Mercenaries of Gor coc-21

by John Norman

  "Perhaps you are right." I said.

  "If I were a man," she said, "I would be merciless with them." I was silent.

  "I would teach them their sex, and quickly, and no two ways about it," she said. "It is perhaps fortunate for them that you are not a man," I said.

  "Perhaps," she laughed.

  "You are not a man," I said.

  "I know," she said.

  "Do you?" I asked.

  "Of course," she said.

  "You are a beautiful young woman," I said.

  She blushed, even with the wind against her face.

  "Perhaps you should hope, and desperately," I said, "that you never fall slave." "Why," she asked.

  "Because perhaps you might fall into the hands of a fellow who might be as rigorous and strict with you, as you would be, or as you seem to claim you would be, had you a female such as yourself in your power, and you were a man." "But I am a free woman."

  "Feiqa was once free," I said.

  "Not really," she said.

  "Oh," I asked.

  "No," she said. "I spoke to Feiqa the other day. I asked her if she was a natural slave. Do you know what she said?"

  "No," I said.

  "She said, " "Yes.

  "I think it true," I said.

  "Is it true that she begged bondage," asked Boabissia, "that she chose slavery of her own free will?"

  "Yes," I said.

  "What a fool," said Boabissia.

  "Perhaps," I said. To be sure, such a decision should not be made lightly. Such a decision may be made of one's own free will, but it cannot be revoked by one's own free will, for, after it is made, one is then helpless to alter or influence one's new condition in any way.

  "You do not think so?" asked Boabissia.

  "No," I said. "Why not?" asked Boabissia.

  "Suppose some women were natural slaves," I said.

  "Some wicked, low women?" asked Boabissia.

  "If you like," I said.

  "Continue," she said.

  "If some women are natural slaves, and know this in their hearts," I said, "would you prefer that they conceal this from the world? Do such lies please you? Do you commend them, truly? Would you advise these women to indulge in deceit, to rejoice in the practice of hypocrisy? What do you say to their needs? Are these of no importance, because they may not appeal to you, personally? Do you encourage them to deprivation? Do you really prescribe for them in their tumult and yearning larger and larger, and more and more bitter, does of frustration? Must everyone be as you think perhaps you yourself should be, as you desperately command yourself to be? What do you fear? What accounts for your hostility, your venomous resentment? Would you truly keep them from their natural fulfillment?"

  "I suppose not," said Boabissia, "if they are truly such things."

  "Yet, there are some I have heard of," I said, "who might deny a natural slave her bondage, even by law, no matter what might be the mental, emotional and physical damage of this."

  "That is absurd," said Boabissia. "Slavery is fitting, morally and legally, for the natural slave, of course. No one in their right mind could conceive of denying that."

  "For natural slaves?" I said.

  "Yes," she said.

  "A wench such as Feiqa?" I said.

  "Of course," said Boabissia.

  "In such a case then," I said, "if Feiqa is a natural slave, it might be fitting, don't you think, that she acknowledged this, and then entered humbly upon her authentic reality?"

  "Yes," said Boabissia, "as she is such a slut,"

  "Perhaps you think it was even morally incumbent upon her, given what she was, to have done so?" I asked.

  "I think it was fitting, that it was fully appropriate," said Boabissia, uneasily, "but I do not think it was her actual duty to have done so."

  "Then you might see her act, considering all that is involved, the bold confession, the loss of status, the stern nature of bondage, the now belonging helplessly and totally to a master, how free women will now treat her and look upon her, as the act of a very brave woman," I said.

  "Or of a very desperate one," said Boabissia, "perhaps one who has fought with herself for so long and so painfully that at last she can stand it no longer, and in piteous surrender and relief flings herself to the feet of a man, where she belongs."

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "Such a fate is appropriate for natural slaves," said Boabissia scornfully. "The sooner they get the collars on their necks the better."

  "The better?" I asked.

  "The better for themselves, the better for men, the beasts, and the better for noble free women, whom they can then no longer pretend to be like."

  "I am glad to hear you say that," I said.

  "Oh?" asked Boabissia.

  "Yes," I said, "for all women are natural slaves."

  "No!" said Boabissia. "No!"

  "And no woman," I said, "can be completely fulfilled unless she understands this, accepts it and behaves accordingly."

  "No!" said Boabissia. "No! No!"

  "It is just a theory," I said.

  Boabissia clung to the rail, gasping. Her hands were white on the rail. She was trembling.

  "Are you all right," I asked.

  "Yes," she whispered, her head down, clinging to the rail. I could not help thinking how lovely a collar would look upon her throat.

  She looked up. "It is only a theory, is it not?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  She shook, clinging to the rail.

  "To be sure," I said, "it may be a true theory." She did not respond. I then, seeing that she was distressed, returned to my seat. After a time, she returned to, too, to her place on the bench. She did not meet my eyes, then, nor those of Hurtha, nor, I think, of any of the other men in the cart.

  19 The Checkpoint

  "They are gone!" I whispered, tensely.

  "What are gone?" asked Hurtha, sitting up in the furs, a few feet from me. The camp had been stirring now for better than an Ahn.

  "The letters of safety," I said, "those of safe conduct for our party." "What is wrong?" asked Boabissia, her hair wet and loose, come from the nearby stream, where she had washed it.

  "Our letters of safety," I said, "are gone. I had them here, in the sheath." "Perhaps they have fallen out," she said.

  "No," I said. "They were firmly lodged within. They could be withdrawn only purposefully."

  "There is supposedly a checkpoint down the road," said Boabissia. "I heard of it last night."

  "So, too, doubtless," said I, "did the thief."

  "We were all about," said Boabissia. "How could anyone have done it?" "Presumably it could have been done only by one practiced in stealth, who knew for what he was searching, and where it might be found. He might even have had a tool for the extraction of the papers."

  "The blade was in the sheath, was it not," asked Boabissia, "and the sheath beside you?"

  "Yes," I said, "and the sheath was on its strap, slung about my shoulder. The blade would have had to be removed, I assume, and then replaced, after the extraction of the papers."

  "Why would it be replaced?" asked Hurtha. "That the absence of the papers not be immediately noticed," I said. "I would not have noticed the matter had I not, as a matter of habit, this morning, tested the draw of the blade."

  This habit, unnecessary and trivial though it may seem, is one inculcated in warriors, in many cities. The theory is not only that it is well to practice the draw frequently, as the first to draw may be the first to strike, but also to be familiar with it on a daily basis lest its parameters alter from time to time, due to such things as contractions and swellings of the leather, these having to do with temperature and moisture. Less obviously, but more deviously, the blade could be tightened, or even fastened, in the sheath by an enemy, by such means as a tiny wooden shim or plug, or a fine wire looped below the hilt. The practicing of the draw, and the associated testing of sheath resistance, is a small, but seldom neglected detail, in the pra
ctice of arms.

  "Such skill seems impossible," said Boabissia. "Who is there who could of done such a thing?"

  "Some warriors could have done it," I said. "Many red savages could have done it."

  "But who is about here?" asked Boabissia.

  "Some thief," I said, "one who is highly skillful, one worthy even of the thief's scar of Port Kar, though I doubt he wears it." The thief's scar in Port Kar is a tiny, three pronged brand, burned into the face over the right cheekbone. It marks the members of the Caste of Thieves in Port Kar. That is the only city in which, as far as I know, there is a recognized caste for thieves. They tend to be quite proud of their calling, it being handed down often from father to son. There are various perquisites connected with membership in this caste, among them, if one is a professional thief, protection from being hunted down and killed by caste members, who tend to be quite jealous of their various territories and prerogatives. Because of the caste of thieves there is probably much less thievery in Port Kar than in most cities of comparable size. They regulate their numbers and craft in much the same way that, in many cities, the various castes, such as those of the metal workers or cloth workers, do theirs. "Feiqa," said Boabissia. "Yes, Mistress?" said Feiqa, frightened. The lovely slave had knelt immediately, being addressed by a free person.

  "Did you see anything?" asked Boabissia.

  "No, Mistress," said Feiqa, putting her head down.

  "Stupid slave," said Boabissia.

  "Yes, Mistress," whispered Feiqa, not looking up.

  "Are such papers needed at the checkpoint?" asked Hurtha.

  "Quite possibly," I said. "We are near Ar. I do not know."

  "In this camp," said Boabissia, "it seems unlikely that there could have been so skilled a thief."

  "Not necessarily," I said.

  "I think Feiqa took them," said Boabissia.

  "No, Mistress!" cried Feiqa.

  "Let her be tortured for truth," said Boabissia. It is legal in Gorean courts for the testimony of slaves to be taken under torture. Indeed, it is commonly done.

  "Please, no, Mistress!" wept Feiqa.

  "It would have been difficult for her to have done so," I told Boabissia, "for last night her hands were chained behind her, that she might awaken me intimately, not using her hands, at dawn."

  "Disgusting," said Boabissia.

  "I then put her to her back and caressed her, while recovering, until she begged to be put to further use, to which plea I acceded. I then, when pleased to do so, a time or so later released her."

  "Disgusting," said Boabissia.

  "But she is only a slave," I said.

  "True," said Boabissia. Then she looked at Feiqa. "Slut," she said. "Yes, Mistress," said Feiqa, not meeting her eyes.

  How Boabissia hated Feiqa! Did she really think it was wrong, or improper for Feiqa to give her master such incredible pleasure? I did not think so. Feiqa, after all, was a slave. It was one of her purposes. I think it was rather that she was intensely jealous of Feiqa, that she keenly resented that she, the proud Boabissia, being free, was not subject to the same imperious enforcements. "No thief so skilled, surely," said Boabissia, "would be with the refugees," She continued to regard the trembling Feiqa balefully. "It must have been the slave. Let her be tortured."

  Feiqa moaned.

  "It could not have been Feiqa," I said to Boabissia. "Last night her hands were secured," I reminded her, "chained behind her back."

  "Then who?" asked Boabissia.

  "Perhaps you," said Hurtha, coming up behind Boabissia and holding her by the upper arms, from behind. His grasp, I gathered, was not gentle.

  "No," said Boabissia. "No!" She squirmed. She was as helpless as a slave in Hurtha's grip.

  "Perhaps it is you who should be put under torture," growled Hurtha.

  "No, no!" said Boabissia. "I am free."

  "It would not be impossible for a skilled thief to be with the refugees," I said. "It would be necessary only that he, or she, had been turned out of Torcadino with other citizens."

  "Do you know of such a person?" asked Hurtha.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Who?" asked Hurtha.

  "Wait here," I said.

  "Who?" asked Hurtha.

  "One called Ephialtes, of Torcadino," I said. "I was warned about him." "Let me come with you," he said. "I shall break his neck."

  "That will not recover the letters," I said. "Wait here."

  "Some of the carts, and many of the refugees, have already left," said Boabissia, pulling her free of Hurtha's hands, he loosening his grip. She was shaking. She was not accustomed to having been so helplessly in the power of a man, as helplessly, it might seem, as might have been a slave.

  "Please, Mistress," wept Feiqa. "I did not steal the letters. I could not have done so, even if I had dared to do so, which I would not in my life have dared to do. Do not ask to have Feiqa tortured. Please be kind to Feiqa." "You are a slave," snapped Boabissia, "and, as such, are subject to torture, or to whatever free persons desire to do to you."

  "Yes, Mistress," wept Feiqa, shuddering.

  "Wait here," I said.

  Boabissia made as though to accompany me, but Hurtha's hand on her arm stayed her.

  * * *

  "Aii!" cried the fellow, startled, in pain. My hand had closed on the back of his neck. I then forced him to his knees, and then to his belly. He squirmed. I thrust his nose and mouth into the soft earth. Instantly he was quiet. I permitted him to lift his head a little. He coughed and gasped.

  "Where are they?" I asked him.

  "What?" he said, wildly, spitting out dirt.

  "The letters, three of them," I said.

  "You cannot rob me here," he said. "There are too many about!"

  To be sure, some of the refugees had gathered about us.

  "Do not interfere," I warned them.

  "Where are the letters?" I demanded.

  "What letters?" he asked.

  I again thrust his face into the dirt. He coughed and spit, and twisted his head to the side, gasping.

  "Where are they?" I demanded.

  "I know nothing of letters," he gasped.

  "Do not interfere," I warned those about. More than one of them carried heavy clubs.

  I then with a length of binding fiber, extracted from my pouch, tied his ankles together, and then fastened his hands to his ankles. He turned to his side. I then, methodically, began to go through his belongings.

  "What are you doing?" he asked. "Stop him," he called to those about. A man or two took a step forward, but none challenged me.

  "He is armed," said one of the fellows to the trussed captive.

  "I do not find them here," I said to the crowd. "What is he looking for?" asked a fellow, just come up to the group. "Letters of some sort," said a fellow to the newcomer.

  "Where are they?" I asked the captive, again.

  "I know nothing of your letters, or whatever they are," he said. "Let me go!" "Let him go," suggested a fellow in the crowd. To be sure he did not step boldly forth.

  "What do you think you are doing?" asked another fellow.

  "Let him go," said another man. That one I saw.

  "This fellow," I said to the crowd, "is a thief. He stole three letters from me. I mean to have them back."

  "I am not a thief," said the man.

  "Did you see him steal the letters?" asked a fellow.

  "No," I said.

  "Did someone else, then?" said the fellow.

  "No," I said, irritably.

  "How do you know he took them then?" asked a fellow. It seemed a fair question. "You have not recovered the letters from him," said another. "Does that not suggest that you might be mistaken? I opened the fellow's pouch. It contained coins, but there were no letters within it.

  I poured the coins back into the pouch, and pulled shut its drawstrings.

  "Where have you hidden the letters? I asked the fellow. My voice was not pleasant.

  "I do not know anythi
ng about your letters," he whispered. I think he had little doubt that I was in earnest. He was frightened.

  "Have you sold them already?" I asked.

  "I do not know anything bout them," he said. "Are you not a thief?" "No," I said.

  "Release him," said a man.

  "You have no proof," said another.

  "He has a sword," said a man. "He does not need proof."

  "Let the fellow go," said another man.

  "He is a thief," I said, angrily. "I am not a thief," said the fellow.

  "He is not a thief," said another man.

  "He is a well-known thief from Torcadino," I said.

  "Nonsense," said a man.

  "Who do you think he is?" asked another fellow.

  "Ephialtes, of Torcadino," I said.

  "I am not Ephialtes," said the man.

  "He is not Ephialtes," said another fellow.

  "He has been so identified for me, days ago." I said.

  "And who made this identification?" asked a fellow.

  "I do not now see him about," I said.

  "That is not Ephialtes," said a man.

  "Even if it were," said another fellow, "you apparently did not see the theft, and do not have clear evidence, even of a circumstantial nature, that he is the culprit." The fellow who had said this wore the blue of the scribes. He may even have been a scribe of the law.

  "Release him," suggested another fellow.

  "I am Philebus, a vintner, of Torcadino, said the man.

  "He is lying," I said.

  "That is Philebus," said a man. "I have dealt with him."

  "Release him," said a man.

  I untied the fellow. "Put your things back in your pack," I said. I watched him do this. The pack might have had a false lining. Still I had not felt the resistance of letters, nor heard the sound of paper from it, when I had tested it.

  "Cart Seventeen is ready to leave!" I heard called.

  "That is my cart," said the fellow, thrusting the last of his various articles, strewn about, into the pack.

  "It is mine, too, as well you know," I said. "Do not fear. I shall accompany you to the cart and see that you board safely." I had no intention of letting him out of my sight. Although I had no proof of the sort which might convince a praetor I was confident that it was Ephialtes of Torcadino who had stolen the letters. It was ironic. I had ridden in the very cart with him.