Magicians of Gor coc-25, page 23
part #25 of Chronicles of Counter-Earth Series
"No," he said. "I do not really believe that."
"And the slain men?" I asked.
"Well-known brigands," he said, "insults to the armbands they wear."
"And what report will you make of this?" I asked.
"Heroes, of course," said he, "slain by overwhelming odds."
"I see," I said.
"There is a game here," he said, "which I shall play/ I have no wish to lose my post. You see, the sickness of Ar infects even her conquerors. We must pretend to believe the same lies."
"I understand," I said.
"And even if I did not make such a report I do not doubt but what it would be something to that effect which would eventually reach the tent of Myron, my polemarkos."
"He is a good officer," I said.
"Yes," said the captain/ I had always heard this of Myron. To be sure, I had gathered that he had once been too much under the influence of a woman, a mere slave, who had been named Lucilina. She had been captured and was now owned by a common soldier in the retinue of Dietrich of Tarnburg. No longer was she a high slave, pampered and indulged. She was now a low slave, and among the lowest of the low, and was worked hard. She must often kneel and fear whipping. It was said, too, that in the arms of her master, well handled and mastered, she had discovered her womanhood. I doubted that Myron, for his part, would again make the mistake he had made with her. I did not doubt but what his women would now be well kept in their place, at his feet. They would kneel there, I did not doubt, in all trembling and subservience, and be in no doubt as to their collaring.
Again the captain looked angrily at the furrowed wall, the tracing of that triangle, the delka.
"Captain?" I said.
"How many do you think are in the Delta Brigade?" he asked.
"I do not know," I said. "Surely no more than a few."
"A few today may become a regiment tomorrow, and after that, who knows?"
"The merchant spoke of only two men," I reminded him.
"There had to be more than that," said the captain, "though how many it is difficult to say, perhaps ten, perhaps twelve."
"Why do you say that?" I asked.
"The victims were not civilians, not tradesmen, not potters or bakers. They were skilled swordsmen," he said.
"Perhaps then there are ten in the Delta Brigade," I said.
"I am sure there are many more," he said.
"Oh?" I said, interested.
"This sign turns up frequently in the city, and more often from day to day," he said. "It is a symbol of resistance, smeared on a wall, scratched on a flagstone, carved into a post, found inscribed on an unfolded napkin."
I had not known these things. I myself had not seen much evidence of this sort of thing. To be sure, Marcus and I usually prowled in the darkness, protected from suspicion by our armbands, as though we might be on duty. And during the day we had normal duties, guarding portals and such, or, when assigned them, rounds, usually in public areas, as today, where the inscribing of the delka would be more likely to be noticed. I suspected these delkas were mostly to be found in the alleys and the back streets of Ar.
"The scratching of the delka," I said, " might even be permitted, as an outlet for meaningless defiance, as a futile token of protest from those too helpless or weak to do more."
"I am sure you are right, for the most part," said the captain.
"Then I would not concern myself with them," I said.
"Four soldiers were found murdered this morning," said the officer, "off the Avenue of Turia. The delka was found there, too."
"I see," I said. I had certainly known nothing of this. Marcus and I, it seemed, had allies.
The officer's men, the guardsmen, looked at one another. I gathered that this was information to them, too.
"Do you wish for us to remain on duty here, my fellow and myself," I asked, "until the arrival of the wagon?"
"No," he said.
"Is there any way we may be of service?" I asked.
"We have our rounds," said the officer. He glanced at the chest on the street, outside the door of the shop.
"Yes, Captain?" I said.
"What do you think of the contents of this chest?" he asked.
"A pretty lass," I said, "although young."
"Do you think she would look well in slave silk and a collar?"
I thought about it. "Yes," I said. "But perhaps more so in a year or so."
"Did you not see how, when the lid of the chest was held open, her veil had been disarranged, that her lips and mouth might be visible?"
"It was impossible not to notice it," I said. I recalled her father had chided her about this. Such a lapse I was sure, had not been inadvertent, not on Gor, with a free woman. If it had not been overtly intentional, consciously arranged, so to speak, it had surely been covertly so, unconsciously so, a pathetic sign manifested outwardly of a dawning sexuality and an innate need whose first powerful promptings were doubtless felt even now.
"Do you think she would make a slave?" he asked.
"I assume you do not mean a child might be a slave," I said, "carried into bondage to be trained as a mere serving girl or page, to be in effect held for true bondage later, say, to be auctioned as a pleasure object, if a female, or say, to be sent to the fields or quarries, if a male."
"No," he said.
"Yes," I said. "I suppose she is ready for the block now."
"Do you think she is on the registries?" he asked.
"Probably," I said.
"But it does not really matter one way or another," he said, "as she is a girl of Ar."
"True," I said. Ar, and its contents, belonged to Cos.
"Do you know where the loot area is," he asked, "that in the district of Anbar?"
"Yes," I said.
"I would be obliged if you would see to the chest, and the slave."
I suppose the young woman within the chest could hear our conversation. I would have supposed that she would then have pounded and wept, and scratched at the inside of the chest, begging mercy, but she did not. Slaves, those fit by nature for this elegant disposition, and whose minds and bodies crave it profoundly, and will not be happy without it, pretending that they are actually free women, commonly do such things. They are often among the most express in their protestive behaviors, the most demonstrative in their lamentations, and such, believing such things are expected of them, fearing only that they will be taken seriously. But this girl was actually very quiet, lying like a caressable, silken little urt in the chest. Indeed, for a moment, I feared there might be insufficient air in the chest and that she might have fainted, or otherwise lost consciousness. But then I noted that the chest was well ventilated, as made sense, considering it had probably been prepared to conceal her days ago, if not months ago. She had doubtless not, however, expected to have its lid nailed shut, and to find herself helplessly, nakedly, at the mercy of strong men, imprisoned within it, and perhaps timidly, fearfully, trying to understand her feelings.
"My fellow and I," I said, "if you wish, will see to the chest, and the girl."
"The slave," he said.
"Yes," I said, "the slave."
"I wish you well," said the captain.
"I wish you well," I said.
He then, and his men, took their leave.
"Why did you not wish the bodies placed outside the shop?" Marcus asked of me, when the officer with his small squad had departed.
I motioned him to one side, that the girl in the chest might not overhear our conversation.
"Surely it would have been better if the bodies had been put outside," said Marcus, "that the strength of the Delta Brigade, as it is spoken of, and the effectiveness of its work, might seem displayed."
I spoke softly. "No, dear friend," I said. "Better that the carnage wrought within the shop should seem that those of Cos feared it to be known, that they were concerned to conceal it from the public."
"Ah!" said Marcus.
"But, too," I said, "do not fear that it is not known. The shop is muchly open. The door was ajar. I am confident men have spied within and see what lies strewn upon its tiles. And even if they had not, the bodies will presumably be removed and be seen then. And, too, if not this either, surely we may depend upon the tradesman to speak of such things."
"That the bodies were not put outside," said Marcus, "makes it seem as though Cos feared the Delta Brigade, and did not wish that the effectiveness of its work be known, and that is much more to the advantage of the Brigade."
"Yes," I said. "I think so."
"Accordingly," said Marcus, "its work is known, or likely to be known, but it is also made to seem that Cos fears the making broadcast of such intelligence."
"Precisely," I said.
"Thusly increasing the reputation of the Delta Brigade," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"It is a form of Kaissa, is it not?" he asked.
"Of course," I said.
"Well played," he said.
"Perhaps," I said. "But it is difficult to foresee the continuations."
"I do not like such games," he said.
"You prefer a fellow at sword point, in an open field, at noon?" I asked. "Of course," he said.
I was sympathetic with his view. The board had a thousand sides, and surfaces and dimensions, the pieces were of unknown number, and nature and value, the rules were uncertain, often you did not know whom you played, or where they were, often the moves must be made in darkness, in ignorance of your opponent's position, his pieces, his strengths, his skills, his moves.
"Perhaps, I too," I mused. Yet I had known men who enjoyed such Kaissa, the games of politics and men. My friend, Samos, of Port Kar, was one such.
"You enjoy such things," said Marcus.
"Perhaps," I said. "I am not sure." It is often easier to know others than ourselves. Perhaps that is because there is less need to tell lies about them. Few of us recognize the stranger in the shadows, who is ourself.
"I am a simple warrior," said Marcus. "Set me a formation, or a field, or a city. I think I know how to solve them, or set about the matter. Let things be clear and plain. Let me see my foe, let me meet him face to face."
"Subtlety and deception are not new weapons in the arsenal of war," I said. "They are undoubtedly as ancient as the club, the stone, the sharpened stick." Marcus regarded me, angrily.
"Study the campaigns of Dietrich of Tarnburg," I said.
Marcus shrugged, angrily.
"He has sowed silver and harvested cities," I said.
"More gates are opened with gold than iron," he said.
"You pretend to simplicity," I said. "Yet you quote from the Diaries." These were the field diaries attributed by many to Carl Commenius of Argentum. The reference would be clear to Marcus, a trained warrior.
"That I do not care for such games," said Marcus, "does not mean I cannot play them."
"How many are in the Delta Brigade? I asked him.
"Two," he smiled. "We are the Delta Brigade."
"No," I said, "there are more."
He looked at me, puzzled.
"This morning," I said, "four soldiers, doubtless Cosians, were found slain in the vicinity of the Avenue of Turia. The delka was found there."
Marcus was silent.
"We have allies," I said. "Too, I have learned that the delka appears elsewhere in Ar, presumably mostly in poorer districts."
"I do not welcome unknown allies," he said.
"At least we cannot betray them under torture, nor they us."
"Am I to derive comfort from that thought?" he asked.
"Why not?" I asked.
"We cannot control them," he said.
"Nor they us," I said.
"We began this," said Marcus. "But I do not know where it will end."
"Cos will be forced to unsheath her claws."
"And then?" he asked.
"And then we do not know where it will end," I said.
"What of the Home Stone of Ar's Station?" he asked.
"Is that your only concern?" I asked.
"For all I care, traitorous Ar may be burned to the ground," he said.
"It will be again publicly displayed," I said.
"That is part of your Kaissa?" he asked.
"Yes," I said.
"You see far ahead," he said.
"No," I said. "It is a forced continuation."
"I do not understand," he said.
"Ar will have no choice," I said.
"And if the Home Stone of Ar's Station is again displayed, what then?" he asked. "It was displayed before."
"I know a fellow who can obtain it for you," I said.
"A magician?" he asked.
I smiled.
"The Delta Brigade," he asked, "the two of us?"
"I think there are more," I said.
He looked at the delka, scratched on the exterior wall of the shop.
"You are curious as to its meaning, and its power?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
"So, too, am I," I said.
"I am afraid," he said.
"So, too, am I" I said.
"And what of this?" asked Marcus, indicating the chest on the street, near us. "Bring it along," I said.
"What are we going to do with it?" he asked.
"You will see," I said.
"You saw her mouth was uncovered," he said. "She belongs with other lewd women in the loot pits of the Anbar district, awaiting their brands and collars."
"With other needful women," I said.
"She is a slave slut," he said.
"And will perhaps one day find her rightful master," I said.
"What are we going to do with her?" he asked.
"You will see," I said.
We then went to the chest. "Help me lift it," I said.
In a moment we had it in hand. It was a bit bulky to be easily carried by one man, but it was not heavy.
We felt its contents more within it.
12 The Countries of Courage
"Put it down here," I said.
We were in a deserted alleyway, about two pasangs from the shop, rather between it and the Anbar district. It might well appear that we had been on our way to that district.
"Over her, more," I said. Marcus and I put the chest against one wall, that it might not move further in that direction. I then stepped back a bit and forcibly, with the flat of my foot, with four or five blows, kicked back the side of the chest, forcing it some inches inward, breaking it muchly from the ends, tearing it free of the nails and the lid. I delivered similar blows to the two ends of the chest, splintering it loose of nails and the back. the girl within cried out in misery. I then, with my hands, seizing it, now muchly freed, flung up the lid, revealing her within, and she cried out again, and hid her head, putting her hands over it. She lay there, terrified, among the splinters and nails, the sides and ends muchly loosened, collapsed about her. I then turned to the shambles of the chest to its side, spilling her to the stones of the alley. Shuddering she was on her belly to us and crawled to my feet, pressing her lips to them.
"She desires to please, as a slave," observed Marcus.
"Do you object?" I asked.
She now pressed her lips similarly upon the feet of Marcus.
"No," he said. "She is obviously a slave, and is both comely and desirable. Too, she is of Ar, and all of the women of Ar should be slaves."
She then knelt before us, the palms of her hands on the stones, her head down to them, as well.
"Doubtless she has seen slaves kneel in such a way," said Marcus.
"Probably," I said. It was a common position of slave obeisance.
"She is a slave," he said.
"She is frightened," I said.
"She is a slave," he said.
"That, too," I granted him.
"Look up, girl," said Marcus.
She looked up, frightened.
"Are you a slave?" asked Marcus.
Her lip trembled.
"She is legally free," I pointed out.
"Are you a slave?" pressed Marcus.
"Yes," she whispered.
"Yes, what?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," she whispered. I suspected she had used that word to men before only in her imagination, or speaking it softly to her pillow in the night. "Legally free," he said, "but still a slave, and rightfully so?" he asked. "Yes, Master," she said.
"Lacking only the legalities of the brand and collar?" he asked.
"Yes, Master!" she said.
"Yet she is young to be a slave," I said.
"Do you think we cannot be slaves?" she asked.
"Some men enjoy them," said Marcus, "squirming in the furs, panting, begging for more."
The girl closed her eyes, and sobbed. I wondered if she understood these things. "She is young," I said.
"Do you scorn me for my youth?" she asked. "Do you think we do have feelings? Do you think we are not yet capable of love, that we are not yet women? You are wrong! How little you understand us! We are young and desirable, and ready to serve!"
"You are young," I said. "Your surrender cannot be the full surrender of the mature woman, the woman experienced in life, the woman who has come to understand the barrenness of the conventions by which she is expected to abide, who has discerned the vacuity of the principles to which she is expected to mindlessly subscribe, who has learned the emptiness of the roles imposed upon her by society, roles alien to, and inimical to, the needs of her deepest self. You are not such a woman, a full, mature, knowledgeable, cognizant woman, a woman profoundly in touch with her passion and deepest self, one who has come to understand that her only hope for true happiness and fulfillment lies in obedience, love and service, one craving the collar, one yearning for a master."
"No, no, no!" she wept. "I am young, but I am a woman, and alive! Do you think that intelligence and maturity are prerogatives only of such as you! No! I am quick at my studies! I am alert! I think much! I am dutiful! I want to make a man happy, truly happy, in the fullest dimensions of his being, not a part of him, leaving the rest to hide, or shrivel and die! I cannot know my bondage if he does not learn his mastery! Why should his birthright be denied to him, and mine to me? As the master needs the slave so, too, the slave needs the master! I was taken aback by her words. I recalled how quietly she had lain in the box, that her veil had been disarranged when first the guardsmen, and Marcus and myself, had looked upon her. She was undoubtedly of high intelligence. Such is valued considerably, of course, in a slave. It makes them much better slaves. How much more tactful, sensitive and inventive are intelligent slaves! Indeed, the intelligence of some slaves blossoms in bondage, seemingly at last finding the apt environment for its flowering. To be sure, when a girl knows she may feel the lash for a mistake, she tends to become considerably more alert. "What have we here," asked Marcus, "a little scribe?"
