Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt

Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt Page 51

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too,

  gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a might laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of

  triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.

  “Such may be done to slaves,” I said to the new slave,.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, on all fours.

  “The other garment, I take it,” I said to the new slave,” is finished.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Mistress finished it yesterday.”

  (pg. 344) “Put it on for me,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room

  where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the

  bounding hurt.

  I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it

  down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.

  “Master,” she announced.

  “Excellent!” I said.

  It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. It some

  respects it was rather in the style set for the tunic of state slaves. That I

  thought might fit in well with my plans.

  “Turn,” I said.

  “Yes,” I mused. “Excellent.” Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of

  garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not

  the sort of garment that would be likely to excite the envy or anger of free

  women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to

  rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It

  was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.

  “Mistress has sewed it,” she said.

  “You have done well, Phoebe,” I said. “It is perfect.”

  “Thank you, Master,” gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was

  covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches, from the

  recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries.

  Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.

  “Your skin is blotchy,” I said to Phoebe.

  She laughed, ruefully. “Yes, Master,” she said.

  The new slave, her head down, smiled.

  “Remove the garment,” I said to her. “Replace it in the chest. Then resume your

  position here, beside me, on all fours.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of the

  garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had indicated, were

  beautifully, pendant.

  “Can you write?” I asked her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I reached to her.

  “Oh,” she said, softly. “Oh!” I had taken her nipples gently, first one, and

  then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not

  forgotten their state of but a few (pg. 345) moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but

  the fact that the meaning of her present condition was intrusive in her

  consciousness.

  “Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry,” I

  said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist.

  “One need not concern you,” I said, “as you will be the mere instrument of its

  delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have a little doubt as to its

  general import.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You will deliver it to the female I designate,” I said, “and to her

  personally.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will

  be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be

  back-braceleted.”

  “As Master wishes,” she said.

  “But even so,” I said, “before being admitted to her presence, you may be double

  leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except

  as permitted.”

  “I understand, Master,” she said.

  “Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?” asked Marcus.

  “Given her story, and her collar,” I said. “I think so.”

  “The note she carries is to be written in a man’s hand,” said Marcus.

  “Of course,” I smiled.

  “Doubtless in your deft script,” he said, lying on his back, looking at the low,

  peeling ceiling above him.

  “I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing

  communication,” I said.

  “Oh!” said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break

  position.

  “The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty,

  elegant and suave,” I said.

  “That sounds like a job for your own block script,” he said. “It has many

  virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you

  could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its

  humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it’s a piquant charm all of

  its own.”

  “My master has an excellent hand!” volunteered Phoebe.

  “Were you asked to speak?” inquired Marcus.

  “No, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.” She then lay small and quiet

  beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.

  (pg. 346) “It was my hope, Phoebe,” said I, “that your master, exactly, might be

  prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered.

  “I write a simple hand,” said Marcus.

  “Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something,” I suggested.

  “No,” said Marcus.

  “Do you want me to write it?” I asked.

  “That would be disastrous,” he said.

  “Also,” I said, “my handwriting might be recognized.”

  “I hadn’t thought of that,” said Marcus.

  “You will do it then?” I asked.

  “I will write only my own hand,” he said.

  “That will be perfect,” I said.

  “What if she has seen the handwriting of the putative correspondent?” asked

  Marcus.

  “That is highly unlikely,” I said. It was unthinkable that the putative

  correspondent would initiate such a correspondence. In such a relationship the

  first note, if there were to be notes, given the risks involved, would surely

  issue from the free person.

  I touched the slave near me, on all fours, on the side of the leg.

  “You,” I said to her, “will be under no doubt, however, as to the contents of

  the other message.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. She moved, uneasily. I moved a bit, and looked at the

  ankle ring on her left ankle. I then put my hand on the ring, and then pressed

 
; my thumb a little into her leg. I then turned the ring a little on her ankle,

  shifting it a bit. There was about a quarter of an inch of slippage between the

  metal and her ankle. I then lifted the chain, a little, one of its links

  hammered shut about the ring’s staple, and let it drop to the floor. She

  shuddered at the tiny sound. I then jerked twice, softly, on the chain, that she

  might feel this small force exerted on the ring, and subsequently on her ankle,

  within it. Below the ring, behind it, her foot was small and soft. I regarded

  it, the hell, the sole, her toes. It was a small, shapely, lovely foot. And

  then, above it, close about the ankle, locked, was the ankle ring. I then

  touched her collar, and turned it a little, back and forth. She was very quiet

  while I did this. It, like the other collars, was an excellent fit. I then

  readjusted it, carefully. The lock was now again centered, at the back of the

  neck. I then touched her. “Oh, oh!” she said.

  “Steady,” I said.

  She moaned.

  (pg. 347) “Because,” I said, “you will write it.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I will dictate the contents to you,” I said, “or, if you wish, you may compose

  it, subject, of course, to my approval.”

  “As master wishes!” she said.

  “Do not break position,” I warned her.

  Marcus and I had agreed that Phoebe would not write the letter. It was better

  that it was done by a woman who had been at one time a citizeness of Ar, her

  penmanship influenced by the private schools of the city. It is a well-known

  fact, on the world, Earth, that the cursive script of diverse nationalities,

  such as the English, French and Italian, tend to differ in certain general ways,

  quite aside from the individual characteristics of particular writers. Certain

  letters, for example, tend to be formed differently, and so on. Much the same

  thing, predictably, and perhaps even more so, given the isolation of so many of

  her cities, occurs on Gor. for example, Phoebe had a beautiful, feminine hand,

  but it was natural for her, and easiest for her, of course, to write it Cosian

  script. It was not that Cosian script, was illegible, say, to folks of Ko-ro-ba

  or Ar, but rather that it was recognizably different. Thus, rather than have

  Phoebe try to disguise her hand and write in the script of Ar, Marcus and I had

  decided that the note, or letter, would be written by the new slave, whose

  background, and education, were of Ar, the same as those of the putative writer

  of the note, or letter. In the formation of most cursive letters, incidentally,

  there are few, if any, differences among the various cities. The differences

  tent to have more to do with the ‘cast’ of the hand, so to speak, its general

  appearance, a function of a number of things, such as size, spacing of letters,

  linkages among them, lengths of loops, nature of end strokes, and such. Also,

  certain letters, at least for commercial or legal, if not personal purposes,

  tended to be standardized. An excellent example are those standing for various

  weights and measures. Another familiar example is the tiny, lovely, cursive

  ‘kef’ which is the same whether it is put on a girl in Cos, or Ar, or Ko-ro-ba,

  or Thentis or Turia.

  “Oh, Master!” sobbed the slave.

  “Master!” said Phoebe, suddenly, taken by Marcus and thrust down, forcibly, to

  the boards. He looked down into her eyes, fiercely. “Yes, Master,” she said,

  lifting her arms to put them about his neck.

  “When do you think your friend, the noble Tarsk-Bit, will be prepared to act?”

  asked Marcus, evenly.

  “Please enter your slave, Master,” said Phoebe.

  “Do not be angry with him,” I said. “He had to revile the (pg. 348) Home Stone

  to see it, to examine it. “I had encouraged Marcus not to be present when this

  was done, but he had, of course, insisted upon it. In so far as it was practical

  it seemed he wished to be present at, and, in a sense, supervise, all phases of

  this delicate and, I thought at least, perilous operation. No detail was too

  unimportant to him to overlook. What could compare in importance for Marcus, for

  example, to the recovery of his Home Stone, its rescue from its captivity in Ar?

  To be sure, I think Boots had overdone the matter a bit. He, exuberant in his

  performance, probably did not realize that I was struggling a few yards behind

  him to keep Marcus from leaping upon him, blade in hand. Most of those about, of

  course, also taking no note of the reactions of Marcus, the fire in his eyes,

  and such, had been muchly amused. Boots had made a great show of his contempt

  for the Home Stone of the treacherous Ar’s station. His insults had been

  numerous, well thought out, stinging, and delivered with flair. He had even been

  applauded. It was fortunate that Marcus had not reached him. In so simple a

  manner had Boots, unbeknownst to himself, escaped unscathed, for example,

  without having had his heart slashed out of his living body.

  “When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

  “He did not mean it, what he said,” I said.

  “He sounded convincing,” said Marcus, grimly.

  “Would you have preferred that he sounded unconvincing?” I asked.

  “Master,” begged Phoebe.

  “Master!” said the new slave, suddenly. She must not, of course, break position.

  “When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

  “The facsimile must be prepared,” I said. “That takes time.”

  “When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

  “Soon, I am sure,” I said.

  “Perhaps he has already left the city,” said Marcus.

  “No,” I said.

  “Your slave begs,” said Phoebe to Marcus.

  “Your slave begs, too!” said the slave near me.

  The new slave, beside me, was on all fours. She was in this position by my will.

  I had been keeping her in this position. It is a position which a woman

  understands. I had, furthermore, checked her ankle ring, and collar. Such things

  are very meaningful to a woman. such attentions, seemingly small in themselves,

  subtly, explosively, erupt in the cognizances of her belly. Bu means of them is

  her bondage recalled to her. By means of them she understands herself the

  better, and to whom she (pg. 349) belongs. Also, such things would commonly be

  checked as a simple matter of course, just as one might check the tether on a

  verr, or the chain on a sleen. Beyond this, of course, I had, from time to time,

  as I had spoken with her, and discussed matters with Marcus, touched her,

  sometimes almost idly, while concerned with other matters. But now her body was

  tense. “Oh!” she said. Her lovely flanks quivered. She could not resist my

  touch, even involuntarily, as her knees and the palms of her hands must remain

  in contact with the floor.

  “He had better not,” said Marcus.

  “He will not,” I said. “But if he chose to do so, surely one could
not blame

  him. It is not his Home Stone. He is not a soldier. You are not his officer, or

  Ubar, or some such.”

  “True,” said Marcus.

  “Be grateful,” I said, “if he is willing to be of assistance.”

  “I wish to owe him little,” said Marcus. “I will see that he is well paid.”

  “Very well,” I said.

  “Do you think he can be prevailed upon to accept money?” asked Marcus.

  “Doubtless, if we are strenuous enough in our insistence on the matter,” I said.

  “Good,” he said, grimly.

  “He is really not a bad fellow,” I said.

  Marcus made an angry noise.

  “I think it would be better if you were not present when he makes the attempt on

  the Home Stone,” I said.

  “I will be there,” said Marcus. “He may need help.”

  “It will not be much help,” I said, “if you drop him on the spot.”

  “What does that mean?” he asked.

  “If he does manage to obtain the Home Stone and you run him through, and it

  drops out of his cloak on the street, and it becomes immediately apparent to the

  guards about that there appear to be two Home Stones of Ar’s Station in the

  vicinity, what then?”

  “I shall seize it up and make away,” he said.

  “There may be a hundred guards about,” I said.

  “Doubtless you will be at hand,” he said.

  “But what if there are one hundred and one guards about?” I said.

  “You jest,” he said.

  “What do you think your chances will be of getting the stone out of the city,

  let alone to Port Cos?”

  “I do not know,” he admitted.

  (pg. 350) “The alarm would be sounded within Ihn,” I said.

  “Doubtless,” he granted.

  “You would be fortunate if you managed to get the stone as far as the Teiban

  Market,” I said. “If I did not know your skill with the sword, I would have

  placed a bet you would not get it as far as Clive.” This street actually entered

  the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, from the west.

  “I have nerves of steel,” said Marcus. “I can control my emotions with

  perfection.”

  “As five days ago?” I asked.

 

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