Magicians of Gor (59 page)

the other message.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. She moved, uneasily. I moved a bit, and looked at the

ankle ring on her left ankle. I then put my hand on the ring, and then pressed

my thumb a little into her leg. I then turned the ring a little on her ankle,

shifting it a bit. There was about a quarter of an inch of slippage between the

metal and her ankle. I then lifted the chain, a little, one of its links

hammered shut about the ring’s staple, and let it drop to the floor. She

shuddered at the tiny sound. I then jerked twice, softly, on the chain, that she

might feel this small force exerted on the ring, and subsequently on her ankle,

within it. Below the ring, behind it, her foot was small and soft. I regarded

it, the hell, the sole, her toes. It was a small, shapely, lovely foot. And

then, above it, close about the ankle, locked, was the ankle ring. I then

touched her collar, and turned it a little, back and forth. She was very quiet

while I did this. It, like the other collars, was an excellent fit. I then

readjusted it, carefully. The lock was now again centered, at the back of the

neck. I then touched her. “Oh, oh!” she said.

“Steady,” I said.

She moaned.

(pg. 347) “Because,” I said, “you will write it.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I will dictate the contents to you,” I said, “or, if you wish, you may compose

it, subject, of course, to my approval.”

“As master wishes!” she said.

“Do not break position,” I warned her.

Marcus and I had agreed that Phoebe would not write the letter. It was better

that it was done by a woman who had been at one time a citizeness of Ar, her

penmanship influenced by the private schools of the city. It is a well-known

fact, on the world, Earth, that the cursive script of diverse nationalities,

such as the English, French and Italian, tend to differ in certain general ways,

quite aside from the individual characteristics of particular writers. Certain

letters, for example, tend to be formed differently, and so on. Much the same

thing, predictably, and perhaps even more so, given the isolation of so many of

her cities, occurs on Gor. for example, Phoebe had a beautiful, feminine hand,

but it was natural for her, and easiest for her, of course, to write it Cosian

script. It was not that Cosian script, was illegible, say, to folks of Ko-ro-ba

or Ar, but rather that it was recognizably different. Thus, rather than have

Phoebe try to disguise her hand and write in the script of Ar, Marcus and I had

decided that the note, or letter, would be written by the new slave, whose

background, and education, were of Ar, the same as those of the putative writer

of the note, or letter. In the formation of most cursive letters, incidentally,

there are few, if any, differences among the various cities. The differences

tent to have more to do with the ‘cast’ of the hand, so to speak, its general

appearance, a function of a number of things, such as size, spacing of letters,

linkages among them, lengths of loops, nature of end strokes, and such. Also,

certain letters, at least for commercial or legal, if not personal purposes,

tended to be standardized. An excellent example are those standing for various

weights and measures. Another familiar example is the tiny, lovely, cursive

‘kef’ which is the same whether it is put on a girl in Cos, or Ar, or Ko-ro-ba,

or Thentis or Turia.

“Oh, Master!” sobbed the slave.

“Master!” said Phoebe, suddenly, taken by Marcus and thrust down, forcibly, to

the boards. He looked down into her eyes, fiercely. “Yes, Master,” she said,

lifting her arms to put them about his neck.

“When do you think your friend, the noble Tarsk-Bit, will be prepared to act?”

asked Marcus, evenly.

“Please enter your slave, Master,” said Phoebe.

“Do not be angry with him,” I said. “He had to revile the (pg. 348) Home Stone

to see it, to examine it. “I had encouraged Marcus not to be present when this

was done, but he had, of course, insisted upon it. In so far as it was practical

it seemed he wished to be present at, and, in a sense, supervise, all phases of

this delicate and, I thought at least, perilous operation. No detail was too

unimportant to him to overlook. What could compare in importance for Marcus, for

example, to the recovery of his Home Stone, its rescue from its captivity in Ar?

To be sure, I think Boots had overdone the matter a bit. He, exuberant in his

performance, probably did not realize that I was struggling a few yards behind

him to keep Marcus from leaping upon him, blade in hand. Most of those about, of

course, also taking no note of the reactions of Marcus, the fire in his eyes,

and such, had been muchly amused. Boots had made a great show of his contempt

for the Home Stone of the treacherous Ar’s station. His insults had been

numerous, well thought out, stinging, and delivered with flair. He had even been

applauded. It was fortunate that Marcus had not reached him. In so simple a

manner had Boots, unbeknownst to himself, escaped unscathed, for example,

without having had his heart slashed out of his living body.

“When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

“He did not mean it, what he said,” I said.

“He sounded convincing,” said Marcus, grimly.

“Would you have preferred that he sounded unconvincing?” I asked.

“Master,” begged Phoebe.

“Master!” said the new slave, suddenly. She must not, of course, break position.

“When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

“The facsimile must be prepared,” I said. “That takes time.”

“When will he be prepared to act?” asked Marcus.

“Soon, I am sure,” I said.

“Perhaps he has already left the city,” said Marcus.

“No,” I said.

“Your slave begs,” said Phoebe to Marcus.

“Your slave begs, too!” said the slave near me.

The new slave, beside me, was on all fours. She was in this position by my will.

I had been keeping her in this position. It is a position which a woman

understands. I had, furthermore, checked her ankle ring, and collar. Such things

are very meaningful to a woman. such attentions, seemingly small in themselves,

subtly, explosively, erupt in the cognizances of her belly. Bu means of them is

her bondage recalled to her. By means of them she understands herself the

better, and to whom she (pg. 349) belongs. Also, such things would commonly be

checked as a simple matter of course, just as one might check the tether on a

verr, or the chain on a sleen. Beyond this, of course, I had, from time to time,

as I had spoken with her, and discussed matters with Marcus, touched her,

sometimes almost idly, while concerned with other matters. But now her body was

tense. “Oh!” she said. Her lovely flanks quivered. She could not resist my

touch, even involuntarily, as her knees and the palms of her hands must remain

in contact with the floor.

“He had better not,” said Marcus.

“He will not,” I said. “But if he chose to do so, surely one could not blame

him. It is not his Home Stone. He is not a soldier. You are not his officer, or

Ubar, or some such.”

“True,” said Marcus.

“Be grateful,” I said, “if he is willing to be of assistance.”

“I wish to owe him little,” said Marcus. “I will see that he is well paid.”

“Very well,” I said.

“Do you think he can be prevailed upon to accept money?” asked Marcus.

“Doubtless, if we are strenuous enough in our insistence on the matter,” I said.

“Good,” he said, grimly.

“He is really not a bad fellow,” I said.

Marcus made an angry noise.

“I think it would be better if you were not present when he makes the attempt on

the Home Stone,” I said.

“I will be there,” said Marcus. “He may need help.”

“It will not be much help,” I said, “if you drop him on the spot.”

“What does that mean?” he asked.

“If he does manage to obtain the Home Stone and you run him through, and it

drops out of his cloak on the street, and it becomes immediately apparent to the

guards about that there appear to be two Home Stones of Ar’s Station in the

vicinity, what then?”

“I shall seize it up and make away,” he said.

“There may be a hundred guards about,” I said.

“Doubtless you will be at hand,” he said.

“But what if there are one hundred and one guards about?” I said.

“You jest,” he said.

“What do you think your chances will be of getting the stone out of the city,

let alone to Port Cos?”

“I do not know,” he admitted.

(pg. 350) “The alarm would be sounded within Ihn,” I said.

“Doubtless,” he granted.

“You would be fortunate if you managed to get the stone as far as the Teiban

Market,” I said. “If I did not know your skill with the sword, I would have

placed a bet you would not get it as far as Clive.” This street actually entered

the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, from the west.

“I have nerves of steel,” said Marcus. “I can control my emotions with

perfection.”

“As five days ago?” I asked.

“He needn’t have been as ribald as he was,” said Marcus.

“There are at least two reasons for what he did,” I said. “First, the length of

his tirade gave him time to study the Home Stone, in all its details. Secondly,

it established a character. If he come back during the same watch, as he

presumably will, the guards will remember him, and expect a show.”

“Then they will be more attentive,” said Marcus.

“But to him, not to the Home Stone,” I said.

“You said ‘at least two reasons,’” said Marcus. “That suggests there might be at

least one other.”

“Perhaps,” I said, evasively.

“What?” he asked, not pleasantly.

“He was enjoying himself,” I said.

“He should have been impaled!” said Marcus.

“Master,” begged Phoebe.

“I should have run him through!” exclaimed Marcus.

“Master!” whimpered Phoebe.

The new slave whimpered, too, urgently, helplessly, plaintively, to call her

needs, and herself, to my attention.

“I think it would be better if you were not present when the attempt is made on

the Home Stone,” I said.

“You are in one of your rational moods,” said Marcus, disgustedly.

“Almost everyone has them occasionally,” I said. “Also, I thought you were

supposed to be the rational one.”

“I shall think about it,” he said.

“The important thing here,” I said, “is not your sense of honor, which seems a

bit touchy, but the rescue of the Home Stone.”

“This is more of Your Kaissa,” he said.

“Master,” begged Phoebe.

He looked down at her, fiercely.

“A slave begs,” she said, “that her master consent to enter her.”

(pg. 351) “Oh!” she cried, as Marcus, fiercely, took her in his arms.

“It is I who am impaled,” she laughed. “It is I who am run through!”

“But as befits female slaves!” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she laughed. Then she closed her eyes. “Oh, yes!” she said. She

gasped. She sighed, softly. “Deign to use me, unworthy slave though I am,” she

whispered, “as the cover for your spear, as your sheath and scabbard.”

“And it is done, is it not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“And in the manner befitting female slaves?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

He kissed her, his head down, fiercely about the throat.

Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. “I have received my master,” she said.

“I, too, would receive my master,” whispered the new slave.

“I will write the letter for you,” mumbled Marcus, his words lost somewhere in

Phoebe’s neck.

I will require further assistance, as well,” I said.

“It is yours,” he said.

“I do not think it will interfere in any way with the recovery of the Home

Stone,” I said.

“Yes,” mumbled Marcus. “Yes, yes,”

I regarded the new slave. She turned her head toward me. Her eyes were filled

with tears. She whimpered. I seized her, turned her and threw her to her back,

with a sound of the chain, beside me, on the blanket, spread over the boards. I

touched her, lightly, and she lifted her body, piteously. She looked up at me.

She whimpered. I gently touched her breasts. Again she whimpered. They were very

beautiful, and their condition, like that of her whole body, signified her

readiness, and need. Tears of supplication welled in her eyes.

I touched her lightly about the waist, and she moved almost as though she might

have been burned. Even the chain had jerked.

“You are a hot slave,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I touched her.

“Oh!” she said.

“And you juice exceedingly well,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

I looked down at her. How amazing, how astonishing, and wonderful are female

slaves. How, too, this woman’s life had changed! What a dramatic volte-face,

from a free woman to a slave! How different she was from a free woman, this

slave, (pg. 352) hot, needful, beautiful, owned, obedient, begging. Too, had not

been that long in bondage.

I looked down upon her.

“Are you a slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” she whimpered. “Subjugate me.”

I then took her in my arms.

“Now I, too, am impaled,” she whispered. “Now I, too, have been run through.