John Norman - Nomads of Gor

“Let us sit down and enjoy ourselves, recommended Saphrar. “If the Tuchuk does not wish to see the girls, let us dismiss them.”

“I wish to see them perform,” said Aphris of Turia, though she stood within arm’s reach of Kamchak’s quiva.

Kamchak laughed, looking at her. Then, to my relief, and doubtless to the relief of several at the table, he thrust the quiva in his sash and sat back down.

“Dance,” ordered Aphris.

The trembling girl before her did not move.

“Dance!” screamed Aphris, rising to her feet.

“What shall I do?” begged the kneeling girl of Kamchak. She looked not too unlike Hereena, and was perhaps a similar sort of girl, raised and trained much the same. Like Hereena, of course, she wore the tiny golden nose ring.

Kamchak spoke to her, very gently. “You are slave,” he said. “Dance for your masters.”

The girl looked at him gratefully and she, with the others, rose to her feet and to the astounding barbarity of the music performed the savage love dances of the Kassars, the Paravaci, the Kataii, the Tuchuks.

They were magnificent.

One girl, the leader of the dancers, she who had spoken to Kamchak, was a Tuchuk girl, and was particularly startling, vital, uncontrollable, wild.

It was then clear to me why the Turian men so hungered for the wenches of the Wagon Peoples.

At the height of one of her dances, called the Dance of the Tuchuk Slave Girl, Kamchak turned to Aphris of Turia, who was watching the dance, eyes bright, as astounded as I at the savage spectacle. “I will see to it,” said Kamchak, “when you are my slave, that you are taught that dance.”

The back and head of Aphris of Turia was rigid with fury, but she gave no sign that she had heard him.

Kamchak waited until the girls of the Wagon Peoples had performed their dances and then, when they had been dismissed, he rose to his booted feet. “We must go” he said.

I nodded, and struggled to my feet, well ready to return to his wagon.

“What is in the box?” asked Aphris of Turia, as she saw Kamchak pick up the small black box which, throughout the banquet, he had kept at his right knee. The girl was clearly curious, female.

Kamchak shrugged.

I remembered that two years before, as I had learned, he had brought Aphris of Turia a five-string diamond necklace, which she had scorned, and had, according to her report at least, given to a slave. It had been at that time that she had called him a Tuchuk sleen, presumably because he had dared present her with a gift.

But, I could see, she was interested in the box. Indeed, at certain times during the evening, I had seen her casting furtive glances at it.

“It is nothing,” said Kamchak, “only a trinket.”

“But is it for someone?” she asked.

“I had thought,” said Kamchak, “that I might give it to you.”

“Oh?” asked Aphris, clearly intrigued.

“But you would not like it,” he said.

“How do you know,” she said, rather airily, “I have not seen it.”

“I will take it home with me,” said Kamchak.

“If you wish,” she said.

“But you may have it if you wish,” he said.

“Is it other,” she asked, “than a mere necklace of diamonds?” Aphris of Turia was no fool. She knew that the Wagon Peoples, plunderers of hundreds of caravans, occasionally possessed objects and riches as costly as any on Gor.

“Yes,” said Kamchak, “it is other than a necklace of diamonds.”

“Ah!” she said. I then suspected that she had not actually given the five-string diamond necklace to a slave. Undoubtedly it still reposed in one of her several chests of jewellery.

“But you would not like it,” said Kamchak, diffidently.

“Perhaps I might,” she said.

“No,” said Kamchak, “you would not like it.”

“You brought it for me, did you not?” she said.

Kamchak shrugged and looked down at the box in his hand. “Yes,” he said, “I brought it for you.”

The box was about the size in which a necklace, perhaps on black velvet, might be displayed.

“I want it,” said Aphris of Turia.

“Truly?” asked Kamchak. “Do you want it?”

“Yes,” said Aphris. “Give it to me!”

“Very well,” said Kamchak, “but I must ask to place it on you myself.”

Kamras, the Champion of Turia, half rose from his position. “Bold Tuchuk sleen!” he hissed.

“Very well,” said Aphris of Turia. “You may place it on me yourself.”

So then Kamchak bent down to where Aphris of Turia knelt, her back straight, her head very high, before the low table. He stepped behind her and she lifted her chin delicately. Her eyes were shining with curiosity. I could see the quickness of her breath marked in the soft silk of her white and gold veil.

“Now,” said Aphris.

Kamchak then opened the box.

When Aphris heard the delicate click of the box lid it was all she could do not to turn and regard the prize that was to be hers, but she did not do so. She remained looking away, only lifting her chin a bit more.

“Now!” said Aphris of Turia, trembling with anticipation.

What happened then was done very swiftly. Kamchak lifted from the box an object indeed intended to grace the throat of a girl. But it was a round metal ring, a Turian collar, the collar of a slave. There was a firm snap of the heavy lock in the back of the collar and the throat of Aphris of Turia had been encircled with slave steel! At the same instant Kamchak lifted her startled to her feet and turned her to face him, with both hands tearing the veil from her face! Then, before any of the startled Turians could stop him, he had purchased by his audacity a bold kiss from the lips of the astounded Aphris of Turia! Then he hurled her from him across and over the low table until she fell to the floor where Tuchuk slaves had danced for her pleasure. The quiva, appearing as if by magic in his hand, warned back those who would press in upon him to revenge the daughter of their city. I stood beside Kamchak, ready to defend him with my life, yet as startled as any in the room at what had been done.

The girl now had struggled to her knees tearing at the collar. Her tiny gloved fingers were locked in it, pulling at it, as though by brute force she would tear it from her throat.

Kamchak was looking at her. “Beneath your robes of white and gold,” he said, “I smelled the body of a slave girl.”

“Sleen! Sleen! Sleen!” she cried.

“Replace your veil!” ordered Saphrar.

“Remove the collar immediately,” commanded Kamras, plenipotentiary of Phanius Turmus, Administrator of Turia.

Kamchak smiled. “It seems,” he said, “that I have forgotten the key.”

“Send for one of the Caste of Metal Workers!” cried Saphrar.

There were cries on all sides, “Slay the Tuchuk sleen!” “Torture for him!” “The oil of tharlarions!” “Leech plants!” “Impalement!” “Tongs and fire!” But Kamchak seemed unmoved. And none rushed upon him, for in his hand, and he was Tuchuk, there gleamed the quiva.

“Slay him!” screamed Aphris of Turia, “Slay him!”

“Replace your veil,” repeated Saphrar to the girl. “Have you no shame?”

The girl attempted to rearrange the folds of the veil, but could only hold it before her face, for Kamchak had ripped away the pins by which it was customarily fastened.

Her eyes were wild with fury and tears.

He, a Tuchuk, had looked upon her face.

I was pleased, though I would not have admitted it, at Kamchak’s boldness, for it was a face for which a man might risk much, even death in the torture dungeons of Turia, utterly beautiful though now, of course, transformed with rage, far more beautiful than had been that of the most beautiful of the slave girls who had served us or given us of the beauty of their dances.