Priest-Kings of Gor coc-3

by John Norman

  The only object in the room other than ourselves was a heavy, globelike contrivance, high over our heads, attached to a set of jointed extensions fastened in the ceiling of the chamber.

  In the floor side of the globelike contrivance there was an adjustable opening which was now of a diameter of perhaps six inches. Numerous wires extended from the globe along the metal extensions and into a panel in the ceiling. Also, the globe itself bristled with various devices, nodes, switches, coils, disks, lights.

  Vaguely I sensed that I had heard of this thing somewhere before.

  In another chamber I heard a girl cry out.

  My hand went to my sword.

  “No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, placing his hand on my wrist.

  Now I knew the purpose of the device in the room – why it was there and what it did – but why had Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta brought me here?

  A panel to the side slid open and two plastic-clad Muls entered. Leaning forward they were pushing a large, flat circular disk. The disk floated on a thin gas cushion. They placed the disk directly under the globelike object in the ceiling. On the disk there was mounted a narrow, closed cylinder of transparent plastic. It was approximately eighteen inches in diameter and apparently constructed so that it might be opened along its vertical axis, although it was now securely locked. In the cylinder, save for her head which was held in place by a circular opening in the top of the cylinder, was a girl, clad in the traditional robes of concealment, even to the veil, whose gloved hands pressed helplessly against the interior of the cylinder.

  Her terrified eyes fell on Mul-Al-Ka, Mul-Ba-Ta and myself. “Save me!” she cried.

  Mul-Al-Ka’s hand touched my wrist. I did not draw my sword.

  “Greetings, Honoured Muls,” said one of the two attendants.

  “Greetings,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Who is the other?” asked one of the attendants.

  “Tarl Cabot of the City of Ko-ro-ba,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “I have never heard of it,” said the other attendant.

  “It is on the surface,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Ah well,” said the attendant. “I was bred in the Nest.”

  “He is our friend,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “Friendship between Muls is forbidden,” said the first attendamt.

  “We know,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “but we are going to the dissection chambers anyway.”

  “I am sorry to hear that,” said the other attendant.

  “Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we were sorry to hear it too.”

  I gazed at my companions with amazement.

  “On the other hand,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “it is the wish of a Priest-King and thus we also rejoice.”

  “Of course,” said the first attendant.

  “What was your crime?” asked the second attendant.

  “We do not know,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “That is always annoying,” said the first attendant.

  “Yes,” agreed Mul-Ba-Ta, “but not important.”

  “True,” agreed the first attendant.

  The attendants now busied themselves with their work. One of them climbed onto the disk beside the plastic cylinder. The other went to a panel at the side of the room and by pushing certain buttons and turning a dial, began to lower the globe object down toward the girl’s head.

  I pitied her as she turned her head up and saw the large object, with an electronic hum, descend slowly towards her. She gave a long, frantic, terrified, wild scream and squirmed about in the cylinder, her small gloved fists striking futilely at the strong, curved plastic walls that confined her.

  The attendant who stood on the disk then, to her horror, pushed back the hood of her garment and the ornate, beautiful veils that masked her features, face-stripping her as casually as one might remove a scarf. She trembled in the cylinder, pressing her small hands against it, and wept. I noted that her hair was brown and fine, her eyes dark and longly lashed. Her mouth was lovely, her throat white and beautiful. Her final scream was muffled as the attendant adjusted the heavy globe over her head and locked it in place. His companion then snapped a switch at the wall panel and the globe seemed to come alive, humming and clicking, coils suddenly glowing and tiny signal lights flashing on and off.

  I wondered if the girl knew that a plate of her brain traces was being perpared, which would be correlated with the sensors guarding the quarters of a Chamber Slave.

  While the globe did its work, and held the girl’s head in place, the attendant at the cylinder unlocked the five latches which held it shut and swung it open. Swiftly and efficiently he placed her wrists in retaining devices mounted in the cylinder and, with a small, curved knife, removed her clothing, which he cast aside. Bending to a panel in the disk he took out three objects: the long, classic, white garment of a Chamber Slave, which was contained in a wrapper of blue plastic; a slave collar; and an object of which I did not immediately grasp the import, a small, flat boxlike object which bore the upraised figure that, in cursive Gorean script, is the first letter in the expression for “slave girl”.

  On the latter object he pressed a switch and almost immediately, before I became aware of it, the upraised portion turned white with heat.

  I lunged forward but Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta, sensing my intention, seized my arms and before I could shake them off I heard, muffled but agonised from within that terrible metal globe, the cry of a branded slave girl.

  I felt helpless.

  It was too late.

  “Is your companion well?” asked the attendant at the wall.

  “Yes,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “he is quite well, thank you.”

  “If he is not well,” said the attendant on the disk, “he should report to the infirmary for destruction.”

  “He is quite well,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “Why did he say “destruction”?” I asked Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Infected Muls are disposed of,” said Mul-Al-Ka. “It is better for the Nest.”

  The attendant on the disk had now broken open the blue plastic wrapper that held, fresh and folded, the garment of a Chamber Slave. This, with its clasp on the left shoulder, he fastened on the girl. He then sprung her wrists free of the retaining devices and reclosed the plastic cylinder, locking her inside once again. She was now contained precisely as she had been originally save that she had exchanged the thick, multitudinous, ornate Robes of Concealment, the proud, cumbersome insignia of the free woman of Gor, for the simple garment of a Chamber Slave and a burning wound on her left thigh.

  The globelike object which had been fastened over her head now stopped humming and flashing, and the attendant on the disk opened it, releasing the girl’s head. He shoved the globe up and a foot or so to the side and then with a quick movement reclosed it in such a way that once again its floorside aperture described an opening of approximately six inches in diameter. The attendant at the wall panel then pressed a button and the entire apparatus raised on its extension arms to the ceiling.

  As well as she could, sobbing and trembling, the girl looked downward through the transparent top of the plastic cylinder and regarded herself. She now saw herself in a strange garment. She touched her left hand to her thigh and cried out in pain.

  She shook her head, her eyes bursting with tears. “You don’t understand,” she whimpered. “I am an offering to the Priest – Kings from the Initiates of Ar.”

  The attendant on the disk then bent down and picked up the slender, graceful metal collar.

  These collars are normally measured individually to the girl as is most slave steel. The collar is regarded not simply as a designation of slavery and a means for identifying the girl’s owner and his city but as an ornament as well. Accordingly the Gorean master is often extremely concerned that the fit of the graceful band will be neither too tight nor too loose. The collar is normally worn snugly, indeed so much so that if the snap of a slave leash is used the girl will normally suffer some discomfort.

  The girl continued to shake her head. “No,
” she said, “no, you do not understand.” She tried to twist away as the attendant’s hands lifted the collar towards her. “But I came to the Sardar,” she cried, “in order that I might never be a slave girl – never a slave girl!”

  The collar made a small, heavy click as it closed about her throat.

  “You are a slave girl,” said the attendant.

  She screamed.

  “Take her away,” said the attendant by the wall panel.

  Obediently the attendant on the disk lightly jumped down and began to push the disk and its cylinder from the room.

  As it passed from the chamber, followed by the attendantwho had operated the wall panel, I could see the dazed, confused girl, sobbing and in pain, trying to reach the collar through the plastic of the cylinder’s top. “No, no,” she said, “you do not understand.” She threw me one last look, not comprehending, hopeless, wild, reproachful.

  My hand tightened on the hilt of my sword.

  “There is nothing you can do,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  I supposed that he might well be right. Should I kill the innocent attendants, merely Muls who were performing the tasks allotted to them by Priest-Kings? Would I then have to slay Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta as well? And what would I do with the girl in the Nest of Priest-Kings? And what of Misk?

  Would I not then lose my opportunity, if any, of saving him?

  I was angered toward Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “Why did you bring me here?” I demanded.

  “Why,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “did you not notice her collar?”

  “It was a slave collar,” I said.

  “But the engraving was large and very plain,” he said.

  “Did you not read it?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “No,” I said irritably, “I did not.”

  “It was the numeral “708”,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  I started and did not speak. 708 had been the number of Vika’s collar. There was now a new slave for her chamber. What did this mean?

  “That was the collar number of Vika of Treve,” I said.

  “Precisely,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “she whom Sarm promised to you as part of the riches accruing from your part in his plan to slay Misk.”

  “The number, as you see,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “has been reassigned.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  “It means,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “that Vika of Treve no longer exists.”

  I suddenly felt as though a hammer had struck me, for though I hated Vika of Treve I would not have wished her dead. Somehow, unaccountably in spite of my great hatred for her, I was shaking, sweating and trembling. “Perhaps she has been given a new collar?” I asked.

  “No,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Then she is dead?” I asked.

  “As good as dead,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “What do you mean!” I cried, seizing him by the shoulders and shaking him.

  “He means,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “that she has been sent to the tunnels of the Golden Beetle.”

  “But why?” I demanded.

  “She was useless any longer as a servant to Priest-Kings,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “But why!” I insisted.

  “I think we have said enough,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “That is true,” said Mul-Ba-Ta. “Perhaps we should not have spoken even this much to you, Tarl Cabot.”

  I placed my hands gently on the shoulders of the two Muls.

  “Thank you, my friends,” I said. “I understand what you have done here. You have proved to me that Sarm does not intend to keep his promises, that he will betray me.”

  “Remember,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we have not told you that.”

  “That is true,” I said, “but you have showed me.”

  “We only promised Sarm,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “that we would not tell you.”

  I smiled at the two Muls, my friends.

  “After I have finished with Misk are you then to kill me?” I asked.

  “No,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we are simply to tell you that Vika of Treve awaits you in the tunnels of the Golden Beetle.”

  “That is the weak part of Sarm’s plan,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “for you would never go to the tunnels of the Golden Beetle to seek a female Mul.”

  “True,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “it is the first mistake I have known Sarm to make.”

  “You will not go to the tunnels of the Golden Beetle,” said Mul-Ba-Ta, “because it is death to do so.”

  “But I will go,” I said.

  The two Muls looked at one another sadly and shook their heads.

  “Sarm is wiser than we,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  Mul-Ba-Ta nodded his head. “See how he uses the instincts of humans against themselves,” he said to his companion.

  “A true Priest-King,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  I smiled to myself for I thought how incredible that I should find myself naturally and without a second thought considering going to the rescue of the worthless, vicious wench, Vika of Treve.

  And yet it was not a strange thing, particularly not on Gor, where bravery is highly esteemed and to save a female’s life is in effect to win title to it, for it is the option of a Gorean male to enslave any woman whose life he has saved, a right which is seldom denied even by the citizens of the girl’s city or her family. Indeed, there have been cases in which a girl’s brothers have had her clad as a slave, bound in slave bracelets, and handed over to her rescuer, in order that the honour of the family and her city not be besmirched.

  There is, of course, a natural tendency in the rescued female to feel and demonstrate great gratitude to the man who has saved her life, and the Gorean custom is perhaps no more than an institutionalisation of this customary response. There are cases where a free woman in the vicinity of a man she desired has deliberately placed herself in jeopardy. The man then, after having been forced to risk his life, is seldom in a mood to use the girl other than as his slave. I have wondered upon occasion about this practice so different on Gor than on Earth. On my old world when a woman is saved by a man she may, I understand, with propriety bestow upon him a grateful kiss and perhaps, if we may believe the tales in these matters, consider him more seriously because of his action as a possible, eventual companion in wedlock. One of these girls, if rescued on Gor, would probably be dumbfounded at what would happen to her. After her kiss of gratitude which might last a good deal longer than she had anticipated she would find herself forced to kneel and be collared and then, stripped, her wrists confined behind her back in slave bracelets, she would find herself led stumbling away on a slave leash from the field of her champion’s valour. Yes, undoubtedly our Earth girls would find this most surprising. On the other hand the Gorean attitude is that she would be dead were it not for his brave action and thus it is his right, now that he has won her life, to make her live it for him precisely as she pleases, which is usually, it must unfortunately be noted, as his slave girl, for the privileges of a Free Companionship are never bestowed lightly. Also of course a Free Companionship might be refused, in all Gorean right, by the girl, and thus a warrior can hardly be blamed, after risking his life, for not wanting to risk losing the precious prize which he has just, at great peril to himself, succeeded in winning. The Gorean man, as a man, cheerfully and dutifully attends to the rescuing of his female in distress, but as a Gorean, as a true Gorean, he feels, perhaps justifiably and being somewhat less or more romantic than ourselves, that he should have something more for his pains than her kiss of gratitude and so, in typical Gorean fashion, puts his chain on the wench, claiming both her and her body as his payment.

  “I thought you hated her,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “I do,” I said.

  “Is it human to act as you do?” inquired Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “Yes,” I said, “it is the part of a man to protect a female of the human kind, regardless of who she may be.”

  “Is it enough that she be merely a female of our kind?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “
Even a female Mul?” asked Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Interesting,” said Mul-Ba-Ta. “Then we should accompany you for we too wish to learn to be men.”

  “No,” I said, “you should not accompany me.”

  “Ah,” said Mul-Al-Ka bitterly, “you do not truly regard us yet as men.”

  “I do,” I said. “You have proved that by informing me of Sarm’s intentions.”

  “Then we may accompany you?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “No,” I said, “for I think you will be able to help me in other matters.”

  “That would be pleasant,” said Mul-Al-Ka.

  “But we will not have much time,” said Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “That is true,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “for we must soon report to the dissection chambers.”

  The two Muls looked understandably dejected.

  I thought about things for a moment or so and then I shrugged and fixed on them both a look of what I hoped would be a somewhat poignant disappointment.

  “You may if you wish,” I said, “but it is not really very human on your part.”

  “No?” asked Mul-Al-Ka, perking up.

  “No?” asked Mul-Ba-Ta, showing sudden interest.

  “No,” I said, “definitely not.”

  “Are you sure?” inquired Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Truly sure?” pressed Mul-Ba-Ta.

  “I am positive,” I said. “It is simply not human at all to just go off and report to the dissection chambers.”

  The two Muls looked at me for a long time, and at themselves, and at me again, and seemed to reach some sort of accord.

  “Well then,” said Mul-Al-Ka, “we shall not do so.”

  “No,” said Mul-Ba-Ta rather firmly.

  “Good,” I said.

  “What will you do now, Tarl Cabot?” asked Mul-Al-Ka.

  “Take me to Misk,” I said.

  Chapter Twenty-One

  I FIND MISK

  I followed Mul-Al-Ka and Mul-Ba-Ta into a damp, high, vaulted chamber, unlit by energy bulbs. The sides of the chamber were formed of some rough, cementlike substance in which numerous rocks of various sizes and shapes inhered as in a conglomerate mass.