Magicians of Gor coc-25, page 16
part #25 of Chronicles of Counter-Earth Series
"Go to the other flute girls," I said, "to all those about whether on the street or on the wall. Inform them that their work for the day is finished."
"Master?" she said.
"Tell them to hurry home to their chains."
"Master!" she said.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
"Yes, Master," she said.
"Do you dally in the carrying out of a command?" I asked.
"No, Master!" she said, and leaped to her feet, running across the Wall Road, her hands tied behind her, wisps of silk fluttering about her waist, the flute dangling from her neck.
"She is very pretty," said Marcus.
"More so then I?" asked Phoebe.
"Is the slave jealous?" inquired Marcus, teasingly.
"Please, Master," begged Phoebe.
"Are you jealous?" he said.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe, defiantly.
"You do not sound humble," he said.
"Forgive me, Master," she said, quickly, frightened.
"Who is jealous?" he inquired.
"Phoebe is jealous," she whispered.
"You are a thousand times more beautiful than she," said Marcus.
"Master sports with his helpless slave," pouted Phoebe.
"To me," said Marcus, teasingly.
"How shall I ever hold you, Master?" she wept. "I am yours, and only a slave. You may put me aside or keep me with others, s you might please. There are thousands of intelligent, pretty women who would be eager to serve you. You may have your pick. You may buy and sell as you please. How shall I ever keep you?"
"It is mine to keep you if I wish," said Marcus.
"Yes, Maser!" she wept.
I considered the unilaterally of the master/slave relationship. All power is with the master. This, of course, has its effect upon the slave. Let her strive to be such that her master will keep her.
"Look," I said, pointing to the foot of the wall, where the flute girl was together with others of her station. She seemed distraught, bound, turning about, to look at me. They all, excited, confused, looked in this direction. To be sure, several of them, and many on the wall, too, both flute girls and laborers, had paused in their various activities, to follow the sequence of events on the Wall Road. But Marcus and Phoebe paid me no attention. They were in one another's arms.
"I love you, Master," was saying Phoebe, looking up at him, "totally and helplessly."
"And I," he was saying, brushing back hair from her forehead, "fear that I might find myself growing fond of you."
"Use me, Master, use me!" she begged.
"Not here," said Marcus. "Perhaps in a darkened doorway, on the way back to our lodging."
Quickly she pulled from him, and hurried a few steps back, toward Harness Street, turning them to look back, pleadingly at him.
I was pleased to see that she was much in his power.
"I see," said Marcus. The flute girls at the foot of the wall, looking this way, knelt, putting their heads down to the stones, doing obeisance in our direction. The command of a free man had been conveyed to them. I then say the lovely brunet picking her way with difficulty up a path to the higher part of the breach. She was communicating my message, I gather, to the girls she encountered, on the different levels. I looked up toward the height of the breach. There, girl after girl, especially as she saw my eyes upon her, knelt, putting her head down. Those that were sitting cross-legged swiftly abandoned that position, also performing obeisance. Then, one by one, as the brunet hurried among them, they picked their way down the paths from the breach to the Wall Road and hurried away. In a few moments the breach was cleared of flute girls. Doubtless all of them, at one time or another, had been under an excellent discipline and now, fearful of an impending restoration of such rigors, would lose no time in recalling, and manifesting, suitable attitudes and behaviors. No woman who has ever felt the whip forgets it.
"Was that wise?" asked Marcus.
"No," I said.
"Tomorrow they will be back, and things will be the same," he said.
"Undoubtedly," I said.
"Nothing will be changed," he said.
"True," I said.
"Then why did you do it?" he asked.
"I felt like it," I said.
"I was afraid you might not have had a good reason," he said.
"Master," said Phoebe, pleadingly.
"It could be dangerous here," said Marcus.
"For whom?" I asked.
"I see," said Marcus.
"Master," begged Phoebe.
"The men of Ar, and the woman, and youth," he said, looking over to the wall, "remain on the breach."
"Yes," I said.
"Interesting," he said.
"Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, again. But this time, from the note in her voice, we turned about, instantly.
"You there, hold!" cried an angry voice, that of a guardsman in the uniform of Ar, hurrying toward us. His hand was on the hilt of his sword.
We turned to face him, separating ourselves. This permits outflanking, the engagement by one, the death stroke by the other.
Instantly the guardsmen stopped. He was then some four or five yards from us. "You are armed," he said.
"It is lawful," I said. "We are not of Ar."
He drew his blade.
We, too, drew ours.
"You have drawn before a guardsman!" he said.
"Did you think we would not?" I asked.
"It is against the law," he said.
"Not our law," I said.
"What have you done here?" he asked. "The flute girls have worked enough today," I said. "We have sent them home."
"By whose authority?" he asked.
"By mine," I said.
"You are an officer?" he said.
"No," I said.
"I do not understand," he said.
"You are Cosian," said Marcus.
"I am a guardsman of Ar," said a fellow.
"You are Cosian," said Marcus.
"You have drawn a weapon against me," I said.
"You are of the warriors?" said the fellow. He wavered. He, too, knew the codes. "Yes," I said.
"And he?" asked the fellow.
"He, too," I said.
"You are not in scarlet," he said.
"True," I said. Did he think that the color of a fellow's garments was what made him a warrior? Surely he must realize that one not of the warriors might affect the scarlet, and that one who wore the grimed gray of a peasant, one barefoot, and armed only with the great staff, might be of the scarlet caste. It is not the uniform which makes the warrior, the soldier.
"There are two of you," he said, stepping back a pace.
"Yes," I said.
"Be off," said he, "before I place you under arrest."
"Perhaps you fellows should go about in squads of ten," I said.
"It is not necessary," he said.
"No," I said. "I suppose it is not necessary."
"Are you going to kill him?" Marcus asked me.
"I have not decided," I said.
"There are two of you," he said.
"You are a brave fellow," I said, "not to turn about, and flee." The odds, you see, were much against him, even were we mediocre swordsmen. One need only engage and defend, and the other strike.
"You dare not attack," he said. "It is day. Those of Ar watch."
"Is it true?" I asked Marcus, not taking my eyes off the fellow.
Marcus stepped back, shielding himself behind me. "Yes," he said.
"Interesting," I said.
"You see," he said. "There are many witnesses."
"They are not rushing for aid are they?" I asked Marcus.
"No," he said.
"I suspect they will have seen nothing," I said.
The fellow turned pale.
"You are cowards!" he said.
"Which of us will kill him?" asked Marcus.
"It does not matter," I said.
The fellow stepped back another pace.
"Why do you not run?" I asked.
"Those of Ar watch," he said.
"And not to show fear before them you would stand your ground against two?"
"I am Cosian," he said.
"Now," I said to Marcus, "perhaps the victory of Cos is clearer to you."
"Yes," said Marcus.
"Under the circumstances," I said to the guardsman, "I would nonetheless recommend a discretionary withdrawal."
"No," said the man.
"We are prepared to permit it," I said.
"No," he said.
"No dishonor is involved in such a thing," I said.
"No," he said.
"You need not even make haste," I said.
"I do not fear you singly," he said.
"On guard," I said.
He immediately entered readiness.
"Stay back," I said to Marcus.
I had scarcely uttered my injunction to Marcus when, Phoebe screaming, the fellow lunged. Our blades met perhaps three times and I was under his guard. He drew back, shaken, white faced. Again we engaged and, again, in a moment, I was behind his guards. Again he drew back, this time staggering, off balance. "Aii," he wept and lunged again, and then, tripped, scrambling about, pressed back with my foot, was on his back, my sword at his throat. He looked up, wildly.
"Strike!" he said.
"Get up," I said. "Sheath your sword."
He staggered to his feet, watching me, and sheathed his sword. I then sheathed mine.
"Why did you not kill me?" he asked.
"I told you earlier," I said, "I had decided not to kill you."
"I am an expert swordsman," he said, looking at me.
"I agree," I said.
"I have never seen such speed, such subtlety," he said. "It is like defending oneself against wind, or lightning."
I did not respond to him. In a way I felt sad, and helpless. In many ways I was an average man, if that. too, I have many lacks, and many faults. How ironic then it was, I thought, that among the few gifts which I might possess, those few things which might distinguish me among other men, were such as are commonly associated with destructiveness. Of what value is it, I asked myself, to have certain talents. Of what dreadful value are such skills? Of what value, really, is it to be able to bring down a running man with the great bow at two hundred yards, to throw the quiva into a two-hort circle at twenty paces, to wield a sword with an agility others might bring to the handling of a knife? Of what use are such dreadful skills? Then I reminded myself that such skills are often of great use and that culture, with its glories of art, and music and literature, can flourish only within the perimeters of their employments. Perhaps there is then a role for the lonely fellows on the wall, for the border guards, for the garrisons of far-flung outposts, for the guardsmen in the city treading their lonely rounds. All these, too, in their humble, unnoticed way, serve. Without them the glory is not possible. Without them even their critics could not exist. "Are you all right?" I asked.
"Yes," he said.
I recalled, too, the games of war. They, too, in their awesomeness, must not be forgotten. Why is it that some men seek wars, traveling to the ends of the earth to find them? It is because they have a taste for such things. It is because there, where others fear to tread, they find themselves most alive. He who has been on the field of battle knows the misery, the terror, the tenseness, the racing of the blood, the pounding of the heart, the exhilaration, the meaningfulness. In what other arena, and for what lesser stakes, can so much of man be summoned forth, man with his brutality, his cruelty, his mercilessness, his ruthlessness, his terribleness, these ancient virtues, and man with his devotion, his camaraderie, his fellowship, his courage, his discipline, his glory? In what other endeavor is man, in his frailty and strength, in his terribleness and nobility, so fully manifested? What is the meaning of war to the warrior? Surely it is not merely to be found in the beholding of flaming cities and the treading of bloody fields. Surely it is not merely to be found in silver plate and golden vessels, nor even in women lying naked in their chains, huddled together, trembling in the mud, knowing that they are now properties and must please. It is rather, I think, primarily, the contest, and that for which all is risked, victory. To be sure, this is a war of warriors, not of technicians and engineers, a war of men, not of machines, not of explosives, not of microscopic allies, not of poisoned atmospheres, wars in which the tiny, numerous meek, in their swarms, crawling on six legs, will inherit the earth.
"You are not of Ar," said the guardsman.
"No," I said.
"I did not think so," he said.
I shrugged.
"Cos," he said, "can use blades such as yours."
"I seek employment," I said.
"Go to the barracks of guardsmen," said he.
"Perhaps," I said.
"I would now leave this area," he said. "Too, I would not attempt to interfere with the work on the walls."
"I understand," I said.
"That is a pretty slave," he said.
"She belongs to my friend," I said. Phoebe shrank back a bit, closer to Marcus. Female slaves on Gor must grown used to being looked upon frankly by men, and assessed as the properties they are. They know they can be acquired, and disposed of, and bought and sold, and traded, and such, with ease, even at a moment's notice.
"Is she of Ar?" he asked.
"No," said Marcus.
"Are you sure?" asked the guardsmen.
"Yes," said Marcus.
"Many women of Ar look well in slave tunics, barefoot and collared," he said. "Undoubtedly," I said.
"They should all be slaves," he said.
"So should all women," I said.
"True," he said.
To be sure, it did amuse me to think of the proud women of Ar, of "Glorious Ar," as slaves. Such a fare seemed to me fully appropriate for them, and in particular for some of them.
"Let us return to our lodgings," I said to Marcus.
"I wish you well," said the guardsman.
"I, too, wish you well," I said.
"I must now put these tame cattle of Ar back to work," he said.
"One man alone?" I asked.
"No more are needed," he said.
Indeed, there were no guardsmen on the walls themselves. We had encountered one on the way to the wall, on Harness Street, who had detained us briefly, apparently primarily to determine whether or not we were of Ar.
"We shall leave now," said Marcus.
"Yes, Master," said Phoebe.
We then turned about, and left the vicinity of the Wall Road. Near the entrances to Harness Street, off the Wall Road, I turned about.
"Continue your work for peace!" called the guardsmen to those on the wall. The men on the wall then, and the youth, and women, returned to their labors. "Incredible," marveled Marcus.
"Master," moaned Phoebe.
Things were then much as they had been before. Nothing had changed. To be sure, the work was not now being performed to the music of flute girls. Tomorrow, however, I did not doubt but what the flute girls would be back, and numerous guards in attendance, at least on the street.
"Is your sword for hire?" I asked Marcus.
"It could be," he said.
"Good," I said.
"You have some plan?" he asked.
"Of course," I said.
"Master," whimpered Phoebe.
Marcus stopped and looked at her.
She, too, stopped, and looked up at him.
"Strip," he said.
She looked at him, suddenly, wildly, and then about herself. "This is a public street," she said.
He did not speak.
She squirmed. "Is there no doorway? No sheltered place?" she asked.
He did not respond to her.
"I was a woman of Cos," she said, tears springing to her eyes. "This is a public street in Ar!"
His expression remained impassive. He maintained his silence.
"Cos has defeated Ar!" she wept.
He did not speak.
"Am I to suffer because you are angry with the men of Ar?" she asked.
"Does the slave dally in her obedience?" he inquired.
"No, Master!" she said, frightened.
"Must a command be repeated?" he inquired.
"No, Master!" she cried. Her tiny fingers began to fumble with the knot of the slave girdle, on her left. Then she had the knot loose and pulled away the girdle. She then, hastily, struggling a little with it, pulled the tunic, a light pullover tunic, off, over her head. "The slave obeys her master!" she gasped, frightened, kneeling before him. He then tied her hands behind her back with the slave girdle and thrust the tiny tunic, folded, crosswise, in her mouth, so that she would bite on it. He then pushed her head down to the stones. "Are you now less angry with the men of Ar?" I asked him, in an Ehn or two. Marcus stood up, adjusting his tunic.
"Yes," he said.
Phoebe turned about, from her knees, the tunic between her teeth, and looked back at us.
"This had little to do with you," I told her. "Too, it is immaterial that you were once of Cos. A slave, you must understand, must sometimes serve such purposed." Her eyes were wide. But one of the utilities of a slave, of course, is to occasionally serve as the helpless object upon which the master may vent his dissatisfaction, his frustration or anger. Too, of course, they may serve many other related purposes, such as the relief of tensions, to relax oneself and even to calm oneself for clear thought.
"Do you understand?" I asked.
She nodded.
I regarded her.
