John Norman - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor

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2024-12-04 0 0 1.21MB 498 页 5.9玖币
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Magicians of Gor
Contents
1. The Street 7
2. The Tent 20
3. The Camp 34
4. Within Ar 66
5. Outside the Gate 71
6. The Public Boards 75
7. Ar is Liberated 82
8. The Wall 101
9. The Plaza of Tarns 135
10. The Sword is Thirsty 162
11. The Delka 175
12. The Countries of Courage 190
13. A Difference Seems Afoot in Ar 206
14. In the Vicinity of the Public Boards 215
15. Fire 238
16. In the Vicinity of the Teiban Market 243
17. Magic 253
18. Our Wallets are in Order 271
19. The Field Slave 290
20. The Slave Will Obey 333
21. I Receive the Report of a Slave 357
22. My Plans Proceed 372
23. A Message is to be Delivered 399
24. Staffs and Chains 413
25. Bracelets and Shackles 422
26. A Free Woman; A Female Slave 441
27. We Take Our Leave 459
28. The Room 485
CHAPTER 1 THE STREET
(pg. 7) “Surely you understand the law, my dear,” he said.
She struggled in the net, dropped from the ceiling, then held about her by guardsmen sprung from concealment
at the sides of the room.
“No!” she cried. “No!”
Magicians of Gor
She was then turned about, twice in the net, on the couch so that she was thoroughly entangled, doubly, in its
toils.
“No!” she wept.
The guardsmen, four of them, held the net.
Her eyes were wild. Her fingers were in the knotted mesh. She was like a frightened animal.
“Please,” she wept. “What do you want?”
The fellow did not then answer her, but regarded her. She was naked in the toils of the net, and now lay on her
side, her legs drawn up in it, now seemingly, small and very vulnerable, so bared and caught, on the deep furs of
the huge couch.
“Milo!” she cried to a tall, handsome fellow to one side, “Help me!”
“But I am a slave,” pointed out Milo, donning his purple tunic.
She looked at him, wildly.
“I am sure you are familiar with the law,” said the first fellow, flanked by two magistrates.
“No!” she cried.
The magistrates were ex offico witnesses, who could certify the circumstances of the capture. The net was a
stout one, and weighted.
“Any free women who couches with another’s slave, or readies herself to couch with another’s slave, becomes
herself a slave, and the slave of the slave’s master. It is a clear law.”
“No! No!” she wept.
“Think of it in this fashion, if you wish,” he said. “You have given yourself to Milo, but Milo is mine, and can
own nothing, and thus you have given yourself to me. An analogy is the coin given by a free person to a street
girl, which coin, of course, does not then belong to the girl but to her master. What is given to the slave is given
to the master.
She regarded him with horror.
(pg. 8) “I loathe you!” she cried. “Bring me my clothing!” she wept to the guardsmen.
“When the certifications are approved, and filed, and in this case there will be no ambiguity or difficulty about
the matter, you will be mine.
“No!” she wept.
“Put her on her knees, on the couch, in the net,” he said.
Magicians of Gor
This was done.
She looked wildly at Milo. There were tears in her eyes. “Will I then, as a slave, be your woman?” she asked.
“I do not think so,” said Milo, smiling.
“The handsome, charming, suave, witty Milo,” said the fellow, “is a seduction slave.”
“A seduction slave?” she wept.
“Yes,” he said. “He has much increased my stock of slaves.”
She tore at the net, in tears, but helpless.
“Had you, and your predecessors, not been so secretive, so much concerned to conceal your affairs with a slave,
Milo’s utility as a seduction slave would have doubtless been much diminished by now. On the other hand, the
concern for your reputation and such, so natural in you free women, almost guarantees the repeatability, and
continued success, of these small pleasant projects.”
“Release me!” she begged.
“Some of Milo’s conquests are used in my fields, and others in my house,” he said. “But most, and I am sure
you will be one of these, are exported, sold out of the city to begin your new life.”
“My new life?” she whispered.
“That of a female slave,” he smiled.
She struggled, futilely.
“Raise the net to her waist, and lower it to her neck,” he said, “and tie it about her. Then put her in a gag and
hood.”
“No!” she wept.
“By tonight,” he said, “you will be branded and collared.”
“No, please!” she wept.
The net was then adjusted on the female, in accordance with the fellow’s instructions, in such a way that her
legs and head were free, but her arms were confined. It was then bound tightly in place.
The fellow then glanced at the handsome slave. “You will leave by another exit,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” said the slave.
The free woman watched the slave withdraw. “Milo!” she whispered.
(pg. 9) “You are now kneeling on a couch,” said the fellow, “which, for a female slave, is a great honor. You
may be months into your bondage before you are again permitted such an honor.”
Magicians of Gor
“Milo!” she wept, after the slave.
The leather bit of the gag, a fixture of the hood, was then forced back between her teeth, and tied in place.
She made a tiny noise, of protest.
The hood itself was then drawn over her head, covering it completely. It was then fixed on her, buckled shut,
beneath her chin.
“What have you seen?” said Marcus.
I stepped back from the crack in the shutters, through which I had observed the preceding scene.
“Nothing,” I said.
We were in a street of Ar, a narrow, crowded street, in which we were much jostled. It was in the Metellan
district, south and east of the district of the Central Cylinder. It is a shabby, but not squalid district. There are
various tenements, or insulae, there. It is the sort of place, far enough from broad avenues of central Ar, where
assignations, or triflings, might take place.
“Is Ar this crowded always?” asked Marcus, irritably.
“This street, at this time of day,” I said.
My companion was Marcus Marcellus, of the Marcelliani, formerly of Ar’s Station, on the Vosk. We had come
to Ar from the vicinity of Brundisium. He, like myself, was of the caste of warriors. With him, clinging closely,
about him, as though she might fear losing him in the crowd, and attempting also, it seemed, not unoften, to
make herself small and conceal herself behind him, was his slave, Phoebe, this name having been put on her, a
slender exquisite, very lightly complexioned, very dark-haired girl. She had come into his keeping in the
vicinity of Brundisium, some months ago.
“As we do have the yellow ostraka and our permits do not permit us to remain in the city after dark,” said
Marcus, “I think we should venture now to the sun gate.”
Marcus was the sort of fellow who was concerned about such things, being arrested, impaled, and such.
“There is plenty of time,” I assured him. Most cities have a sun gate, sometimes several. They are called such
because they are commonly opened at dawn and closed at dusk, thus the hours of their ingress and regress being
determined by the diurnial cycle. Ar is the largest city of known Gor, larger even, I am sure, than Turia, in the
far south. She has some forty public gates, and, I suppose, some number of restricted smaller gates, secret gates,
posterns, and such. Long ago, I had once entered (pg. 10) the city through such a passage, its exterior access
point reached by means of a putative Dar-Kosis pit, which passage, I had recently determined, descending into
the pit on ropes, was now closed. I supposed that this might be the case with various such entrances, if they
existed, given Ar’s alarm at the announced approach of Cos. In a sense I regretted this loss, for it had
constituted a secret way in and out of the city. Perhaps other such passages existed. I did not know.
“Let us go,” suggested Marcus.
Magicians of Gor
I saw a slave girl pass, in a brief, brown tunic, her back straight, her beauty protestingly full within her tiny,
tight garment, balancing a jar on her head with one hand. The bottom of the jar rested in a sort of improvished
shallow stand or mount, formed of a dampened, wrapped towel. In Schendi the white slave girls of black
masters are sometimes taught to carry such vessels on their heads without the use of their hands or such devices
as the towel. And woe to the girl who drops it. Such exercises are good for a girl’s posture. To be sure, the
lower caste black women of Schendi and the interior do such things commonly. I looked at the girl. Yes, I
thought, she could be similarly trained, without doubt. If I owned her, I thought, I might so train her. If she
proved clumsy or slow to learn she could be whipped. I did not think she would prove slow to learn. Our eyes
met, briefly, and she lowered her eyes swiftly, still keeping her burden steady. She trembled for a moment. I
think she had seen, in that glance, that I could be her master, but then, so, too, of course, could be many men. A
slave girl is often very careful about meeting the eyes of a free man directly, particularly a stranger. They can be
cuffed or beaten for such insolence. The collar looked well on her, gleaming, close-fitting, locked. She was
barefoot. Her brief garment was all she wore. It would have no nether closure. Thusly on Gor are female slaves
commonly garbed. She hurried on.
“Let us be on our way,” said Marcus. Phoebe clung close to him, her tiny fingers on his sleeve.
“In a moment,” I said.
“I do not like such crowds,” said Marcus.
We were buffeted about a bit.
“There is a date on the permits,” Marcus reminded me, “and they will be checking at the gate to see who has left
the city and who has not.”
“I think they will be coming out in a moment or two,” I said, “there at that door.”
“Who?” he asked.
“There,” I said.
(pg. 11) I saw the fellow who had been in the room emerge through the door. He was followed by the two
magistrates, who had probably now made the entries in their records. They were followed by four guardsmen, in
single file. “Make way, make way!” said the fellow from the room, and the crowds parted a little, to let them
pass. The third of the three guardsmen carried a burden on his right shoulder. It was a naked woman whose
upper body was thoroughly and tightly wrapped in several turns of a heavy net, tied closely about her. Her head
was covered with a buckled hood. She squirmed a little, helplessly. She was being carried with her head to the
rear, as a slave is carried.
“So that is what you were watching,” said Marcus, “a caught slave.”
“In a sense,” I said.
About at the same time, coming toward us, down the street, following the other party by several yards, was a
large, graceful fellow, blond and curly-haired, who was astonishingly handsome, almost unbelievably so. On his
left wrist, locked, there was a silver slave bracelet. His tunic was of a silken purple. He had golden sandals.
“Who is that?” I asked a fellow in white and gold, the colors of the merchants, when the handsome fellow had
passed. Such a one, I assumed, might be generally known. He was no ordinary fellow.
Magicians of Gor
“He is the actor, Milo,” said the man.
“He is a slave,” I said.
“Owned by Appanius, the agriculturalist, impresario and slaver,” said the fellow, “who rents him to the
managements of various theaters.
“A handsome fellow,” I said.
“The handsomest man in all Ar,” said the merchant. “Free women swoon at his feet.”
“And what of slaves?” asked Marcus, irritably, scowling at Phoebe.
“I swoon at your feet, Master,” she smiled, putting down her head.
“You may kneel and clean them with your tongue,” said Marcus, angrily.
“Yes, Master,” she said, and fell to her knees, putting down her head.
“The appearance of Milo in a drama assures its success,” said the merchant.
“He is popular,” I said.
“Particularly with the women,” he said.
“I can understand that,” I said.
(pg. 12) “Some men do not even care for him,” said the merchant, and I gathered he might be one of them.
“I can understand that,” I said. I was not certain that I was enthusiastic about Milo either. Perhaps it was merely
that I suspected that Milo might be even more handsome than I.
“I wish you well,” said the merchant.
“Perhaps Milo serves, too, in capacities other than that of as actor,” I said.
“What did you have in mind?” asked the merchant.
“Nothing,” I said.
“It is Milo,” whispered one free woman to another. They were together, veiled.
“Let us hurry after him, to catch a glimpse of him,” said one of them.
“Do not be shameless!” chided the first.
“We are veiled,” the second reminded her.
Magicians of Gor
“Let us hurry,” urged the first then, and the two pressed forward, through the crowd, after the purple-clad
figure.
“Fellows as handsome as he,” complained the merchant, “should be forced to go veiled in public.”
“Perhaps,” I granted him. Free women in most of the high cities of Gor, particularly those of higher caste, go
veiled in public. Also they commonly wear the robes of concealment which cover them, in effect, from head to
toe. Even gloves are often worn. There are many reasons for this, having to do with modesty, security, and such.
Slave girls, on the other hand, are commonly scandalously clad, if clad at all. Typically their garments, if they
are permitted them, are designed to leave little of their beauty to the imagination. Rather they are designed to
call attention to it, and so reveal and display it, sometimes even brazenly, in all its marvelousness. Goreans are
not ashamed of the luscious richness, the excitingness, the sensuousness, the femininity, the beauty of their
slaves. Rather they prize it, treasure it and celebrate it. To be sure, it must be admitted that the slave girl is only
an animal, and is under total male domination. To understand this more clearly, two further items might be
noted. First, she must go about in public, denied face veiling. Men, as they please, may look freely upon her
face, witnessing its delicacy, its beauty, its emotions, and such. She is not permitted to hide it from them. She
must bare it, in all its revelatory intimacy, and with all the consequences of this, to their gaze. Second, her
degradation is completed by the fact that she is given no choice but to be what she is, profoundly and in depth, a
human female, and must thus, willing or not, (pg. 13) sexually and emotionally, physically and psychologically,
accept her fulfillments in the order of nature.
“I wish you well,” I said to the merchant.
He turned away.
“Make way,” I heard. “Make way!”
A house marshal was approaching, carrying a baton, with which he touched folks and made a passage among
them. He was preceding the palanquin of a free woman, apparently a rich one, borne by some eight male slaves.
I stepped to one side to let the marshal, the palanquin and its bearers move past. The sides of the palanquin were
veiled.
“Odd that a palanquin of such a nature should be in the Metallan district,” I said.
“Perhaps we should consider saving our lives now,” said Marcus.
“Phoebe is not finished with your feet,” I said.
Phoebe, looked up, happily.
“Up,” said Marcus irritably, snapping his fingers. Immediately she sprang to her feet. She stood beside him, her
head down, docile. She, I noted, attracted her share of attention. I was not too pleased with this, as I did not
wish to be conspicuous in Ar. On the other hand, it is seldom wise to interfere in the relationship between a
master and a slave.
I looked back down the street. I could no longer see any sign of the fellow who had been in the room, the
magistrate, or the guardsmen, with their shapely prisoner. She had been on a guardsman’s shoulder, being
carried, her head to the rear, as a slave. Later I did not think she would be often accorded the luxury of such
transportation. Soon, perhaps in a day or two, she would be learning how to heel a man and to walk gracefully
on his leash.
Magicians of Gor
“Oh!” said Phoebe.
Someone in the crowd, in passing, had undoubtedly touched her. Marcus looked about, angrily. I did not know,
really, what he expected.
I looked back down the street. I could see the head of Milo, with its blond curls, over the heads of the crowd,
about fifty yards away. He was standing near a wall. The free woman’s palanquin had stopped briefly by him,
and then, after a time, continued on its way.
“Oh!” said Phoebe.
Marcus turned about again, swiftly, angrily. There was only the crowd.
“If you do not care for such things,” I said, “perhaps you should give her a garment.”
(pg. 14) “Let her go naked,” he said. “She is only a slave.”
“Perhaps some article of clothing would not be amiss,” I said.
“She has her collar,” he said.
“You many never have noticed,” I said, “but she is an exquisitely beautiful female.”
“She is the lowest and most despicable of female slaves,” he said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Too,” said he, “do not forget that I hate her.”
“It would be difficult to do that,” I said, “ as you have told me so many times.
Phoebe lowered her head, smiling.
“Too,” said he, “she is my enemy.”
“If ever she was your enemy,” I said, “she is not your enemy now. She is now a slave. Look at her. She is
simply an animal you own. Do you think she does not know that? She now exists for you, to please and serve
you.”
“She is Cosian,” he said.
“Turn your flank to him, slave,” I said. “Touch you collar.”
Phoebe complied.
“You can see the brand,” I said. “You can see the collar. Furthermore, it is yours.”
He regarded the slave, docile, obedient, turned, her fingers, too, lightly on her collar, so closely locked on her
lovely neck.
Magicians of Gor
“And it is a pretty flank,” I said, “and a lovely throat.”
He moaned softly.
“I see that you think so,” I said.
The feelings of the young warrior toward his slave were profoundly ambivalent. She was not only the sort of
female that he found irresistibly, excruciatingly attractive, as I had known before I had shown her to him the
first time, but, to my surprise and delight, there seemed to be a special mystery or magic, or chemistry, between
them. Each was a dream come true for the other. She had been, it seems, in some profound genetic sense, born
for his chains. They fitted together, like a lock and its key. She loved him profoundly, helplessly, and from the
first time she had seen him. He, too, had been smitten. Then he had discovered that she was from Cos, that
ubarate which was his hated foe, at the hands of whose mercenary and regular forces he had seen his city
destroyed. It was no wonder that in rage he had vowed to make the lovely slave stand proxy for Cos, that he
might then vent upon her his fury, and his hatred, for Cos, and all things Cosian. And so it was that he had
determined to reduce and humiliate her, and make (pg. 15) her suffer, but with each cuffing, with each
command, with each kick, with each blow of the whip, she became only the more his, and the more loving. I
had know for a long time, even as long ago as the inn of the Crooked Tarn, on the Vosk Road, before the fall of
Ar’s Station, that she had profound slave needs, but I had never suspected their depth until I had seen her in a
camp outside Brundisium, kneeling before Marcus, looking up at him, unbelievingly. She had known then that
she was his, and in perfection. I had no doubt they fitted together, in the order of nature, in the most intimate,
beautiful and fulfilling relationship possible between a man and a woman, that of love master and love slave. To
be sure, she was Cosian.
Phoebe put down her head, shyly smiling.
“Cosian slut!” snarled Marcus.
He seized her by the arms and lifted her from her feet, thrusting her back against the wall of the building.
He held her there, off her feet, her back pressed back, hard, against the rough wall.
“Yes,” she cried. “Yes!”
“Be thusly used, and as befits you,” said he, “slave, and slut of Cos!”
“Yes, my Master!” she wept. She clung about him, her eyes closed, her head back, gasping.
Then he cried out, and lowered her to the stones of the street.
She knelt there, gratefully, sobbing. Her back was bloody. Marcus had not been gentle with the slave. She was
holding to his leg.
“Disgusting,” said a free woman, drawing her veil more closely about her face.
Did she not know that she, too, if she were a slave, would be similarly subject to a master’s pleasure?
“This is a very public place,” I said to Marcus.
Magicians of Gor
A small crowd, like an eddy in the flowing stream of folks in the street, had gathered about.
“She is a slut of Cos,” said Marcus to a fellow nearby.
“Beat her for me,” said the man.
“She is only a slave,” I said.
“A Cosian slut,” said one man to another.
“She is only a slave,” I said again.
The crowd closed in a bit more, menacingly. Phoebe looked up, frightened.
In the press there was not even room to draw the sword, let alone wield it.
“Let us kill her,” said a fellow.
(pg. 16) “Move back,” said Marcus, angrily.
“A slut of Cos,” said another man.
“Let us kill her!” said another fellow.
Phoebe was very small and helpless, kneeling on the stones, near the wall.
“Continue on your way,” I said to the men gathered about. “Be about your business.”
“Cos is our business,” said a man.
The ugliness of the crowd, its hostility, and such, was, I think, a function of recent events, which had
precipitated confusion, uncertainty and terror in Ar, in particular the military catastrophe in the delta, in which
action, absurdly, the major land forces at Torcadino, one of the largest assemblages of armed men ever seen of
Gor, under their polemarkos, Myron, cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos, had now set their standards towards
Ar. Torcadino had been a supply depot for the forces of Cos on the continent. It had been seized by the
mercenary, Dietrich of Tarnburg, to forestall the march on Ar. Ar, however, had failed to act. She had not
relieved the siege at Torcadino nor that in the north, at Ar’s Station. Dietrich, finally understanding the treason
in Ar, in high places, had managed to effect a withdrawal from Torcadino. His location was now unknown and
Cos had put a price on his head. Now there lay little or nothing between the major forces of Cos on the
continent, now on the march, and the gates of Ar. Further, though there was much talk in the city of resistance,
of the traditions of Ar, of her Home Stone, and such, I did not think that the people of Ar, stunned and confused
by the apparently inexplicable succession of recent disasters, had the will to resist the Cosians. Perhaps if there
had been a Marlenus of Ar in the city, a Ubar, one to raise the people and lead them, there might have been
hope. But the city was now under the governance of the regent, Gnieus Lelius, who, I had little doubt, might
have efficiently managed a well-ordered polity under normal conditions, but was an unlikely leader in a time of
darkness, crisis and terror. He was, I thought, a good man and an estimable civil servant, but he was not a
Marlenus of Ar. Marlenus of Ar had vanished months ago on a punitive raid in the Voltai, directed against the
tarnsmen of Treve. He was presumed dead.
摘要：

MagiciansofGorContents1.TheStreet72.TheTent203.TheCamp344.WithinAr665.OutsidetheGate716.ThePublicBoards757.ArisLiberated828.TheWall1019.ThePlazaofTarns13510.TheSwordisThirsty16211.TheDelka17512.TheCountriesofCourage19013.ADifferenceSeemsAfootinAr20614.IntheVicinityofthePublicBoards21515.Fire23816.In...

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