Tribesmen of Gor

by Norman, John;

  She put her head down, quickly.

  I smiled.

  In her dance Alyena now turned, facing away from us.

  I smiled. I could no longer see, beneath the small of her back, on the left side, the mark, the blemish, or bruise. Earlier it would have been clearly visible through the yellow silk. It had taken several days to heal.

  She had received it several days ago on the caravan march, four days after we had been joined by the officers and escort sent forth from Nine Wells. She had received it at a watering place. She had been carrying a large bag of churned verr milk on her head. It had been given to her by an agile, broad-shouldered, handsome young nomad. I had seen it and, in my opinion, she had asked for it. She, with her burden, had walked past him, near him, and as a slave girl. He had leaped to his feet and, swift, with fingers like pliers, had administered a sharp, jocular bit of instruction to the bold wench. Her yelp resounded for a radius of a quarter of a pasang about the watering hole, startling even the verr and kaiila. She dropped the churned verr milk, the bag’s seams fortunately for her not splitting, and spun to face him indignantly, even as a woman of Earth, but her indignation, the instant she turned, gave way to fear, for he was towering over her, she not a free woman but a slave, not four inches from her. “You walk well, Slave Girl,” he told her. She staggered backward, frightened, stumbling, until she was backed against the backward-leaning trunk of a flahdah tree. She looked up at him. “You’re a pretty little slave girl,” he said. “I would not mind owning you.” She turned her head away. “Oh!” she cried. His hand was on her body, and she, writhing, weeping, with her heels, pushing herself, back scraping on the bark, climbed almost a foot up the slanting trunk, before he, taking her in his arms, through her veil, kissed her, fiercely, again and again, with the rape-kisses of a master, impressed on the vulnerable lips of a female slave; when he drew back there was a stain of blood on the silk; she regarded him, startled, in consternation, held back against the tree; I saw the record of her wild, startled breath in the light, bloodied silk; he then took her hair, on the left and right, and swiftly, laughing, knotted it behind her, about the trunk of the tree. He then left her. She stood with her back against the tree, angry, trying to reach the knots behind her. She then became aware, from the laughter of the men about, how this accentuated her figure. Doubtless the young nomad had not been unaware of this consequence of his action. She then, weeping, in misery, inched down the trunk of the tree until she knelt with her back against it, leaning back, and tried to reach behind her, again trying to undo the knots. This was not an easy task for, again, she could not see the knots, they being behind her, on the other side of the tree. Too, as she soon realized, her struggles on her knees, trying to reach behind her, were every bit as fetching as those had been when she had been standing. Indeed, women are sometimes tied in much the same fashion, kneeling back against such a post or tree, their hands tied together over their head and behind the post or tree. In such a case, their ankles are also usually tied behind it. “Please, Master. Please come back, Master! Please help me, Master!” she called out, but he was gone. Then she turned to others who were about. “Please help me, Masters!” she begged. But the men sat about, cross-legged, enjoying her struggles. She was a very pretty slave. Then she decided to stop struggling. “You had best hurry,” said one of the fellows, “for Aya will wonder about where you are.” She then, in misery, before the men, redoubled her efforts to free herself. Yes, she was a pretty slave, and the small, diaphanous veil, now with its bit of blood in the silk, where the young nomad’s teeth had cut her lip, given her nudity, was a delightful irony. I conjectured that Miss Priscilla Blake-Allen, on Earth, had never expected to find herself in such a position. But then, of course, she had never expected to be a slave, and on another world; she would not have known that she was on some slaver’s list, and perhaps even from puberty; I was pleased with their judgment; I thought that, in time, given greater familiarity with her collar, the former Miss Blake-Allen would make an excellent slave. It was more than ten Ehn before she had managed, to the amusement of the camp, to free herself. She was further discomfited by the fact that she was discovered by Aya, Farouk’s slave woman, who was training her. Aya was not pleased to find the girl hair-tied by the tree, the bag of churned verr milk lying to one side in the dust. Aya made clear her displeasure by striking the girl several times, before she could free herself, with her customary instrument of instruction, the knotted kaiila strap. “Lazy girl!” she chided. “There is a time for play and a time for work!” When Alyena had managed to free herself she again, hastily, weeping, lifted and placed upon her head the bag of churned verr milk, steadying it, and proceeded to deliver it to the tent of Farouk. “This is a time for work!” cried Aya. “Yes, Mistress!” wept Alyena.

  In my view the young nomad had well handled the saucy slave. Indeed, she had been, in my view, superbly dealt with. She had also doubtless learned something of the vulnerability of her condition. In the future she might think twice before taunting men.

  She was not a free woman, you see; she was a slave.

  When Alyena had been released from her duties by Aya, the girl fled to me, recounting in tears what had occurred.

  “Was he not a terrible beast?” asked Alyena.

  “Yes, a terrible beast,” I agreed.

  “Should you not have interfered?” she pouted.

  I shrugged. “I thought he handled you quite well,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. Then, after a time, she asked, “Should you not have defended your property?”

  “Perhaps if I thought it had any value,” I said.

  “Oh,” she said. She looked down.

  “Remove my slippers,” I told her.

  She bent to my slippers.

  That night, late, when she was in her djellaba, and hobbled, lying at my feet, she spoke. “Master,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “He was a terrible beast, was he not?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  There was a long pause. Then I heard, “Do you think I shall ever see him again?”

  “Nomads are poor,” I said. “I thought you wanted to be owned by a rich man.”

  “I do not want to be owned by him!” she cried. “I hate him!”

  “Oh,” I said.

  After a time I heard, “Master—”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do you think, Master,” she asked, “that I shall ever see him again?”

  “I do not know,” I said.

  I heard the looped chain, wrapped several times about her crossed ankles, and locked, move. Then I was conscious of her in the darkness, kneeling in her hobble beside me. Her head, dark, was to the tent mat. “Master,” she whispered.

  “Yes?” I said.

  “May I be taught to dance?” she asked.

  “Who is ‘I’?” I questioned.

  “Alyena, your slave girl, Master,” she whispered, “begs to be taught to dance.”

  “Perhaps she will be taught,” I said.

  “She is grateful,” said the girl.

  We were silent for a time.

  “Alyena,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “In your heart,” I asked, “do you think of yourself as slave?”

  “May a girl answer truthfully?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I can never be a true slave,” she said. “I am a woman of Earth.”

  “Oh,” I said. I smiled.

  I listened to the night, the wind, the snorting of kaiila, the calls of the guards.

  “Why does Alyena wish to learn to dance?” I asked her.

  The girl thought for a bit. Then she sniffed. “Alyena,” she said, “thinks that it might give her pleasure, that it would give her something interesting to do, to occupy her time. She thinks it would be good for her health. It will help to keep her figure trim.”

  “Alyena,” I said, “wishes to learn to dance—to dance the tr
ue dances of a female—because in her heart, and she tells no one, there is a secret.”

  “What is Alyena’s secret?” asked the girl.

  “That in her heart,” I said, “she wants to be a slave girl.”

  “Nonsense,” said the girl.

  “But there is another secret,” I said, “One which Alyena does not know.”

  “And what is that?” she asked, angrily.

  “That she who in her heart wants to be a slave girl is already a slave girl.”

  “No, no!” cried the girl. “No!”

  “On such a girl,” I said, “brand and collar are no more than emblems, mere tokens, proclaiming on her body the truth of her, the deepest truth of her, which no longer may she conceal.”

  “No!” cried the girl.

  “On such a girl,” I said, “brazenly, making it evident to all, they tell the secret, which she is no longer permitted to hide, that she is slave, only slave.”

  “No!” she cried.

  “Your brand and collar, Alyena,” I said, “fit you well.”

  “No!” she wept. I heard her fingers pull at her collar.

  “Rejoice,” said I, “that they are on your body. Many slave girls never know them.”

  She lay in the dark, twisting, weeping, hobbled, pulling at her collar.

  * * * *

  Ibn Saran, watching the yellow-silked, collared slave dance, sipped his hot, black wine.

  I saw that he was interested in the beauty.

  She bent down, her leg extended and, moving it, flexing it, slowly, to the music, from her knee to the thigh, caressed it.

  Alyena was good, because, in her belly, though she still did not know it, burned slave fire.

  Sometimes she would look at us, her audience. Her eyes said to us, I dance as a slave girl, but I am not truly a slave girl. I am not tamed. I can never be tamed. No man can tame me.

  In time she could learn she was truly slave. There was little hurry in such matters. In the Tahari men are patient.

  Before Suleiman, now, there lay five stones, three sereem diamonds, red, sparkling, white flecked, and two opals, one a common sort, milky in color, and the other an unusual flame opal, reddish and blue. Opals are not particularly valuable stones on Earth, but they are much rarer on Gor; these were excellent specimens, cut and polished into luminescent ovoids; still, of course, they did not have the value of the diamonds.

  “What would you like for these five stones?” he asked.

  “A hundred weights of date bricks,” I said.

  “That is too high,” he said.

  Of course it was too high. The trick, of course, was to make the asking price high enough to arrive at some reasonable exchange value later on, and, at the same time, not insult a man of Suleiman’s position and intelligence. To make the first price too high, as though I were dealing with a fool, might result in unfortunate consequences for myself, the least among which might have been immediate decapitation, supposing that Suleiman had had an excellent breakfast and a pleasant preceding night with his girls.

  “Twenty weights of date bricks,” he said.

  “That is too low,” I said.

  Suleiman studied the stones. He knew his suggested price was too low. He was merely concerned to consider what they might, competitively, be worth.

  Suleiman was a man of discrimination, and taste; he was also one of high intelligence.

  It had been he who had organized the trap.

  * * * *

  It had been night, when I had first suspected the nature of the trap, the sixth night after the joining of the caravan of Farouk by the escort of Aretai soldiers.

  The lieutenant to the captain, high officer of the escort, came to my tent. It had been he who had accused me of being a Kavar spy, who had urged the killing of me. We bore one another little good will. His name was Hamid. The name of the captain was Shakar.

  He looked about himself, furtively, then sat himself in the tent, unbidden, on my mats. I did not wish to kill him.

  “You carry stones, which you wish to sell to Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai,” had said the lieutenant.

  “Yes,” I had said.

  He had seemed anxious. “Give them to me,” he said. “I will carry them to Suleiman. He will not see you. I will give you, from him, what they bring in pressed date bricks.”

  “I think not,” I said.

  His eyes narrowed. His swarthy face darkened.

  “Go,” he said to Alyena. I had not yet hobbled her.

  She looked at me. “Go,” I said.

  “I do not wish to speak before the slave,” he said.

  “I understand,” I said. Only too well did I understand. Did he find it essential to slay me he would do well not to perform this deed before a witness, be it only a slave.

  He smiled. “There are Kavars about,” he said, “many of them.”

  To be sure, I had seen, from time to time, over the past few days, riders, in small groups, scouting us.

  When the guards or the men of our escort rode toward them, they faded away into the hills.

  “In the vicinity,” said Hamid, “though do not speak this about, there is a party of Kavars, in number between three and four hundred.”

  “Raiders?” I asked.

  “Kavars,” he said. “Tribesmen. And men of their vassal tribe, the Ta’Kara.” He looked at me closely. “There may soon be war,” he said. “Caravans will be few. Merchants will not care to risk their goods. It is their intention that Suleiman not receive these goods. It is their intention to divert them, or most of them, to the Oasis of the Stones of Silver.” This was an oasis of the Char, also a vassal tribe of the Kavars. Its name had been given to it centuries before, when thirsty men, who had moved at night on the desert, had come upon it, discovering it. Dew had formed on the large flat stones thereabouts and, in the light of the dawn, had made them, from a distance, seem to glint like silver. Dew, incidentally, is quite common in the Tahari, condensing on the stones during the chilly nights. It burns off, of course, almost immediately in the morning. Nomads sometime dig stones before dawn, clean them, set them out, and, later, lick the moisture from them. One cannot pay the water debt, of course, with the spoonful or so of moisture obtainable in this way. It does, however, wet the lips and tongue.

  “If there are so many Kavars about,” I said, “and Ta’Kara, you do not have enough men to defend this caravan.” Indeed, in such a situation, militarily, so small an escort as a hundred men would seem rather to invite attack.

  Hamid, lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai, did not respond to my remark. Rather he said, “Give me the stones, I will keep them safe for you. If you do not give them to me, you may lose them to Kavars. I will see Suleiman for you. He will not see you. I will bargain for you. I will get you a good price in date bricks for them.”

  “I will see Suleiman myself,” I said. “I will bargain for myself.”

  “Kavar spy!” he hissed.

  I did not speak.

  “Give me the stones,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “It is your intent,” he said, “to gain access to the presence of Suleiman, and then assassinate him!”

  “That seems an ill-devised stratagem to obtain a good price in date bricks,” I said. “You have drawn your dagger,” I observed.

  He lunged for me but I was no longer there. I moved to my feet, and, kicking loose the pole which held the tent, slipped outside, drawing my scimitar. “Ho!” I cried. “Burglar! A burglar!”

  Men came running. Among them came Shakar, captain of the Aretai, blade drawn, and several of his men. Drovers, slaves, crowded about. Inside the fallen tent, struggling, was a figure. Then the tent, as men held torches, at a sign from Shakar, was thrown back.

  “Why,” cried I in amazement, “it is the noble Hamid. Forgive me, Noble Sir. I mistook you for a burglar!”

  Grumbling, brushing sand from his robes, Hamid climbed to his feet.

  “It was clumsy to let a tent fal
l on you,” said Shakar. He sheathed his scimitar.

  “I tripped,” said Hamid. He did not look pleased as, following his captain, looking back, he disappeared in the darkness.

  “Set the tent aright,” I told Alyena, who was looking up at me, frightened.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I then went to find Farouk. There was little point in his losing men.

  * * * *

  We did not have to wait long for the attack of the Kavars. It occurred shortly after the tenth hour, the Gorean noon, the following day.

  Not much to my surprise the men of the escort of Aretai rushed forth to do battle, but, seeing the numbers of their enemy, which indeed seemed considerable, sweeping down from the hills, wheeled their kaiila and, abandoning the caravan, rode rapidly away.

  “Do not offer resistance!” cried Farouk to his guards, riding the length of the caravan. “Do not fight! Do not resist!”

  In a few moments the Kavars, howling, lances high, burnooses swirling, were among us.

  The guards of Farouk, following his example, dropped their bucklers to the dust, thrust their lances, butt down, in the earth, took out their scimitars and, flinging them blade downward from the saddle, hurled them into the ground, disarming themselves.

  Slave girls screamed.

  With lances the Kavars gestured that the men dismount. They did so. They were herded together. Kavars rode down the caravan line, ordering drovers to hurry their animals into lines.

  With their scimitars, they slashed certain of the bags and crates on the kaiila, determining their contents.

  One Kavar warrior, with the point of his lance, drew a line in the graveled dust.

  “Strip your women,” he called. “Put them on this line.” Women were hurried to the line. Some of them were stripped by the scimitar. I saw Alyena pulled by the arm from her kurdah and thrown to the gravel. As she knelt on her hands and knees in the gravel, looking up, terrified, a warrior, behind her, on kaiila, thrust the tip of his lance beneath her veil, between the side of her head and the tiny golden string, and, lifting the lance, ripped the veil from her, face-stripping her. She turned to face him, terrified, crouching in the gravel. “A beauty!” he cried. “Oh!” she cried. The steel, razor-sharp point of the lance was at her bosom. “Run to the line, Slave Girl,” she was ordered. “Yes, Master,” she cried.