Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I fear so,” I said, in misery.

  “Unfortunate,” he said.

  “We must abandon our disguise,” I said, “and flee.”

  “Where?” he said.

  “Down the street is a tavern,” I said. “We could take refuge there.”

  “That is the Sea Sleen,” he said.

  “They would not attack us in the tavern,” I said.

  “Could they not wait until we emerged?” he asked.

  “Let us abandon our disguise,” I said. “Hire men to convey us safely to the vicinity of the court.”

  “I think it likely,” he said, “that by now Kurik of Victoria is in Brundisium. Too, the shipment is almost certain to be in the vicinity of the wharves or warehouses. We have, without fortune, prowled the northern and central wharves, and will do so again, and time and time again, if necessary. Surely it seemed likely the shipment would be delivered to such precincts, safer precincts. But now I am not sure. The southern wharves are rife with smugglers, their vessels, their goods. Perhaps here, though the shipment might be less safe, in theory, it might be safer, in fact, might be more easily concealed, might be less likely to be noticed. And if Kurik of Victoria wishes to conceal his presence, as he may well wish to do, where better than in the district of the lower wharves.”

  I could hear water lapping against the pilings of a pier, some yards away.

  “They are closer, Master,” I said. “Discard your disguise, hasten to the tavern!”

  “Do not be absurd,” he said.

  “I am shackled,” I said. “You are unarmed.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said.

  “Plans often fail to come to fruition,” I said. “Let us flee.”

  Tyrtaios straightened up, as though he had detected some unexpected movement. He lifted one hand, and turned, as though quizzically, to face the two men, now but two or three yards away.

  “Who is there?” he asked me.

  “Two citizens,” I said, “two noble masters.”

  “Two friends,” said one of the men.

  “Calm your slave,” said the other. “Have her put aside her fears.”

  “There is nothing to fear, Phyllis,” said Tyrtaios. “These men are friends.”

  “Assuredly,” said one of the men.

  “You seem strangers here,” said the other, kindly.

  “Where are we?” asked Tyrtaios, his head lifted, looking blankly about.

  “On the Pier Road,” said one of the men, “north of the Dacia, not far from the pier of Critias.”

  “I fear we are lost,” said Tyrtaios, as though dismayed.

  “We feared distress,” said one of the men. “May we be of assistance?”

  “I trust this district is safe,” said Tyrtaios.

  “Ela,” said one of the men. “I fear it is less safe than one might wish.”

  “True,” said the other, regretfully. “Particularly after dark,” he added.

  “Is it dark?” asked Tyrtaios.

  “Yes,” said the other.

  It was not yet dark, but the fellow who had been whittling on the stick held his knife to my throat.

  “My purse is heavy,” said Tyrtaios. “Might you direct us to the refuge of an inn?”

  “We would be pleased to do so,” said one of the men.

  “Surely you will accept some gratuity for your trouble,” said Tyrtaios, looking off toward nowhere.

  “Not at all,” said the fellow with the knife, regarding me.

  “I insist,” said Tyrtaios.

  “No,” said one of the men. “It is we who insist. The pleasure of being of service is more than ample pay.”

  “What noble masters,” said Tyrtaios, wonderingly.

  “That way,” said one of the men, indicating a dark passage.

  “What inn have you in mind?” asked Tyrtaios.

  It was easy to see that the fellows had not anticipated this question. Then one said, quickly, “the inn of Eteocles.” I supposed there was no such inn, or, if so, that it was unlikely to be in this area.

  “Do they house slaves?” inquired Tyrtaios.

  “I am sure they can find her a cage, and blanket, in the basement,” said the fellow with the knife.

  “We must ascertain that,” said the other. “Go, inquire. I shall wait here with the slave. It is only some paces away.”

  The other fellow then, he without the knife, approached me, put his hand over my mouth, and held me, tightly, in place. In his grip and in the belly chain I was helpless.

  I watched the other fellow then, he with the knife, he who had threatened me, take Tyrtaios by the arm, gently, helpfully, and begin to conduct him down the dark passage.

  “Do not struggle, kajira,” said the other, now my captor.

  I looked wildly about, as I could. The guide stick, attached to the collar, dangled behind me. It moved. I could feel it, against my back.

  Surely someone might see!

  I saw no one.

  “Steady, kajira,” I was warned.

  I could scarcely move.

  “Do not be concerned,” he said. “At least four ships depart this very night. We can put you in thongs and a slave bit, sell you, and you will be on your way to the Farther Islands by the Twentieth Ahn. To be sure, there will be time for us to pleasure ourselves with you first.”

  We waited for some Ehn.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  After a bit, he put me to the pavement and, with a short thong, lashed my ankles together, closely.

  “Remain silent,” he said, “or I will return and cut your throat.”

  I saw him disappear into the dark passage.

  I did not lie there long on the pavement before a figure, his eyes bandaged, seemed to emerge, hesitantly, from the darkness.

  He reconnoitered, and apparently noted that the street was deserted, and then moved easily to me, and slashed apart the thong on my ankles.

  But then a mariner staggered from the Sea Sleen.

  At that point the demeanor of my master changed, and he became again hesitant, and uncertain, as though lost in a darkness. He rose up, and I did. He then reached about, and then apparently managed at last to grasp the guide stick, and, once again, it was perpendicular to my neck.

  “I think,” he said, “that the shipment may be about, and Kurik of Victoria, as well, here amongst the southern piers. Where better could it be concealed? Where better might he move unnoticed? We must thus examine this area more carefully, more thoroughly. But our presence, if we are to linger about, must have some vindication, some justification or pretext. Tomorrow then my guise will be that of a blind beggar, depending on his guide slave. We shall now return to the court.”

  “What of the two men?” I asked.

  “They will not bother us anymore,” he said.

  “Master was unarmed,” I said.

  “The hook knife is easily concealed,” he said.

  Chapter Twenty-Eight

  The tarsk-bit struck into the metal cup slung about my neck.

  “Thank you, kind Master,” said Tyrtaios.

  The guide stick, with its attached collar, buckled under my chin, was tight against the back of my neck.

  I felt it press me forward.

  I again wore the brief, yellow tunic, and the belly chain, its bracelets once more confining my hands behind my back.

  “Twenty copper tarsks for your slave!” laughed a man.

  “Is she truly so ugly?” asked Tyrtaios, the dark bandage swathing his eyes, seemingly surprised, even dismayed.

  “A she-tarsk would bring more on the block,” laughed another fellow.

  “Ela!” cried Tyrtaios. “I paid a silver tarsk for her. I was told she was beautiful!”

  “Fool!” called a man.

&nb
sp; “Unsighted dupe!” called another.

  “Be gentle,” said another fellow. “You see he cannot see. The slave is comely enough.”

  “Indeed,” said another. “I have seen worse in the taverns.”

  “Twenty-one copper tarsks then!” called out the fellow who had bellowed forth the supposed offer of twenty tarsks but a moment ago.

  “But I need her, to show me my way!” laughed Tyrtaios, seemingly joining in the sport.

  “Buy a sleen!” suggested a man.

  “But I cannot afford a sleen,” cried Tyrtaios, as though in distress.

  There was more laughter.

  Miserable, I felt tears running down my cheeks, to and beneath the curved rods of the device fastened on me, the bit drawn back between my teeth.

  I did not care to be demeaned, or humiliated, but then what did it matter? I was a slave.

  Had Tyrtaios been truly blind, and had bought me, unable to ascertain the quality of his purchase, he might, indeed, have been duped. Had he been truly blind he might have been in anguish then, not so much for having a plain or homely slave, for such might guide one as well as a high-block beauty, but for having been misled and cheated, a possibility not lightly regarded by most Goreans. Indeed, a merchant who misrepresents his goods may have his business burned and his stock confiscated, may even be denied bread, fire, and salt, and be driven naked from the city.

  I did not know my worth, of course. Indeed, how does a woman know what she is worth until she is sold? But I thought I would now sell for at least a silver tarsk in most markets. Indeed, Arnold, of Harfax, if that was his name, he whom I continued to think of as Tullius Quintus, of Ar, had twice been offered that for me, on the streets in Ar.

  I did not hope, of course, that I could bring as much as a trained sleen. But then a trained sleen will sell for more than most slaves, just as a tarn will commonly sell for more than several sleen.

  “Let us share a round of paga!” called a fellow.

  There was assent to this.

  Another tarsk-bit was placed in the cup about my neck.

  “Thank you, Master,” called Tyrtaios.

  The coin had been dropped into the cup by the fellow who had made the supposed bids of twenty and twenty-one copper tarsks for me. I supposed he was seeing fit to pay for the pleasure of his sport.

  “To the right, down that street,” said Tyrtaios.

  The bit was back, deeply, between my teeth.

  I turned right, responsive to the stick.

  “Here,” said Tyrtaios, “we shall try our fortune. What, and whom, we seek, I am sure is in this district, somewhere. May this path prove propitious.”

  We had soon entered into that street.

  It bore no signs, but that is common in many Gorean cities. It is not that the streets lack names, only that the names are not likely to be known by strangers. One may inquire, of course. The situation is occasionally complicated by the fact that a street may have more than one name, depending on your informant, and, sometimes, it will change its name, depending on your location, a street having, say, one name closer to the piers, and another name closer to the markets. In Ar, street maps, at least public street maps, are forbidden, largely as a military precaution. The map, as I understand it, precise and reliable, studied behind closed doors, is amongst the subtlest and most potent vehicles of war. Campaigns are conducted, wars are fought, on its quiet surface. It is before the trumpet; it precedes the drum and the cadenced tread of marching men.

  “The street is dingy,” said Tyrtaios. “The gutters are unkempt and foul. The insulae are squat, dirty, and odorous. Excellent. Quite suitable for an unnoted residence. The piers are near, too. Excellent. Who knows what, at hand, baled and crated, might prove of interest? On these stones we shall try our fortune. Too, it is near the tenth Ahn. The bar will soon ring. Men will be about the street. I can smell the cook shops, fresh bread, and sausages. Perhaps, at last, here, we shall detect our elusive Kurik of Victoria, and be led by him, unwittingly, to our prize.”

  Another coin was deposited in my cup.

  “Thank you, Master,” called Tyrtaios, feigning gratitude.

  I had not been put in the bit before.

  Did Tyrtaios fear I might call out to Kurik of Victoria, to warn him of his danger? Surely not. I need only pretend that I had not seen him.

  That would be simple enough.

  But why then had I been placed in the bit?

  The tenth Ahn is the noon hour.

  I could smell the fresh hot bread, so different from the bread to which I had been accustomed on my former world, baked, marshaled forth, aligned, wrapped, shipped, and stored, long removed from the ovens of its birth, long departed from the pinnacle of its taste, its perfection. I feared many on my former world had never tasted fresh bread, which seemed a sadness. How little they knew of what bread might be. The common Gorean loaf, so to speak, is flat and circular. It may be larger or smaller. It is commonly divided into four, if smaller, or eight, if larger, wedgelike pieces, these pieces sold separately. Odors, too, emanated from the crackling pans, plates, and griddles of the cook shops. Soup, usually thick, sometimes with suls, as in sullage, but commonly comprised of other vegetables and noodles, would be ladled into wooden bowls. And there would be, too, behind the counter, in baskets, grapes, tospits, larmas, nuts, and olives, and, in blocks, cheeses, and, in its amphorae to be lifted from its racks, cheap ka-la-na.

  The street was now relatively crowded.

  The bar for the tenth Ahn sounded.

  Another coin was placed in the cup.

  “May the Priest-Kings look upon you with favor,” called out Tyrtaios.

  Then I felt the rigid guide stick, fastened to the close-buckled collar, tight against my neck. Any movement I might make would then be conveyed back through the stick, to the hand of Tyrtaios.

  “Be watchful,” said he, “slave girl.”

  I whimpered, once. How helpless one is, bitted, and braceleted.

  We were passing one of the cook shops, on the left, open, little more than a hole in the wall, set into the ground floor of an insula, as are many shops.

  A tall man was standing outside the shop.

  As we approached, he turned.

  I started.

  This involuntary motion was conveyed instantly through the guide stick to the hand of Tyrtaios.

  I tried to continue on, as though nothing had occurred, but I could not move against the collar, for Tyrtaios had stopped. This held me in place.

  “So,” said Tyrtaios, pleasantly, “that is Kurik of Victoria.”

  I whimpered twice, and then twice, again, desperately, piteously.

  “You lie most lamely,” said he. “I shall not even bother lashing you. Indeed, you have done well to betray your former master.”

  I whimpered again, twice, desperately.

  “I am in a good mood,” he said. “But do not press the matter. Do not court the lash.”

  I was silent. Tears formed in my eyes.

  “Yes,” said Tyrtaios. “He matches the description perfectly. Excellent. You have done well, kajira.”

  To my misery I saw Kurik of Victoria approaching us.

  Did he recognize me?

  It seemed not.

  I was, after all, only another slave.

  “Is someone approaching?” asked Tyrtaios, as though he might not be certain of the matter.

  I whimpered, once.

  I tried to stand still. I now knew my slightest tremor, perhaps not even visible, would be conveyed back to Tyrtaios, through the stick. I had been unable to help myself, as he had said. I could not have helped but react to the sight of Kurik of Victoria, my first master. That Tyrtaios had anticipated. My clever plans, that I might refrain from disclosing the proximity of Kurik of Victoria, did I see him, had been unfounded. It was rather like
the magician who, by muscle reading, by a held arm, may force an unwilling accomplice to lead him to the location of a concealed object. My eyes were filled with tears. I fear my expression was one of fear, protest, and agony, as I tried to warn Kurik of Victoria of his danger.

  But he approached, easily, smiling.

  He stopped but a foot from me.

  Tyrtaios could not see my expression. He could detect, through the stick, little more, I suppose, than my subtle agitation, which I was trying to subdue. But he could see the expression of Kurik of Victoria, which conveyed naught but interest, and perhaps concern.

  “You pause, sad Master,” said Kurik of Victoria.

  “I fear I know not which way to turn,” said Tyrtaios.

  “You are on the street of Crates, near the food shop of Bion,” said Kurik, of Victoria.

  “It is as I suspected,” said Tyrtaios. “My slave has made the wrong turn.”

  “She seems distressed,” said Kurik.

  “Of course,” said Tyrtaios. “She fears a beating.”

  Kurik, with his thumb, wiped the tears from my cheek. I tried not to press my face against his hand. Could he not see my misery, my fear?

  “She is pretty,” said Kurik. “It would seem a shame to beat her.”

  “Is she truly pretty?” asked Tyrtaios, as though interested.

  “For a pot girl,” said Kurik, “for a kettle-and-mat girl.”

  I was sure then he recognized me!

  I was thrilled that he might recognize me, even bitted, but, too, what was I doing here? Would his suspicions not be aroused? Might not he be sought? What likelihood was there that this encounter would be utterly fortuitous?

  “I am sure,” said Kurik, “her misadventure was unintended. Let us not hurry to strip and bind her, and apply the lash to her fair skin.”

  “I will merely withhold her evening gruel,” said Tyrtaios.

  “Merciful Master,” said Kurik.

  He then reached into his wallet.

  “Why is she bitted?” he asked.