Assassin of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “There has never been a monopoly on slaves in Ar,” said Kuurus.

  “That is the wish, however, of the house of which I speak,” said Portus. “Does it not offend you? Are you not outraged? Even in terms of merchandise and prices cannot you see what it would mean? Even now the lesser houses find it difficult to acquire premium slaves, and when we obtain them, we are undersold. Few go to the lesser houses to buy slaves this year in Ar.”

  “How can this house of which you speak,” asked Kuurus, “undersell so consistently? Is it that the number of slaves is so great that the profit taken on each is less?”

  “I have thought long on it,” said Portus, “and that cannot be all of it. I know this business well, the costs of information, organization, planning, acquisition, transportation and security, the care and feeding and training of the animals, the guards, the costs of the auctions, the taxes on sales, the deliveries to distant cities—and the staff of the house I speak of is large, skilled and highly paid—and their facilities are unparalleled in the City, both in size and appointments. They have interior baths which could rival the pools even of the Capacian Baths.” Portus nodded in puzzlement. “No,” said Portus, “they must have sources of gold other than the income on their merchandise.” Portus pushed one finger around in a puddle of splashed paga on the low table. “I thought for a time,” he said, “that they intended to sell at a radical loss until the other slave houses were forced to close, and then to recoup their losses with profit by setting their own prices—but then when I considered again the gold which sponsored the games and races honoring the men who were to become Administrator and High Initiate, I decided it could not be. I am convinced the house of which I speak has major sources of gold other than the income on their merchandise.”

  Kuurus did not speak.

  “There is another strange thing about that house I do not understand,” said Portus.

  “What?” asked Kuurus.

  “The number of barbarian women they place on the block,” said Portus.

  “There have always been barbarian women on Gor,” said Kuurus, dismissing the remark of Portus.

  “Not in such numbers,” grumbled Portus. He looked at Kuurus. “Have you any idea of the expense of acquiring a barbarian woman from beyond the cities—the distances involved? Normally they can be brought in only one at a time, on tarnback. A caravan of common slave wagons would take a year to go beyond the cities and return.”

  “A hundred tarnsmen, well organized,” said Kuurus, “could strike barbarian villages, bind a hundred wenches, and return in twenty days.”

  “True,” said Portus, “but commonly such raids take place on cylinders in given cities—the distances beyond the cities are great, and the prices paid for mere barbarian girls are less.”

  Kuurus shrugged.

  “Moreover,” said Portus, “these are not common barbarian wenches.”

  Kuurus looked up.

  “Few of them have even a smattering of Gorean,” he said. “And they act strangely. They beg and weep and whine. One would think they had never seen a slave collar or slave chains before. They are beautiful, but they are stupid. The only thing they understand is the whip.” Portus looked down, disgusted. “Men even go to see them sold, out of curiosity, for they either stand there, numb, not moving, or scream and fight, or cry out in their barbarian tongues.” Portus looked up. “But the lash teaches them what is expected of them on the block, and they then present themselves well—and some bring fair prices—in spite of being barbarian.”

  “I gather,” said Kuurus, “that you wish to hire my sword, that you may in some degree protect yourself from the men and the plans of the house of which you have spoken.”

  “It is true,” said Portus. “When gold will not do, only steel can meet steel.”

  “You say that this house of which you speak is the largest and richest, the most powerful, on the Street of Brands?”

  “Yes,” said Portus.

  “What is the name of this house?” asked Kuurus.

  “The House of Cernus,” said Portus.

  “I shall permit my sword to be hired,” said Kuurus.

  “Good!” cried Portus, his hands on the table, his eyes gleaming. “Good!”

  “By the House of Cernus,” said the Assassin.

  The eyes of Portus were wide, and his body trembled. He rose unsteadily to his feet, and staggered backwards, shaking his head, turned, and stumbled over one of the low tables, and fled from the room.

  His drink finished Kuurus rose and went to the darkened corner of the room, where the wall sloped down. He looked into the eyes of the girl in the yellow slave livery, who knelt there. Then he turned the key in the lock of collar seven and released her. Thrusting her to her feet and forcing her to walk before him, he went to the counter, behind which stood the man in the grimy tunic of white and gold. Kuurus threw the key to him. “Use Twenty-seven,” said the man, handing Kuurus a bit of silk, Pleasure Silk, wrapped about a set of slave chains.

  Kuurus threw the silk and chain over his shoulder and motioned the girl to move ahead of him and, numbly, she did so, crossing the room, going between the tables, and stopping before the narrow ladder at the right side of the high wall, in which were found the ledges with their alcoves. Not speaking, but woodenly, she climbed the ladder and crawled onto the shelf near the tiny alcove marked with the Gorean equivalent of twenty-seven and entered, followed by Kuurus, who drew the curtains behind them.

  The alcove, with its enclosing, curved walls, was only about four feet high and five feet wide. It was lit by one small lamp set in a niche in the wall. It was lined with red silk, and floored with love furs and cushions, the furs being better than some six to eight inches deep.

  In the alcove the demeanor of the girl changed and she suddenly rolled onto her back and lifted one knee. She looked at him saucily.

  “I have never been in one of these places before,” she said.

  Kuurus tossed the silk and the chain to one side of the alcove and grinned at her.

  “I now understand,” she said, “why it is that free women never enter paga taverns.”

  “But you are only a slave girl,” said Kuurus.

  “True,” she said forlornly, turning her head to one side. Kuurus removed her slave livery.

  The girl sat up, her eyes bright, holding her ankles with her hands.

  “So this is what these places are like,” she said, looking about her.

  “Do you like them?” asked Kuurus.

  “Well,” she said, demurely, looking down, “they make a girl feel—rather—well—”

  “Precisely,” agreed Kuurus. “I see that I shall have to bring you here often.”

  “That might be pleasant,” said she, “Master.”

  He fingered the collar on her throat, yellow enameled over steel. It bore the legend: I am the property of the House of Cernus.

  “I would like,” he said, “to remove the collar.”

  “Unfortunately,” said she, “the key reposes in the House of Cernus.”

  “It is a dangerous thing you are doing, Elizabeth,” said Kuurus.

  “You had best call me Vella,” said she, “for that is the name I am known by in the House of Cernus.”

  He gathered her in his arms, and she kissed him. “I have missed you,” said she, “Tarl Cabot.”

  “And I have missed you, too,” I said.

  I kissed her.

  “We must speak of our work,” I mumbled, “our plans and purposes, and how we may achieve them.”

  “The business of Priest-Kings and such,” said she, “is surely less important than our present activities.”

  I mumbled something, but she would hear nothing of it, and suddenly feeling her in my arms I laughed and held her to me, and she laughed, and whispered, “I love you, Tarl Cabot,” and I said to her, “Kuurus, Kuurus—of the Caste of Assassins,” and she said, “Yes, Kuurus—and poor Vella of the House of Cernus—picked up on the street and brought to this
place, given no choice but to serve the pleasure of a man who is not even her master—cruel Kuurus!”

  We fell to kissing and touching and loving, and after some time she whispered, eyes bright, “Ah, Kuurus, you well know how to use a wench.”

  “Be quiet,” Kuurus told her, “Slave Girl.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I reached over and put the bit of Pleasure Silk under her, that it might be wrinkled and bear the stains of her sweat.

  “Clever, Master,” said she, smiling.

  “Be silent, Slave Girl,” I warned her, and she heeded my injunction, for she then, for better than an Ahn, served in a silence that was exquisite, broken only by our breathing, her small moans and cries.

  3

  The Game

  When I deemed it wise to depart from Vella, I knotted her yellow slave livery about her neck and cried out, “Begone, Slave!” and then slapped my hands together at which juncture she let forth a howl as though she had been struck, and then, blubbering hysterically and crying out, she scrambled from the alcove, hastily and awkwardly, half falling, descended the narrow ladder and fled weeping from the paga tavern, much to the delight and amusement of the customers below.

  A few moments later I emerged, descended the ladder and went to the proprietor of the shop, throwing the bit of soiled Pleasure Silk and the slave chains to the counter. I looked at him and he did not ask for pay, but looked away, and so I left the tavern and entered the street.

  It was still light and in the early evening.

  I was not much afraid of being recognized. I had dyed my hair black. I had not been in Ar in several years. I wore the habiliments of the Caste of Assassins.

  I looked about myself.

  I have always been impressed with Ar, for it is the largest, the most populous and the most luxurious city of all known Gor. Its walls, its countless cylinders, its spires and towers, its lights, its beacons, the high bridges, the lamps, the lanterns of the bridges, are unbelievably exciting and fantastic, particularly as seen from the more lofty bridges or the roofs of the higher cylinders. But perhaps they are the most marvelous when seen at night from tarnback. I remembered the night, so many years ago, when I had first streaked over the walls of Ar, on the Planting Feast, and had made the strike of a tarnsman for the Home Stone of Gor’s greatest city, Glorious Ar. As I could I put these thoughts from my mind, but I could not fully escape them, for among them was the memory of a girl, she, Talena, the daughter of the Ubar of Ubars, Marlenus, who so many years before had been the Free Companion of a simple Warrior of Ko-ro-ba, he who had been torn from her at the will of Priest-Kings and returned to distant Earth, there to wait until he was needed again for another turn of play in the harsh games of Gor. When the city of Ko-ro-ba had been destroyed by Priest-Kings and its people scattered, no two to stand together, the girl had disappeared. The Warrior of Ko-ro-ba had never found her. He did not know whether she was alive or dead.

  For those who passed in the street some might have been startled had they noted, standing in the shadows, one who wore the black of the Assassins, who wept.

  “Game! Game!” I heard, and quickly shook my head, driving away the memories of Ar, and of the girl once known, always loved.

  The word actually cried was “Kaissa,” which is Gorean for “Game.” It is a general term, but when used without qualification, it stands for only one game. The man who called out wore a robe of checkered red and yellow squares, and the game board, of similar squares, with ten ranks and ten files, giving a hundred squares, hung over his back; slung over his left shoulder, as a warrior wears a sword, was a leather bag containing the pieces, twenty to a side, red and yellow, representing Spearmen, Tarnsmen, the Riders of the High Tharlarion, and so on. The object of the game is the capture of the opponent’s Home Stone. Capturings of individual pieces and continuations take place much as in chess. The affinities of this game with chess are, I am confident, more than incidental. I recalled that men from many periods and cultures of Earth had been brought, from time to time, to Gor, our Counter-Earth. With them they would have brought their customs, their skills, their habits, their games, which, in time, would presumably have undergone considerable modification. I have suspected that chess, with its fascinating history and development, as played on Earth, may actually have derived from a common ancestor with the Gorean game, both of them perhaps tracing their lineage to some long-forgotten game, perhaps the draughts of Egypt or some primitive board game of India. It might be mentioned that the game, as I shall speak of it, for in Gorean it has no other designation, is extremely popular on Gor, and even children find among their playthings the pieces of the game; there are numerous clubs and competitions among various castes and cylinders; careful records of important games are kept and studied; lists of competitions and tournaments and their winners are filed in the Cylinder of Documents; there is even in most Gorean libraries a section containing an incredible number of scrolls pertaining to the techniques, tactics and strategy of the game. Almost all civilized Goreans, of whatever caste, play. It is not unusual to find even children of twelve or fourteen years who play with a depth and sophistication, a subtlety and a brilliance, that might be the envy of the chess masters of Earth.

  But this man now approaching was not an amateur, nor an enthusiast. He was a man who would be respected by all the castes in Ar; he was a man who would be recognized, most likely, not only by every urchin wild in the streets of the city but by the Ubar as well; he was a Player, a professional, one who earned his living through the game.

  The Players are not a caste, nor a clan, but they tend to be a group apart, living their own lives. They are made up of men from various castes who often have little in common but the game, but that is more than enough. They are men who commonly have an extraordinary aptitude for the game but beyond this men who have become drunk on it, men lost in the subtle, abstract liquors of variation, pattern and victory, men who live for the game, who want it and need it as other men might want gold, or others power and women, or others the rolled, narcotic strings of toxic kanda.

  There are competitions of Players, with purses provided by amateur organizations, and sometimes by the city itself, and these purses are, upon occasion, enough to enrich a man, but most Players earn a miserable living by hawking their wares, a contest with a master, in the street. The odds are usually one to forty, one copper tarn disk against a forty-piece, sometimes against an eighty-piece, and sometimes the amateur who would play the master insists on further limitations, such as the option to three consecutive moves at a point in the game of his choice, or that the master must remove from the board, before the game begins, his two Tarnsmen, or his Riders of the High Tharlarion. Further, in order to gain Players, the master, if wise, occasionally loses a game, which is expensive at the normal odds; and the game must be lost subtly, that the amateur must believe he has won. I had once known a Warrior in Ko-ro-ba, a dull, watery-eyed fellow, who boasted of having beaten Quintus of Tor in a paga tavern in Thentis. Those who play the game for money have a hard lot, for the market is a buyer’s market, and commonly men will play with them only on terms much to their satisfaction. I myself, when Centius of Cos was in Ko-ro-ba, might have played him on the bridge near the Cylinder of Warriors for only a pair of copper tarn disks. It seemed sad to me, that I, who knew so little of the game, could have so cheaply purchased the privilege of sitting across the board from such a master. It seemed to me that men should pay a tarn disk of gold just to be permitted to watch such a master play, but such were not the economic realities of the game.

  In spite of having the respect, even to some degree the adulation, of almost all Goreans, the Players lived poorly. On the Street of Coins they found it difficult even to arrange loans. They were not popular with innkeepers, who would not shelter them unless paid in advance. Many were the nights a master would be found rolled in robes in a paga tavern, where, for a bit of tarsk meat and a pot of paga, and an evening’s free play with customers, he would
be permitted to sleep. Many of the Players dreamed of the day they might be nominated for intercity competitions at the Fairs of the Sardar, for a victor in the Sardar Fairs earns enough to keep himself, and well, for years, which he then would devote to the deeper study of the game. There is also some money for the masters in the annotation of games, printed on large boards near the Central Cylinder, in the preparation or editing of scrolls on the game, and in the providing of instruction for those who would improve their skills. On the whole, however, the Players live extremely poorly. Further, there is a harsh competition among themselves, for positions in certain streets and on certain bridges. The most favorable locations for play are, of course, the higher bridges in the vicinity of the richer cylinders, the most expensive paga taverns, and so on. These positions, or territories, are allotted by the outcome of games among the Players themselves. In Ar, the high bridge near the Central Cylinder, housing the palace of the Ubar and the meeting place of the city’s High Council, was held, and had been for four years, by the young and brilliant, fiery Scormus of Ar.

  “Game!” I heard, an answering cry, and a fat fellow, of the Caste of Vintners, puffing and bright eyed, wearing a white tunic with a representation in green cloth of leaves about the collar and down the sleeves of the garment, stepped forth from a doorway.

  Without speaking the Player sat down cross-legged at one side of the street, and placed the board in front of him. Opposite him sat the Vintner.

  “Set the pieces,” said the Player.

  I was surprised, and looked more closely, as the Vintner took the wallet filled with game pieces from the man’s shoulder and began, with his stubby fingers, to quickly arrange the pieces.

  The Player was a rather old man, extremely unusual on Gor, where the stabilization serums were developed centuries ago by the Caste of Physicians in Ko-ro-ba and Ar, and transmitted to the Physicians of other cities at several of the Sardar Fairs. Age, on Gor, interestingly, was regarded, and still is, by the Castes of Physicians as a disease, not an inevitable natural phenomenon. The fact that it seemed to be a universal disease did not dissuade the caste from considering how it might be combated. Accordingly the research of centuries was turned to this end. Many other diseases, which presumably flourished centuries ago on Gor, tended to be neglected, as less dangerous and less universal than that of aging. A result tended to be that those susceptible to many diseases died and those less susceptible lived on, propagating their kind. One supposes something similar may have happened with the plagues of the Middle Ages on Earth. At any rate, disease is now almost unknown among the Gorean cities, with the exception of the dreaded Dar-Kosis disease, or the Holy Disease, research on which is generally frowned upon by the Caste of Initiates, who insist the disease is a visitation of the displeasure of Priest-Kings on its recipients. The fact that the disease tends to strike those who have maintained the observances recommended by the Caste of Initiates, and who regularly attend their numerous ceremonies, as well as those who do not, is seldom explained, though, when pressed, the Initiates speak of possible secret failures to maintain the observances or the inscrutable will of Priest-Kings. I also think the Gorean success in combating aging may be partly due to the severe limitations, in many matters, on the technology of the human beings on the planet. Priest-Kings have no wish that men become powerful enough on Gor to challenge them for the supremacy of the planet. They believe, perhaps correctly, that man is a shrewish animal which, if it had the power, would be likely to fear Priest-Kings and attempt to exterminate them. Be that as it may, the Priest-Kings have limited man severely on this planet in many respects, notably in weaponry, communication and transportation. On the other hand, the brilliance which men might have turned into destructive channels was then diverted, almost of necessity, to other fields, most notably medicine, though considerable achievements have been accomplished in the production of translation devices, illumination and architecture. The Stabilization Serums, which are regarded as the right of all human beings, be they civilized or barbarian, friend or enemy, are administered in a series of injections, and the effect is, incredibly, an eventual, gradual transformation of certain genetic structures, resulting in indefinite cell replacement without pattern deterioration. These genetic alterations, moreover, are commonly capable of being transmitted. For example, though I received the series of injections when first I came to Gor many years ago I had been told by Physicians that they might, in my case, have been unnecessary, for I was the child of parents who, though of Earth, had been of Gor, and had received the serums. But different human beings respond differently to the Stabilization Serums, and the Serums are more effective with some than with others. With some the effect lasts indefinitely, with others it wears off after but a few hundred years, with some the effect does not occur at all, with others, tragically, the effect is not to stabilize the pattern but to hasten its degeneration. The odds, however, are in the favor of the recipient, and there are few Goreans who, if it seems they need the Serums, do not avail themselves of them. The Player, as I have mentioned, was rather old, not extremely old but rather old. His face was pale and lined, and his hair was white. He was smooth shaven.