Marauders of GOR Chapter 1 The Hall I sat alone in the great hall, in the
darkness, in the Captain's Chair. The walls of stone, some five feet in
thickness, formed of large blocks, loomed about me. Before me, over the long,
heavy table behind which I sat, I could see the large tiles of the hall floor.
The table was not dark, and bare. No longer was it set with festive yellow and
scarlet cloths, woven in distant Tor: no longer did it bear the freight of
plates of silver from the mines of Tharna, nor of cunningly wrought goblets of
gold from the smithies of luxurious Turia, Ar of the south. It was long since I
had tasted the fiery paga of the Sa-Tarna fields north of the Vosk. Now, even
the wines from the vineyards of Ar seemed bitter to me. I looked up, at the
narrow apertures in the wall to my right. Through them I could see certain of
the stars of Gor, in the tarn-black sky. The hall was dark. No longer did the
several torches, bristling and tarred, burn in the iron rings at the wall. The
hall was silent. No musicians played; no cup companions laughed and drank,
lifting their goblets; on the broad, flat tiles before me, under the torches,
barefoot, collared, in scarlet silks, bells at their wrists and ankles, there
danced no slave girls. The hall was large, and empty and silent. I sat alone.
Seldom did I have my chair carried from the hall. I remained much in this place.
I heard footsteps approaching. I did not turn my head. It was caused me pain to
do so. "Captain," I heard. It was Luma, the chief scribe of my house, in her
blue robe and sandals. Her hair was blond and straight, tied behind her head
with a ribbon of blue wool, from the bounding Hurt, died in the blood of the
Vosk sorp. She was a scrawny girl, not attractive, but with deep eyes, blue; and
she was a superb scribe, in her accounting swift, incisive, accurate, brilliant;
once she had been a paga slave, though a poor one; I had slaved her from Surbus,
a captain, who had purchased her to slay her, she not having served him to his
satisfaction in the alcoves of the tavern; he would have cast her, bound, to the
swift, silken urts in the canals. I had dealt Surbus his death blow, but, before
he had died I had, on the urging of the woman, she moved to pity, carried him to
the roof of the tavern, that he might, before his eyes closed, look once more
upon the sea. He was a pirate, and a cut-throat, but he was not unhappy in his
death; he had died by the sword, which would have been his choice, and before he
had died he had looked again upon the gleaming Thassa; it is called the death of
blood and the sea; he died not unhappy; men of Port Kar do not care to die in
their beds, weak, lingering, at the mercy of tiny foes that cannot see; they
live often by violence and desire that they shall similarly perish; to die by
the sword is regarded as the right, and honour, of he who lives by it.
"Captain," said the woman, standing back, to one side of the chair. After the
death of Surbus, the woman had been mine. I had won her from him by sword right.
I had, of course, as she had expected, put her in my collar, and kept her slave.
To my astonishment, however, by the laws of Port Kar, the ships, properties and
chattels of Surbus, he having been vanquished in fair combat and permitted death
of blood and sea, became mine; his men stood ready to obey me; his ships became
mine to command; his hall became my hall, his riches mine, his slaves mine. It
was thus that I had become a captain in Port Kar. Jewel of gleaming Thassa. "I
have the accounts for your inspection," said Luma. Luma no longer wore a collar.
After the victory of the 25th of Se'Kara, over the fleets of Tyros and Cos, I
had freed her. She had much increased my fortunes. Freed, she took payment, but
not as much as her services, I knew, warranted. Few scribes, I expected, were so
skilled in the supervision and management of complex affairs as this light,
unattractive, brilliant girl. Other captains, other merchants, seeing the waxing
of my fortunes, and understanding the commercial complexities involved, had
offered this scribe considerable emoluments to join their service. She, however,
had refused to do so. I expect she was pleased at the authority, and trust and
freedom, which I had accorded her. Too, perhaps, she had grown fond of the house
of Bosk. "I do not wish to see the accounts," I told her. "The Venna and Tela
have arrived from Scagnar," she said, "with full cargoes of the fur of sea
sleen. My information indicates that highest prices currently for such products
are being paid in Asperiche." "Very well," I said, "give the men time for their
pleasure, eight days, and have the cargoes transferred to one of my round ships,
whichever can be most swiftly fitted, and embark them for Asperiche, the Venna
and Tela as convoy." "Yes, Captain," said Luma. "Go now," I said. "I do not wish
to see the accounts." "Yes, Captain," she said. At the door, she stopped. "Does
the captain wish food or drink?" she asked. "No," I told her. "Thurnock," she
said, "would be pleased should you play with him a game of Kaissa." I smiled.
Huge, yellow-haired Thurnock, he of the peasants, master of the great bow,
wished to play Kaissa with me. He knew himself no match for me in this game.
"Thank Thurnock for me," said I, "but I do not wish to play." I had not played
Kaissa since my return from the northern forests. Thurnock was a good man, a
kind man. The yellow-haired giant meant well. "The accounts," said Luma, "are
excellent. Your enterprises are prospering. You are much richer." "Go," said I,
"Scribe. Go, Luma." She left. I sat alone in the darkness. I did not wish to be
disturbed. I looked about the hall, at the great walls of stone, the long table,
the tiles, the narrow apertures through which I could glimpse the far stars,
burning in the scape of the night. I was rich. So Luma said, so I knew. I smiled
bitterly. There are few men as helpless, as impoverished as I. It was true that
the fortunes of the house of Bosk had waxed mightily. I supposed there were few
merchants in known Gor whose houses were as rich, as powerful, as mine.
Doubtless I was the envy of men who did not know me, Bosk, the recluse, who had
returned crippled from the northern forests. I was rich. But I was poor, because
I could not move the left side of my body. Wounds had I at the shore of Thassa,
high on the coast, at the edge of the forests, when one night I had, in a
stockade of enemies, commanded by Sarus of Tyros, chosen to recollect my honour.
Never could I regain my honour, but I had recollected it. And never had I
forgotten it. Once I had been Tarl Cabot, in the songs called Tarl of Bristol. I
recalled that I, or what had once been I, had fought at the siege of Ar. That
young man with fiery hair, laughing, innocent, seemed far from me now, this
huddled mass, half paralysed, bitter, like a maimed larl, sitting alone in a
captain's chair, in a great darkened hall. My hair was no longer now the same.
The sea, the wind and the salt, and, I suppose, the changes in my body, as I had
matured, and learned with bitterness the nature of the world, and myself, and
men, had changed it. It was now, I thought, not much different from that of
other men, as I had learned, too, that I was not much different, either, from
others. It had turned lighter now, and more straw coloured. Tarl Cabot was gone.
He had fought in the siege of Ar. One could still here the songs. He had
restored Lara, Tatrix of Tharna, to her throne. He had entered the Sardar, and
was one of the few men who knew the true nature of the Priest-Kings, those
remote and extraordinary beings who controlled the world of Gor. He had been
instrumental in the Nest War, and had earned the friendship and gratitude of the
Priest-King, Misk, glorious, gentle Misk. "there is Nest Trust between us," Misk
had told him. I recalled that I , in the palms of my hands, had felt the
delicate touch of the antennae of that golden creature. "Yes. There is Nest
Trust between us, " Tarl Cabot told him. And he had gone to the Land of the
Wagon Peoples, to the Plains of Turia, and had obtained there the last egg of
the Priest-Kings, and had returned it, safe, to the Sardar. He had well served
Priest-Kings, had Tarl Cabot, that young brave distant man, so fine, so proud,
so much of the warriors. And he had gone, too, to Ar. And there defeated the
schemes of Cernus and the hideous aliens, the Others, intent on the conquest of
Gor, and then the Earth He had well served Priest-Kings, that young man. And
then he had ventured to The Delta of the Vosk, to make his way through it, to
make contact with Samos of Port Kar, agent of Priest-Kings, to continue in their
service. But in the Delta of the Vosk, he had lost his honour> He had betrayed
his codes. There, merely to save his miserable life, he had chosen ignominious
slavery to the freedom of honourable death. He had sullied the sword the honour,
which he had pledged to Ko-ro-ba's Home Stone. By that act he had cut himself
away from his codes, his vows. For such an act, there was no atonement, even to
the throwing of one's body upon one's sword. It was in that moment of his
surrender to his cowardice that Tarl Cabot was gone and, in his place, knelt a
slave contemptuously named Bosk, for a great shambling oxlike creature of the
plains of Gor. But this Bosk, forcing his mistress, the beautiful Telima, to
grant him his freedom, had come to Port Kar, bringing her with him as his slave,
and had there, after many adventures, earned riches and fame, and the title even
of Admiral of Port Kar. He stood high in the Council of Captains. And was it no
he who had been victor on the 25th of Se'kara, in the great engagement of the
fleets of Port Kar and Cos and Tyros? He had come to love Telima, and had freed
her, but when he had learned the location of his former Free Companion, Talena,
once daughter of Marlenus of Ar, and vowed to free her from slavery, Telima had
left him, in the fury of a Gorean female, and returned to the rence marshes, her
home in the Vosk's vast delta. A true Gorean, he knew, would have gone after
her, and brought her back in slave bracelets and a collar. But he, in his
weakness, had wept, and let her go. Doubtless she despised him now in the
marshes And so, Tarl Cabot gone, Bosk, Merchant of Port Kar, had gone to the
northern forests, to free Talena, once his Free Companion. There he had
encountered Marlenus of Ar, Urbar of Ar, Urbar of Urbars. He, though only of the
Merchants, had saved Marlenus of Ar from the degradation of slavery. That one
such as he, had been of service to the great Marlenus of Ar, doubtless was
tantamount to insult. But Marlenus had been freed. Earlier he had disowned his
daughter, Talena, for she had sued for her freedom, a slave's act. His honour
had been kept. That of Tarl Cabot could not be recovered But I recalled that I
had, in the stockade of Tyros, recollected the matter of honour. I had entered
the stockade alone, not expecting to survive. It was not that I was the friend
of Marlenus of Ar, or his ally. It was rather that I had, as a warrior, or one
once of such as caste, set myself the task of his liberation. I had accomplished
this task. And, in the night, under the stars, I had recollected a
never-forgotten honour. But wounds had I to show for this act, and a body heavy
with pain, whose left side I could not move. I had recollected my honour, but it
had won for me only the chair of a cripple. To be sure, carved in wood, high on
the chair, was the helmet with crest of sleen-fur, the mark of the captain, but
I could not rise from the chair. My own body, and its weakness, held me, as
chains could not. Proud and mighty as the chair might be, it was the throne only
of the maimed remains of a man I was rich! I gazed into the darkness of the
hall. Samos of Port Kar had purchased Talena, as a mere slave, from two panther
girls, obtaining her with ease in this manner while I had risked my life in the
forest. I laughed. But I had recollected my honour. But little good had it done
me. Was honour not a sham, a fraud, an invention of clever men to manipulate
their less wily brethren? Why had I not returned to Port Kar and left Marlenus
to his fate, to slavery and doubtless, eventually, to a slave's death, broken
and helpless, under the lashes of overseers in the quarries of Tyros? I sat in
the darkness and wondered on honour, and courage. If they were shams, I thought
them most precious shams. How else could we tell ourselves from urts and sleens?
What distinguishes us from such beasts? The ability to multiply and subtract, to
tell lies, to make knives? No, I think particularly it is the sense of honour,
and the will to hold one's ground. But I had no right to such thoughts, for I
had surrendered my honour, my courage, in the delta of the Vosk, I had behaved
as might have any animal, not a man. I could not recover my honour, but I could,
and did upon one occasion, recollect it, in a stockade at the shore of Thassa,
at the edge of the northern forests. I grew cold in the blankets. I had become
petulant, bitter, petty, as an invalid, frustrated and furious at his own
weakness, does. But when I, half paralysed and crippled, had left the shores of
Thassa I had left behind me a beacon, a mighty beacon formed from the logs of
the stockade of Sarus, and it blazed behind me, visible for more than fifty
pasangs at sea. I did not know why I had set the beacon, but I had done so. It
had burned long and fiery in the Gorean night, on the stones of the beach, and
then, in the morning it would have been ashes, and the winds and rains would
have scattered them, and there would have been little left, save the stones, the
sand and the prints of the feet of sea birds, tiny, like the thief's brand, in
the sand. But it would once have burned, and that was fixed, undeniable, a part
of what had been, that it had burned; nothing could change that, not the
eternities of time, not the will of Priest-Kings, the machinations of others,
the wilfulness and hatred of men; nothing could change that it had been, that
once on the beach, there, a beacon had burned. I
wondered how men should live.
In my chair, I had thought long on such matters. I knew only that I did not know
the answer to this question. Yet it is an important question, is it not? Many
wise men give wise answers to this question, and yet they do not agree among
themselves. Only the simple, the fools, the unreflective, the ignorant, know the
answer to this question. Perhaps to a question this profound, the answer cannot
be known. Perhaps it is a question too deep to be answered. Yet we do know there
are false answers to such a question. This suggests that there may be a true
answer, for how can there be falsity without truth? One thing seems clear to me,
that a morality which produces guilt and self-torture, which results in anxiety
and agony, which shortens lifespans, cannot be the answer. But what is not
mistaken? The Goreans have very different notions of morality from those of
Earth. Yet who is to say who is the more correct? I envy sometimes the
simplicities of those of Earth, and those of Gor, who, creatures of their
conditioning, are untroubled by such matters, but I would not be s either of
them. If either should be correct, it is for them no more than a lucky
coincidence. They would have fallen into truth, but to take truth for granted,
is not to know it. Truth not won is not possessed. We are not entitled to truths
for which we have not fought. Do we not know learn by living, as we learn to
speak by speaking, to paint by painting, to build by building? Those who best
know how to live, sometimes it seems to me, are those least likely to be
articulate in such skills. It is not that they have not learned, but, having
learned, they find they cannot tell what they know, for only words can be told,
and what is learned in living is more than words, other than words beyond words.
We can say, "This building is beautiful," but we do not learn the beauty of the
building from the words; the building it is which teaches us its beauty; and how
can one speak the beauty of the building, as it is? Does one say it has so many
pillars, that it has a roof of a certain type, and such? Can one simply say.
"The building is beautiful?" Yes, one can say that but what one learns when one
sees the beauty of the building cannot be spoken; it is not words; it is the
Norman, John - Gor 09 - Marauders of Gor.txt Page 1