Beasts of Gor coc-12 Page 10

  She was sold for four copper tarsks. I did not see who bought her. I think it was a locksmith from Ti.

  I bought a slice of rolled meat, filled with sauce, in a waxed paper, from a vendor.

  It was then that I saw him. Our eyes met. He turned white. Immediately, flinging aside the food, I began to thrust through the crowd toward him. He turned and, squirming and thrusting, fought his way toward the side of the tent.

  I knew him now. He was the fellow whose back I had seen in the restaurant, from a distance. I had not been able to place at that time his identity. He no longer now wore the brown and black common to professional sleen trainers. He wore, as I, merchant robes.

  I did not speak, or call out to him. Rather I pursued him. He looked back once and then, thrusting men aside, fought his way to the tent’s side.

  I pursued him who had called himself Bertram of Lydius, he who had, in my house, set a sleen upon me.

  I wanted his throat in my hands.

  When I thrust through the cut side of the tent, where he had slashed it open, he was not in sight.

  I cursed and struck my fist upon my thigh. He was gone.

  Behind me, from the tent, I heard the calls and the bid-big. Another girl was on the block.

  I looked out over the crowds. Thousands were at the fair of the Sardar.

  My chances of finding one man in that crowd, and one who knew I searched for him, would be negligible. I looked angrily about. Behind me two men slipped into the tent, through the cut canvas. I no longer wished to attend the market. I turned away from the tent and, angrily, no clear destination in mind, mingled with the crowds. In time I found myself near the palisade ringing the Sardar mountains. I climbed one of the high platforms there. From these platforms one may look upon the Sardar. I stood alone on the platform, and gazed at the snow-capped mountains, glistening under the mingled light of the three white moons. From the platform, too, I could see the fair, with its lights and fires, and tents and shelters, and the amphitheater in the distance, where Scormus of Ar and gentle Centius of Cos would meet tomorrow on the opposite sides of a small board marked with red and yellow squares. The district of the fair covered several square pasangs. It was very beautiful at night.

  I descended the stairs of the platform and turned my steps toward the public tent where I had, earlier in the morning, reserved a lodging for myself.

  I lay thinking in the furs, my hands behind my head, looking up at the ceiling of the tent above me. There was little light in the tent, for it was late. It was difficult for me to sleep.

  More than a thousand men slept in this great tent.

  The ceiling of the tent above me billowed slightly, responsive to a gentle wind from the east.

  There were small lamps hung here and there in the tent. They hung on tiny chains. These chains were suspended from metal projections on certain of the tent poles.

  I turned to my side, to watch her approach.

  She moved carefully through the furs.

  She knelt beside me.

  A string was knotted about her waist. Over this string, in the front, there was thrust a single, simple narrow rectangle of vulgar, white rep-cloth, some six inches in width, some twelve inches in length.

  She wore on her throat a high, gold collar, with, in front, a large golden loop, some two inches in width. Threaded through this loop loose, was a golden chain. This chain terminated, at each end, with high, golden slave bracelets. When the girl stands her hands may fall naturally at her sides, each in its bracelet, each bracelet attached to the same chain, which passes through the collar loop.

  It is a very beautiful way of chaining a girl.

  “Master,” she whispered.

  “I remember you,” I said. She had been the slave who had followed me earlier in the day, who had bitten at my sleeve near the puppet theater, whom I had saved from a beating by the guardsmen under the aegis of the officer of the fair’s merchant staff. She had begged me to take pity on her needs. I had not done so, of course. She might have been under the discipline of deprivation. Too, there had seemed no point in perhaps doing her master dishonor. I did not even know him. I had told her, after I had had her kneel and kiss my feet, to run to her master, and crawl to him on her belly and beg his touch. “Yes, Master,” she had said, and she had then leaped to her feet, frightened, and sped away.

  “I did not know you were a slave in the public tents,” I said to her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, putting her head down. “I am a tent slave here.”

  “Why did you not tell me?” I asked.

  “Is a girl to be permitted no pride?” she asked.

  “No,” I told her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Would it have made any difference?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought not,” she said.

  “When you ran to your master,” I asked, “as I commanded you, and crawled to him on your belly and begged his touch, what did he do?”

  “He kicked me from his feet, and gave me over to a servant for switching,” she said.

  “Excellent,” I said.

  She looked down.

  “Doubtless, by now,” I said, “you have been much pleasured in these furs.”

  “There are other tent slaves here,” she said, “many more beautiful than I, and men come late to the furs, tired and drunk. It is hard for us to compete with the beauties, of the paga tents.”

  “I see,” I said.

  There were tears in her eyes. She reached forth her right hand, timidly, to touch my thigh. This caused the chain to slip a bit through the collar loop.

  “Take pity on a slave, Master,” she said.

  I looked at her.

  She backed away a bit and then, on her belly, crawled to me. She timidly pulled back the furs and pressed her lips to my thigh. Her lips were soft and wet. She looked up at me, tears in her eyes. “I crawl to my master on my belly,” she said, “and beg for his touch.”

  I smiled.

  I, a guest in the tent, now stood to her, of course, as master. Such girls come with the price of the lodging.

  “Please, Master,” she wept, “take pity on me. Take pity on the miserable needs of a girl.”

  I threw off the furs, and motioned her to my arms. She crept into them, sobbing.

  “You are kind, Master,” she said.

  “Do you think so?” I asked.

  She looked at me, frightened.

  I drew her right hand away from her body, until the slave bracelet on her left wrist was against the golden collar loop. I then doubled the chain and formed from it a slip loop, which I dropped over her head. I jerked it tight. Her wrists now, both, were held at the collar loop. She looked up at me, frightened. I put her on her back, in the cradle of my left arm. She moved her small wrists in the cuffs; she tried to move her hands; they were held, confined, at the golden loop. I then pulled away the rectangle of rep-cloth she wore and wadded it and thrust it in her mouth. She looked at me, frightened. Then I began to touch her.

  4. I Reward Two Messengers, Who Have Rendered Good Service

  “Will he use the Two Tarnsmen opening?” asked a man.

  “I wager,” said another, “he will use the Physician’s Gambit.”

  “That would permit the Turian Defense,” said another.

  I felt good. I had had a splendid night’s rest. I had had an excellent breakfast.

  The slave I had used had been helpless and spasmodically superb. She had not been permitted to use her hands; they had been chained; her bit of a garment had been thrust in her mouth; she could not cry out; she must endure in helpless squirming silence, as a slave girl, what sensations I chose to inflict upon her body. I was pleased; I had put her through pleasures which would have made a Ubara beg for the collar. I do not think she slept all night. In the morning, red-eyed, lying at my thigh, she had piteously begged that I buy her.

  The morning was cool and the air was bright and clear. It would be a good
day for the match.

  I had arranged to have the pretty little slave lashed and then sent to Port Kar. I think she was a good buy. She cost me only a quarter of a silver tarsk.

  “On whom do you wager?” asked a man.

  “On Scormus of Ar,” I responded.

  “I, too,” he said.

  I was no longer as angry as I had been that the man I had seen last night in the pavilion had escaped me. I did not expect to see him again. If I did, that would be time enough to conduct him beyond the fair’s perimeter and kill him.

  I was restless and eager for the gates of the amphitheater to open. Already, even in Port Kar, I had reserved a seat for the match. It had cost me two golden tarns.

  I found myself in the vicinity of the palisade. Initiates moved about, and many others. They performed ceremonies and sacrifices. In one place a white, bosk heifer was being slaughtered. Incense was being burned and bells were being rung; there was singing and chanting.

  Then I was among the high platforms near the palisade.

  Tied by the neck to the foot of a post, one of several supporting one of the long, high platforms near the palisade. kneeling, naked, their hands tied behind them, were two slave girls. They looked at me in terror. They had spent their first night in a man’s power. Their thighs were bloodied; the dark-haired girl’s arm was bruised. The red hunters are not gentle with their animals.

  I climbed the stairs to the platform. I would look upon the Sardar in the morning light. At this time, particularly in the spring, the sun sparkling on the snow-strewn peaks, the mountains can be quite beautiful.

  I attained the height of the platform and found the view breath-taking, even more splendid than I had hoped. I stood there very quietly in the cool, sunlit morning air. It was very beautiful.

  Near me, on the platform, stood the red hunter. He, too, it seemed, was struck to silence and awe.

  Then, standing on the platform, he lifted his bare arms to the mountains.

  “Let the herd come,” he said. He had spoken in Gorean. Then he reached into a fur sack at his feet and, gently, took forth a representation of the northern tabuk, carved in blue stone. I had no idea how long it took to make such a carving. It would take many nights in the light of the sloping, oval lamps.

  He put the tiny tabuk on the boards at his feet, and then again lifted his arms to the mountains. “Let the herd come,” he said. “I give you this tabuk,” he said. “It was mine, and it is now yours. Give us now the herd which is ours.”

  Then he lowered his arms and reached down and closed the sack. He left the platform.

  There were other individuals, too, on the long platform. Each, I supposed, had their petition to make to Priest-Kings. I looked at the tiny tabuk left behind on the boards. It looked toward the Sardar.

  Below, the red hunter freed the kneeling, tethered girls of the post. They stood. He kept them neck-linked by the rawhide rope. Their hands remained bound behind them. He then made his way from the foot of the platform. I remembered that one of the Earth girls had been rich, the dark-haired girl; the other, the blond, I supposed had been middle class, perhaps upper middle class; I did not know; at any rate, whatever they might have been, that was now behind them, a world away; social distinctions no longer divided them; social distinctions, like their clothing, had been taken away; they were now the same, identical; both, whatever they might once have been, were now only naked slaves. They followed the red hunter, their master.

  I looked at the amphitheater. I could see it easily from the height of the platform.

  I saw that now the Kaissa flag, with its red and yellow squares, flew from a lance on the amphitheater’s rim. Flanking it, on either side, were the standards of Cos and Ar. That of Ar was on the right, for Scormus had won yellow in the draw; it had been his hand which, under the scarlet cloth, had closed upon the tiny, wooden, yellow spearman in the helmet, the possession of which determined the first move and, with it, the choice of opening.

  I would win a hundred golden tarns.

  The amphitheater was now open. I hurried down the stairs of the platform.

  There was a great cheer in the amphitheater and men stood upon the tiers, waving their caps and shouting.

  “Scormus of Ar!” they shouted. “Scormus of Ar!”

  I could hear the anthem of Ar being sung now.

  It was hard to see.

  “He is here!” cried a man next to me.

  I climbed on the tier and stood. I could now see, in the robes of the players, Scormus of Ar, the fiery, young champion of Ar. He was with a party of the men of Ar. The table with the board was set in the center of the stage, at the foot of the huge, sloping, semicircular amphitheater. It seemed small and far away.

  Scormus lifted his hands to the crowd, the sleeves of his robe falling back over his arms.

  He wore a cape, which was removed from him by two other players of Ar.

  He threw his cap into the crowd. Men fought wildly to possess it.

  He lifted again his arms to the crowd.

  There was then another cheer, for Centius of Cos, with the party of Cos, had emerged upon the stage. I heard now the anthem of Cos being sung.

  Centius of Cos walked to the edge of the stone stage, some five feet above the pit, and lifted his hand to the crowd. He smiled.

  The amphitheater, of course, is used for more than Kaissa. It is also used for such things as the readings of poets, the presentations of choral arrangements, the staging of pageants and the performances of song dramas. Indeed, generally the great amphitheater is not used for Kaissa, and the Sardar matches are played in shallow fields, before lengthy sloping tiers, set into the sides of small hills, many matches being conducted simultaneously, a large vertical board behind each table serving to record the movements of the pieces and correspond to the current position. The movements of the pieces are chalked on the left side of the board, in order; the main portion of the board consists of a representation of the Kaissa board and young players, in apprenticeship to masters, move pieces upon it; one has thus before oneself both a record of the moves made to that point and a graphic representation of the current state of the game. The movements are chalked, too, incidentally, by the young players. The official scoring is kept by a team of three officials, at least one of which must be of the caste of players. These men sit at a table near the table of play. Games are adjudicated, when capture of Home Stone does not occur, by a team of five judges, each of which must be a member of the caste of players, and three of which must play at the level of master.

  “Scormus of Ar will destroy him,” said a man.

  “Yes,” said another.

  Behind the table of play on the stage, and a bit to the right, was the table for those who would score. There was a man there from Ar, and one from Cos, and a player from Turia, Timor, a corpulent fellow supposed to be of indisputable integrity and one thought, at any rate, to be of a city far enough removed from the problems of Cos and Ar to be impartial. Also, of course, there were hundreds of men in the tiers who would simultaneously, unofficially, be recording the match. There was little danger of a move being incorrectly recorded. An official in such a situation insane enough to attempt to tamper with the record of the moves would be likely to be torn to pieces. Goreans take their Kaissa seriously.

  I saw now upon the stage Reginald of Ti, who was the elected administrator of the caste of players. A fellow with him carried the sand clocks. These clocks are arranged in such a way that each has a tiny spigot which may be opened and closed, this determining whether sand falls or not. These spigots are linked in such a way that when one is open the other must be closed; the spigot turned by a given player closes his own clock’s sand passage and opens that of his opponent; when the clocks must both be stopped, as for an adjournment of play, they are placed on their side by the chief judge in the match, in this case Reginald of Ti. There are two Ahn of sand in each player’s clock. Each player must complete forty moves before his clock is empty of sand, under pen
alty of forfeit. The clocks improve tournament play which otherwise could become contests not of Kaissa but of patience, the victory perhaps going to him who was most willing to outsit his opponent There was a movement among some of the younger players to divide the sand in such a way that each player would have one Ahn for the first twenty moves, and one Ahn for the second twenty moves, subject to the same forfeiture conditions as the two-Ahn clock. The point of this, I was told, would be to improve Kaissa in the second Ahn. It was true that many times even masters found themselves in time pressure in the second Ahn, having perhaps only a few Elm sand left for eight or ten moves. On the other hand, there seemed little likelihood of this Innovation being accepted. Tradition was against it, of course. Also, it was felt preferable by many for a player to be able to decide for himself, under the conditions of a given game, the duration of his speculations on a given move. He is thought by many better able to govern his own play when there is only a single time pressure to be considered, that of the full two Ahn, I rather agree with the latter view. There are precision chronometers on Gor, incidentally, and a more mechanical method of time control is technically feasible. The sand clocks, on the other hand, tend to be a matter of tournament tradition.

  Centius of Cos tossed his cap into the crowd and men, too, fought to possess it.

  He lifted his arms to the crowd. He seemed in a good mood.

  He walked across the stage, in front of the table of play, to greet Scormus of Ar. He extended his hand to him in the comraderie of players. Scormus of Ar, however, angrily turned away.

  Centius of Cos did not seem disturbed at this rebuff and turned about again and, lifting his hands again to the crowd, returned to the side of the stage where his party stood.

  Scormus of Ar paced angrily on the stage. He wiped the palms of his hands on his robe.

  He would not look upon, nor touch, Centius of Cos in friendship. Such a simple gesture might weaken his intensity, the height of his hatreds, his readiness to do battle. His brilliance, his competitive edge, must be at its peak. Scormus of Ar reminded me of men of the caste of Assassins, as they sometimes are, before they begin their hunt. The edge must be sharp, the resolve must be merciless, the instinct to kill must in no way be blunted.