Assassin of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “No,” said Philemon, irritably, “on the color, like this!”

  Hup’s attention was now drawn to the side of the table where there was a sugared pastry, which he began to eye hungrily.

  Scormus of Ar, I was pleased to note, regarding the board, suddenly eyed Hup warily. Then the boy shrugged and shook his head, and moved another piece.

  “Your move,” prompted Philemon.

  Without looking at the board Hup poked a piece, I think a Ubar’s Scribe, with one of his swollen fingers. “Hup hungry,” he whined.

  One of Cernus’ guards threw Hup the pastry he had been eyeing and Hup squealed with pleasure and sat on the dais, putting his chin on his knees, shoving the pastry in his mouth.

  I looked at Sura. Her eyes were radiant. She saw me and through her tears, smiled. I smiled back at her. She looked down at the remains of the doll on the tiles before her and threw back her head and laughed. In her bonds she threw back her head and laughed.

  She had a son. His name, of course, was Scormus of Ar, her son by the dwarf Hup, conceived years ago in the revels of Kajuralia. I now, clearly, recognized the boy, though I had not seen him before. His features were those of Sura, though with the heaviness of the masculine countenance, the bred slave lines of the House of Cernus. Cernus himself had not recognized them; perhaps none in the room had; the lame foot was perhaps the legacy of his misshapen father; but the boy was fine, and he was brilliant; he was the marvelous Scormus, youthful master Player of Ar.

  I looked at Sura and there were tears in my eyes, with my happiness for her.

  Hup had kissed her. He had known. Could he then be the fool he pretended? And Scormus of Ar, the brilliant, the natively brilliant master Player was the offspring of these two. I had sensed the marvelous raw power of Sura, her amazing, almost intuitive grasp of the game; and I wondered of Hup, who could be the father of so brilliant a boy as Scormus of Ar; perhaps Hup, the Fool, was no stranger to the game; I looked to one side and saw Qualius of Ar, the blind Player; unnoticed, he was smiling.

  After Hup’s second move Scormus of Ar had looked for a long time at the board, and then at Hup, who was devouring his pastry.

  Cernus seemed impatient. Philemon suggested three or four counters to the position now on the board.

  “It is impossible,” said Scormus, more to himself than another. Then he shrugged and pushed his third piece.

  Hup was still eating his pastry.

  “Move!” cried Cernus.

  Hup leaped dutifully up and, crumbs on his mouth, seized a yellow piece and shoved it sideways.

  “No,” said Cernus, intensely, “you move red pieces.”

  Hup obediently started shoving the red pieces about the board.

  “One at a time!” screamed Cernus.

  Hup cringed and, lifting his head timidly over the board, pushed a piece and darted away.

  “His moves are random moves,” said Philemon to Scormus.

  Scormus was looking at the board. “Perhaps,” he said.

  Philemon snorted with amusement.

  Scormus then made his fourth move.

  Hup, who was waddling about the walls, was then summoned again to the board and he hastily picked up a piece and dropped it tottering to a square, and went back to the walls.

  “His moves are random,” said Philemon. “Develop your Tarnsmen. When he places his Home Stone you will be able to seize it in five moves.”

  Scormus of Ar regarded Philemon. His look was withering. “Do you tell Scormus of Ar how to play the game?” he inquired.

  “No,” said Philemon.

  “Then be silent,” said Scormus.

  Philemon looked as though he might choose to reply, but thought the better of it, and glared angrily at the board.

  “Observe,” said Scormus to Cernus, as he moved another piece.

  Hup, singing some mad little song of his own devising, bounded back to the table, turned a somersault, and crawled up on the dais, whence he seized another piece in his small, knobby fist and pushed it one square ahead.

  “I will give you two hundred pieces of gold if you can finish the game in ten moves,” said Cernus.

  “My Ubar jests,” said Scormus of Ar, studying the board.

  “I do not understand,” said Cernus.

  “I should have known my Ubar would not have perpetrated the farce he pretended,” said Scormus, not raising his eyes from the board. He smiled. “It is seldom that Scormus of Ar is so fooled. You are to be congratulated, Ubar. This joke will bear telling in Ar for a thousand years.”

  “I do not understand,” said Cernus.

  “Surely you recognize,” asked Scormus, curiously, looking up at him, “the Two Spearman variation of the Ubar’s Scribe’s Defense, developed by Miles of Cos and first used in the tournament at Tor held during the Second Passage Hand of the third year of the Administrator Heraklites?”

  Neither Cernus nor Philemon said anything. The tables were silent.

  “The man I am playing,” said Scormus of Ar, “is obviously a master.”

  I cried out with joy, as did Sura, and Relius and Ho-Sorl. We, the four of us, cheered.

  “It is impossible!” cried Cernus.

  Hup, the Fool, blinked, sitting on the tiles before the dais.

  Scormus of Ar was studying the board intently.

  “Hup, my friend,” said the blind player Qualius, “can play with Priest-Kings.”

  “Beat him!” cried Cernus.

  “Be quiet,” said Scormus. “I am playing.”

  There was little sound in the room save the occasional noises of Hup. The game continued. Scormus would study the board and move a piece. Hup would come from somewhere in the hall, rolling, skipping or bounding, sniffing, gurgling, glance at the board, cry out, and poke a piece about. And then Scormus would again, head in hands, face not moving, study the board once more.

  At last, after perhaps no more than half an Ahn, Scormus stood up. His face was hard to read. There was something in it of irritation, but also of bafflement, and of respect. He stood stiffly, and, to the wonder of all, extended his hand to Hup.

  “What are you doing?” cried Cernus.

  “I am grateful to you for the game,” said Scormus.

  The two men, the young, fiery Scormus of Ar, and the tiny, misshapen dwarf, shook hands.

  “I do not understand,” said Cernus.

  “Your departure from the Two Spearman Variation on the sixteenth move was acute,” said Scormus to Hup, paying the Ubar of Ar no attention. “Only too late did I realize its position in your plan, the feint of the four-piece combination covering your transposition into the Hogar Variation of the Centian, striking down the file of the Ubara’s Scribe. It was brilliant.”

  Hup inclined his head.

  “I do not understand,” said Cernus.

  “I have lost,” said Scormus.

  Cernus looked at the board. He was sweating. His hand trembled.

  “Impossible!” he cried. “You have a winning position!”

  Scormus’ hand tipped his Ubar, resigning the game.

  Cernus seized the piece and righted it. “The game is not done!” he cried. He seized Scormus by the cloak. “Are you a traitor to your Ubar?” he screamed.

  “No, Ubar,” said Scormus, puzzled.

  Cernus released Scormus. The Ubar trembled with fury. He studied the board. Philemon did, too. Hup was looking away from the table, scratching his nose.

  “Play!” cried Cernus to Scormus. “Your position is a winning one!”

  Scormus looked at him, puzzled. “It is capture of Home Stone,” said he, “in twenty-two.”

  “Impossible,” whispered Cernus, trembling, staring at the small pieces of wood, the intricate pattern, the field of red and yellow squares.

  “With your permission, Ubar,” said Scormus of Ar, “I shall withdraw.”

  “Begone!” cried Cernus, regarding the board.

  “Perhaps we shall play again,” said Scormus to Hup, inclining his head
to the dwarf.

  Hup began to dance on one foot, turning about.

  Scormus then went to Qualius, the blind player. “I leave,” he said. “I wish you well, Qualius of Ar.”

  “I wish you well, Scormus of Ar,” said Qualius, the blind, branded face radiant.

  Scormus turned and regarded Hup. The little fellow was sitting on the edge of the dais, swinging his feet. When he saw Scormus regarding him, however, he stood up, as straight as he could with his crooked back and one short leg; he struggled to stand straight, and it must have caused him pain.

  “I wish you well, Small Master,” said Scormus.

  Hup could not reply but he stood there before the dais, as straight as he could, with tears in his eyes.

  “I shall play out your position and win!” screamed Cernus.

  “What will you do?” asked Scormus, puzzled.

  Cernus angrily moved a piece. “Ubar’s Tarnsman to Ubara’s Scribe Four!”

  Scormus smiled. “That is capture of Home Stone in eleven,” he said.

  As Scormus, his path uncontested, took his way from the room, he stopped before Sura, who lowered her head, shamed that she should be so seen before him. He regarded her for a moment, as though puzzled, and then turned and faced Cernus once again. “A lovely slave,” he commented.

  Cernus, studying the board, did not respond to him.

  Scormus turned and, limping, left the room.

  I saw that Hup now stood close to Sura, and once again, gently, he kissed her on the forehead.

  “Little Fool!” cried Cernus. “I have moved Ubar’s Tarnsman to Ubara’s Scribe Four! What will you do now?”

  Hup returned to the table and, scarcely glancing at the board, picked up a piece and dropped it on a square.

  “Ubar’s Tarnsman to Ubara’s Tarnsman Six,” said Cernus, puzzled.

  “What is the point of that?” asked Philemon.

  “There is no point,” said Cernus. “He is a fool, only a fool.”

  I counted the moves, eleven of them, and, on the eleventh, Cernus cried out with rage and dashed the board and its pieces from the table. Hup, as though puzzled, was waddling about the room scratching his nose, singing a silly little ditty to himself. In one small hand he held clutched a tiny piece of yellow wood, the Home Stone of Cernus.

  I gave a cry of joy as did Relius and Ho-Sorl. Sura, too, was radiant.

  “I am now free,” I informed Cernus.

  He looked at me in rage.

  “You will be free tomorrow,” he screamed, “to die in the Stadium of Blades!”

  I threw back my head and laughed. Die now I might, but the vengeance of the moment was sweet. I had known, of course, that Cernus would never free me, but it had given me great pleasure to see his charade of honor unmasked, to have seen him humiliated and publicly exposed as a traitor to his word.

  Relius and Ho-Sorl were laughing as, chained, they were taken from the room.

  Cernus looked down on Elizabeth, chained at the foot of the dais. He was in fury. “Deliver this wench to the compound of Samos of Port Kar!” he screamed.

  Guards leaped to do his bidding.

  I could not stop myself laughing, though I was much beaten, and laughing I still was when, chained, I was conducted stumbling from the hall of Cernus, the noble Ubar of Ar.

  21

  The Stadium of Blades

  Outside, as though from a distance, I could hear the roar of the crowd packed into the tiers of the Stadium of Blades.

  “Murmillius is apparently victorious again,” said Vancius of the House of Cernus, lifting a blind helmet and fitting it over my head.

  Vancius, of the guards, turned the key in the helmet lock that fastened the helmet on my head.

  Within the heavy metal casque I could see nothing.

  “It will be amusing,” said he, “to see you stumbling about on the sand, sword in hand, thrashing here and there, trying to find your foes. The crowd will love it. It provides comic relief between the serious bouts and the animal fights to follow. It is also a time for patrons to stretch, buy their pastries, relieve themselves and such.”

  I did not respond.

  “Surely the famed Tarl Cabot, master swordsman of Gor,” said Vancius, “prefers to die with blade in hand.”

  “Remove my manacles,” said I, “and blade or no, let me give response as might a Warrior.”

  “Your manacles will be removed,” Vancius assured me, “when you are in the arena.”

  “If I do not choose to fight?” I asked.

  “Whips and hot irons will encourage you,” he said.

  “Perhaps not,” I said.

  “Then be encouraged by this news,” he laughed. “Your opponents will be the finest swordsmen in the Taurentians.”

  “In blind helmets?” I queried.

  He laughed. “It will appear so,” said he, “for the sake of the crowd. Actually their helmets will be perforated. They will be able to see you but you will not be able to see them.”

  “It will indeed be amusing,” I said.

  “Indeed,” laughed Vancius.

  “Doubtless Cernus will be in the stands to enjoy the spectacle,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “He sits this day in the box of the Ubar at the races,” said Vancius. “Races in Ar being more popular than the games, it is only appropriate that Cernus preside.”

  “Of course,” I admitted. Within the closed steel locked on my head I smiled. “Cernus,” said I, “though a prominent patron of the Greens, must be disturbed that the Yellows have this year stood above them.”

  “It is only thought,” said Vancius, “that Cernus favors the Greens.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Actually,” said Vancius, “Cernus favors the Yellows.”

  “How can this be?” I asked.

  “Dense one,” laughed Vancius. “The very fact that Cernus appears to be of the faction of the Greens influences thousands of our citizens; it itself, with the frequent victories of the Greens, is enough to make the Greens generally favored in the betting. But when over the long run you have examined victors, you will discover the Yellows have won not only more races, but generally those on which more was wagered.”

  Involuntarily my wrists fought the steel that shackled them.

  Vancius laughed. “By betting secretly on the Yellows, whom he controls,” said Vancius, “Cernus has accumulated, through agents, vast fortunes in the races.” Vancius laughed again. “Menicius of Port Kar, of the Yellows, greatest rider in the races, rides for Cernus.”

  “Cernus is a clever man,” said I. “But what if the fans of the races should learn of his true allegiance, that his true faction is that of the Yellows?”

  “They will not learn,” said Vancius.

  “The Steels,” I said, “threaten the Yellows.”

  “They will not win the great race,” said Vancius, “the Ubar’s Race.”

  The Ubar’s Race is the final and climactic race of the Love Feast.

  “Why not?” I asked.

  “Menicius of Port Kar rides for the Yellows,” said Vancius.

  “You have great respect for him,” I said.

  Vancius laughed. “As I have great respect for the banded ost,” said he.

  I smiled. The banded ost is a variety of ost, a small, customarily brilliantly orange Gorean reptile. It is exceedingly poisonous. The banded ost is yellowish orange and is marked with black rings.

  “Menicius has been instructed to win the great race,” said Vancius. “And he will do so, even should it be necessary to kill.”

  I said nothing for a time. Then, curious, I asked, “What of Gladius of Cos?”

  “He will be warned not to ride,” said Vancius.

  “And if he does?” I asked.

  “He will die,” said Vancius.

  “Who is Gladius of Cos?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said Vancius.

  Within the
helmet I smiled. That secret, at least, had been well kept.

  “We have let it be known in the taverns of Ar,” said Vancius, “that Gladius of Cos, should he dare to ride, will die. I do not think he will appear at the Stadium of Tarns.”

  This angered me. Should I not take my saddle this afternoon there would be few in Ar but would suppose that I had succumbed to fear.

  “What is wrong?” asked Vancius.

  “Nothing,” I said.

  There was a distant roar again from the crowd in the tiers far above.

  “Murmillius again!” cried Vancius. “What a man! That is his fifth opponent downed this afternoon!”

  “What of the girls sold at the Curulean?” I asked. “Those who brought top price?”

  “By now,” said Vancius, “they are doubtless well-thonged in tarn baskets and on their way to the pleasures of Port Kar.”

  I heard a distant trumpet, the warning trumpet.

  “It will soon be time,” said Vancius.

  There was a bit of scuffle some feet away, the sound of a girl, and then another.

  “You can’t enter here,” called a guard.

  “I must see Vancius!” cried the voice of a girl.

  “Who is it?” queried Vancius, puzzled, irritated.

  The voice struck me as familiar, as being one I had heard somewhere before.

  “Beloved Vancius!” I heard.

  “Who are you?” Vancius was asking.

  Inside the blind helmet I could see nothing. I pulled at the manacles.

  I heard light, bare feet run into the room. “Vancius!” I heard a girl cry. I could not place the voice.

  Then, unmistakably, I heard her run to Vancius and, apparently to his surprise, and consternation, but not displeasure, she flung herself into his arms. I heard their words not plainly, his question, her asseverations of passion, mixed in the meetings of their mouths. I gathered it was a slave girl, many of whom are extraordinarily passionate, who had seen him, followed him, and was now desperately importuning him for his touch.

  “Vancius, I am yours!” I heard.

  “Yes, yes!” I heard him say.

  I then heard a heavy sound, as though someone had been struck heavily from behind.

  “Now, Vancius,” I heard, “you are mine!”

  I tried to tear the steel helmet from my head with my manacled wrists. I fought the heavy chain that bound me to the stone table on which I sat. “Who is there?” I whispered.