As the music neared its climax she returned before our table, dancing desperately and pleadingly. It was there that was to be found her master.
She lowered herself to the floor and there, on her knees, and her sides, and her belly and back, continued her dance.
Men cried out with pleasure.
Floor movements are among the most stimulatory aspects of slave dance.
I regarded her. She was not bad. She was, of course, not trained. A connoisseur of slave dance, I suppose, might have pointed out errors in the pointing of a toe, the extension of a limb, the use of a hand, not well framing the body, not subtly inviting the viewer’s eye inward, and so on, but, on the whole, she was definitely not bad. Given her lack of training, a lack which could, of course, be easily remedied, she was not bad, really. Much of what she did, I suppose, is instinctual in a woman. Too, of course, she was dancing for her life.
She writhed well, an utterly helpless, begging slave.
Then the music was finished and she was before us, kneeling, her head down, in submission to Samos. She lifted her head to regard Samos, her master. She searched his face fearfully, for the least sign of her fate. It was he who would decide whether she would live or die.
“May I speak, Master?” she whispered.
The free woman may speak whenever and however she pleases, for she is free. On the other hand, the slave may be silenced by so little as a look or word. Speech is one of the glories of the human female, and she loves to express herself, as she does so well, frequently and at length, eloquently and lyrically. Few things so impress her bondage upon her then as the understanding that her very speech is contingent on the will of the master, and his permission, whether this be implicit, or explicit. For the sake of ease this permission is usually implicit. On the other hand, it is not unusual for a slave to request this permission explicitly, particularly if she is not certain that it will be granted. Much, of course, depends on the particular master and slave. But even a loquacious slave understands that her permission to speak is dependent on the master, and that that permission, at any time, may be revoked.
I thought it was wise, and sensitive, that the new slave had availed herself of this homely protocol in addressing her master. Naturally, in this context, she would have risked being lashed, and severely, had she not done so.
“Yes,” said Samos.
“It is my hope, Master,” she said, “that in time I might not prove totally unacceptable as a slave.”
“You may approach,” said Samos.
She did not dare to rise to her feet. She crawled, head down, on her hands and knees, to the edge of the table. There, near the table, she put her head down and kissed the tiles. Then, rising up a little and approaching further, still on her hands and knees, she turned her head, delicately, and kissed the edge of the table, her lips touching partly the surface of the table, partly its side.
“Are you shameless?” asked Samos.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you beg to live?” he asked.
“Yes, I beg to live, my Master,” she said.
“On what terms?” he asked.
“Your terms, Master,” she said, “only as a total slave.”
“Kneel,” said Samos.
She knelt, back on her heels.
Some of the men of Samos had now gathered about, near the table.
“For the moment, at least,” said Samos, “you will not be thrown to sleen.”
“Thank you, Master!” she cried. “Thank you, my Master!”
Samos then nodded to one of the men standing about, the burly oarsman from whom earlier, eluding him, she had danced away.
He took her wrists and tied them together, with her own hair, before her body, leaving a length of the hair for a leading tether.
She looked up at the oarsman.
“See that you continue to prove adequate,” said Samos.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
She was then drawn to her feet by the hair tether and, bound, was led across the tiles to the oarsman’s place.
“Tula!” called a man. “Let Tula dance!”
Several men shouted their agreement to this. A long-legged brunette was thrust to the center of the tiles. She had high cheekbones, a tannish skin and a golden collar. Her bit of silk was ripped from her.
“Tula!” cried men, and, sensuously, she lifted her arms, and, standing, excitingly posed, awaited the instruction of the music. She would show the men what true dancing could be.
Across the room I saw she who had been the Lady Rowena of Lydius, her arms, her wrists still bound with her own hair, about the neck of the oarsman. His hands were on her. Her lips were pressed fervently to his. He lowered her to the tiles beside his table.
The music began and Tula danced. I saw other girls moving closer to the tables, subtly taking more prominent positions, hoping perhaps thereby to be more visible to the men. Tula was Samos’ finest dancer. There was much competition among his girls for the second position. My own finest dancer was a wench named Sandra. Some others, for example, Arlene, Janice, Evelyn, Mira and Vella, were also quite good.
She who had been the former Lady Rowena of Lydius suddenly cried out. She had been opened for the uses of men.
“It is your move,” I told Samos.
“I know,” he said.
He moved his Ubara’s Rider of the High Tharlarion to Ubara’s Builder Three. This seemed a weak move. It did open the Ubara’s Initiate’s diagonal. My Ubar’s Rider of the High Tharlarion was amply protected. I utilized the initial three-space option of the Ubar’s Scribe’s Spearman. I would then, later, bring the Ubar’s Builder to Ubar’s Scribe One, to bring pressure to bear on the Ubar’s Scribe’s file. Samos did not seem to be playing his usual game. His opening, in particular, had been erratic. He had prematurely advanced significant pieces, and then had lost time in withdrawing them. It was as though he had desired to take some significant action, or had felt that he should, but had been unwilling to do so.
He moved a spearman, diffidently.
“That seems a weak move,” I said.
He shrugged.
I brought the Ubar’s Builder to Ubar’s Scribe One. To be sure, his opening had caused me to move certain pieces more than once in my own opening.
Tula now swayed lasciviously, insistently, forwardly, before the table. I saw Linda, kneeling somewhat behind Samos, regard her with fury. Slave girls commonly compete shamelessly for the favor of the master. Tula, with those long, tannish legs, the high cheekbones, the wild, black hair, the golden collar, was very beautiful. It is pleasant to own women. But Samos paid her little, or no, attention. With a toss of her head she spun away. She would spend the night in the arms of another.
Samos made another move and so, too, did I.
I heard soft gasps and cries from across the room, the fall of a goblet, and squirming. The former Lady Rowena of Lydius’s hands were no longer bound but they were now held above and behind her head, each wrist in the hands of a different man. She was on her back, thrown across one of the low tables. Her ankles were tied widely apart, each one fastened to one of the legs at the bottom of the table. She was at the mercy of a third oarsman.
Tonight, Samos seemed off his game.
I wondered if anything might be wrong.
“Did you want to see me?” I asked. It was unusual for Samos to invite me to his holding simply for a game of Kaissa.
He did not respond. He continued to regard the board. Samos played well, but he was not an enthusiast for the game. He had told me once he preferred a different Kaissa, one of politics and men.
“I do not think you brought me here to play Kaissa,” I said.
He did not respond.
“Guard your Ubar,” I said.
He withdrew the piece.
“Have you heard aught of Kurii?” I asked.
“Little or nothing,” he said.
Our last major source of information on this matter, as far as I knew, had c
ome from a blond slave named Sheila. I recalled her kneeling naked before us, the slave harness cinched on her in such a way as to enhance her beauty. She had spoken obediently, and volubly, but she had been able, all in all, to help us but little. Kurii, doubtless as a security measure, entrust little vital information to their human agents. She had once been the Tatrix of Corcyrus. She now belonged to Hassan of Kasra, often called Hassan, the Slave Hunter. I had once been in Kasra. It is a river port on the Lower Fayeen. It is important in the Tahari salt trade. When Samos had finished with her, she had, at the command of Hassan, still in the harness, served the pleasure of both of us. She was then hooded. The last time I saw her Hassan had put her in the bottom of a longboat at Samos’ steps, descending to the canal. He had tied her ankles together and pulled them up behind her body, fastening them there with a strap passed through a ring at the back of the slave harness. I suspected she would not be freed from the hood, except for its lifting to feed and water her, for days, not until she was in Hassan’s keep in Kasra. I had little doubt he would see to it that she served him well.
I nodded. From the testimony of Sheila, and other sources which seemed to corroborate it, we gathered that the Kurii might now be turning to the patient stratagems of piecemeal subversion, the control of cities and their eventual linkages in networks of power, to win a world by means theoretically within the laws and decrees of Priest-Kings. Indeed, for such a strategy to eventually prove successful, it seemed not unlikely they would have at least the tolerance of the Sardar itself. I shuddered. It would not bode well for humans, I thought, if some form of liaison, or arrangement, were entered into between Priest-Kings and Kurii.
“Have you heard aught from the Sardar?” I asked.
Samos looked up from the board.
Outside I could hear the sounds of yet another troupe traversing the canal, with its raucous cries, its drums and trumpets. There had been several such troupes, theatrical troupes, carnival troupes, this evening. It was now only two days to carnival, to the Twelfth Passage Hand.
“Late in Se’Var,” said Samos, “a Torvaldsland voyageur, Yngvar, the Far-Traveled, bought paga in the Four Chains.”
I nodded. I knew the Four Chains. It was owned by Procopius Minor. It was near Pier Sixteen. Procopius Minor is not to be confused with Procopius Major, who is an important merchant in Port Kar, one with interests not only in taverns but in paper, hardware, wool and salt. I had never heard of Yngvar, the Far-Traveled, until recently. I did not know him. The time of which Samos spoke was about two months ago.
“In his drinking, this Yngvar told many stories. One frightens and puzzles me. Some fifty pasangs northeast of Scagnar he claims that he and his crew saw something turning and spinning in the sky, like webbed glass, the light spilling and refracting through it. They then saw a silverish disklike object near it. These two objects, both, seemed to descend, as though to the sea itself. Then, a little later, the silverish object departed. Curious, frightened, they rowed to the place where the objects had seemed to descend. There was not even a skerry there. They were about to turn about when one of the men saw something. There, not more than twenty yards from the ship, half submerged, was a large, winged creature. They had never seen anything like this before. It was dead. They poked it with spears. Then, after a time, it slipped beneath the water and disappeared.”
“I have heard the story,” I said. To be sure, I had heard it only a few days ago. It, like other stories, seemed to circulate through the taverns. Yngvar, with some fellow Torvaldslanders, had signed articles and taken ship northward shortly thereafter. Neither Samos nor myself had been able to question them.
“The dating of this occurrence seems unclear,” I said.
“It was apparently not recent,” said Samos.
Presumably this had happened after the time I had gone to Torvaldsland, or, I suppose, I would have heard of it while there. Interesting stories move swiftly through the halls, conveyed by merchants and singers. Too, such a story would be widely told, one supposes, at a Thing-Fair. I went to Torvaldsland in the Rune Year 1,006. Years, in the chronology of Torvaldsland, are counted from the time of Thor’s gift of the Stream of Torvald to Torvald, the legendary founder and hero of the northern fatherlands. The calendars are kept by Rune-Priests. That would have been 10,122 C.A., or Year 3 of the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains in Port Kar. I suspected, though I did not know, that the events recounted by Yngvar had occurred from four to five years ago.
“It was probably a few years ago,” said Samos.
“Probably,” I granted him.
“The ship was probably a ship of Priest-Kings,” said Samos.
“I would suppose so,” I said. It did not seem likely that a Kur ship would move openly in Gorean air space.
“It is an interesting story,” said Samos.
“Yes,” I said.
“Perhaps it has some significance,” said Samos.
“Perhaps,” I said.
I recalled, long ago, in the Nest, when I had seen the dying Mother. “I see him, I see him,” she had said, “and his wings are like showers of gold.” She had then lain quietly on the stone. “The Mother is dead,” had said Misk. Her last memory, interestingly, it seemed, had been of her Nuptial Flight. There was now, doubtless, a new Mother in the Nest. Yngvar and his fellows, unwittingly, I was confident, had witnessed the inauguration of a new dynasty among Priest-Kings.
“Have you heard anything from the Sardar?” I asked, again.
Samos looked down at the board. I did not press him. His reticence to respond directly puzzled me. If he had heard something, of course, it was perhaps none of my business. I had no intention of prying into his affairs, or those of Priest-Kings. Also, of course, perhaps he had heard nothing.
We played four more moves.
“You are not playing your usual game,” I told him.
“I am sorry,” he said.
A new girl, Susan, was now dancing. She who had been the Lady Rowena of Lydius was on her belly on a table, clutching its sides, her teeth gritted. Tula was being handed from man to man. Some of the other girls, too, were now being used by masters. And others were licking and kissing at them, and whispering in their ears, begging for attention.
We played another pair of moves.
“What is bothering you?” I asked Samos.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Is there much news?” I asked.
“Tarnsmen from Treve have raided the outskirts of Ar,” said Samos.
“They grow bold,” I said.
“Cos and Ar are still at odds,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“The building of ships in Tyros continues,” he said.
“Chenbar has a long memory,” I said. Much of the naval power of Tyros had been destroyed in the battle of the 25th of Se’Kara. This had taken place in Year One of the Sovereignty of the Council of Captains, in 10,120 C.A.
“On Cos, as our spies have it,” said Samos, “there is much training of men, and a recruitment of mercenaries.”
“We could strike at the shipyards of Tyros,” I said, “ten ramships, a thousand men, a picked force.”
“The yards are well fortified,” he said.
“Do you think Cos and Tyros will move?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“When?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“It is interesting,” I said. “I cannot see Port Kar as a great threat to them. The power of Ar in the Vosk Basin would seem a much greater threat to their influence, and their sphere of trade.”
“One would think so,” said Samos.
“Matters are complicated there now, of course,” I said, “by the formation of the Vosk League.”
“That is true,” said Samos.
“What is the nature of the training being given the men on Cos?” I asked.
“Infantry training,” he said.
“That is interesting,” I said. It did not seem likely to
me that infantry, at least in its normal deployments and tactics, would be successful in an assault on Port Kar. This had primarily to do with her situation, in the northwestern portion of the estuary of the Vosk, the waters of the Tamber Gulf and Thassa before her, the vast, trackless marshes of the Vosk’s delta behind her.
“Can it be,” I asked, “that Cos is planning to challenge Ar on the land?”
“That would be madness,” said Samos.
I nodded. Ar is the major land force in known Gor. The Cosian infantry, meeting her on land in open battle, in force, would be crushed.
“It seems clear then,” said Samos, “that they are planning on using the infantry against Port Kar.”
I nodded. Cos would never challenge Ar on the land. That was unthinkable.
“That is what is bothering you?” I asked.
“What?” he asked.
“The possibility that Cos and Tyros may move against Port Kar,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“What is bothering you?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said.
“Are you disturbed by the proximity of the Waiting Hand?” I asked.
This is a frightening and difficult time for many Goreans.
“No,” he said.
“Let us stop playing, and adjudicate the game as a draw,” I suggested.
“No,” he said. “It is all right.”
I moved my Ubara’s Builder to threaten his Ubar. This movement of the Builder produced a discovered attack on his Home Stone by my Ubara’s Initiate. He interposed his own Ubar’s Builder, which I then took with the Initiate, a less valued piece. The Initiate’s attack, of course, continued the threat on the Home Stone. He then took the Initiate with his Ubara’s Builder, and I, of course, removed his Ubar from the board with my Ubara’s Builder.
Samos turned to Linda. “Dance,” he said. She leaped to her feet and hurried to the center of the tiles. Susan, then, was pulled by the hair to the place of a keleustes, one who marks time, usually on a pounding block or a ship’s drum, for oarsmen. In some navies, and on ships of some registry, the office of the keleustes is referred to as that of the hortator. He reports directly to the oar-master. The oar-master, like the helmsmen, of which two are generally on duty at any one time, most Gorean ships being double ruddered, reports to the captain.
Players of Gor Page 4