by John Norman
“Do Priest-Kings exist?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Desmond of Harfax, “though their nature is little known. We think them to be much like men. Kurii perhaps think them much like Kurii. Their power makes clear their existence, for example the Flame Death, selectively used, usually to enforce the weapon and technology laws, the policing of the skies, to seek out and destroy intruding ships, the inability of tarns to fly over the palisaded Sardar, and such things. In any event, the first phase will presumably be the conquest of Gor, its surface, so to speak, largely within the circumscriptions of the laws. Given the limited numbers of Kurii on Gor at this time, they will begin by forging alliances with dissident elements in given cities, the resentful, envious, and jealous, those of thwarted ambition, and such, for there are always such, to bring them to power in their own cities, and then it will be these cities against other cities, the Kurii surreptitiously abetting their allies, as before, to the extent possible, with forbidden means. These means, together with numerous supplementary Kur contingents, as possible, will be obtained from one or more of the remote habitats of Kurii. Thus, at the end of the first phase one would have a conquered world putatively shared by men and Kurii, men who have served Kurii, and Kurii who have directed and managed men, the men unaware of their manipulation, all this theoretically achieved in compliance with the weapon and technology laws of Priest-Kings. The next phase, which I have referred to as that of extermination, or virtual extermination, would be that of the now-augmented numbers of Kurii turning on the considerably war-reduced human population of Gor, perhaps in a hundred coordinated nights of massacre, perhaps in a set of campaigns, in which Kurii, in virtue of their size, strength, agility, savagery, sharpness of sensory perception, and such, would presumably overmatch similarly numbered forces of humans in the field. Then, with a Kur Gor, so to speak, with large amounts of smuggled weaponry in place, the way would be cleared for a massive invasion fleet from the remote habitats, one unlikely to be significantly deterred by Priest-Kings. Lastly, the Sardar would be entered, and the Priest-Kings destroyed. The Kurii would then have their planet, all of Gor, with all its resources, from which, if they wished, they might seek other worlds. All this would be seemingly done within the weapon and technology laws of the Priest-Kings, until the final phase, the invasion of Gor from the remote habitats, abetted by the numerous emplaced Kurii, with their contraband weaponry.”
“This is too bold, too far reaching, too daring,” I said.
“Let us hope so,” he said.
“Surely such things could not occur,” I said.
“Let us hope not,” he said.
“What is being done here?” I asked.
“We are on the brink of the first phase,” he said, “in which dissident elements in various cities, or, I suppose, even minor, frustrated, ambitious Ubars, are to be contacted, encouraged, enflamed, and supplied.”
“Would one or more of what you have called the remote habitats not be involved in this?”
“Certainly,” he said. “If even one were secretly involved here, providing ships, supplies, personnel, weapons, and such, matters might precede apace, and if one were to be successfully involved, it seems then there might be another, and another, and so on.”
“But would not Kurii, given their dispositions, and such, then contest Gor amongst themselves?”
“Yes,” he said, “and then with weapons of enormous power, such as might turn the world into a cinder, such as might alter the axis of the planet itself.”
“Such weapons should be denied them,” I said.
“That is the view of the Priest-Kings,” he said.
“And perhaps to us,” I said.
“That is the view of Priest-Kings,” he said.
“I know a world where there are no Priest-Kings,” I said.
“Perhaps you are curious as to why you have been ordered to report here,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“It has to do with your experience in the house of chance, in Ar,” he said.
“I was only a serving slave, an entertainment slave,” I said. “My role, and that of the others, was primarily to keep men at the games.”
“While your masters ruined them,” he said.
“They were free to leave whenever they wished,” I said.
“But perhaps their luck would change,” he said. “And how, if they left now, could they recoup their losses? And might their departure not dismay the pretty kajira who has been so delightedly and enthusiastically at their side, encouraging them to spin or choose once again, and then again, one sharing so sympathetically in their fortunes? Could they, if they were to leave, brave that tiny exclamation of disappointment, a pout from such pretty lips, a turning aside to another fellow, one of greater interest?”
“Master has been in such a house,” I said.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Please do not look at me like that, Master,” I said.
“Your pretty body,” he said, “should be lashed, and lashed.”
“I am no longer in such a house,” I said. “A kajira must do as she is told!”
“Yes,” he said, “but I suspect some are better at doing what they are told than others.”
I was silent.
“I learned from Astrinax,” he said, “from your test in the office of Menon, which you passed easily, that you, a nasty, deceitful little kajira, were an excellent choice for such a slave.”
“Master!” I protested.
“Ah, yes,” he said, “you, with your smiles, your expressions, your laughter, your body movements, your inadvertent touchings, your little cries of pleasure and disappointment, would do very well at keeping a fellow at the tables, in prompting him to continue, even be it into penury or destitution.”
“I am different now, Master,” I said. “I have learned much in the collar.”
“But I have not brought you here,” he said, “to castigate you for the worthless, shameful slut you are.”
“Allison does not want to disappoint Master,” I said. “She has learned much in her collar. She wants to be as Master would have her be. She wants to please Master.”
“You think you have learned a little in your collar?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Very much, Master!”
“How to be a better animal?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Kiss my hand,” he said.
I quickly kissed it.
I looked up him. I felt myself his slave. I wanted to be his slave. Then I put my head down. “Master has suggested that my presence here has to do with my having served in the house of chance, in Ar,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
I lifted my lips to him, the offering of a slave.
He looked away, across the room.
I knelt back, a tear forming in my eye.
“I do not see how I can help Master,” I said.
“First,” he said, “I will give you a sense as to what is involved.”
He rose from the bench and went to a shelf to the side, from which he drew forth a large leather envelope, and returned to the table.
“You recall the sheets with squares, on which you, and Chloe, inscribed various letters, signs, and such,” he said.
“Certainly,” I said.
He then extracted a small sheet from the envelope.
“Do you know what this is?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Do you play kaissa?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“But you have heard of it, you have seen a board, some pieces, such things.”
“Yes,” I said, “in the house of Tenalion, in Ar, even here. Some men play it.”
“Many men play it,” he said. “Records are kept of some games. Some games are annotated, criticized, discussed, and such.”
I looked at him.
“In order to do that,” he said, “obviously the pieces, which have rules for movements, and com
monly accepted values, must have names, and there must be a way of designating the areas to which they might be moved. The squares of the board are numbered, and named for the initial placement of certain pieces, those on the first row. Each player has twenty-three pieces, but only ten are placed on the first row; the squares take their designations from the initial placement of these ten pieces. For example, from left to right, on the first row, one would have the Ubara’s Initiate, the Ubara’s Builder, the Ubara’s Scribe, the Ubara’s Tarnsman, and then the Ubara. Next comes the Ubar, and then, in order, the Ubar’s Tarnsman, the Ubar’s Scribe, the Ubar’s Builder, and the Ubar’s Initiate.”
“This sounds complex,” I said.
“It is not really complex,” he said. “It is only that it is unfamiliar to you. For example, the fifth square in the Ubara’s Initiate’s column would be Ubara’s Initiate Five, the seventh square in the column of the Ubar’s Builder, would be Ubar’s Builder seven, and so on.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Now,” he said, holding the small sheet removed from the leather envelope before me, “this resembles a game’s annotation. Indeed, the first entries might occur in a game, for example one beginning with the opening called the Ubar’s Tarnsman’s Flight. On the other hand, if one examines the sheet carefully, most of the later entries would be impractical, even illegitimate, in an actual game. Accordingly, the first level of concealment is that the sheet is not what it initially appears to be, and might not attract particular attention, certainly not from those unfamiliar with kaissa, and probably not from your average player, who would not be likely to inquire into the annotation of a game in which he would not be likely to have much interest. It is not as though it was a game from the records of Centius of Cos, Scormus of Ar, Corydon of Thentis, Olaf of Tabuk’s Ford, or such. And even if he looked at the sheet he would presumably soon cast it away as some sort of hoax or joke, perhaps even a jibe from some critic of kaissa, who thinks too much time and attention is devoted to the game. The second level of concealment, of course, is that these seemingly meaningless signs are mostly related to the alphabet.”
“Surely the alphabet does not contain a hundred letters,” I said. My own alphabet, incidentally, in my own native language contains twenty-six letters. A typical Gorean alphabet, as I understand it, though this seems to differ a bit in one place or another, contains twenty-eight letters.
“Of course not,” he said. “Certain letters occur in Gorean more often than others, for example, Eta, Al-ka, Tau, and so on. Thus, there may be several variants for those letters.”
“Chloe can read,” I said, “and she did not understand some of the signs on the scraps of paper.”
“Those are meaningless,” he said. “The kaissa squares in which they are inserted thus constitute no intelligible part of the message. Thus, those who are attempting to unravel the message by means of considering the relative frequency of signs will have a difficult task, as some letters are represented by more than one sign and some signs represent no letter.”
“And the way to compose a message, or to understand a message, has to do with the large sheets of squares which Chloe and I filled in.”
“Precisely,” said Desmond of Harfax. “It is only necessary that the sender and the receiver of the message use a corresponding sheet of squares, of which there could be an indefinite number, but which, to date, seems to consist of one hundred sheets.”
“There must be a way,” I said, “to know what sheet to use, as there are so many.”
“As you cannot read,” said Master Desmond, “this is not obvious to you, but the small sheet which seems to be a game’s annotation and the large sheet, whose squares contain letters, or meaningless marks, are both numbered.”
“The numbers are then matched,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Perhaps a message could be unraveled.”
“But not easily, or quickly,” he said. “By the time the message is understood it might be too late. More importantly, it is difficult to unravel such things unless one has a large amount of material at one’s disposal, which allows for more attention to letter frequencies, hypotheses as to possible meanings, testing these hypotheses against additional material, and such. The large number of sheets, different sheets being used for different messages, means any given message is likely to afford the interpreter little to work with.”
“I could not begin to unravel these things.”
“You cannot even read to begin with,” he said. “It would be enough to give you a nice clear message in simple Gorean.”
“It is not my fault,” I said, “that I have not been taught to read.”
“Why should an animal be taught to read?” he asked.
“You like me illiterate, do you not?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said. “If I owned you, I would keep you that way.”
“You like an illiterate girl at your feet,” I said.
“Actually,” he said, “it is a great pleasure to have a highly intelligent, well educated, literate girl at one’s feet. It pleases one to have her lips and tongue on one’s boots.”
“Perhaps then,” I said, “you should teach me to read.”
“It is also pleasant to have an illiterate barbarian at one’s feet,” he said. “Her simplicity and ignorance is charming.”
“I assure you,” I said, “I am highly intelligent, and well educated, and, in my own language, literate.”
“Good,” he said, “then, if I owned you, I would have both pleasures.”
“I hate you,” I said.
“Did you not lift your lips to me, but moments ago?” he asked.
I looked away, angrily.
“Even if I could read,” I said, “I do not think I could unravel these things.”
“Few could,” he said. “Presumably some can, given enough time, and enough material. There are much more complex and subtle ways to conceal meaning, of course, but the device I have explained to you is simple, easily understood, and likely, as far as they know, to be secure. It would not do, of course, for them to know we have copies of the sheets.”
“No, Master,” I said.
“To be sure,” he said, “this advantage is not likely to be of long duration. New sheets would presumably be prepared from time to time, to continue to pluralize possibilities, and, if it were suspected that copies of the original sheets were in the possession of an enemy, new sheets would be instantly prepared, or, more likely, an entirely different method of communication and concealment would be adopted.”
“At least now,” I said, “I have some sense of what Chloe and I were doing.”
“It is not necessary to explain these things to Chloe, or others,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
“These concealments, of course,” he said, “are intended to be of use to the conspirators in their communications within and between cities, between cities and the Cave, and so on.”
“Why has Master explained them to Allison?” I asked.
“To give you a sense of what intrigues abound, and what projects are afoot,” he said.
“Master is not alone,” I said.
“No,” he said.
“I shall not inquire the name of his confederate, or confederates,” I said.
“I would not want your pretty body torn apart on the rack,” he said, “while you are crying out their name, or names.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Do you remember my concern with cards?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“You served in a house of chance,” he said.
“Until it was burned, and I, and others, were sold in the Tarsk Market.”
“That seems a suitable place to sell one such as you,” he said.
“Doubtless,” I said.
“In the house of chance,” he said, “there were games involving cards, were there not?”
“In the back of the large room, at the far tables,” I
said, “but I did not attend on those tables. Most of us attended on the gaming tables, with the wheels, and the dice, where most of the men were.”
“But you must have heard things,” he said.
“One always hears things,” I said, warily.
“I am not an investigating magistrate,” he said, “with a rack in the next room.”
“I understand,” I said.
“Presumably,” he said, “those gambling on behalf of the house would wish to have some advantage in the matter.”
“Otherwise,” I said, “they might lose money, unintentionally.”
“‘Unintentionally’?” he smiled.
“It is important,” I said, “for the patron to win occasionally, else he might abandon the game, or grow suspicious.”
“And how,” he asked, “does the house obtain its advantage? Are there apertures in the ceiling through which an accomplice, perhaps with a glass, might somehow signal the house’s player, are there loitering observers nearby, in a position to read cards, and convey signals?”
“I do not think so,” I said.
“The advantage then,” he said, “lies in the cards themselves.”
“That is my understanding,” I said. “But I did not, personally, attend on the far tables.”
“There would be calls for new decks, sealed decks,” he said.
“I think that decks were prepared, and then sealed,” I said.
“The house’s player could recognize the nature and value of an opponent’s card from the back,” he said.
“There were intricate designs on the back of the cards,” I said, “apparently identical on each card.”
“But not identical,” he said, “for those who knew what to look for.”
“I think the differences were subtle,” I said, “very subtle.”
Desmond of Harfax then reached again into the leather envelope. He produced another sheet of paper. It was as unintelligible to me as the first, which had resembled, as I had been given to understand, the record, or annotation, of a kaissa game, but it was clearly different.
“What do you make of this?” he asked.
“I cannot read,” I said.