “Perhaps you have heard of it,” said the player.

  “Who are you?” whispered Temenides, fearfully.

  The player reached to the mask, that dark hood, which he wore. He suddenly tore

  it from his head. Bina closed her eyes, wincing. Many were the cries of

  astonishment in the hall, from free men and slaves alike. Bina opened her eyes.

  She cried out, startled, wonderingly. NO longer did the player wear that dark

  concealing hood. He looked about himself, regally. His visage bore no ravages,

  either of the terrors of flames or of the instruments of men. ON it there was

  not one mark. It was a proud face, and a severe one, at this moment, and one

  expressive of intellect, and power and will, and incredibly handsome. “I am

  Scormus of Ar,” he said.

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  “Scormus of Ar no longer exists!” cried Temenides.

  “He has returned,” he said.

  “I cannot play this man,” cried Temenides. “He is one of the finest players on

  Gor!”

  “But the game has begun,” Scormus reminded him.

  “Master!” cried Bina. “Master! I love you, Master!”

  “For speaking without my permission,” said Scormus of Ar to the slave, “you will

  in the morning beg for ten lashes. If this matter should slip your mind, you

  will receive fifty.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said, joyfully.

  “Too, if you should speak again, before the conclusion of the game,” said

  Scormus of Ar to her, “your throat will be cut.” She looked at him, frightened,

  lovingly. “See to it,” said Scormus to a man. “Yes, Player,” said he. He drew

  forth a knife and went to stand near Bina, a bit behind her. HE drew her head

  back by the hair, gently, and lifting up her collar slightly with the edge of

  the knife, with a tiny scraping sound, let her feel the blade lightly, but

  unmistakably, against her throat, just under the steel edge of the collar. The

  man then removed the knife from the vicinity of her throat. He thrust it in his

  belt. He remained standing near her. Bina trembled. Bina was silent. If Bina

  spoke again before the conclusion of the game, she would be slain.

  “The first move was yours,” said Scormus to Temenides. “The last move will be

  mine.”

  Temenides looked in agony to Belnar for succor. “I cannot play with one such as

  he,” he said.

  “Play,” said Belnar.

  “Ubar!” begged Temenides.

  “It is amusing,” said Belnar.

  “Please, Ubar,” said Temenides.

  Some men then, near the back of the hall, using poles, brought in a giant vat of

  tharlarion oil, mounted over a large, flattish, curved-edge iron plate. Fuel in

  the plate was then kindled.

  “Ubar!” protested Temenides.

  “Play,” said Belnar.

  I then took my way quietly from the hall. I had business elsewhere. I would have

  time. The player would not hurry with Temenides.

  17 What Occurred in the Prison Courtyard

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  In the light of the three moons I made my way across the prison yard, through

  the sand of the baiting pit.

  “Who goes there!” called a voice.
>
  “I did not see you in the hall,” I said. “I thought you might be here.”

  “Who are you?” he called. “Stand back. Do not approach!”

  I slipped the robes from my arm where I had been carrying them. “Do you not

  remember me?’ I asked.

  “Step from the shadows,” he said, backing away. “What is the password?”

  “Steel,” I said.

  He stepped back further.

  My sword slipped from the sheath. The sound of such a draw is unmistakable.

  He backed further away. “Do you truly think you can reach the alarm bar before I

  can overtake you?” I asked. His own steel then left its sheath. I stepped from

  the shadows, toward the center of the sand.

  “You!” he cried.

  “Yes,” I said.

  He lunged towards me. The exchange was swift. He was not unskillful. Once he

  fell, tangled in the chains that had linked the beast to the baiting pole. I

  permitted him to rise. Then I finished him. I took the keys from his belt.

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  18 What Occurred Later in the Feasting Hall; I Leave the Feasting Hall

  I reentered the hall.

  The game, as I entered, moving past the simmering vat of tharlarion oil, was no

  more than a move from its conclusion. I made my way near the board.

  “Never have I seen such play,” marveled a man.

  “It was not a mere slaughter,” said a man, “but a profound humiliation.”

  “Piece by piece was stripped from Temenides,” said a man. “HE now has only his

  Home Stone, isolated in a gauntlet of enemies.”

  I looked down at the board. The player need not have done that. Doubtless at a

  hundred points he could have brought the game to its conclusion, but he had

  preferred to dally with his opponent, divesting him of material, herding him

  like a nose-ringed tarsk helplessly about the board.

  “Build up the fire beneath the oil,” said Belnar.

  “Yes, Ubar,” said a man.

  Temenides was white-faced, sitting before the board.

  “Capture of Home Stone,” announced the player.

  “An excellent game,” said Belnar.

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  “Thank you, Ubar,” said Scormus of Ar. He rose to his feet.

  Temenides did not move. He continued to sit before the board. He seemed