Quarry of Gor, page 32
I have mentioned “registered swordsmen.”
“Houses” register swordsmen, accrediting them in virtue of tests of skills. Few applicants qualify. Full members of a house will be registered swordsmen, but not all registered swordsmen are members of a house.
Several of these houses, among them the House of Hesius, are institutions several generations old. They are not only open to recruitment but sometimes acquire male children, even infants, to raise to the sword, so to speak.
I looked about.
The stands were now filled.
I was startled by the blast of a horn.
“It begins,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
Chapter Thirty-One
How Bruno of Torcadino Concluded his Afternoon
“Mind this slave,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“My pleasure,” said the fellow.
I winced as the fellow put his hand in my hair, twisting it in his fist.
“You may beg not to be hurt,” said the fellow.
“She cannot speak,” said Bruno of Torcadino, “but she begs.”
“Very well,” said the fellow, loosening his grip, but not releasing my hair.
“What are you doing?” asked the fellow, for Bruno of Torcadino had lurched upward, bracing himself with the crutch, from the bench.
“The “Challenge Matches” are nearly done,” said Bruno of Torcadino. “If I am to participate, I must hasten.”
“Do not,” said the fellow. “Resume your seat.”
But Bruno of Torcadino had already accessed the steps downward, toward the sand. He descended awkwardly.
“Come back,” said the fellow in whose grasp was my hair.
Each step down was gained with seeming difficulty.
“Come back,” called the fellow. Then he added, “You are mad!”
I did not fear that Bruno of Torcadino was mad. I thought him coldly, calculatedly sane. I had also seen the movement of his sword at the edge of the Canal of the Sea Sleen. I had little doubt that he, when whole, would have been a most dangerous swordsman, and I had little doubt that some remnant of fearsome skills might be retained. Yet he seemed a pathetic, perhaps demented, figure as he struggled down the stairs toward the sand.
It took very little time, one man calling the attention of others to the matter, the business then coursing through the crowd, before his descent was marked. Awe and disbelief, astonishment and even alarm, were the first reactions of the crowd. Most, doubtless, thought him confused or mad.
On the sand, he hobbled to the judges’ table, which was below the officials’ box, the place of the announcers and supervisors, higher in the stands.
He turned to the crowd, and cried out, “Challenge!”
After a moment of incredulity, someone laughed, and, a moment later, the stands roared with laughter.
There were three judges at the table. One seemed angry, very angry, perhaps thinking Bruno of Torcadino’s presence mocked the games. Another judge gestured that he should leave the sand. The third judge gestured, almost surreptitiously, to two attendants to approach, presumably to escort him back to his seat, if not from the high-walled, canvas enclosure as a whole.
Bruno of Torcadino held up a silver tarsk, which flashed in the sun, and then placed it on the judges’ table.
He lifted his head to the amused crowd.
“Challenge!” he cried once more.
The judges conferred.
Bruno of Torcadino could no longer be dismissed.
A coin had been placed.
“One coin, a silver tarsk, has been placed,” called the judge. “Is it matched?”
The stands were silent.
I knew that yesterday’s looting had netted Bruno of Torcadino several coins, many of comparable value. I also knew that his wagering, abetted by the runners, during the “Fencing Matches” and the “Blood Matches” had been unusually successful. He seemed to have an uncanny sense of degrees of prowess, even before the first bright contact of steel. Too, several times before my purchase, I later learned, he had frequented the Gambles and familiarized himself with the bouts of several contestants, though then refraining from betting, perhaps to avoid calling attention to himself. At this point, today, despite his remarkably successful wagering, he had not yet turned his winning slips into coins. That could be done later at the guarded money tables, if one were able, if one were alive. I suspect that he had placed but one tarsk on the table to suggest either limits to his affluence or some diffidence as to his skills. On the other hand, a silver tarsk is a coin of not inconsiderable value. For many Goreans, a silver tarsk might represent the savings of several months.
After a time, a voice from the stands called, “It is matched.”
Bruno of Torcadino seemed to slip for a moment, and then recover his balance. He then shrank down, and seemed weak, and frail.
I would have been overcome with pity, save that I knew Bruno of Torcadino. I felt cold.
“The challenger is a cripple,” called the judge to the stands. “Withdraw your match!”
“It is not withdrawn,” called the voice back.
This announcement was met with some derisive commentary. Too, there was some hissing, and some sounds reminiscent of the bleating of verr and the grunting of tarsks.
“It is not withdrawn,” repeated the voice, belligerently.
“That will be an easy tarsk,” called a fellow.
The judge then called again to the man in the stands. “Will you be content with first blood?”
“Yes,” said the fellow.
This concession was met with approval in the stands.
The judge then turned to Bruno of Torcadino. “Do you find First Blood acceptable?”
“Of course,” said Bruno of Torcadino, as though gratefully.
This acquiescence was met with laughter, and, I think, some relief, in the stands.
Bruno of Torcadino and the acceptor of his challenge, he now descended from the stands, and a second tarsk put beside the first, stripped away their garments to the waist.
One of the judges cautioned the acceptor of the challenge, “Do not wound or mark deeply. A scratch will do.”
“We shall see,” said the man. “Sometimes a blade slips.”
A second judge regarded the weapon of Bruno of Torcadino, uneasily. It was short, double-bladed, light, and heavily oiled. It is common to oil swords, lightly, to protect them from rust. When a blade is heavily oiled it seems clear that something may be in mind which goes beyond simple maintenance. An oiled blade enters and withdraws from flesh more easily. This is an advantage in First Blood contests, where a light touch may be sufficient for a win. The oiled blade is also easier to pull free should the blade be jammed between ribs. This can be an advantage in Last Blood contests, particularly if more than one contestant is involved. The third judge held up a small hollow bar, on a cord, and took a light hammer in his hand.
The combatants faced one another, at a distance of three paces.
Scarcely had the bright note of the light hammer on the small bar rang out than Bruno of Torcadino apparently lost his balance and fell at the feet of the acceptor of his challenge.
“First Blood,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
The acceptor of the challenge stepped back, puzzled. “Of what does he speak?” he asked. “He fell. The dolt cannot even stand. Both tarsks are mine.”
“This is that of which he speaks,” said the adjudicating judge, wiping a finger across the abdomen of the acceptor of the challenge. At the tip of his finger was a red streak.
The acceptor of the challenge cried out in disbelief, and rage. “It is an accident,” he cried. “I did not even feel it! It is a fluke, luck, chance, a mishap!”
“You did not see the blade,” said the judge.
The acceptor of the challenge, furiously indignant, howling with rage, uttering objections and imprecations, denied redress, was politely escorted by two attendants from the sand.
Bruno of Torcadino then hobbled, lurching, to the judges’ table, and placed one of the two silver tarsks on the other.
Then, coughing, wavering, seemingly finding it difficult to speak, he lifted his right hand, sword grasped, in the air. “Challenge!” he burst out, and then his body shook, with coughing. To speak briefly, four men, in turn, initially assured and eager, each confident, each intending to win several tarsks at the risk of one, such stakes generously granted, responded to the challenges of Bruno of Torcadino. After the second of the four men, the crowd became silent and watchful. Clearly more was going on than was evident on the surface. Bruno of Torcadino was no longer a joke. It was no longer clear that he was a fool or mad. Each blood he drew he drew from a wound wider and deeper than its predecessors. Challenges ceased.
Bruno of Torcadino went to the judges’ table, and scraped his winnings into his purse.
“Challenge, and Last Blood! Last Blood!” screamed a distraught figure, disheveled and agitated, racing down the steps to the sand, a sword in hand.
“Stop!” cried one of the judges.
“Away, off the sand!” said another.
“Last Blood!” screamed the man.
Bruno of Torcadino turned to face the newcomer. It was he who had first been on the sand with him, who had been led away by attendants, dissatisfied, howling with misery and rage, screaming of misplay and injustice, drunk with hate, unwilling to accept defeat, humiliated by the loss of a drop of blood, the token of an ocean of shame, convinced of trickery, deceit, and chicanery.
Bruno of Torcadino regarded the man, evenly. Then, after a moment, he spoke. “Shall I accept your challenge?” he asked.
There was a long moment of silence.
It was hard to know what passed between the two men at that time.
Then, suddenly, the man turned about and fled away, up the stairs, and disappeared in the crowd, which then began to disperse.
“Who is that man?” asked Bruno of Torcadino.
“Do not mind him,” said one of the judges. “He is a knave, a killer, a fugitive from five cities, and a coward.”
“His name?” asked Bruno of Torcadino.
“Vas, of Anango,” said a judge.
“I may be able to make use of him,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“Avoid him,” said the leader of the judges.
“How can I do that, if I am going to kill him?” asked Bruno of Torcadino.
Silence divided the space between the judges and Bruno of Torcadino.
“You may wear a cap with five red slashes,” said a judge.
“I shall not do so,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“To such a cap you are entitled,” said the second judge.
“I do not advertise prowess,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“That is your first move?” said the leader of the judges.
“Yes,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
A short time later Bruno of Torcadino joined me on the bench. The fellow in whose charge I had been placed released my hair. Sometimes, as events on the sand below had ensued, his hand would tighten, this communicating his interest and excitement to me.
Men drew aside now as Bruno of Torcadino passed amongst them. Some smiled. None ventured to touch him. Some drew back in fear.
He had turned in his slips at the money tables and filled his purse.
“Now,” said Bruno of Torcadino, “our finances are repaired. I can hire men, and have them in readiness.”
We then made our way to the crowded pier, to wait for one of the game ships, to return to the Southern Gate.
“Swordsman,” said a voice.
We turned about, and I knelt.
It was the young man with the strange hair, Alan, of the House of Hesius.
“I congratulate you,” said Alan. “I wished to tender you respect.”
Bruno of Torcadino nodded.
“I watched,” said Alan. “Your skills are formidable. I could learn much from you.”
“I do not teach,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“Guard your secrets,” said Alan.
“And you yours,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“You did not kill,” said Alan. “You did not change the challenges.”
A changed challenge allows a contestant to withdraw without penalty.
“Once I killed for sport,” said Bruno of Torcadino. “I no longer do so.”
“Your handicap?” said Alan.
“Of course,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“May I see your sword?” asked Alan.
“If you wish,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
This accession surprised me, but no quarrel was afoot, many were about, and there seemed a sort of fellowship, a kinship, or understanding, between these two, both of whom, I gathered, was a master swordsman, fellow citizens, as it is said, “in the city of blades.”
“A fine weapon,” said Alan. “It is muchly oiled.”
“One must be ready,” said Bruno of Torcadino. “Can you read?”
“Ahh,” said Alan, softly, awed, holding the sword to the light. “I suspected this.”
I gathered that there was some tiny inscription on the blade.
“The Taurentians,” whispered Alan.
“Once,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“The palace guard, of the Central Cylinder of Ar,” said Alan, “the private guards of Ubars, of Ubaras.”
The blade was then returned, almost reverently, to Bruno of Torcadino.
Clearly the young man was awed.
“I have watched your play, more than once,” said Bruno of Torcadino. “Your blade is worthy of the Taurentians.”
“Surely not,” whispered Alan.
“Take your sword to Ar,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
“Board, board now,” called a pilot. “Board for the Southern Gate.”
“I wish you well,” said Alan.
“I wish you well,” said Bruno of Torcadino.
As the game ship, well oared, smoothly rowed, clove its way through the choppy waters toward the Southern Gate, Bruno of Torcadino spoke. “I am going to recruit men,” he said. “I shall find them in taverns, some of which you know, the Golden Chain, and the Silken Rope.”
I put my head down, that he not read my features.
I was excited, exhilarated. I must not betray my emotions.
I trusted that he would not, as usual, let me from his sight. How I had longed for an opportunity to reach the Golden Chain! Surely he knew that I had been owned there. Doubtless he deemed my collar and my silence would be enough to keep me in his keeping.
I trusted he was mistaken in this.
I was sure that if I could reach the Golden Chain, all would be well. I would then be free of Bruno of Torcadino. I would then be safe.
Chapter Thirty-Two
What Occurred in the Apartment
of Bruno of Torcadino
When Bruno of Torcadino was Absent
I rolled in frustration and fury, from one side to the other, naked, on my blanket, on the floor of the apartment of Bruno of Torcadino. Tears scalded my eyes. My shoulders and thighs were sore. I could move little before I was caught up by the chain. I was close shackled and my shackle chain was chained to the slave ring in the floor. My wrists were fastened behind my back, in slave bracelets.
It was the evening of the day following our visit to the Skerry of Lars, in consequence of which Bruno of Torcadino had muchly repaired his fortunes.
My hopes were dashed, my plans ruined.
“I go to buy men,” he had said, standing by the door, before leaving the apartment, “men who can be bought. You will remain here.”
I had hoped that he, as was commonly the case, would have kept me with him, not wishing to risk my loss. I wore his collar, I could not speak. He could have chained me to a wall in the vestibule of a tavern, if it had a vestibule, or outside a tavern, to a slave ring, as some masters did with their girls, before entering a tavern. He could even have had me hooded. What had he to fear? But, of course, if all went well, I might have been recognized, certainly at the Golden Chain, did he patronize it, or I could have, in some way, surely at the Golden Chain, did he wish to recruit within it, even at the risk of the lash, called attention to myself, created some commotion, enough to warrant an inquiry. Then Bruno of Torcadino might have been detained and questioned, and I, pending the outcome of an investigation, could have been seized and returned to the security of my cage. I was sure the tavern’s legal claim to me would be upheld by the scribes of the law. But now these trembling, glowing possibilities, as tenuous and uncertain as they might be, had closed their wings and were still.
I rolled to my back, arching my spine, and stared angrily at the ceiling, and then, uncomfortable, was going to turn to my side once more when I stopped, moving not a muscle. The ceiling white, ill-painted, and cracked, flickered in the light of the tiny tharlarion oil lamp to the side, the single source of illumination in the apartment. There was a sound on the stairs, and then someone was on the landing outside. It seemed much too early for Bruno of Torcadino to have returned from his venture to enlist cohorts. Too, I had heard nothing of the crack or scraping of his stout crutch. Perhaps someone was confused or mistaken, had entered the building by mistake, but the sounds had suggested stealth. I went to my left shoulder, drew up my legs, and made my body small. I was afraid. I heard the door tried, twice. Had I been able to speak, I would have called out, to inquire, or inform an interloper that the apartment was not empty, or cried out, to utter a warning or sound an alarm, anything to somehow rid myself of an unwelcome, unseen presence outside the door, anything to discourage an intrusion.
There was silence in the hallway outside the door.
