by John Norman
“I would ask you that,” he said.
“Do you favor Scormus of Ar?” I inquired.
“Assuredly,” he said.
I nodded. I decided it would be best to search for a merchant who was on the fair’s staff, or find one of their booths or praetor stations, where such information might be found.
I stepped again to one side. Down the corridor between tents, now those of the carvers of semiprecious stones, came four men, in the swirling garb of the Tahari. They were veiled. The first led a stately sand kaiila on which a closed, fringed, silken kurdah was mounted. Their hands were at their scimitar hilts. I did not know if the kurdah contained a free woman of high state or perhaps a prized female slave, naked and bejeweled, to be exhibited in a secret tent and privately sold.
I saw two men of the Wagon Peoples pass by, and, not a yard from them, evincing no concern, a fellow in the flowing robes of Turia. The fairs were truce ground.
Some six young people, in white garments, passed me. They would stand before the palisade, paying the homage of their presence to the mysterious denizens of the Sardar, the mysterious Priest-Kings, rulers of Gor. Each young person of Gor is expected, before their twenty-fifth birthday, to make the pilgrimage to the Sardar, to honor the Priest-Kings. These caravans come from all over known Gor. Most arrive safely. Some are preyed upon by bandits and slavers. More than one beauty who thought to have stood upon the platforms by the palisade, lifting laurel wreaths and in white robes singing the glories of the Priest-Kings, has found herself instead looking upon the snow-capped peaks of the Sardar from the slave platforms, stripped and heavily chained.
Colorful birds screamed to one side, on their perches. They were being sold by merchants of Schendi, who had them from the rain forests of the interior. They were black-visaged and wore colorful garments.
There were many slave girls in the crowd, barefoot, heeling their masters.
Schendi, incidentally, is the home port of the league of black slavers. Certain positions and platforms at the fairs are usually reserved for the black slavers, where they may market their catches, beauties of all races.
I stopped to watch a puppet show. In it a fellow and his free companion bickered and struck one another with clubs.
Two peasants walked by, in their rough tunics, knee-length, of the white wool of the Hurt. They carried staves and grain sacks. Behind them came another of their caste, leading two milk verr which he had purchased.
I returned my attention to the puppet show. Now upon its tiny stage was being enacted the story of the Ubar and the Peasant. Each, wearied by his labors, decides to change his place with the other. Naturally this does not prove fruitful for either individual. The Ubar discovers he cannot tax the bosk and the Peasant discovers his grain cannot grow on the stones of the city streets. Each cannot stop being himself, each cannot be the other. In the end, of course, the Ubar returns gratefully to his throne and the peasant, to his relief, manages to return to the fields in time for the spring planting. The fields sing, rejoicing, upon his return. Goreans are fond of such stories. Their castes are precious to them.
A slave girl in the crowd edged toward me, and looked up at me. She was alone.
I saw a short fellow in they street crowd. He was passing by. He was squat and broad, powerful, apparently very strong. Though the weather was cool in the early spring he was stripped to the waist. He wore trousers of fur, and fur boots, which came to the knee. His skin was dark, reddish like copper; his hair was bluish black, roughly cropped; his eyes bore the epicanthic fold. About his shoulder he had slung some coils of braided rope, fashioned from twisted sleen hide, and, in his hand, he carried a sack and a bundle of tied furs; at his back was a quiver containing arrows, and a short bow of sinew-bound, layered horn.
Such men are seldom seen on Gor. They are the natives of the polar basin.
The herd of Tancred had not appeared in the north. I wondered if he knew this.
I had arranged with Samos to have a ship of supplies sped northward.
Then he was gone, lost in the crowd.
The slave girl put her head down. I felt her timidly biting at my sleeve.
She lifted her eyes to mine. Her eyes were dark, moist, pleading.
Slave girls often need the caress of men.
“I followed you,” she said, “in the crowds.”
“I know,” I said. I had known this, for I was of the warriors.
“I find you very attractive, Master,” she whispered.
She held my arm, closely, looking up at me. Her breasts, sweet, pendant, white, were lovely in the loose rep-cloth of her tunic.
“Please, Master,” she whispered.
“Are you on an errand for your master?” I asked.
“No, Master,” she said. “I am not needed until supper.”
I looked away from her.
Her hands, small and piteous, grasped my arm. “Please, Master,” she said.
I looked down into her eyes.
There were tears in them.
“Please, Master,” she said, “take pity on me. Take pity on the miserable needs of a girl.”
“You are not mine,” I told her. “You are a pretty little thing, but I do not own you.”
“Please,” she said.
“Your master,” I said, “if he chooses, will satisfy your needs. If he does not, he will not.” For all I knew she might be under the discipline of deprivation. If that were so, I had no wish to impair the effectiveness of her master’s control over her. Besides I did not know him. I did not wish to do him dishonor, whoever he might be.
“Does your master know you are begging in the streets?” I asked.
“No,” she said, frightened.
“Then,” said I, “perhaps I should have your hands tied and write that upon your body.”
“Oh, no!” she cried.
“Is this girl bothering you?” asked a merchant, one whose head bore the talmit of the fair’s staff. Behind him were two guardsmen, with whips.
“No,” I said. Then I said, “Where are the tables for the gambling on Kaissa?”
‘They have been arranged but this morning,” he said. ‘They may be found in the vicinity of the public tents near the amphitheater.”
“My thanks, Officer,” said I ‘The lines are long,” he said. “I wish you well,” I said.
“I wish you well,” he said. They left.
“Thank you, Master,” said the girl. At a word from me, she would have been lashed.
“Kneel and kiss my feet,” I said.
She did so.
She then looked up.
“Run now to your master,” I said. “Crawl to him on your belly, and beg his touch.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. She leaped to her feet, frightened, and sped away.
I watched her disappear in the crowds.
I laughed. What a meaningless, lovely, delicious little slave she was. How helpless she was in her needs.
Another slave girl in the crowd smiled at me. I grinned at her, and turned away.
It is pleasant to live on a world where there are female slaves. I would choose to live on no other sort of world.
Before I left, the fair I would inspect the major market, that beyond the smithies and chain shops, where the most numerous exhibition platforms were erected, near the great sales pavillion of blue and yellow silk, the colors of the slavers.
If I found girls who pleased me I could arrange for their transportation to Port Kar. The shipment and delivery of slaves is cheap.
I turned down the street of the dealers in artifacts and curios. I was making my way toward the public tents in the vicinity of the amphitheater. It was there that the tables for the odds on the Kaissa matches might be found.
In traversing the street I saw the fellow from the polar basin, he stripped to the waist, with fur trousers and boots. He was dealing with a large fellow, corpulent and gross, who managed one of the booths. There was a thin scribe present as well behind the counter. The fel
low in the furs, the rope coiled over his shoulder, apparently spoke little Gorean. He was taking objects from the fur sack he had carried with him. The large fellow behind the booth’s counter was examining them. The objects would not stand on the counter, for ‘they were rounded, as are shapes in nature. They were intended to be kept in a pouch and, from time to time, taken forth and examined. All details must be perfect, from every perspective, as in nature. Some collectors file such objects that they may be more easily displayed on a shelf or in a case. The native of the polar basin, on the other hand, holds them when he looks at them, and they have his attention as he does so. He is fond of them. He has made them. There were carvings of sea sleen, and fish, and whales, and birds, and other creatures, large and small, of the north.
Other objects, too, other carvings, were in the bag. The carvings were of soft bluish stone and ivory, and bone.
I continued on my way.
In a few minutes I had come to the area of the public tents, and there was there no difficulty in determining where the Kaissa lines were to be found. There were dozens of tables, and the lines were long at each.
I would stay in one of the public tents tonight. For five copper tarsks one may rent furs and a place in the tent. It is expensive, but it is, after all, En’Kara and the time of the fair. In such tents it is not unusual for peasants to lie crowded, side by side, with captains and merchants. During En’Kara, at the Fair, many of the distinctions among men and castes are forgotten.
Unfortunately meals are not served in the tents. For the price it seems one should banquet. This lack, however, is supplied by numerous public kitchens and tables. These are scattered throughout the district of the fair. Also there are vendors.
I took my place at the end of one of the long lines, that which I conjectured to be the shortest.
There are some compensations in the public tents, however. One may have paga and wines there. These are served by slave girls, whose comforts and uses are also included within the price of the lodging.
“Soup!’ Soup!” called a man.
“Soup!” I called, raising my hand. I purchased from him, for a copper tarsk, a bowl of soup, thick with shreds of hot bosk and porous chunks of boiled sul.
“Whom do you favor in the great match?” I asked.
“Scormus of Ar,” said he.
I nodded. I handed him back the soup bowl. I feared the odds would be too high on Scormus. Yet I would wager him the winner. I was not pleased, however, that I might have to bet a golden tarn to win a silver tarsk.
I could see on hills, on either side of the amphitheater, a golden tent pitched. One of these was for Scormus of Ar, the other, on the other side of the great amphitheater, was for Centius of Cos.
“Have they drawn yet for yellow?” I asked.
“No,” he said.
Normally much betting would wait until it was known which player had yellow, which determines the first move, and the first move, of course, determining the opening.
But already the betting was heavy.
I speculated on the effect which the draw for yellow might have on the odds in the match. If Centius drew yellow, I reasoned, the odds favoring Scormus might be reduced a bit, but probably not much; if Scormus, on the other hand, drew yellow, the odds might rise so in his favor as to preclude a rational wager. Few people would accept a bet of even twenty to one under such circumstances. Already I suspected I would have to wager at least ten to one to bet on Scormus, who would be champion. I noted a fellow from Cos a few men ahead of me in the line. “On whom do you wager?’ I asked him. “On Centius of Cos,” he said, belligerently. I smiled to myself. We would see. We would see. I wondered if his patriotism would last all the way to the betting table. Often, incidentally, the first move in a match is decided by one player’s guessing in which hand the other holds a Spearman, one of the pieces of the game. In this match, however, a yellow Spearman and a red Spearman were to be placed in a helmet, covered with a scarlet cloth. Scormus of Ar and Centius of Cos would reach into the helmet and each draw forth one Spearman. He who held the yellow Spearman had the first move.
I was now some twenty men from the table.
“Look,” called a man.
Two parties of men, one party from each of the tents, began to make their way toward the amphitheater. Somewhere in those parties were Scormus of Ar and Centius of Cos. The chief officer of the caste of players, with representatives of both Cos and Ar, would be waiting for them on the stone stage of the amphitheater, with the helmet.
I breathed more easily. I was confident now I would have my bet placed before the draw. If Scormus should draw yellow, and I were to place my bet after this fact was generally known, I would stand to win almost nothing, even should I wager a good deal.
“Hurry!” called a man. “Hurry!”
The two parties of men had now, from opposite sides, entered the amphitheater.
“A silver tarsk on Scormus of Ar,” said the man from Cos, who stood now at the table.
“They will be raising the standard of Ar or Cos any moment!” cried a man.
In moments I was two men from the table. Then there was only one man before me. “Next,” called the odds merchant.
I stood before the table.
“Fourteen to one favoring the champion of Ar,” he said.
“Fourteen hundred tans of gold,” said I, “on Ar’s champion.”
“Who are you?” asked the odds merchant. “Are you mad?’
“I am Bosk,” I said, “of Port Kar.”
“Done,” said he, “Captain!”
I signed his sheet with the sign of the bosk.
“Look!” cried a man. “Look!”
Above the amphitheater, on its rim, a man lifted the standard of Ar.
I stepped aside. There was much shouting. Men of Ar in the crowd embraced one another. Then, beside he who bore the standard of Ar, there stood one in the garb of the players, the red and yellow checkered robe, and the checkered cap, with the board and pieces slung over his shoulder, like a warrior’s accouterments. He lifted his hand. “It is Scormus!” they cried. “It is Scormus!” The ysrnng man then lifted the standard of Ar himself.
Men of Ar wept. Then the young man returned the standard to him who had first carried it to the amphitheater’s rim and withdrew from sight.
There was much cheering.
Next,” said the odds merchant.
The next man then stood before the table.
“Thirty-six to one, favoring the champion of Ar,” he said.
The man groaned.
I grinned, and left the vicinity of the tables. I would have preferred to have had better odds, but I had managed to place my bet before they had more than doubled against poor Centius of Cos. I stood now to win a hundred golden tans. I was in a good mood.
I turned my steps toward the main market. I would look at the goods on the long wooden platforms. Perhaps I would buy a girl for the night and sell her in the morning.
In a few minutes I saw the silken summit of the gigantic sales pavilion, its pennons fluttering, its blue and yellow silk billowing in the wind.
I saw male slaves thrusting a cart filled with quarry stones. It left deep tracks in the rain-softened earth.
I smelled verr, closed in shallow pens, more than a pasang away. The air was clear and sparkling.
I came to the great sales pavilion, but it was now roped off and quiet. There was much activity, and bustle, however, among the platforms. Here and there slaves were being thrown food.
I mingled with the crowds among the platforms. There are hundreds of such platforms, long, raised about a foot from the ground, far more than one could easily examine in a day’s browsing. They are rented to individual slavers, who, reserving them before the fairs, would rent one or more, or several, depending on their riches and the numbers of their stock. Small signs fixed on the platforms identify the flesh merchant, such as ‘These are the girls of Sorb of Turia’ or ‘These slaves are owned by Tenalion of Ar
’.
I penetrated more deeply among the platforms. A girl, kneeling and naked, heavily chained, extended her hands to me. “Buy me, Master!” she begged. Then I had passed her and she was behind me. I saw two girls standing, back to back, the left wrist of each chained to the right wrist of the other. “Handsome master, consider me!” cried a girl as I passed her. Most of the girls knelt or sat on the platforms. All were secured in some fashion.
“Scandalous,” said a free woman, to another free woman, who was passing near me.
“Yes,” said the other free woman.
“Candies! Candies!” called a hawker of sweets near me in the crowd. “Candies of Ar!”
“Buy this candy of Ar, Master!” laughed a chained girl to me. I roughly fondled her head, and she seized my wrist suddenly in her chained hands and desperately began to press kisses upon it. “Please,” she wept. “Please!” “No,” I said. I pulled my wrist away and continued on. She sobbed, and knelt back in her chains.
“I will make you a superb love slave,” called another girl to me. I did not respond to her.
On a rounded wooden block a naked slave girl knelt, her wrists braceleted behind her. Her head was back. One of the physicians was cleaning her teeth.
By another platform a slaver’s man was moving along the platform. He carried a large, handled copper tureen filled with a watery soup. The slaver’s beauties, chained together by the neck, knelt at the edge of the platform. Each dipped her cupped hands twice into the tureen, and lifted them, drinking and feeding, to her mouth. They then licked and sucked their fingers and wiped their hands on their bodies.
Sales take place at night in the pavillion, from a sawdust-strewn block, under the light of torches, but girls may also be sold directly from the platforms. Indeed, many girls are sold from the platforms. Given the number of girls at the fair, and the fact that new ones are constantly being brought to the platforms, it is impractical to hope to market them all from the block. It is just not feasible. At the end of every fair there are always some hundreds of girls left unsold. These are usually sold in groups at wholesale prices In sales restricted to professional slavers, who will transport them to other markets, to dispose of them there.