Raiders of Gor (35 page)

“It is truly a singer,” said Telima, behind me.

It irritated me that she had spoken.

“Fetch Ta grapes from the kitchen,” I told her.

“Please, my Ubar,” said she, “let me stay.”

“I am not your Ubar,” I said. “I am your master.”

“Please, Master,” she begged, “let Telima stay.”

“Very well,” I said.

The tables grew quiet.

The man had been blinded, it was said, by Sullius Maximus, who believed taht

blinding improved the quality of a singer’s songs. Sullius Maximus, who himself

dabbled in poetry, and poisons, was a man of high culture, and his opinions in

such matters were greatly respected. At any rate, whatever be the truth in these

matters, the singer, in his darkness, was now alone with his songs. He had only

them.

I looked upon him.

He wore the robes of his caste, the singers, and it was not known what city was

his own. Many of the singers wander from place to place, selling their songs for

bread and love. I had known, long ago, a singer, whose name was Andreas of Tor.

We could hear the torches crackle now, and the singer touched him lyre.

           
I sing the siege of Ar

           
of gleaming Ar.

         
  
I sing the spears and wall of Ar

           
of Glorious Ar.

           
In the long years past of the siege of the city

           
the siege of Ar

           
of her spires and towers

           
of undaunted Ar

           
Glorious Ar

        
   
I sing.

I did not care to hear his song. I looked down into the paga goblet. The singer

continued.

           
I sing of dark-haired Talena

           
of the rage of Marlenus

           
Ubar of Ar

           
Glorious Ar.

I did not wish to hear this song. It infuriated me to see that the others in

that room sat rapt, bestowing on the singer such attention for such trifles, the

meaningless noises of a blind man’s mouth.

           
And of he I sing

           
whose hair was like a larl from the sun

           
of he who came once to the walls of Ar

           
Glorious Ar

           
he called Tarl of Bristol.

I glanced to Telima, who stood beside my great chair. Her eyes were moist,

drinking in the song.

She was only a rence girl, I reminded myself. Doubtless never before had she

heard a singer. I thought of sending her to the kitchens, but did not do so. I

felt her hand on my shoulder. I did not indicate that i was aware of it.

And, as the torches burned lower in the wall racks, the singer continued to

sing, and sang of graey Pa-Kyr, Master of the Aassassins, leader of the hordes

that fell on Ar after the theft of her Home Stone; and he sang, too, of banners

and black helmets, of upraised standards, of the sun flashing on the lifted

blades of spears, of high siege towers and deeds, of catapults of Ka-la-na and

tem-wood, of the thunder of war tharlarion and the beating of drums and the

roars of trumpets, the clash of arms and the cries of men; and he sang, too, of

the love of men for their city, and, foolishly, knowing so little of men, he

sang, too, the bravery of men, and their loyalties and their courage; and he

sang then, too, of duels; of duels fought even on the walls of Ar herself, even

at the great gate; and of tarnsmen locked in duels to the death over the spires

of Ar; and of yet another duel, one fought on the height of Ar’s cylinder of

justice, between Pa-Kur, and he, in the song, called Tarl of Bristol.

“Why does my Ubar weep?” asked Telima.

“Be silent, Slave,” said I. Angrily I brushed her hand from my shoulder. She

drew back her hand swiftly, as though she had not known it had lain there.

The singer had now finished his song.

“Singer,” called I to him, “is there truly a man such as Tarl of Bristol?”

The singer turned his head to me, puzzled. “I do not know,” he said. “Perhaps it

is only a song.”

I laughed.

I extended the paga goblet to Telima and, again, she filled it.

I rose to my feet, lifting the goblet, and my retainers, as well, rose to their

feet, lifting their goblets.

“There is gold and steel!” I said.

“Gold and steel!” cried my retainers.

We drank.

“And song,” said the blind singer.

The room was quiet.

I looked upon the singer. “Yes,” I said, lifting my goblet to him, “and songs.”

There was a cry of pleasure from my retainers, and again we drank.

When again I sat down I said to the serving slaves, “Feast the singer well,” and

then I turned to Luma, slave and accountant of my house, braceleted and chained

at the end of the long table, and said to her, “Tomorrow, the singer, before he

is sent on his way, is to be given a cap of gold.”

“Yes Master,” said the girl.

“Thank you, Captain!” cried the singer.

My retainers cried out with pleasure at my generosity, many of them striking

their left shoulders with their right fists in Gorean applause.

Two slave girls helped the singer from the stool on which he had sat and

conducted him to a table in a far corner of the room.

I drank more paga.

I was furious.

Tarl of Bristol lived only in songs. There was on such man. There were, in the

end, only gold and steel, and perhaps the bodies of women, and perhaps songs,

the meaningless noises that might sometimes be heard in the mouths of the blind.

Again I was Bosk, from the marshes, Pirate, Admiral of Port Kar.

I fingered the golden medallion with the lateen-rigged tarn ship, and the

initials of the Council of Captains of Port Kar in its half-curve beneath it.

“Sandra!” I called. “Send for Sandra!”

There were cheers from the tables.

I looked about. It was indeed a feast of victory. I was only angered that Midice

was not present with me. She had felt ill, and had begged to remain in my

quarters, which leave I had given her. Tab, too, was not present.

Then there was a rustle of slave bells and Sandra, the dancing girl of Port Kar,

whom I had first seen in a Paga tavern, and had purchased, primarily for my men,

stood before me, her master.

I looked on her with amusement.

How desperate she was to please me.

She wanted to be first girl, but I had kept her primarily with my men.

Beautiful, dark-haired, slender, marvelously-legged Midice was, in my house,

first girl, and my favored slave. As Tab was my first Captain.

But yet Sandra was of interest.

She had high cheekbones, and flashing black eyes, and coal-black hair, now worn

high, pinned, over her head. She stood wrapped in an opaque sheet of shimmering

yellow silk. As she had approached me I had heard the bells which had been

locked on her ankles and wrists, and hung pendant from her collar.

It would not hurt, I thought, for Midice to have a bit of competion.

And so I smiled upon Sandra.

She looked at me, eagerness and pleasure transfusing her features.

“You may dance, Slave,” I told her.

It was to be the dance of the six thongs.

She slipped the silk from her and knelt before the great table and chair,

between the other tables, dropping her head. She wore five pieces of metal, her

collar and locked rings on her wrists and ankles. Slave bells were attached to

the collar and the rings. She lifted her head, and regarded me. The musicians,

to one side, began to play. Six of my men, each with a length of binding fiber,

approached her. She held her arms down, and a bit to the sides. The ends of six

lengths of binding fiber, like slave snares, were fastened on her, one for each

wrist and ankle, and two about her waist; the men, then, each holding the free

end of a length of fiber, stood about her, some six or eight feet from her,

three on a side. She was thus imprisoned among them, each holding a thong that

bound her.

I glanced to Thura. I recalled that she had been caught in capture loops on the

rence island, ot unlike the two now about Sandra’s waist. Thura was watching

with eagerness.

So, too, were all.

Sandra then, luxuriously, catlike, like a woman awakening, stretched her arms.

There was laughter.

It was as though she did not know herself bound.

When she went to draw her arms back to her body there was just the briefest

instant in which she could not do so, and she frowned looked annoyed, puzzled,

and then was permitted to move as she wished.

I laughed.

She was superb.

Then, still kneeling, she raised her hand, head back, insolently to her hair, to

remove from it one of the ornate pins, its head carved from the horn of a

kailiauk, that bound it.

Again a thong, this time that on her right wrist, prohibited, but only for an

instant, the movement, but inches from her hair.

She frowned. There was laughter.

At last, sometimes immediately permitted, sometimes not, she had removed the

pins from her hair. Her hair was beautiful, rich, long and black. As she knelt,

it fell back to her ankles.

Then, with her hands, she lifted the hair again back over her head, and then,

suddenly, her hands, by the thongs were pulled apart and her hair fell again

loose and rich over her body.

Now, angrily, struggling, she fought to lift her hair, again but the thongs,

holding apart her hands, did not permit her to do so. She fought them. The

thongs would permit her only to wear her hair loosely.

Then, as though in terror and fury, as though she now first understood herself

in the snares of a slave, she leaped to her feet, fighting, to the music, the

thongs.

The dancing girls of Port Kar, I told myself, are the best on all Gor.

Dar and golden, shimmering, crying out, stamping, she danced, her thonged beauty

incandescent in the light of the torches and frenzy of the slave bells.

She turned and twisted and leaped, and sometimes seemed almost free, but was

always, by the dark thongs, held complete prisoner. Sometimes she would rush

upon one man or another, but the others would not permit her to reach him,

keeping her always beautiful female slave snared in her web of thongs. She

writhed and cried out, trying to force the thongs from her body, but could not

do so.

At last, bit by bit, as her fear and terror mounted, the men, fist by fist, took

up the slack in the thongs that tethered her, until suddenly, they swiftly bound

her hand and foot and lifted her over their heads, captured female slave,

displaying her bound arched body to the tables.

There were cries of pleasure from the tables, and much striking of the right

fist on the left shoulder.

She had been truely superb.

Then the men carried her before my table and held her bound before me. “A

slave,” said one.

“Yes,” cried the girl, “slave!”

The music finished with a clash.

The applause and cries were wild and loud.

I was much pleased.

“Cut her loose,” I told the men.

The did so and, swiftly, like a cat, the girl ran to my chair, and knelt at my

feet. She looked up, streaked with sweat, breathing heavily, her eyes shining.

“Your performance was not without interest,” I said to her.

She put her cheek to my knee.

“Ka-la-na!” I called.

A cup was brought. And I took her by the hair and held back her head, pouring

the wine down her throat, some of it running down her face and body under the

slave collar and its bells.

She looked up at me, her mouth stained with wine. “Did I please you?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do not send me back to your men,” said begged. “Keep Sandra for yourself.”

“We shall see,” I said.

“Sandra wants much to please Master,” she said.

Wily wench, I thought.

“You used Sandra only once,” pouted the girl. “It is not fair.” She looked up at

me. “Sandra is better than Midice,” she said.

“Midice,” I said, “is very good.”

“Sandra is better,” wheedled the girl. “Try Sandra and see.”

“Perhaps,” I said. I gave her head a rough shake and permitted her to remain

kneeling at the arm of my chair. I saw other slave girls, serving at the tables,

cast looks of hatred and jealousy on her. Like a satisfied cat, she knelt beside

my chair.

“The gold, Captain,” said one of my treasure guards.

I had arranged a surprise for my retainers on this night of feasting and

victory.

He lifted, heavily, to the dais on which my chair and talbe sat a heavy leather

sack filled with golden tarn disks of double weight, of Cos and Tyros, of Ar and

Port Kar, even of distant Thentis and remote Turia, far to the south. He placed

the sack beside my great chair. Few, saving those immediately near me, saw it

there.

“Send for the slave girl from Tyros!” I called.

There was laughter from the tables.

I held out my paga goblet, but it was not filled. I looked about, angrily.