Rebels of Gor

by John Norman

  “Please,” said Lord Temmu.

  I recalled that all three cups had been filled from the same small vessel. Too, I had paid careful attention to the small, lovely hands of Sumomo. Also, I was in the castle of the holding. Also, there were two large Ashigaru, armed, behind me.

  I sipped the sake.

  I recalled from Tarncamp that one was not to throw sake down as one might a paga or kal-da.

  “It is excellent, is it not?” inquired Lord Temmu.

  “I am sure it is,” I said. To be sure, I doubted I could tell one sake from another. To be sure, this one did seem different. It reminded me, somehow, of veminium.

  “You wished to see me,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Lord Temmu.

  “You are displeased with the raids?” I said.

  “Lord Temmu is pleased, of course,” said Daichi, “with the provisioning of the holding, the termination of the siege, the freeing of the northern fields.”

  “He is less pleased with how these things came about?” I said.

  “There remains the matter of the bones and shells,” said Daichi.

  “Enjoy your sake,” said Lord Temmu, pleasantly.

  I took another sip.

  I shook my head a little.

  “To whomsoever is appointed to the command of the cavalry,” I said, “I would recommend a continuation of the raids on the heartland of Lord Yamada, abetted with judicious skirmishes and attacks of small scale. I think that that is your best route to some sort of truce or accommodation. I doubt that the forces of the house of Temmu could meet those of the house of Yamada on the open field.”

  “Even with tarns?” inquired Lord Temmu.

  “There are too few tarns,” I said.

  “I fear,” said Daichi, “that Lord Yamada has been angered.”

  “I do not see how that could well be helped,” I said. “Perhaps Sumomo could light a lamp,” I said.

  “Does the room grow dark?” asked Lord Temmu.

  I put the tiny cup of sake down, beside my right knee.

  “Would you like more sake?” asked Lord Temmu.

  “No,” I said.

  Of course, I thought. The sake was poured from the same vessel. But in one of the cups would be the waiting ingredient, perhaps only a few drops but enough, enough, in the cup which would be given me. But there was little that I could have done in any case. I felt my arms drawn behind me by the two Ashigaru.

  “The bones and shells do not lie,” said Daichi, “however they are cast, whoever casts them, whether, say, by the reader of Lord Yamada or unworthy, humble Daichi, faithful retainer of Lord Temmu.”

  I felt my arms corded together.

  The room was growing dark.

  I could not resist; I felt very weak; I did not think I could rise. I was hardly aware of what was ensuing.

  “We must save the house of Temmu,” said Daichi. “Allegedly the iron dragon stirs. If the house of Temmu does not yield to the house of Yamada, it will emerge from its lair, will be awing, and will destroy the house of Temmu.”

  “The yielding will be a small thing,” said Lord Temmu. “The concession is negligible. Lord Yamada wants only peace. He fears the iron dragon as much, perhaps more, than we. He wants little. Our yielding will bring the peace you so foolishly would pursue by tarn and fire, by marches and steel.”

  “The bones and shells have spoken clearly,” said Daichi.

  “We now understand the nature of the yielding in question,” said Lord Temmu. “It does not solicit a surrender, which we would not give, but only a concession, in effect, a favor, a very little thing from which we will gain a very great deal.”

  “It will be a small price to pay for peace,” said Daichi.

  “The extermination of the house of Yamada does not seem feasible,” said Lord Temmu.

  “You have perhaps guessed the meaning of the bones and shells,” said Daichi.

  I was put to my side and I felt my ankles crossed, and bound together.

  “Lord Yamada,” said Daichi, “was not pleased to withdraw, to retreat to protect his holdings, his goods, and fields. His price for peace is to have you delivered to his mercy.”

  “It is a small price,” said Lord Temmu. “Surely you understand this, see its wisdom, and joyfully acquiesce.”

  I tried, weakly, to pull against the cords, but was helpless. Then I sensed another person in the room, who had entered from the side. I saw the bootlike sandals near me, and then I was kicked, savagely. On the other hand, it did not cause me pain. I could hardly feel it.

  I heard Sumomo laugh, merrily.

  “We will use two of the messenger tarns,” said a voice. “We will leave shortly after dark.”

  I recognized the voice.

  It was that of Tyrtaios.

  Then I lost consciousness.

  * * *

  I do not know how long I was unconscious. I suspect I was sedated more than once.

  I awakened suddenly, rudely, shocked and shuddering, on a rough, planked floor, in a shedlike edifice, as cold water was cast on my chained, bared body. I tried to rise, but stumbled and fell, for I could move my shackled ankles only a few inches at a time. Several Ashigaru were about. A chain was about my waist, and my hands were manacled behind me, the manacles fastened to the chain. Two ropes were on my neck, of some five or six feet in length, each in the grasp of an Ashigaru, one on either side of me. I was pulled up to my knees by men behind me, and my head was forced down, to the wood.

  “What is to be done with him?” asked one of the men about.

  “I do not know,” said another, “but it will doubtless be done lengthily.”

  “He is a sorcerer,” said another, “whose words conjure demon birds from the sky.”

  “He has labored on behalf of the rebellious house of Temmu,” said another.

  “No officers are present,” said one. “Strike him!”

  There was a moment’s pause while I sensed these fellows were looking about, and from one to another.

  I grunted in pain, struck twice, by the staffs of glaives.

  “Hold,” said a voice, “Lord Akio approaches.”

  Shortly thereafter I became aware of a silken presence before me. I heard a fan snap open and shut, twice, nervously. By the sound, I knew the fan was of metal. Such fans can cut a throat.

  “This is the prisoner, the rebel, Tarl Cabot, enemy to the rightful house of Yamada, Shogun of the Islands, delivered to us by the noble Tyrtaios, devoted, trusted mercenary?”

  “Yes, Lord,” said a voice.

  It interested me how one can tell, almost infallibly, from the voice, the diction, the sense of self-acceptance and authority, the rank and station of a Pani speaker. Those of a high house or noble family are seldom confused with those of a lower, or more common, order.

  The speaker seemed clearly one of a higher order.

  To be sure, such distinctions are not limited to the Pani.

  “You, tarsk, are Tarl Cabot?” asked the voice.

  “I am not a tarsk,” I said. “I am Tarl Cabot.”

  He must have signaled something to the Ashigaru about, for I was then struck and prodded several times by the butts of glaives.

  “Shall we begin the tortures?” asked one of the men about.

  As the new arrival had been addressed as “Lord,” I supposed him the master of a house, perhaps even a daimyo.

  I did not know where I was but it was clear I was somewhere in a territory controlled by the forces of Lord Yamada. My surroundings did not seem auspicious. I did not think Tyrtaios was in the room.

  “Has he been fed?” asked the voice.

  “No,” said an Ashigaru.

  “He has only now been revived,” said another.

  “Are you hungry?” asked the voice.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “‘Yes, Lord’,” he suggested.

  “Yes, Lord,” I said.

  “Are you cold?” he asked.

  “Yes, Lord,” I said, my head do
wn.

  “He smells,” said the voice. “He is filthy.”

  “From the straw, from the pens,” said an Ashigaru.

  Pani are often concerned with cleanliness. Indeed, Goreans, in general, take such matters seriously. Few Gorean cities are without their baths, public and private, which are sometimes extensive and luxurious, with shops, arcades, restaurants, gymnasiums, libraries, and such.

  “We have found you troublesome, Tarl Cabot,” said the voice. “You have commanded demon birds, dragon birds, brought from across the sea. You have well served the rebellious house of Temmu and have muchly discomfited the rightful, honorable house of Yamada. Yamada, Shogun of the Islands, has not been pleased. Now you are at our mercy. We have waited long to have you as you are.”

  “Shall we commence the tortures, Lord?” inquired an Ashigaru.

  “What of the straw jacket?” asked an Ashigaru.

  “Only at the end,” said another.

  “Be silent,” said the voice of the one who had been identified as Lord Akio.

  I heard the metal fan snap open and shut.

  The Ashigaru were silent.

  It was interesting, I thought, how an object, something like a fan, can reveal an emotion which is otherwise concealed.

  “Lord Yamada,” he said, “intends to see the prisoner.”

  “Here?” said an Ashigaru, awed.

  “You would not expect something this miserable, this stinking and foul, to be brought into his presence,” said the voice.

  “No, Lord!” said the man.

  “Put him to his belly,” said the voice. “Smear the excrement of tarsk on his body. Beat and bloody him. See that he is presented appropriately, helpless, foul and prostrate, a captured rebel, a defeated enemy, before the shogun.”

  I was forced to my belly.

  I endured, as I could, the attentions to which I was subjected.

  I did not cry out.

  I do not know how long I sustained the ministrations of my captors. I do not think it was very long as the sand clock, grain by grain, or the water clock, drop by drop, would have it, but, to me, prostrate and chained, my body fouled, and recoiling, shuddering, struck again and again, it was long enough, a time measured in the clock of pain, counted in terms of blows, the number of which soon eluded me.

  “What is going on?” had cried a great voice

  The men had moved away from me, instantly.

  “Is this not Tarl Cabot?” cried the great voice.

  “Yes, Lord!” said he called Akio.

  “What have you done to him?” cried the great voice.

  “Lord?” inquired Akio.

  I heard the fan open and shut, as though startled, as though puzzled.

  “Unchain him,” I heard. “Are you mad? Remove those ropes from his throat. Clean him! Put ointment and salve on his wounds. Rest and nurse him. Then tomorrow dress him regally, in robes of honor, and bring him to the palace.”

  * * *

  “We are alone,” had said Lord Yamada. “Let us converse.”

  “By all means,” I had said.

  Chapter Thirteen

  I Have Summoned a Slave;

  I Interview a Slave;

  What Occurred at the Termination of the Interview

  “Remove your clothing,” I said.

  She regarded me.

  “All of it,” I said. “Every bit of it. Completely.”

  “Please,” she protested.

  “Now,” I said.

  I saw she knew how to remove her clothing before a man. She had perhaps been taught that in Tarncamp, after she had been removed from the stables.

  “You were overdressed,” I said.

  She stood beside the garments at her feet, lithe, lovely, slimly erect.

  “I think,” I said, “these fellows are perhaps too refined, too civilized.”

  “Perhaps less so than you think,” she said.

  “Is that how you address a free man?” I asked.

  “Perhaps less so than you think, Master,” she said.

  “I see,” I said, “that the collar of Lord Temmu has been removed from your pretty neck.”

  “As was that of Lord Nishida by the servitors of Lord Temmu, Master,” she said.

  “Doubtless you will soon be put in another,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said, “Lord Yamada does not collar his women.”

  “I was hitherto, here, in my private quarters,” I said, “served by two, both Pani, both collared.”

  “And you dismissed them?” she said.

  “And requested you,” I said. “Do you mind?”

  “We are slaves,” she said. “We may be done with as masters please.”

  “Do you kick well?” I asked. “Do you whimper, squirm, buck, and moan, and beg well?”

  “I cannot help myself!” she wept. “I have become responsive!”

  “The grooms in the stable at Tarncamp taught you sex,” I said.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “It was then no longer something with which to tease executives, with which intrigue clients and charm investors,” I said.

  “I cannot help what has become of me,” she said.

  “You are now needful,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, tears in her eyes. “I am now needful!”

  “It is interesting,” I said, “on Earth you could use the mere suggestion of sex, with its smiles and movements, as a weapon, a tool, as a device of business, use it in the interests of sales, contracts, and accounts, in the interests of opportunity, promotion, and advancement, and all with complete impunity, without risk or compromise, and now, at as little as a word, a gesture, a snapping of fingers, you must hurry to put yourself naked to a man’s feet.”

  “Yes,” she said, angrily.

  “And,” I said, “I suspect that now slave fires, from time to time, burn in your small, lovely belly.”

  “I cannot help myself,” she said. “Men have done it to me!”

  “Surely you do not object to being so alive?” I said.

  She covered her face with her hands, sobbing.

  “You are now in a collar,” I said, “whether it is on your neck or not.”

  She sobbed.

  “Remove your hands from your face,” I said. “I would see it.”

  She lowered her hands. Her face was run with tears.

  “I suspect,” I said, “that the men you teased, tormented, tricked, duped, and manipulated would not mind seeing you as you are now, as a helpless, naked slave.”

  “Please send me away, to the slave quarters, Master,” she begged.

  “I did not have you brought here, to send you away,” I said. “We shall chat. But first, turn about, and cross your wrists behind your back.”

  I went to the side of the room, to a wardrobe chest, and withdrew a spool of ribbonlike silk, less than a hort in width, of the sort with which, measured and cut, one might fasten sandals. It was brightly yellow. I cut two lengths of this ribbon. One length I wrapped twice about her neck, and knotted it behind the back of her neck. Is that not where a lock would be? With the other length I tied her hands together, as they were placed, behind her back.

  “Every women belongs in a man’s collar,” I said.

  “Here,” she said, “men are the masters.”

  “Perhaps you have not heard of free women,” I said.

  “Are they so different from me?” she asked.

  “Not at all,” I said.

  “They have just not yet been put in their collars,” she said.

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “How different this world is from Earth!” she said.

  “Is it so different?” I asked.

  “Here,” she said, “men are the masters.”

  “So, too, are they on Earth,” I said, “if they but choose to be so.”

  “I had not known that men such as on this world could exist,” she said.

  “Of all the beasts a man can own,” I said, “surely the female slav
e is amongst the loveliest.”

  “Is it pleasant to have power over us,” she asked, “to have us at your bidding, to buy and sell us?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “My belly flames,” she wept.

  I stepped back from her, and sat down, cross-legged, on a small rug.

  “Turn about, and kneel before me,” I said.

  She did so.

  “Must I lower my head?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  She regarded me.

  “It is pleasant to have a woman so before one,” I said.

  “Collared,” she said, “kneeling naked, bound, helpless.”

  “Yes,” I said. “Do you think I am unlike other men?”

  “No,” she said. “Why here have men not denied themselves to themselves, why have they not refused to be men?”

  “I do not know,” I said. “But I do not object. Do you?”

  “—No,” she said.

  “You are far from taxis and elevators, from finance, from polluted canyons of stone, from cacophonous dins, from jostlings and crowdings, from halls of business,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I have been brought to Gor.”

  “As a slave,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “What do you think of this world?” I asked.

  “Earth must once have been like this,” she said, “the freshness, the rain, the air, the flight of birds, the blue sky, the water, the food with taste.”

  “One supposes so,” I said.

  “What have our people done to our world?” she asked.

  “I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps they have insufficiently loved it.”

  “On a world such as this,” she said, “one such as I can be only a slave.”

  “And deservedly so, and correctly so,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “On your former world,” I said, “I suspect you never discussed such matters as you are now, while kneeling before a man, while naked and bound.”

  “No,” she said.

  “You were not a slave.”

  “No.”

  “Perhaps you recall a young woman whose name was once Margaret Wentworth.”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And the free woman pretending to be a slave in the northern forests of continental Gor, with the pompous name ‘Constantina’?”