Magicians of Gor

by Norman, John;

  "I think I have heard of him," I said.

  "For some months he was under house arrest," said Marcus.

  "The Central Cylinder," I said, "seems now to be very sure of its power."

  "Doubtless it was encouraged by its success in the matter of the Home Stone," said Marcus.

  "Undoubtedly," I said.

  "You seem troubled," he said.

  "It is nothing," I said.

  We watched the coffle of prisoners move away, south on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder. For a long time we could hear the music of the flute girl who brought up the rear.

  "What is it?" asked Marcus.

  "There seems nothing to rouse Ar," I said.

  "Forget Ar," said Marcus. "The men of Ar have become spineless urts."

  "These men," I said, "were once among the strongest and finest in the world."

  "Ar died in the delta," said Marcus.

  "Perhaps," I said. There seemed much to the sobering suggestion of the young warrior.

  "What is Ar to you?" he asked.

  "Nothing," I said.

  "Cos loots with impunity," said Marcus, "tearing even the marbles from the walls. She disguises her depredations under absurd, meretricious rhetorics. It is as though the sleen pretended to be the friend of the verr. And what do the men of Ar do? They smile, they hasten to give up their riches, they beat their breasts, they lament their unworthiness, they cannot sufficiently praise those who despoil them, they rush to sacrifice at the great temples. They burn their gates, they dismantle their walls, they hide in their houses at night. They cheer while women who might be theirs are instead marched to Cosian ports. Do not concern yourself with them, my friend. They are unworthy of your concern."

  I looked at Marcus.

  He smiled. "You are angry," he said.

  "Ho! One side, buffoons of Ar!" said a voice, that of a mercenary, one of two, with blue armbands.

  We stepped to one side as they swaggered past.

  "I am not of Ar," I said to Marcus.

  "Nor am I," he said.

  "Thus they could not have been speaking to us," I said.

  "We could kill them," said Marcus.

  "In broad daylight?" I asked.

  "Perhaps they are nice fellows," said Marcus.

  "Perhaps," I said.

  "But then one cannot always permit oneself to be deterred by such considerations," he said.

  "True," I said.

  "They think they own the street," he said.

  "Doubtless an impression they have gathered from those of Ar," I said.

  "Surely," he said.

  "There is nothing to rouse Ar," I said.

  "No," he said.

  "If Marlenus were alive, and might return," I said, "that might bring Ar to her feet, angry and mighty, like an awakened larl."

  "If Marlenus were alive," said Marcus, "he would have returned to Ar long ago."

  "Then there is no hope," I said.

  "No," said Marcus. "There is no hope."

  I regarded him.

  "Ar died last summer," he said, "in the delta."

  I did not respond to him. I feared he was right.

  We walked on then, not speaking, south on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder.

  In an Ehn I cried out, inadvertently, with rage, a helpless warrior's fury irrepressibly welling up within me.

  A passer-by regarded me, startled, and hurried quickly past.

  "You are angry," said Marcus.

  "Are you not angry?" I asked.

  "Perhaps," he said.

  We heard then, behind us, running feet, laughter, a tearing of cloth, and a woman's cry. A group of young fellows was running past. We, too, were buffeted but I seized one of the lads by the wrist and, drawing him quickly across and about my body, and over my extended right leg, flung him to the stones, where I held him, my grip shifted now to the palm of his hand, on his knees, his head down, his arm high, twisted behind him, his wrist bent, far back. He screamed with pain. Another fraction of a hort, the least additional pressure, and his wrist would be broken. Almost at the same instant I heard Marcus' sword leave its sheath, warning back the other lads, some six of them. Marcus, I noted, was suddenly, relievedly, in an eager, elated mood. He hoped for their advance. He was quite ready, even eager, for the release of shedding blood. I felt my own nostrils flare as I suddenly, excitedly, drank in the air of Ar, exhilarated, fiercely alive. The six lads backed away. I had little doubt he would have cut them down had they come within the compass of his blade. One of the lads, their leader it seemed, clutched the woman's pouch, torn from her belt, and another held her veil. I looked back to the woman, who had been struck to her knees. She had drawn her hood about her face, that her features not be exposed publicly. Her eyes were wild in the opening within the hood.

  "Do not hurt me!" screamed the lad on his knees.

  I paid him little attention. He was going nowhere. At least two of the other lads had knives.

  "You are "Cosians"?" I said to them.

  They looked at one another.

  Certain gangs of youths, young ruffians, roamed the streets, affecting Cosian garments and haircuts. These were called "Cosians." Such things are common where an enemy is feared. They ape the feared enemy, and hope thereby, as though by some alchemy, to obtain his strength and success. Such charades serve, too, as a form of cowardly camouflage. Knowing they have nothing to fear from their own people, they pretend they are like the enemy, perhaps in the hope that then they will have nothing to fear from him, as well. Too, such postures, costumes and mannerisms provide an easy way to attract attention to oneself, a welcome feature to one who may otherwise be unworthy of attention. Similarly, such charades provide, in more serious cases, a way of expressing one's alienation from one's own society, one's repudiation of it, and one's contempt of it. From this point of view then, such things may constitute a comprehensible, if somewhat silly, or ineffectual, form of protest. Too, of course, such costumes can intimidate weaklings, which some would undoubtedly rate as an additional advantage.

  "Do not hurt him!" said the leader.

  "You are "Cosians"?" I asked.

  "No," said their leader, "we are of Ar."

  "I can probably reach at least two of them," said Marcus.

  The six stepped back further, preparing to take to their heels.

  "We are only lads!" said the leader, keeping his distance.

  I gestured with my head back toward the woman behind us. She had risen to her feet. She still clutched the folds of her hood about her face, to conceal her features.

  "Do you think she is some slave girl," I asked, "that you may strip her on the street, for your sport?"

  "No," said one of the lads.

  "She is a free woman, of your own city," I said.

  "There is no Home Stone in Ar," he said.

  "That is true," said Marcus.

  "Do you make war on boys?" asked the leader.

  "Now you are 'boys,'" I said.

  They were silent.

  "Sheath your knives," I said.

  They did so. I was now pleased that they did this. I was not certain, really, of the responses of Marcus. He was not a fellow of Earth, but a Gorean. Too, he was of the Warriors, and his codes, in a situation of this sort, their weapons drawn, entitled him, even encouraged him, to attack, and kill. Moreover I thought he could really reach at least three of them, the first with a thrust, and the second two, each with a slash to the neck, first to the right, the blade withdrawn, and then to the left, before they could adequately break and scatter. Marcus was very fast, and trained. In this way I was encouraging them to protect themselves. They were, after all, as their leader had pointed out, a bit plaintively, and somewhat belatedly, only lads. To be sure this would not mean much to Marcus, who was probably not more than three or four years older than they were.

  "And bring forward the pouch and veil."

  "Release Decius," said the leader.

  "I am not bargaining," I said.

&n
bsp; The leader brought forward the pouch, and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist.

  "Give me my veil!" demanded the woman, coming forward.

  I handed it to her.

  She turned about, adjusting it.

  "Pick up my pouch," she said, her back to us. "Give it to me."

  I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.

  "Give me my pouch!" she demanded.

  I looked at the group of youths.

  The fellow's wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.

  One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience.

  I felt the woman's hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch.

  Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted.

  "Give it to me!" she said.

  "It was our mistake to interfere," said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade.

  "Give it to me!" said the woman.

  "You are rude," I said.

  She tugged at the pouch.

  "Are you not grateful?" I asked.

  "It demeans a free woman to express gratitude," she said.

  "I do not think so," I said.

  "Are you not paid for your work?" she asked.

  "Are you not grateful?" I asked.

  "I am not a slave!" she said.

  "Are you not grateful?" I asked, again.

  "Yes," she said. "I am grateful! Now, give it to me!"

  "Ah," I said. "Perhaps you are a slave."

  "No!" she said.

  "What do you think of this free woman?" I asked Marcus.

  "It is difficult to tell, clothed as she is," he said.

  She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.

  "Do you think she might be more civil," I asked, "if she were stripped?"

  "Yes," he said, "particularly if she were also branded and collared."

  "She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness," I said.

  "It would be in her best interest to do so," said Marcus.

  "Yes," I said.

  She released the pouch and stepped back a little.

  Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.

  "Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel," I said, "to be brought forth when one wishes, for various labors."

  "Such women are all haughty wenches," he said. "But they quickly lose their haughtiness in bondage."

  That was true. It was hard for a woman to be haughty in a slave collar. Indeed, it was difficult for even a free woman to be haughty when, say, she was on her belly, naked, pinned in place by your boot on her back.

  "Please," she said. "Give me the coins."

  I did not release them.

  "Give them to me!" she said, angrily.

  "Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness?" I asked.

  She looked at me, angrily.

  "Women learn it quickly in bondage," I said.

  Indeed, women learned many things, and quickly, in bondage.

  "It is in their best interest to do so," said Marcus.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?" inquired Marcus.

  She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters.

  "But then," I said, "you may not be attractive enough to be a slave."

  She did not speak.

  I put the pouch inside my tunic.

  "Oh!" she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands.

  "We shall see," I said.

  "Oh!" she said, startled.

  Marcus held her from behind, by the arms.

  I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and surveyed her features.

  "I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave," I said.

  She squirmed.

  "Hold her wrists together," I said. I then tied them together, behind her back, with her veil.

  She moaned.

  She could not now readjust the veil.

  "Please," she begged. "Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!"

  "You were not pleasing," I said.

  I then took the pouch of coins in my hand and lofted it to the group of lads some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran.

  The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast.

  "Your lips are pretty," I said. "They could probably be trained to kiss well."

  Tears sprang to her eyes.

  "And lest you return home too quickly," I said, "we shall do this." I then crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a bond, fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of slack, rather like a slave girl's hobble chains.

  "Return home now," I said.

  We watched her withdraw, sobbing.

  She pulled futilely at her back-pinioned wrists. They were well bound, held within her removed, knotted veil.

  The cloth shackling in which we had placed her allowed her only tiny, awkward steps. Twice she almost stumbled. If she fell it would be difficult for her to regain her feet. It would doubtless take her some time to regain her residence.

  We hoped she would profit from this lesson.

  Most crucially her face was bared. She had been, as the vulgar Gorean expression has it, face-stripped.

  To one of Earth this may seem trivial, or inconsequential. I assure you, however, it is not a trivial or inconsequential matter on Gor.

  Perhaps a moment’s disquisition on this matter may prove illuminating.

  To a Gorean free woman, particularly to one of station, given Gorean customs, proprieties and traditions, having one’s face bared in public, with respect to matters of shock, distress, embarrassment, and such, would be very much akin to a civilized woman of Earth’s being put out naked on the streets. These things may be hard to understand and so a moment’s attention might not be inadvisable. Although there is some variance from caste to caste, and city to city, it is common for free women to veil themselves in public. On Gor the bared face of a woman is provocative. Too, much of a woman’s individuality and uniqueness is associated with her features, which are taken to be private to her, and personal to her, and precious to her. She does not reveal them to everyone. Thus her face, with all its uniqueness and individuality, that wondrous flag, window and mirror of her emotions and nature, is not to be publicly exposed. Indeed, some Gorean slavers try to keep from their customers that many women of Earth go about unveiled. It is their view, a reasonably plausible view, given Gorean preconceptions, that that would cheapen the merchandise and make it seem tawdry. On the other hand, most Gorean slavers are anxious to bring this usual lack of veiling on Earth to the attention of their customers. They find it raises prices because it excites the buyers. Who would not relish getting his bracelets on such a shameless, lascivious slut, so natural a slave, one so meaningless and despicable, one so little deserving of respect or dignity, one so appropriately and perfectly destined for bondage, one belonging in the collar? And needless to say, the common lack of veiling on Earth is a marvelous boon to slavers, who can pick and choose much as they please, as though from an assortment of lovely articles displayed on a sales shelf, which, in a sense, the women are. And beyond matters of expressions and features, the women of Earth often think little of reve
aling ankles, wrists, baring arms, and so on. Often they do not even think to conceal their throats. Are they unaware that some fellow or other may idly speculate how that lovely throat would look, encircled in a slave collar, his? Certainly Gorean masters relish seeing their slaves in their collars. The collars proclaim to all the world that they belong to them. Most masters take pride in their properties. They diet and exercise them; and they keep them well-rested, healthy, clean and well-groomed, as other domestic animals. Many masters even comb the hair of their slaves. They are, after all, a reflection on the master. A delicious, perfumed slave, waiting submissively on his peers, certainly enhances the master’s own image, and is a credit to his taste. Some insist that the kaiila in their stables are better than their slaves, and perhaps, economically, given prices and such, there is something to be said for that, but one does not have a kaiila curling naked in the furs at one’s slave ring. In any event, the women of Earth do much to facilitate and abet their appraisers. They advertise themselves, and, in this sense, ask for the block. It is as if they were to say, regard me. Would I not look well, exposed, and being bid upon? Would I not bring a good price, or would you like me for yourself? Lastly, with this said, perhaps something of the disdain and hostility with which the free women of Gor view slaves will be clear. The slave is denied the modesty of the veil. Accordingly, the delicacy, subtlety, sensitivity and beauty of her features is bared, exposed to the most casual public view. How deplorable, how disgusting, how perfect! Does this not in itself convey to them what they are, that they are not persons, but that they are goods, that they are properties, that they are meaningless, that they are animals. One would no more veil a slave than a kaiila or verr. To be sure the hatred of the free woman for the slave is multiply motivated, and, most crucially, one suspects, by envy and jealousy. In many respects the slave is more free than the free woman. She is not encumbered by robes and veils, and a thousand social constraints. She is freed of the burdens of the games free women must play with men; she must obey and serve, and at as little as a snapping of fingers. She does not have to search for her self; she has discovered it. Her identity is upon her, indisputably and categorically, as perfectly and securely as her collar. She is keenly sexual, which she is usually wise enough to conceal from the free woman, lest she be bound and mercilessly whipped, but the free woman suspects this only too well. She belongs to a man, as is right for a female, and, accordingly, almost universally, she is radiantly happy. How could the free woman forgive her that? Too, perhaps most grievously, she, slave clad and collared, owned, devoted and obedient, eager to please, is incomparably more attractive to men than her rigid, bundled, inhibited, socially constrained free sister. The slave girl, in her tunic and collar, is exciting to men, as she is intended to be. It is the slave men seek. It is the slave men buy. It is the slave, leashed, bound, whom men lead joyously to their compartments.