Assassin of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Still,” I said, “it seems like a very long time to wait—months.”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “It does.”

  “In that time,” I said, “the Others might carry their work far, establish new bases of influence, new stations, storehouses perhaps for arms.”

  She nodded.

  “The best we can do,” I said, “is to convey the materials which Caprus copies in portions to the Sardar. As he finishes a fair portion we must arrange for it to be transmitted. I have much freedom. I can arrange for the Older Tarl to be summoned from Ko-ro-ba, and to act as our messenger between Ar and the mountains of Priest-Kings. He is already known to Al-Ka, who brought you to the House of Clark in Thentis.”

  “Unfortunately,” said Elizabeth, “Caprus has said he will not turn over any materials to us until he is finished.”

  “Why is that?” I asked, angry.

  “He fears there may be discovery in sending them from the House. Also he fears there may be spies of Others in the Sardar itself who, if they found out about the information being sent from the House of Cernus, would investigate and, doubtless, find us.”

  “I think that is not a likely possibility,” I said.

  “But Caprus believes so,” she said.

  I shrugged. “It seems we must do what Caprus wishes.”

  “We have no other choice,” she said.

  “When the information is complete,” I said, “I gather that we three will depart for the Sardar.”

  She laughed. “Caprus will certainly not wish to be left behind. Indeed, I am sure he will carry the documents on his very person.”

  I smiled. “I suppose Caprus is wise to trust no one.”

  “He is playing a dangerous game, Tarl.”

  I nodded.

  “So,” said she, “we must wait.”

  “Also,” I said, “I would like to find out who slew the Warrior from Thentis, he who died on the high bridge in Ko-ro-ba near the Cylinder of Warriors.”

  “You did not even know him,” she said. Then, as I gazed sternly upon her, she dropped her eyes. “I’m sorry,” she said. She looked up. “It is only that I fear for you.”

  I took her hands gently in mine. “I know,” I said.

  “Tonight,” she said, “hold me. I’m frightened.”

  I took her gently in my arms and kissed her, and she put her head against my left shoulder.

  * * * *

  About the third bar, unable to sleep, I left the side of Elizabeth and drew on my tunic, that of the Assassin. My mind was concerned with the appearance of Marlenus in Ar. I knew the former Ubar, still to his followers, years after the days of his glory, the Ubar of Ubars, was not in Ar for the sport of the races. Also, in the Baths, Nela, who doubtless heard much in the Capacian, had been evasive about matters pertaining to the Ubar. This suggested to me there might be movements afoot in Ar of which I knew nothing. I had not known, for example, and I gathered it was not common knowledge, about the many sorties to the Voltai to find and slay Marlenus, sorties which had invariably failed. I gathered that those now high in Ar had good reason for such desperate attempts to locate and slay the former Ubar.

  I left the compartment and walked the halls of the House of Cernus, lost in thought. I passed occasional guards in the corridors but none challenged me. I had, for most practical purposes, the freedom of the house.

  I was angry and frustrated that Caprus would not surrender the results of his labors before their completion, but I could understand his reasoning, his fears; and, on the other hand, the fact that he had himself located the documents we wished and was copying them gave me great satisfaction, for it meant that the work of Elizabeth and I in the house would now be little other than to convey, some months from now, Caprus and his documents to the Sardar. I anticipated little difficulty in this portion of the business. I could buy a tarn, with carrying basket, easily and in five days, with Caprus and Elizabeth, be in the black Sardar, safe with Misk, Kusk, Al-Ka, Ba-Ta and my other friends. I puzzled on the fact that the maps and documents which Caprus was copying were not coded, but in simple Gorean. I supposed that it was thought by Others that the materials were safe in the keeping of Cernus. Once as I walked about I heard the wild cry, a howling roar, of an animal, apparently large and fierce; I supposed it to be the Beast of which Ho-Tu, and others, seemed so frightened; they seemed to know as little of it as I; when I heard the cry an involuntary shiver coursed my spine; I felt the hair on my nape and forearms lift and stiffen; I stopped; I heard nothing more, and so I continued to walk about. I did not fear it, but, like Ho-Tu, I was pleased that it was doubtless safely caged; I would not have cared to meet it in the lonely halls of the House.

  I found that my steps had inadvertently brought me to the corridor with the heavy bolted door, that door leading to the hallway off which lay the cell for Special Captures, earlier shown to me by Ho-Tu. The four guards were still posted near the door. To my surprise at the door I encountered none other than Cernus, Master of the House of Cernus. He wore his long, black, coarse, woolen robe, that which bore the three stripes of silk, two blue enclosing a yellow, on the left sleeve. About his neck hung the golden medallion of the House of Cernus, the tarn with slave chains grasped in its talons. His stone gray eyes regarded me. But a small smile touched his heavy mouth.

  “You are up late, Killer,” said he.

  “I could not sleep,” I said.

  “I thought those of the black caste slept the soundest of all men,” said Cernus.

  “It was something I ate,” I said.

  “Of course,” said Cernus. “Was your hunt successful?”

  “I have not yet found the man,” I said.

  “Oh,” said Cernus.

  “It was bad paga,” I said.

  Cernus laughed. “It is just as well you are here. I have something to show you.”

  “What?” I asked.

  “The downfall of the House of Portus,” said he.

  I knew the House of Portus was the greatest remaining rival to the House of Cernus, fighting it for the control of the slave trade in Ar. Between them they handled better than seventy percent of the flesh purchased, exchanged and sold in the city. Several minor houses had shut down; there were others, but small houses, scrabbling for the thirty percent of the trade still left them.

  “Follow me,” said Cernus, leading the way through the door which the guards had thrown open for him. We found ourselves in the hallway giving access to the large one-way glass, backed by metal grillwork.

  I was not clear as to the meaning of the remark of Cernus.

  Once again I found myself looking through the glass, which on the other side was a mirror, into the luxurious compartment, with wardrobe, chests of silk, rugs and cushions, a silken divan and a scented, sunken bath, now drawn.

  But this time, in that room rich with hangings, with lamps set behind ornate mesh in the ceiling, there was a prisoner.

  It was a strikingly, but cruelly beautiful girl, who walked from one end of the room to the other, in fury, like a young, caged she-larl. The hood to her ornate, marvelous robes of concealment had been taken from her; and her veil. Otherwise, given the splendor of her robes, she might have been on the highest bridges the envy of all the free women of Ar.

  “Behold the downfall of the House of Portus,” said Cernus.

  I looked into the room. The girl had black hair, swirling and long, beautiful, which had never been cut, and flashing black eyes, high cheekbones.

  On each small wrist, locked, she wore a slave bracelet, of simple, unadorned steel. The two bracelets were joined by a light, gleaming chain of perhaps a yard in length. It did not restrict her movements to any appreciable extent.

  “I want her,” said Cernus, “to feel steel on her wrists, the weight of a chain.”

  The girl spun about and threw her head back, staring wildly at the ceiling, throwing the chain back over her head. Then she sobbed in rage and flung the chain forward, striking it on the chests, on the divan, a
gain and again. Then crouching over, with first one hand and then the other, she tried madly to push and slip the encircling, resisting steel over her other hand. She ran even to the bath and took oils, rubbing them on her wrists, but still the steel would not release her. Then she sobbed and ran back to the center of the room, striking again and again the divan with the chain. Then, still chained, she knelt on the divan, pounding it with her fists.

  I heard a movement near us. I turned and saw a female slave, in a rep-cloth kitchen tunic, stained with food, approaching, bearing a tray of fruit with a flask of wine. She was followed by a guard.

  The slave knocked timidly on the door of the cell.

  The girl sprang up from the divan, wiped oil from her wrists on a towel, threw back her hair, and stood regally in the center of the room.

  “Enter,” she said.

  The guard unlocked the door and the kitchen slave, deferentially, entered, her head down, and placed the tray of fruit and wine on a small low table near the divan. She then, head down, began to back lightly away.

  “Wait, Slave,” ordered the girl.

  The slave sank to her knees, head down.

  “Where is your master?” demanded the chained girl.

  “I do not know, Mistress,” said the kitchen slave.

  “Who is your master?” demanded the chained girl.

  “I am not permitted to say, Mistress,” whined the kitchen slave.

  The girl in chains strode to her and seized her by the collar, at which point the kitchen slave began to whine and weep, trying to draw back, to turn her head away. The chained girl, half crouching, scrutinized the collar and laughed, and then, with disdain, her hands in the slave’s collar, flung her to one side, where the slave lay, fearing to rise. The chained girl kicked her savagely in the side with her slipper. “Begone, Slave,” she snarled, and the kitchen slave leaped to her feet and sped through the door, which was closed behind her and locked by the guard.

  Outside Cernus gestured for the kitchen slave not to leave. Immediately the kitchen slave knelt in the hallway, not speaking. There were tears in her eyes.

  Cernus then drew my attention again to the interior of the cell.

  The prisoner now seemed in a better mood. There was a new haughtiness in her movements. She looked down at the tray of fruit and wine and laughed, and picked up a fruit and bit into it, smiling.

  “I have plans for this girl,” said Cernus, regarding the prisoner through the glass. “I had intended to have her used by a male slave before she leaves the house, but I shall not do so. This afternoon, following her capture, I sent uncollared serving slaves to groom and bathe her. I observed her, and she interests me. I shall, therefore, before she leaves the house, use her myself, but she will not know who it is whom she serves, for when I visit her from time to time she will be locked in a slave hood.”

  “What do you intend eventually to do with her?” I asked.

  “Her hair is very beautiful, is it not?” asked Cernus.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is.”

  “I expect she is quite vain about it,” speculated Cernus.

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “I will have her hair shaved off,” said Cernus, “and have her bound and hooded and sent by tarn to another city, Tor perhaps, where she will be publicly sold.”

  “Perhaps her sale could be private?” I said.

  “No,” said Cernus, “it must be public.”

  “What has all this to do with the House of Portus?” I asked.

  Cernus laughed. “You, Killer,” said he, “would not make a Player.”

  I shrugged.

  “This girl,” said he, “will in time make her way back to Ar. I will arrange it, if necessary.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  Cernus gestured for the kitchen slave to approach, and she did so immediately.

  “Look at her collar,” said Cernus.

  I read the collar aloud. “I am the property of the House of Portus.”

  “She will find her way back to Ar,” said Cernus. “And it will be the downfall of the House of Portus.”

  I looked at him.

  “She is, of course,” said Cernus, “Claudia Tentia Hinrabia.”

  15

  Portus Comes to the House of Cernus

  I observed Phyllis Robertson performing the belt dance, on love furs spread between the tables, under the eyes of the Warriors of Cernus and the members of his staff. Beside me Ho-Tu was shoveling porridge into his mouth with a horn spoon. The music was wild, a melody of the delta of the Vosk. The belt dance is a dance developed and made famous by Port Kar dancing girls. Cernus, as usual, was engaged in a game with Caprus, and had eyes only for the board.

  As the weeks had worn on, becoming months, I had grown more and more apprehensive and impatient. More than once I had called on Caprus myself, though it was perhaps not wise, to urge him to speed in his work, or to permit me to transmit portions of the documents he was copying to the Sardar. Always he refused. I had been bitter at these delays, complaining and chafing, but there seemed little I could do. He would not inform me of the location of the maps and papers and I did not feel that any direct attempt to steal them and carry them away would be likely to be successful; further, if simply stolen, the Others, through Cernus, would doubtless be informed at the first opportunity and alternate plans put into effect. I reminded myself, again and again, as the month clock rotated, that Caprus was a trusted agent of Priest-Kings, that Misk himself had spoken in the highest terms of him. I must trust Caprus. I would trust him. Yet I could not help my anger.

  Ho-Tu pointed with his spoon at Phyllis. “She is not bad,” he said.

  The belt dance is performed with a Warrior. She now writhed on the furs at his feet, moving as though being struck with a whip. A white silken cord had been knotted about her waist; in this cord was thrust a narrow rectangle of white silk, perhaps about two feet long. About her throat, close-fitting and snug, there was a white-enameled collar, a lock collar. She no longer wore the band of steel on her left ankle.

  “Excellent,” said Ho-Tu, putting aside his spoon.

  Phyllis Robertson now lay on her back, and then her side, and then turned and rolled, drawing up her legs, putting her hands before her face, as though fending blows, her face a mask of pain, of fear.

  The music became more wild.

  The dance receives its name from the fact that the girl’s head is not supposed to rise above the Warrior’s belt, but only purists concern themselves with such niceties; wherever the dance is performed, however, it is imperative that the girl never rise to her feet.

  The music now became a moan of surrender, and the girl was on her knees, her head down, her hands on the ankle of the Warrior, his sandal lost in the unbound darkness of her hair, her lips to his foot.

  “Sura is doing a good job with her,” said Ho-Tu.

  I agreed.

  In the next phases of the dance the girl knows herself the Warrior’s, and endeavors to please him, but he is difficult to move, and her efforts, with the music, become ever more frenzied and desperate.

  A girl in a tunic of white silk, gracefully, carrying a large pitcher of diluted Ka-la-na wine, approached our table from the rear, and climbed the stairs, delicately, and as though timidly, head down. Then she leaned forward behind me, bending her knees slightly, her body graceful. Her voice in my ear was a whisper, an invitation. I looked at her. Her eyes met mine, beautiful, deep, gray. Her lips were slightly parted. “Wine, Master?” asked Virginia Kent.

  “Yes,” I said, “I will have wine.”

  Virginia served me, bowed her head and backed gracefully down the stairs behind me, then turned and hurried away.

  “She is White Silk, of course,” said Ho-Tu.

  “I know,” I said.

  Another girl approached similarly, though she was attired in a tunic of red silk.

  “Wine, Master?” asked Elizabeth Cardwell.

  “Again,” snapped Ho-Tu, angrily.r />
  Flustered, Elizabeth retreated and again approached. It was only on the third time that she managed to satisfy Ho-Tu, when her eyes, her lips, the carriage of her body, the words she whispered seemed to him adequate. “That is a stupid one,” said Ho-Tu. Elizabeth, angry, backed down the stairs and hurried away.

  I glanced at Virginia Kent, who was now moving about the tables, in the incredibly brief silken slave livery, the pitcher on her left shoulder, held there gracefully with her left hand. Her hair was now about three inches longer than it had been when she had come to the House of Cernus. She walked gracefully, insolently, the movement of her firing my blood. Her ankles were slender, beautiful. The left, as was the case with Phyllis, was now no longer encircled with the steel band, the identification band. About her throat, however, as was the case with Phyllis also, there was now a lock collar, snugly fitting, white-enameled. Both girls, branded and collared, were well marked as slave.

  The belt dance was now moving to its climax and I turned to watch Phyllis Robertson.

  “Capture of Home Stone,” I heard Cernus say to Caprus, who spread his hands helplessly, acknowledging defeat.

  Under the torchlight Phyllis Robertson was now on her knees, the Warrior at her side, holding her behind the small of the back. Her head went farther back, as her hands moved on the arms of the Warrior, as though once to press him away, and then again to draw him closer, and her head then touched the furs, her body a cruel, helpless bow in his hands, and then, her head down, it seemed she struggled and her body straightened itself until she lay, save for her head and heels, on his hands clasped behind her back, her arms extended over her head to the fur behind her. At this point, with a clash of cymbals, both dancers remained immobile. Then, after this instant of silence under the torches, the music struck the final note, with a mighty and jarring clash of cymbals, and the Warrior had lowered her to the furs and her lips, arms about his neck, sought his with eagerness. Then, both dancers broke apart and the male stepped back, and Phyllis now stood, alone on the furs, sweating, breathing deeply, head down.

  I noted Sura standing somewhat behind the tables. She would not eat with the staff, of course, for she was slave. I did not know how long she had been standing there.