Nomads of Gor coc-4

by John Norman

  “Nothing,” said Aphris.

  “If you do not ask him, I shall,” said Elizabeth.

  “Speak, Slave!” shouted Kamchak and Aphris went white and shook her head.

  “She found something today,” said Elizabeth, “that someone had thrown away.”

  “Bring it!” said Kamchak.

  Timidly Aphris rose and went to the thin rep-cloth blanket that was her bedding near the boots of Kamchak. Hidden in the blanket there was a faded yellow piece of cloth, which she had folded very small.

  She brought it to Kamchak and held it out to him.

  He took it and whipped it out. If was a worn, stained Turian camisk, doubtless one that had been word by one of the Turian maidens acquired in Love War.

  Aphris had her head to the rug, trembling.

  When she looked up at Kamchak there were tears in her eyes. She said, very softly, “Aphris of Turia, the slave girl, begs her master that she might clothe herself.”

  “Aphris of Turia,” laughed Kamchak, “begs to be permitted to wear a camisk”

  The girl nodded and swiftly put her head down.

  “Come here, Little Aphris,” said Kamchak.

  She came forward.

  He put his hands in the strings of diamonds on her throat.

  “Would you rather wear diamonds or the camisk?” he asked.

  “Please, Master,” she said, “the camisk.”

  Kamchak jerked the diamonds from her collar and threw them to the side of the room. Then he withdrew from his pouch the key to her collar and bells and, lock by lock, removed them from her. She could hardly believe her eyes.

  “You were very noisy,” Kamchak said to her, sternly.

  Elizabeth clapped her hands with pleasure and began to consider the camisk.

  “A slave girl is grateful to her master,” said Aphris, tears in her eyes.

  “Properly so,” agreed Kamchak.

  Then, delighted, Aphris, assisted by Elizabeth Cardwell, donned the yellow camisk. Against her dark almond eyes and long black hair the yellow camisk was exceedingly lovely.

  “Come here,” commanded Kamchak, and Aphris ran lightly to him, timidly.

  “I will show you how to wear a camisk,” said Kamchak, taking the cord and adjusting it with two or three pulls and jerks that just about took the wind out of the Turian girl. He then tied it tightly about her waist. “There,” he said, “that is how a camisk is worn.” I saw that Aphris of Turia would be marvellously attractive in the garment.

  Then, to my surprise, she walked a bit in the wagon and twirled twice before Kamchak. “Am I not pretty, Master?” she asked.

  “Yes,” said Kamchak, nodding.

  She laughed with delight, as proud of the worn camisk as she might have been once of robes of white and gold.

  “For a Turian slave,” added Kamchak.

  “Of course,” she laughed, “for a Turian slave!”

  “We will be late for the performance,” said Elizabeth, “if we do not hurry.”

  “I thought you were staying in the wagon,” said Aphris.

  “No,” said Elizabeth, “I have decided to come.”

  Among them even some Kassars and Paravaci, and one of the rare Kataii, seldom seen in the encampments of the other peoples. The Tuchuks, of course, were most in evidence, sitting cross-legged in circles rather about a large fire near the centre of the enclosure. They were in good humour and were laughing and moving their hands about as they regaled one another with accounts of their recent deeds, of which there were plainly a great many, it being the most active season for caravan raiding. The fire, I was pleased to note, was not of boskdung but wood, timber and planking, I was less pleased to note, torn and splintered from a merchant’s wagon.

  To one side, across a clearing from the fire, a bit in the background, was a group of nine musicians. They were not as yet playing, though one of them was absently tapping a rhythm on a small hand drum, the kaska; two others, with stringed instruments, were tuning them, putting their ears to the instruments. One of the instruments was an eight-stringed czehar, rather like a large flat oblong box; it is held across the lap when sitting cross-legged and is played with a horn pick; the other was the kalika, a six-stringed instrument; it, like the czehar, is flat-bridged and its strings are adjusted by means of small wooden cranks; on the other hand, it less resembles a low, flat box and suggests affinities to the banjo or guitar, though the sound box is hemispheric and the neck rather long; it, too, of course, like the czehar, is plucked; I have never seen a bowed instrument on Gor; also, I Night mention, I have never on Gor seen any written music; I do not know if a notation exists; melodies are passed on from father to son, from master to apprentice. There was another kalika player, as well, but he was sitting there holding his instrument, watching the slave girls in the audience. The three flutists were polishing their instruments and talking together; it was shop talk I gathered, because one or the other would stop to illustrate some remark by a passage on his flute, and then one of the others would attempt to correct or improve on what he had done; occasionally their discussion grew heated. There was also a second drummer, also with a kaska, and another fellow, a younger one, who sat very seriously before what appeared to me to be a pile of objects; among them was a notched stick, played by sliding a polished em-wood stick across its surface; cymbals of various sorts; what was obviously a tambourine; and several other instruments of a percussion variety, bits of metal on wires, gourds filled with pebbles, slave bells mounted on hand rings, and such. These various things, from time to time, would be used not only by himself but by others in the group, probably the second kaska player and the third flutist.

  Among Gorean musicians, incidentally, czehar players have the most prestige; there was only one in this group, I noted, and he was their leader; next follow the flutists and then the players of the kalika; the players of the drums come next; and the farthest fellow down the list is the man who keeps the bag of miscellaneous instruments, playing them and parcelling them out to others as needed. Lastly it might be mentioned, thinking it is of some interest, musicians on Gor are never enslaved; they may, of course, be exiled, tortured, slain and such; it is said, perhaps truly, that he who makes music-must, like the tarn and the Vosk gull, be free.

  Inside the enclosure, over against one side, I saw the slave wagon. The bosk had been unhitched and taken elsewhere. It was open and one could go in and purchase a bottle of Paga if one cared to do so.

  “One is thirsty,” said Kamchak.

  “I’ll buy the Paga,” I said.

  Kamchak shrugged. He had, after all, bought the admissions.

  When I returned with the bottle I had to step through, over, and once or twice on, Tuchuks. Fortunately my clumsiness was not construed as a challenge. One fellow I stepped on was even polite enough to say, “Forgive me for sitting where you are stepping.” In Tuchuk fashion, I assured him that I had taken no offence, and, sweating, I at last made my way to Kamchak’s side. He had rather good seats, which hadn’t been there before, obtained by the Tuchuk method of finding two individuals sitting closely together and then sitting down between them. He had also parked Aphris on his right and Elizabeth on his left. I bit out the cork in the Paga and passed it past Elizabeth to Kamchak, as courtesy demanded.

  About a third of the bottle was missing when Elizabeth, looking faint at having smelled the beverage, returned it to me.

  I heard two snaps and I saw that Kamchak had put a hobble on Aphris. The slave hobble consists of two rings, one for a wrist, the other for an ankle, joined by about seven inches of chain. In a right-handed girl, such as either Aphris or Elizabeth, it locks on the right wrist and left ankle. When the girl kneels, in any of the traditional positions of the Gorean woman, either slave or free, it is not uncomfortable.

  In spite of the hobble, Aphris, in the yellow camisk, black hair flowing behind her, was kneeling alertly by Kamchak’s side, looking about her with great interest. I saw several of the Tuchuks present eye her with
admiration. Female slaves on Gor, of course, are used to being eyed boldly. They expect this and relish it. Aphris, I discovered, to my delight, was no exception.

  Elizabeth Cardwell also had her head up, kneeling very straight, obviously not unconscious that she herself was the object of a look or two.

  I noted that, in spite of the fact that Aphris had now been in the wagon for several days, Kamchak had not yet called for the Iron Master. The girl had neither been branded nor had the Tuchuk nose ring been affixed. This seemed to me of interest. Moreover, after the first day or two he had hardly-cuffed the girl, though he had once beaten her rather severely when she had dropped a cup. Now I saw that, though she had been only a few days his slave, already he was permitting her to wear the camisk. I smiled rather grimly to myself and took a significant swallow of Paga. “Wily Tuchuk, eh?” I thought to myself.

  Aphris, for her part, though the quivas were still available, seemed, shortly after having begun to sleep at Kamchak’s boots, for some reason to have thought the better of burying one in his heart. It would not have been wise, of course, for even were she successful, her consequent hideous death at the hands of the Clan of Torturers would probably, all things considered, have made her act something of a bad bargain.

  On the other hand she may have feared that Kamchak would simply turn around and seize her. After all, it is difficult to sneak up on a man while wearing collar and bells. Also, she may have feared more than death that if she failed in an attempt to slay him she would be plunged in the sack again which lay ever ready near the back, left wheel of the wagon.

  That seemed to be an experience which she, no more than Elizabeth Cardwell, was not eager to repeat.

  Well did I recall the first day following the first night of Aphris as the slave of Kamchak. We had slept late that day and finally when Kamchak managed to be up and around, after a late breakfast served rather slowly by Elizabeth, and had recollected Aphris and had opened the end of her sleeping quarters and she had crawled out backward and had begged, head to boot, to be allowed to draw water for the bosk, though it was early, it seemed evident to all that the lovely wench from Turia would not, could she help it, spend a night again similar to her first in the encampment of Tuchuks. “Where will you sleep tonight, Slave?” Kamchak had demanded. “If my master will permit,” said the girl, with great apparent sincerity, “at his feet.” Kamchak laughed.

  “Get up, Lazy Girl,” said he, “the bosk need watering.” Gratefully Aphris of Turia had taken up the leather buckets and hurried away to fetch water.

  I heard a bit of chain and looked up. Kamchak tossed me the other hobble. “Secure the barbarian,” he said.

  This startled me, and startled Elizabeth as well.

  How was it that Kamchak would have me secure his slave?

  She was his, not mine. There is a kind of implicit claim of ownership involved in putting a wench in slave steel. It is seldom done save by a master.

  Suddenly Elizabeth was kneeling terribly straight, looking ahead, breathing very quickly.

  I reached around and took her right wrist, drawing it behind her body. I locked the wrist ring about her wrist. Then I took her left ankle in my hand and lifted it a bit, slipping the open ankle ring under it. Then I pressed the ring shut. It closed with a small, heavy click.

  Her eyes suddenly met mine, timid, frightened.

  I put the key in my pouch and turned my attention to the crowd. Kamchak now had his right arm about Aphris.

  “In a short time,” he was telling her, “you will see what a real woman can do.”

  “She will be only a slave such as I,” Aphris was responding.

  I turned to face Elizabeth. She was regarding me, it seemed, with incredible shyness. “What does it mean,” she asked, “that you have chained me?”

  “Nothing,” I said.

  Her eyes dropped. Without looking up, she said, “He likes her.”

  “Aphris the Slave?” I asked.

  “Will I be sold?” she asked.

  I saw no reason to hide this from the girl. “It is possible,” I said.

  She looked up, her eyes suddenly moist. “Tarl Cabot,” she said, whispering, “if I am to be sold buy me.”

  I looked at her with incredulity.

  “Why?” I asked.

  Kamchak reached across Elizabeth and dragged the Paga bottle out of my hand. Then he was wrestling with Aphris and had her head back, fingers pinching her nose, the neck of the bottle thrust between her teeth. She was struggling and laughing and shaking her head. Then she had to breathe and a great draught of Paga burned its way down her throat making her gasp and cough. I doubt that she had ever before experienced a drink stronger than the syrupy wines of Turia.

  She was now gasping and shaking her head and Kamchak was pounding her on the back.

  “Why?” I again asked Elizabeth.

  But Elizabeth, with her free left hand had seized the Paga bottle from Kamchak, and, to his amazement, had thrown back her head and taken, without realizing the full import of her action, about five lusty, guzzling swallows of Paga. Then, as I rescued the bottle, her eyes opened very wide and then blinked about ten times. She exhaled slowly as if fire might be sizzling out instead of breath and then she shook, a delayed reaction, as if she had been thumped five times and then began to cough spasmodically and painfully until I, fearing she might suffocate, pounded her several times on the back. At last, bent over, gasping for breath, she seemed to be coming around. I held her by the shoulders and suddenly she turned herself in my hands and, as I was sitting cross-legged, threw herself on her back across my lap, her right wrist still chained to her left ankle. She stretched insolently, as well as she could. I was astounded. She looked up at me. “Because I am better than Dina and Tenchika,” she said.

  “But not better than Aphris,” called Aphris.

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth, “better than Aphris.”

  “Get up, Little She-Sleen,” said Kamchak, amused, “or to preserve my honour I must have you impaled.”

  Elizabeth looked up at me.

  “She’s drunk,” I told Kamchak.

  “Some men might like a barbarian girl,” Elizabeth said.

  I hoisted Elizabeth back up on her knees. “No one will buy me,” she wailed.

  There were immediate offers from three or four of the Tuchuks gathered about, and I was afraid that Kamchak might, if the bids improved, part with Miss Cardwell on the spot.

  “Sell her,” advised Aphris.

  “Be quiet, Slave,” said Elizabeth.

  Kamchak was roaring with laughter.

  The Paga had apparently hit Miss Cardwell swiftly and hard. She seemed barely able to kneel and, at last, I permitted her to lean against me, and she did, her chin on my right shoulder.

  “You know,” said Kamchak, “the Little Barbarian wears your chain well.”

  “Nonsense,” I said.

  “I saw,” said Kamchak, “how at the games when you thought the men of Turia charging you were prepared to rescue the wench.”

  “I wouldn’t have wanted your property Kamchak,” I said.

  “You like her,” announced Kamchak.

  “Nonsense,” I said to him.

  “Nonsense,” said Elizabeth, sleepily.

  “Sell her to him,” recommended Aphris, hiccupping.

  “You only want to be First Girl,” said Elizabeth.

  “I’d give her away myself,” said Aphris. “She is only a barbarian.”

  Elizabeth lifted her head from my shoulder and regarded me. She spoke in English. “My name is Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, Mr. Cabot,” she said, “would you like to buy me?”

  “No,” I said, in English.

  “I didn’t think so,” she said, again in English, and put her head back on my shoulder.

  “Did you not observe,” asked Kamchak, “how she moved and breathed when you locked the steel on her?”

  I hadn’t thought much about it. “I guess not,” I said.

  “Why do you thin
k I let you chain her?” asked Kamchak.

  “I don’t know,” I said.

  “To see,” he said. “And it is as I thought your steel kindles her.”

  “Nonsense,” I said.

  “Nonsense.” said Elizabeth.

  “I suppose,” said Elizabeth, “I could hop all the way on one foot.”

  I myself doubted that this would be feasible, particularly In her condition.

  “You probably could,” said Aphris, “you have muscular legs”

  I did not regard Miss Cardwell’s legs as muscular. She was, however, a good runner.

  Miss Cardwell lifted her chin from my shoulder. “Slave,” she said.

  “Barbarian,” retorted Aphris.

  “Release her,” said Kamchak.

  I reached into the pouch at my belt to secure the key to the hobble.

  “No,” said Elizabeth, “I will stay.”

  “If Master permits,” added Aphris.

  “Yes,” said Elizabeth, glowering, “if Master permits.”

  “All right,” said Kamchak.

  “Thank you, Master,” said Elizabeth politely, and once more put her head on my shoulder.

  “You should buy her” said Kamchak.

  “No,” I said.

  “I will give you a good price,” he said.

  Oh, yes, I said to myself, a good price, and ho, ho, ho.

  “No,” I said.

  “Very well,” said Kamchak.

  I breathed more easily.

  About that time the black-clad figure of a woman appeared on the steps of the slave wagon. I heard Kamchak hush up Aphris of Turia and he gave Elizabeth a poke in the ribs that she might bestir herself. “Watch, you miserable cooking-pot wenches,” he said, “and learn a thing or two!”

  A silence came over the crowd. Almost without meaning to, I noticed, over to one side, a hooded member of the Clan of Torturers. I was confident it was he who had often followed me about the camp.

  But this matter was dismissed from my mind by the performance which was about to begin. Aphris was watching intently, her lips parted. Kamchak’s eyes were gleaming.

  Even Elizabeth had lifted her head now from my shoulder and was rising on her knees a bit for a clearer view.