John Norman - Rogue of Gor

“You are involved in the conspiracy of Tasdron, taverner of Victoria, who is in league with Glyco, of Port Cos,” said Policrates.

“No,” I said.

“We will deal with these fools soon,” said Policrates. “And we will wreak a vengeance on Victoria of which men will dare not speak for a hundred years.”

“There is no conspiracy,” I said. “It was I alone, with some few men, who thought to take and fire the holding.”

“And what of the beacon that was to be set,” asked Policrates, crates, “and of the ships waiting fruitlessly now upon the river?”

I was silent. Policrates obviously knew much.

“Relia, Tela, to him,” said Policrates. These two girls, Relia discarding her red silk and Tela opening her white silk, and throwing it back, hurried to kneel near me. Relia began to kiss and bite at the palm of my right hand, and at my right arm and shoulder, and Tela addressed herself similarly to my left hand and arm. I struggled in the chains, but could not resist.

“Did you truly think to gain access to our stronghold with so simple a ruse?” asked Policrates.

“Yes,” I said. I gasped in the chains. I could not pull away from the taunting caresses of the slave girls.

“It was the plan of a fool,” said Policrates.

“It was an excellent plan,” I said. “How did you know that we were not the scout ships of Ragnar Voskjard?” We had, after all, known the signs and countersigns, and, presumably, those of the holding of Policrates would not be familiar with all of the men or ships of Ragnar Voskjard.”

“Would not it have been clear to anyone?” smiled Policrates.

“We were betrayed,” I said.

“It would not have been necessary, of course,” smiled Policrates, “but, to be sure, you were betrayed.”

“You knew it would be I, and others?” I asked.

“Certainly,” said Policrates. What fools he had made of us. How thunderously had the great sea gate descended, destroying our first galley.

“Who was the traitor?” I asked.

“Perhaps Tasdron himself,” said Policrates, “perhaps even Glyco, posing as of your party. Perhaps your dear friend, Callimachus, secretly in our pay. Perhaps even a lowly slave, privy to your machinations.”

“It could, too, be a soldier, one even with our galleys,” I said.

“To be sure,” agreed Policrates.

I struggled in the chains.

“Oh, do not struggle so, Master,” whispered the red-haired girl at my side, soothingly, chidingly. “You cannot escape, you know. You are helpless. Be content to feel my hands and lips, and my body, against yours.”

I cried out with rage. I wondered if it had been Peggy, the Earth-girl slave, who had betrayed us. She could have overheard our doings, and well suspected our intentions. It would have been easy for her in the paga tavern to have informed on us. It could have been done with simplicity in the privacy, in the secrecy, of an alcove, her head to a pirate’s feet.

“Oh, Master,” reproved the red-haired girl, kissing me as the slave she was. I tried to pull loose the chains, but they were of Gorean iron. It seemed to me then as if it must have been Peggy who had betrayed us. She might well have known or suspected all. Too, she was a slave and a woman! Who else could it have been? She, indeed, must be the traitress, so lovely in her collar! It could have been, surely, none other than she, the branded Earth girl! I struggled, and cried out with rage. I did not envy the lovely blonde if she were caught. I wondered if she knew the fire with which she played. The vengeances taken by Gorean men on traitorous female slaves are not gentle.

“Was it you, Jason, he of Victoria,” inquired Policrates, “whom we previously entertained in our holding as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.

“Of course,” I said, angrily.

“Liar!” said Kliomenes. It surprised me that he had said this. Surely they must know that it had been I. Their informant must have known this.

“I do not think so, Jason,” said Policrates, “though, to be sure, you wore tonight the same mask as he who posed as the courier.”

“It was I,” I said, boldly, “none other.”

“Do you maintain this mockery?” asked Policrates.

“Can you not recognize my frame,” I asked, “my voice?”

“There are surely strong similarities,” mused Policrates.

“It was I,” I said, puzzled.

“You would have been chosen precisely for these similarities,” said Policrates.

“Why do you think it was not I?” I asked. “Did your informant not make it clear to you that I it was who brought you the topaz?”

“The topaz,” said Policrates, “was delivered to us by the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”

“Oh?” I asked.

“The true courier,” said Policrates.

“Oh,” I said.

“What have you done with him?” inquired Policrates.

I was silent.

“I trust that you have not slain him,” said Policrates, “for doubtless Ragnar Voskjard would not be pleased to hear that.”

“I do not understand,” I said. I was genuinely puzzled.

“You intercepted the courier, somehow, on his way back to Ragnar Voskjard,” said Policrates. “It was from him, or perhaps from papers on his person, that you learned the signs and countersigns for admittance to the holding.”

“No,” I said, “it was you yourself who gave to me the signs and countersigns, when I posed as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard.”

“That is false,” said Policrates.

“It is true!” I cried. “True!” I moaned. I tried to move in the chains. Why would he not call off his slaves!

Two of the men of Policrates laughed.

“Bikkie, to him,” said Policrates. I saw Kliomenes smile.

“Yes, my Master,” said the short, dark-haired girl, and she, smiling, barefoot, descended the marble stairs of the dais and, taking her place on my left, lowered herself gracefully to lie on her side beside me. She began to kiss and lick at me, and caress me.

“I am pleasing him,” said the red-haired girl on my right. “I can please him more,” said the dark-haired girl. I did not cry out to Policrates for mercy. I knew he would grant me none. I suppressed a moan.

Bikkie was excellent. I had little doubt but what she was a valuable slave, and would bring a high price. Bikkie wore, like one or two of the other girls still on the dais, only threads of leather, some dozen or so, depending from a leather sheathing encasing the locked steel collar on her throat.

On the front of the leather sheathing, which opened only at the back, to admit the key to the collar lock, there was sewn a red leather patch, small, in the shape of a heart. The heart to Goreans, as to certain of those of Earth, is understood as a symbol of love. The life of a slave girl, of course, is understood; too, as a life of love. She is given no alternative.

The leather threads depending from the collar are stout enough to bind the hands of a girl, perhaps at her collar, that she may not interfere with what is done to her body, but they are not stout enough to bind a man. They may be used, of course, in pleasing a master, not only in setting off the girl’s ill-concealed beauty, but in touching him, brushing him, stimulating him, twining about him, and so on. The girl knows that the same strands which can bind her helplessly as a slave, are strong enough only to delight and please her master. This helps her to understand that he is a man, and that she is a woman.

I turned my head to the side.

“Do you still insist that it was you who entered my holding, posing as the courier of Ragnar Voskjard?” inquired Policrates.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”

“We know that that is not true,” said Policrates.

“How can you know that?” I asked. Certainly I was prepared to corroborate my claim, if need be, with descriptions of the holding, and accounts of the feast and of our conversations, descriptions and accounts much too detailed to have been likely to have been extracted from a captive.