The most startling thing to me about the man was not that he was older than one commonly sees in the streets of a Gorean city, but rather that he was clearly blind. The eyes were not pleasant to look upon, for they seemed empty of iris and pupil, and were simply ovoid glazes of massed scar tissue, ridged and irregular. Even the sockets of the eyes were ringed with white tissue. I knew then how the man had been blinded. A hot iron had been pressed into each of his eyes, probably long ago. In the center of his forehead, there was a large brand, the capital initial of the Gorean word for slave, in block script. But I knew that he was not a slave, for it is not permitted that Players be slave. That a slave should play is regarded as an insult to free men, and an insult to the game. Further, no free man would care to be beaten by a slave. I gathered, from the blinding and the mark on his forehead, that the man had once offended a slaver, a man of power in the city.
“The pieces are set,” said the Vintner, his fingers trembling.
“Your terms?” asked the Player.
“I move first,” said the Vintner.
This, of course, was an advantage, permitting the Vintner to choose his own opening, an opening he may have studied for a lifetime. Moreover, having the first move, he might more speedily develop his pieces, bringing them into the central areas of the board where they might control crucial squares, the crossroads of the board. And further, having the first move, he would probably be able to carry the initiative of the aggressor several moves into the game, perhaps to the conclusion. Players, when playing among themselves, with men of equal strength, frequently play for a draw when they do not have the first move.
“Very well,” said the Player.
“Further,” said the Vintner, “I declare for the three-move option at my time of choice, and you must play without the Ubar and Ubara, or the First Tarnsman.”
By this time there were four or five other individuals gathered about, besides myself, to observe the play. There was a Builder, two Saddle Makers, a Baker, and a Tarn Keeper, a fellow who wore on his shoulder a green patch, indicating he favored the Greens. Indeed, since there were no races this day in Ar, and he wore the patch, he perhaps worked in the tarncots of the Greens. None of this crowd seemed much to object to my presence there, though, to be sure, none would stand near me. In the prospect of a game, Goreans tend to forget the distances, amenities and trepidations of more sober moments. And through this small crowd, when it heard the terms of the Vintner, there coursed a mutter of irritation.
“Very well,” said the Player, looking out over the board placidly, seeing nothing.
“And the odds I choose,” said the Vintner, “are one to eighty.”
At this a real growl of anger coursed through the onlookers.
“One to eighty,” said the Vintner, firmly, triumphantly.
“Very well,” said the Player.
“Ubar’s Tarnsman to Physician Seven,” said the Vintner.
“The Centian Opening,” said one of the Saddle Makers. The Baker looked over his shoulder and called down the street to some men gathered there. “The Centian!”
The men ambled over to watch. I supposed they were interested in seeing what the Player’s response would be to yellow’s fourteenth move, a move on which authorities disagreed sharply, some favoring Ubar’s Initiate to Scribe Three, and others the withdrawal of Ubara’s Spearman to cover the vulnerable Ubar Two.
To my surprise, the Player chose the withdrawal of Ubara’s Spearman to cover Ubar Two, which seemed to me rather defensive, and surely cost him the possibility of a dangerous but promising counterattack, which would eventually, if all went well, culminate with his second tarnsman at his opponent’s Initiate Two. When this move was made I saw two or three of the observers look at one another in disgust, and wink, and then turn about and walk away. The Vintner, however, did not seem to notice, but made the standard aggressive response, pressing his attack forward by moving Second Spearman to Initiate Five. The face of the Player seemed placid. I myself was keenly disappointed. It seemed reasonably clear to me, at that point, that the Player had made a presumably weaker move in order to prejudice the game against himself, a move which could be defended, however, on the grounds that certain authorities favored it. I myself, in Ko-ro-ba, had seen Centius of Cos playing his own opening more than a dozen times and he had never drawn back the Ubara’s Spearman at that point. When I saw the excitement of the Vintner and the calm, stoic placidity of the Player I felt sad, for I recognized, as did several of the others, that this game, expensive though it might be, was to be the Vintner’s. The Vintner, you must understand, was not a bad player. He was actually quite skilled, and would have played well among even gifted Goreans, to whom the game is almost second nature, but he was not of Player caliber, by far.
I continued to watch, but not happily. At one or two points I noted the Player had made subtly ineffective moves, apparently sound but yet leaving weaknesses which could be, even four or five moves in the future, exploited rather decisively. Late in the game, the Player seemed to rally, and the Vintner began to sweat, and rubbed his fingers together, and held his head in his hands, studying the board as though he would bore through it with his gaze.
No one watching was much impressed, incidentally, that the Player was blind and yet remembering each move and the complexities of the board. Goreans often play without the board and pieces, though generally they prefer them because then less effort need be expended on the purely mnemonic matters of keeping the pattern in mind, move to move. I myself had seen chess masters on Earth play twenty boards simultaneously and blindfolded. Yet I, of Earth origin, while recognizing that what I was witnessing was actually not as astonishing as it might seem, was nonetheless impressed. The Vintner, of course, seemed to give no heed to anything but the game.
At one point, when the Vintner seemed hard pressed, I, and several of the others, noted that his hand strayed to the board, moving his Second Spearman to Builder Four from Physician Four, thus placing him on an open column.
One of the Saddle Makers cried out in anger. “Watch out there! He moved Second Spearman to Builder Four!”
“I did not,” cried the Vintner—almost a shriek.
The Player looked puzzled.
All eyes turned to the Player and he put his head down for a moment, apparently reconstructing the game from memory, through all of its better than forty moves to that point, and then he smiled. “His Second Spearman,” he said, “should be at Builder Four.”
“You see!” cried the Vintner, gleefully.
Angrily the Saddle Maker turned away and strode down the street.
No one else said anything further. From time to time others would come to watch, but, as it became clear what was occurring, they would leave. At most times there were, however, some seven or eight individuals, including myself, who were watching.
Finally it grew late in the end game and it would be but a matter of four or five moves and the Player’s Home Stone must be lost. The Vintner had taken his three-move option late in the game to build up an incredibly devastating attack. The Player was now in such a predicament that I doubted that Centius of Cos, or Quintus of Tor, or even the city’s champion, Scormus of Ar, could have done much. I, and others in the crowd, were angry.
I spoke. The Player, of course, could only hear my voice. “A tarn disk of gold and of double weight,” said I, “to red, should red win.”
The crowd gasped. The Vintner acted as though struck. The Player lifted his sightless eyes toward my face.
I took from my belt a tarn disk of double weight, and of gold, and gave it to the Player, who took it in his fingers and felt its weight, and then he put it between his teeth and bit it. He handed it back to me. “It is truly gold,” he said. “Do not mock me.”
“A double tarn,” said I, “to red, should red win.”
Such an amount I knew would not be likely to be earned in a year by a Player.
The Player turned his head toward me, lifting the scarred remains
of his eyes, as though he might see. Every nerve in that old face seemed strained, as though trying to understand what might lie there beyond him in the darkness that was his world, save for the memory of the movement of pieces on a checkered board. He put out his hand over the board, and I grasped it, firmly. I held his hand for a moment and he held mine, and I felt his grip, and smiled, for I knew then, blinded and branded, weak and old, he was yet a man. He released my hand and sat back, cross-legged, his back straight as that of a Ubar, a smile playing across the corners of his mouth. The sightless eyes seemed to gleam.
“Second Tarnsman,” said he, “to Ubar’s Builder Nine.”
A cry of astonishment coursed through the crowd. Even the Vintner cried out.
He must be insane, I said to myself. Such a move was utterly unrelated to the game. It was random, meaningless. He was subject to one of the most devastating attacks that could be mounted in the game. His Home Stone, in four moves, would fall. He must defend, for his very life!
With a trembling hand, the Vintner shoved his Second Spearman to the left, capturing the Player’s First Spearman, which had not been defended.
I inwardly groaned.
“Ubar’s Rider of the High Tharlarion,” said the Player, “to Ubar’s Physician Eight.”
I closed my eyes. It was another meaningless move. The crowd looked on, staggered, puzzled, speechless. Was this man not a Player?
Relentlessly the Vintner forced through again with his Second Spearman, this time capturing the Player’s Ubara’s Rider of the High Tharlarion.
“Ubar’s Scribe to Ubara’s Scribe Six,” said the Player.
Under other conditions I would have left at this point, but as I held the gold piece in question I knew that I would have to remain until the end, which, as some consolation, would be but shortly now.
Even the Vintner seemed disturbed. “Do you wish to reconsider your last move?” he asked, offering a rare concession among players of the game, and one I had never expected the Vintner, from what I had seen of him, to offer. I decided he was perhaps not such a bad fellow, though perhaps winning meant more to him than it should.
“Ubar’s Scribe to Ubara’s Scribe Six,” repeated the Player.
Mechanically the Vintner made the move on the board for the Player.
“My First Tarnsman,” said the Vintner, “captures Ubara’s Scribe.”
The capture of the Player’s Home Stone would take place on the next move.
“Do you wish to reconsider your move?” asked the Player, looking across the board, not seeing, but smiling. There seemed something grand about him in that moment, as though it were a gesture of magnanimity worthy of a victorious Ubar.
The Vintner looked at him puzzled. “No,” he said. “I do not.”
The Player shrugged.
“I capture your Home Stone on the next move,” said the Vintner.
“You have no next move,” said the Player.
The crowd gasped and they and I, and the Vintner, studied the board.
“Aii!” I cried, though the outburst was scarcely in keeping with the somber black I wore, and an instant later the Tarn Keeper and the Saddle Maker cried out, and began to stamp their feet in the dust, and pound their fists against their left shoulders. Then others watching cried out in glee. I myself removed my sword from its sheath and with it struck my shield. Then the Vintner began to howl with pleasure and slap his knees so pleased he was at the wonder of it, though he himself was the victim. “Magnificent!” he cried weeping, taking the Player by the shoulders and shaking him.
And then the Vintner himself, as proud as though it had been his own, announced the Player’s next move. “Scribe takes Home Stone.”
The crowd and I cried out with delight, marveling on it, the now-apparent simplicity of it, the attack which had been not so much mounted as revealed by the apparently meaningless moves, intended only to clear the board for the vital attack, coming from the improbable Ubara’s Scribe, one of the least powerful pieces on the board, yet, when used in combination with, say, a Tarnsman and a Rider of the High Tharlarion, as devastating as the Ubar itself. None of us, including the Vintner, had so much as suspected the attack. The Vintner pressed the copper tarn disk, which the Player had won from him, into the Player’s hands, and the Player placed this coin in his pouch. I then pressed into the hands of the Player the tarn disk of gold, of double weight, and the man held it clenched in his hands, and smiled and rose to his feet. The Vintner was picking up the pieces and putting them back in the leather game bag, which he then slung about the man’s shoulder. He then handed him the board, which the Player hung over his other shoulder. “Thank you for playing,” said the Vintner. The Player put out his hand and touched the Vintner’s face, remembering it. “Thank you for playing,” said the Player.
“I wish you well,” said the Vintner.
“I wish you well,” said the Player.
The Vintner then turned and left. As he did so I heard some of the bystanders, the Saddle Maker and the fellow who was the Tarn Keeper, he who wore the patch of the Greens, discussing the game. “It was really quite simple,” the Saddle Maker was explaining, “even obvious.”
I smiled and I noted that the Player, too, smiled.
“You are a Merchant?” asked the Player.
“No,” I said.
“How is it then,” asked he, “that you have such riches?”
“It means nothing,” I said. “Can I help you to your home?”
“You are surely of High Caste,” said the Player, “to have such gold.”
“May I take you to your home?” I asked.
The Tarn Keeper, breaking away from the Saddle Maker, came over to us. He was a short man, with close-cropped brown hair, a squarish face. I noted the patch of the Greens on his shoulder. He smiled at me. “You did well,” said he, “Killer,” and with a grin turned and left.
I turned again to the Player, but he was now standing there in the street, seeming somehow alone, though I stood at his side.
“You are of the Assassins?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said, “it is my caste.”
He pressed the piece of gold into my hand and turned away, stumbling from me, reaching out with his right hand to guide himself along the wall.
“Wait!” I cried. “You have won this! Take it!” I ran to him.
“No!” he cried, striking out wildly with a hand, trying to force me away. I stepped back. He stood there, panting, not seeing me, his body bent over, angry. “It is black gold,” he said. “It is black gold.” He then turned away, and began to grope his way from the place of the game.
I stood there in the street and watched him go, in my hand holding the piece of gold which I had meant to be his.
4
Cernus
“Place your first sword before me,” I said, “that I may kill him.”
Assassin of Gor Page 4
