Magicians of Gor coc-25, page 21
part #25 of Chronicles of Counter-Earth Series
"I am not of Ar," I said to Marcus.
"Nor am I," he said.
"Thus they could not have been speaking to us," I said.
"We could kill them," said Marcus.
"In broad daylight?" I asked.
"Perhaps they are nice fellows," said Marcus.
"Perhaps," I said.
"But then one cannot always permit oneself to be deterred by such considerations," he said.
"True," I said.
"They think they own the street," he said.
"Doubtless an impression they have gathered from those of Ar," I said.
"Surely," he said.
"There is nothing to arouse Ar," I said.
"No," he said.
"If Marlenus were alive, and might return," I said, "that might bring Ar to her feet, angry and mighty, like an awakened larl."
"If Marlenus were alive," said Marcus, "he would have returned to Ar long ago."
"Then there is no hope," I said.
"No," said Marcus. "There is no hope."
I regarded him.
"Ar died last summer," he said, " in the delta."
I did not respond to him. I feared he was right.
We walked on then, not speaking, with rage, a helpless warrior's fury irrepressibly welling up within me.
A passer-by regarded me, startled, and hurried quickly past.
"You are angry," said Marcus.
"Are you not angry?" I asked.
"Perhaps," he said.
We heard then, behind us, running feet, laughter, a tearing of cloth, and a woman's cry. A group of young fellows was running past. We, too, were buffeted but I seized one of the lads by the wrist and, drawing him quickly across and about my body, and over my extended right leg, flung him to the stones, where I held him, my grip shifted now to the palm of his hand, his wrist bent, far back. He screamed with pain. Another fraction of a hort, the least additional pressure, and his wrist would be broken. Almost at the same instant I heard Marcus' sword leave its sheath, warning back the other lads, some six of them. Marcus, I noted, was suddenly, relievedly, in an eager, elated mood. He hoped for their advance. He was quite ready, even eager, for the release of shedding blood. I felt my own nostrils flare as I suddenly, excitedly, drank in the air of Ar, exhilarated, fiercely alive. The six lads backed away. I had little doubt he would have cut them down had they come with the compass of his blade. One of the lads, the leader it seemed, clutched the woman's pouch, torn from her belt, and another held her veil. I looked back tot he woman, who had been struck to her knees. She had drawn her hood about her face, that her features not be exposed publicly. Her eyes were wild in the opening within the hood.
"Do not hurt me!" screamed the lad on his knees.
I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other lads had knives.
"You are "Cosians"?" I said to them.
They looked at one another.
Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian garments and haircuts. These were called "Cosians." Such things are common where an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one's alienation from one's own society, one's repudiation of it, and one's contempt of it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible, if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, from of protest. Too, of course, such costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an additional advantage.
"Do not hurt him!" said the leader.
"You are "Cosians"?" I asked.
"No," said their leader, "we are of Ar."
"I can probably reach at least two of them," said Marcus.
The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.
"We are only lads!" said the leader, keeping his distance.
I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her features.
"Do you think she is some slave girl," I asked, "that you may strip her on the street, for your sport?"
"No," said one of the lads.
"She is a free woman, of your own city," I said.
"There is no Home Stone in Ar," he said.
"That is true," said Marcus.
"Do you make war on boys?" asked the leader.
"Now you are "boys," I said.
They were silent.
"Sheath your knives," I said.
They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust, and the second too, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter. Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than they were.
"And bring forward the pouch and veil."
"Release Decius," said the leader.
"I am not bargaining," I said.
The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist.
"Give me my veil!" demanded the woman, coming forward.
I handed it to her.
She turned about, adjusting it.
"Pick up my pouch," she said, her back to us. "Give it to me."
I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.
"Give me my pouch!" she demanded.
I looked at the group of youths.
The fellow's wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.
One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience.
I felt the woman's hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch.
Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted. "Give it to me!" she said.
"It was our mistake to interfere," said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade. "Give it to me!" said the woman.
"You are rude," I said.
She tugged at the pouch.
"Are you not grateful?" I asked.
"It demeans a free woman to express gratitude," she said.
"I do not think so," I said.
"Are you not paid for your work?" she asked.
"Are you not grateful? I asked.
"I am not a slave!" she asked.
"Are you not grateful?" I asked, again.
"Yes," she said. "I am grateful! Now, give it to me!"
"Ah," I said. "Perhaps you are a slave."
"No!" she said.
"What do you think of this free woman?" I asked Marcus.
She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.
"Do you think she might be more civil," I asked, "if she were stripped?"
"Yes," he said, "particularly if she were also branded and collared."
"She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness," I said.
"It would be in her best interest to do so," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
She released the pouch and stepped back a little.
Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.
"Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel," I said, "to be brought forth when one wishes, for various labors."
"Such women are all haughty wenches," he said. "But they quickly lose their haughtiness in bondage."
"Please," she said. "Give me the coins."
I did not release them.
"Give them to me!" she said, angrily.
"Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness? I asked. She looked at me, angrily.
"Women learn it quickly in bondage," I said.
"It is in their best interest to do so," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
"Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?" inquired Marcus. She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters.
"But then," I said, "you may not be attractive enough to be a slave."
She did not speak.
I put the pouch inside my tunic.
"Oh!" she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands. "We shall see," I said.
"Oh!" she said, startled.
Marcus held her from behind, by the arms.
I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and surveyed her features.
"I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave," I said.
She squirmed.
"Hold her wrists together," I said. I then tied them together, behind her back, with her veil.
She moaned.
She could not now readjust the veil.
"Please," she begged. "Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!"
"You were not pleasing," I said.
I then took the pouch of coins in my hands and lofted it to the group of lads some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran. The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast.
"Your lips are pretty," I said. "They could possibly be trained to kiss well." Tears sprang to her eyes.
"And lest you return home too quickly," I said, "we shall do this." I then crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a bond, fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of slack, rather like a slave girl's hobble chains.
"She might even bring a good price in a market," said Marcus.
"I am sure of it," I said.
"Sleen!" said a free woman, bundled in the robes of concealment, heavily veiled, hurrying by. Doubtless she had witnessed, from a distance, the fate of her compatriot.
"The woman of Ar should be slaves," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said. I could think of one in particular.
"It would much improve them," he said.
"Yes," I said. Slavery, of course, much improves any woman. this is because of the psychological dimorphism of the human species, that the female's fulfillment lies in her subjection to, and subjugation by, a strong male.
"But do not confuse the men of Ar with the women of Ar," I said.
"I do not feel sorry for them," he said.
"I do," I said. "They have been confused, misled and robbed."
"And not only of their goods," said Marcus.
"No," I said, "but of their pride, as well."
"And their manhood," said Marcus, bitterly.
"I do not know," I said. "I do not know."
"Their women belong at the feet of men," said Marcus.
"So, too, do all women," I said.
"True," said Marcus.
Women taken in a given city, incidentally, are usually sold out of the city, to wear their collars elsewhere. In this fashion the transition from their former to their subsequent condition is made particularly clear to them. They must begin anew, as a new form of being, that of a lovely animal, the female slave. Also, given the xenophobia common on Gor, often obtaining among cities, the distrust of a stranger, the contempt for the outsider, and such, there is a special ease in a master's relating to a foreign slave, one with whom he has never shared a Home Stone. Similarly, of course, there is a special urgency and terror on the part of the slave, in finding that she now belongs helplessly to one of a different polity. She understands that it may be difficult to please such a master, one likely to be harsh and demanding, who may despise her, who may think nothing of subjecting her to cruel punishments, and that she must accordingly, if she would even live, strive desperately to be pleasing to him. They can thus, the girl's antecedents, like her name and clothing, stripped away, and his unknown to her, begin as pure master and slave. What, if anything, will then, from this basic fiat of their relationship, develop between them? Will she, in and of herself, alone, aside from the trivia of her now-irrelevant history, become his special, unique slave? Will he, on his part, in and of himself, alone, aside from his antecedents, his station, caste, and such, become to her a very special, very individual master, perhaps even her master of masters?
We then continued on.
"You are still troubled," said Marcus.
"It is like seeing a larl tricked into destroying himself," I said, "as though he were told that the only good larl is a sick, apologetic, self-suspecting, guilt-ridden larl. It is like vulos legislating for tarns, the end of which legislation is the death of the tarn, or is transformation into something new, something reduced, pathological and sick, celebrated then as the true tarn."
"I do not even understand what you are saying," said Marcus.
"That is because you are Gorean," I said.
"Perhaps," he shrugged.
"But you see such things occurring in Ar," I said.
"Yes," he said.
"The larl makes a poor verr," I said. "The tarn makes a pathetic vulo. Cannot you imagine it hunching down, and pretending to be little and weak? Is the image not revolting? Why it is not soaring among the cliffs, uttering its challenge scream to the skies?"
Marcus looked at me, puzzled.
"The beast who was born to live on flesh is not to be nourished on the nibblings of urts," I said.
"It is hard to understand you," he said.
"It is long since I have heard the roar of the larl, the cry of the tarn," I said.
"In Ar," he said, "there are no larls, there are no tarns."
"I do not know if that is true or not," I said.
"There are only women there," he said, "and men pretending to be like women."
"Each should be true to himself," I said.
"Perhaps neither should be true to himself, or to the other," said Marcus. "Perhaps each should try to be true to those who can be true to neither."
"Perhaps," said Marcus.
I drove my fist into the palm of my hand.
"What is wrong?" he asked.
"Ar must be roused!" I said.
"It cannot be done," he said.
"Ar lacks leadership, will, a resistance!" I said.
"Lead Ar," suggested Marcus.
"I cannot do that," I said. "I am not even of Ar."
Marcus shrugged.
"There must be another!" I said.
"Marlenus is dead," he said.
"There must be another!" I wept.
"There is no other," said Marcus.
"There must be a way," I said.
"There is no way," said Marcus.
"There must be!" I said.
"Do not concern yourself," said Marcus. "Ar is dead. She died in the delta."
"In the delta?" I said.
"In the delta," said Marcus. "Indeed, we were there."
"That is possibly it," I whispered. "The delta!"
Marcus looked at me, a little wildly. Perhaps he suspected that I had gone mad. Indeed, perhaps I had.
"That may be the key," I said. "The delta!"
"I do not understand," he said.
"Are you with me?" I asked.
"Has this anything to do with the recovery of the Home Stone of Ar's Station?" he asked.
"Oh, yes," I said. "Yes, indeed!"
"Then I am surely with you," he said.
"Is your sword still thirsty?" I asked.
"Parched," he said, smiling.
"Good," I said.
11 The Delka
"Stop babbling, man!" ordered the guardsman, an officer in the scarlet of Ar, though his accent proclaimed him Cosian.
"It was so quick!" wept the merchant. "My shop, my wares, ruined!"
"Aii," said another of the guardsmen with the officer. There were four such men with him. They were, I think, of Ar. They were looking about the shop, one of ceramics. There were many shards about. Shelves had been pulled down. Among the shards and wreckage, by count, there were seven bodies, all Cosian merchants. "Who are you?" asked the officer, looking up.
"Auxiliaries, Captain," said I, "in the vicinity."
"See what carnage has been wrought here," said the officer, angrily.
"Looters?" I asked.
"Explain now," said the captain to the merchant, "what occurred. Control yourself. Be calm."
"I am sick!" wept the merchant.
"I am not of the physicians," said the officer. "I must have an account of this. There must be a report made."
"It was at the ninth Ahn," said the merchant, sitting on a stool.
"Yes?" said the officer.
"These fellows entered the shop," he said. "They claimed to be tax collectors."
"These fellows presented their credentials?" asked the captain.
"They are not tax collectors" said one of the guardsmen. "They are fellows come in from the camp, on passes. They are well known on the avenue. They pose as tax collectors, and then, in that guise, take what they wish."
"What did they want?" asked the captain of the merchant.
"Money," he said.
"You gave it to them?" asked the officer.
"I gave them what I had," he said, "but it was little enough. The collectors had come only five days earlier. They leave us destitute!"
