"Outlaw of Gor"
Chapter 11 "Lara, Tatrix of Tharna"
I passed through the opening, and painfully began to climb a small, circular passage, staggering with each step under the weight of the heavy metal yoke. The man with the whip, cursing, urged me to greater speed. He poked me savagely with the whip, the narrowness of the passage not allowing him to use it as he wished.
Already my legs and shoulders ached from the strain of the yoke.
We emerged in a broad, but dim hall. Several doors led from this hall. With his whip, prodding me scornfully, the man in wrist straps directed me through one of these doors. This door led again into a corridor, from which again several doors led, and so it continued. It was like being driven through a maze or sewer. The halls were lit occasionally by tharlarion oil lamps set in iron fixtures mounted in the walls. The interior of the palace seemed to me to be deserted. It was innocent of color, of adornment. I staggered on, smarting from the whip wounds, almost crushed by the burden of the yoke. I doubted if I could, unaided, find my way from this sinister labyrinth.
At last I found myself in a large, vaulted room, lit by torches set in the walls. In spite of its loftiness, it too was plain, like the other rooms and passageways I had seen, somber, oppressive. Only one adornment relieved the walls of their melancholy aspect, the image of a gigantic golden mask, carved in the likeness of a beautiful woman. Beneath this mask, there was, on a high dais, a monumental throne of gold.
On the broad steps leading to the throne, there were curule chairs, on which sat, I supposed, members of the High Council of Tharna. Their glittering silver masks, each carved in the image of the same beautiful woman, regarded me expressionlessly.
About the room, here and there, stood stern warriors of Tharna, grim in their blue helmets, each with a tiny silver mask on the temple - members of the palace guard. One such helmeted warrior stood near the foot of the throne. There seemed to be something familiar about him.
On the throne itself there sat a woman, proud, lofty in haughty dignity, garbed regally in majestic robes of golden cloth, wearing a mask not of silver but of pure gold, carved like the others in the image of a beautiful woman. The eyes behind the glittering mask of gold regarded me. No one need tell me that I stood in the presence of Lara, Tatrix of Tharna.
The warrior at the foot of the throne removed his helmet. It was Thorn, Captain of Tharna, whom I had met in the fields far from the city. His narrow eyes, like those of an urt, looked upon me contemptuously.
He strode to face me.
"Kneel," he commanded. "You stand before Lara, Tatrix of Tharna."
I would not kneel.
Thorn kicked my feet from under me, and, under the weight of the yoke, I crashed to the floor, helpless.
"The whip," said Thorn, extending his hand. The burly man in wrist straps placed it in his hand. Thorn lifted the instrument to lay my back open with its harsh stroke.
"Do not strike him," said an imperious voice, and the whip arm of Thorn dropped as though the muscles had been cut. The voice came from the woman behind the golden mask, Lara herself. I was grateful.
Hot with sweat, each fiber in my body screaming in agony, I managed to gain my knees. Thorn's hands would allow me to rise no further. I knelt, yoked, before the Tatrix of Tharna.
The eyes behind the yellow mask regarded me, curiously.
"Is it thus, Stranger," she asked, her tones cold, "that you expected to carry from the city the wealth of Tharna?"
I was puzzled, my body was racked with pain, my vision was blurred with sweat.
"The yoke is of silver," said she, "from the mines of Tharna."
I was stunned, for if the yoke was truly of silver, the metal on my shoulders might have ransomed a Ubar.
"We of Tharna," said the Tatrix, "think so little of riches that we use them to yoke slaves."
My angry glare told he that I did not consider myself a slave.
From the curule chair beside the throne rose another woman, wearing an intricately wrought silver mask and magnificent robes of rich silver cloth. She stood haughtily beside the Tatrix, the expressionless silver mask gleaming down at me, hideous in the torchlight it reflected. Speaking to the Tatrix, but not turning the mask from me, she said, "Destroy the animal." It was a cold, ringing voice, clear, decisive, authoritative.
"Does the law of Tharna not give it the right to speak, Dorna the Proud, Second in Tharna?" asked the Tatrix, whose voice, too, was imperious and cold, yet pleased me more than the tones of she who wore the silver mask.
"Does the law recognize beasts?" asked the woman whose name was Dorna the Proud. It was almost as if she challenged her Tatrix, and I wondered if Dorna the Proud was content to be Second in Tharna. The sarcasm in her voice had been ill concealed.
The Tatrix did not choose to respond to Dorna the Proud.
"Has he still his tongue?" asked the Tatrix of the man with the wrist straps, who stood behind me.
"Yes, Tatrix," said the man.
I thought that the woman in the silver mask, who had been spoken of as Second in Tharna, seemed to stiffen with apprehension at this revelation. The silver mask turned upon the man in wrist straps. His voice stammered, and I wondered if , behind me, his burly frame trembled. "It was the wish of the Tatrix that the slave be yoked and brought to the Chamber of the Golden Mask as soon as possible, and unharmed."
I smiled to myself, thinking of the teeth of the urt and the whip, both of which had found my flesh.
"Why did you not kneel, Stranger?" asked the Tatrix of Tharna.
"I am a warrior," I responded.
"You are a slave!" hissed Dorna the Proud from behind that expressionless mask. Then she turned to the Tatrix. "Remove his tongue!" she said.
"Do you give orders to she who is First in Tharna?" asked the Tatrix.
"No, Beloved Tatrix," said Dorna the Proud.
"Slave," said the Tatrix.
I did not acknowledge the salutation.
"Warrior," she said.
Beneath the yoke I raised my eyes to her mask. In her hand, covered with a glove of gold, she held a small, dark leather sack, half filled with coins. I assumed they were the coins of Ost and wondered where the conspirator might be. "Confess that you stole these coins from Ost of Tharna," said the Tatrix.
"I stole nothing," I said. "Release me."
Thorn laughed unpleasantly from behind me.
"I advise you," said the Tatrix, "to confess."
I gathered that, for some reason, she was eager that I plead guilty to the crime, but as I was innocent, I refused.
"I did not steal the coins," I said.
"Then, Stranger," said the Tatrix, "I am sorry for you."
I could not understand her remark, and my back felt ready to snap under the weight of the yoke. My neck ached under its weight. The sweat poured down my body and my back still stung from the lash.
"Bring in Ost!" ordered the Tatrix.
I thought Dorna the Proud stirred uneasily in the curule chair. She smoothed the silver folds of her robes with a nervous hand, gloved in silver.
There was a whimpering and a scuffling from behind me, and, to my astonishment, one of the guardsmen of the palace, the tiny silver mask blazed across the left temple of his helmet, flung Ost, the conspirator, yoked and sniveling, to the foot of the throne. Ost's yoke was much lighter than mine but, as he was a smaller man, the weight might have been as much for him.
"Kneel to the Tatrix," commanded Thorn, who still retained the whip.
Ost, squealing with fear, tried to rise, but could not lift the yoke.
Thorn's whip hand was raised.
I expected the Tatrix to intervene on his behalf, as she had on mine, but, instead, she said nothing. She seemed to be watching me. I wondered what thoughts glittered behind that placid mask of gold.
"Do not strike him," I said.
Without taking her eyes from me, Lara spoke to Thorn. "Prepare to strike," she said.
The yellowish, purple-marked face split into a grin and Thorn's fist tightened on the whip. He did not take his eyes from the Tatrix, wanting to strike at the first instant she permitted the blow.
"Rise," said the Tatrix to Ost, "or you will die on your belly like the serpent you are."
"I can't," wept Ost. "I can't."
The Tatrix coldly lifted her gloved hand. When it fell so too would the whip.
"No," I said.
Slowly, every muscle straining to keep my balance, the cords in my legs and back like tortured cables, I reached out my hand to Ost's and, struggling in agony to keep my balance, added the weight of his yoke to mine as I drew him to his knees.
There was a gasp from the silver-masked women in the room. One or two of the warriors, heedless of the proprieties of Tharna, acknowledged my deed by smiting their shields with the bronze heads of their spears.
Thorn, in irritation, hurled the whip back into the hands of the man with wrist straps.
"You are strong," said the Tatrix of Tharna.
"Strength is the attribute of beasts," said Dorna the Proud.
"True," said the Tatrix.
"Yet he is a fine beast, is he not?" asked one of the silver- masked women.
"Let him be used in the Amusements of Tharna," urged another.
Lara held up her gloved hand for silence.
"How is it," I asked, "that you spare a warrior the whip and would use it on so miserable a wretch as Ost?"
"I had hoped you guiltless, Stranger," said she. "The guilt of Ost I know."
"I am guiltless," I said.
"Yet," said she, "you admit you did not steal the coins."
My brain reeled. "That is true," I said, "I did not steal the coins."
"Then you are guilty," said the voice of Lara, I thought sadly.
"Of what?" I asked to know.
"Of conspiracy against the throne of Tharna," said the Tatrix.
I was dumbfounded.
"Ost," said the Tatrix, her voice like ice, "you are guilty of treason against Tharna. It is known that you conspire against the throne."
One of the guards, the fellow who had brought Ost in, spoke. "It is as your spied reported, Tatrix. In his quarters were found seditious documents, letters of instruction pertaining to the seizure of the throne, sacks of gold to be used in obtaining accomplices."
"Has he confessed these things as well?" asked Lara.
Ost blubbered helplessly for mercy, his thin neck wiggling in the yoke.
The guardsman laughed. "One sight of the white urt and he admitted all."
"Who, Serpent," asked the Tatrix, "supplied the gold? From whom came the letters of instruction?"
"I do not know, Beloved Tatrix," whined Ost. "The letters and the gold were delivered by a helmeted warrior."
"To the urt with him!" sneered Dorna the Proud.
Ost writhed, squealing for mercy. Thorn kicked him to silence him.
"What more do you know of this plot against the throne?" asked Lara of the sniveling Ost.
"Nothing, Beloved Lara," he whimpered.
"Very well," said Lara, and turned the glittering mask to the guardsman who had hurled the yoked Ost to her feet, "take him to the Chamber of the Urts."
"No, no, no!" whimpered Ost. "I know more, more!"
The silver-masked women leaned forward in their chairs. Only the Tatrix herself and Dorna the Proud sat straight. Although the room was cool I noted that Thorn, Captain of Tharna, was sweating. His hands clenched and unclenched.
"What more do you know?" demanded the Tatrix.
Ost looked about himself as well as he could, his eyes bulging with terror.
"Do you know the warrior who brought you the letters and gold?" she demanded.
"Him I do not know," said Ost.
"Let me," begged Thorn, "bloody the yoke." He drew his sword. "Let me end this wretch here!"
"No," said Lara. "What more then do you know, Serpent?" she asked the miserable conspirator.
"I know," said Ost, "that the leader of the conspiracy is a high person in Tharna - one who wears the silver mask, a woman."
"Unthinkable!" cried Lara, rising to her feet. "None who wear the silver mask could be disloyal to Tharna!"
"Yet it is so," sniveled Ost.
"Who is the traitress?" demanded Lara.
"I do not know her name," said Ost.
Thorn laughed.
"But," said Ost, hopefully, "I once spoke with her and I might recognize her voice if I were but allowed to live."
Thorn laughed again. "It is a trick to buy his life."
"What think you, Dorna the Proud?" asked Lara of she who was Second in Tharna.
But instead of answering, Dorna the Proud seemed strangely silent. She extended her silver-gloved hand, palm facing her body and chopped brutally down with it, as though it might have been a blade.
"Mercy, Great Dorna!" screamed Ost.
Dorna repeated the gesture, slowly, cruelly.
But the hands of Lara were extended, palms up, and she lifted them slightly; it was a gracious gesture that spoke of mercy.
"Thank you, Beloved Tatrix," whimpered Ost, his eyes bursting with tears, "Thank you!"
"Tell me, Serpent," said Lara, "did the warrior steal the coins from you?"
"No, no," blubbered Ost.
"Did you give them to him?" she demanded.
"I did," he said. "I did."
"And did he accept them?" she asked.
"He did," said Ost.
"You pressed the coins upon me and ran," I said. "I had no choice."
"He accepted the coins," muttered Ost, looking at me malevolently, determined apparently that I would share whatever fate lay in store for him.
"I had no choice," I said calmly.
Ost shot a venomous look in my direction.
"If I were a conspirator," I said, "if I were in league with this man, why would he have charged me with the theft of the coins, why would he have had me arrested?"
Ost blanched. His tiny, rodentlike mind scurried from thought to thought, but his mouth only moved uncontrollably, silently.
Thorn spoke. "Ost knew himself to be suspected of plotting against the throne."
Ost looked puzzled.
"Thus," said Thorn, "to make it seem he had not given the money to this warrior, or assassin as the case may be, he pretended it had been stolen from him. In that way he might at one time appear free from guilt and destroy the man who knew of his complicity."
"That is true," exclaimed Ost gratefully, eager to take his cue from so powerful a figure as Thorn.
"How is it that Ost gave you the coins, Warrior?" asked the Tatrix.
"Ost gave them to me," I said, "... as a gift."
Thorn threw back his head and laughed.
"Ost never gave anything away in his life," roared Thorn, wiping his mouth, struggling to regain his composure.
There was even a slight sound of amusement from the silver- masked figures who sat upon the steps to the throne.
Ost himself snickered.
But the mask of the Tatrix glittered upon Ost, and his snicker died in his thin throat. The Tatrix arose from her throne, and pointed her finger at the wretched conspirator. Her voice was cold as she spoke to the guardsman who had brought him to the chamber. "To the mines with him," she said.
"No, Beloved Tatrix, no!" cried Ost. Terror, like a trapped cat, seemed to scratch behind his eyes, and he began to shake in his yoke like a diseased animal. Scornfully the guardsman lifted him to his feet and dragged him stumbling and whimpering from the room. I gathered the sentence to the mines was equivalent to a sentence of death.
"You are cruel," I said to the Tatrix.
"A Tatrix must be cruel," said Dorna.
"That," I said, "I would hear from the mouth of the Tatrix herself."
Dorna stiffened at the rebuff.
After a time the Tatrix, who had resumed her throne, spoke. Her voice was quiet. "Sometimes, Stranger," she said, "it is hard to be First in Tharna."
I had not expected that answer.
I wondered what sort of woman was the Tatrix of Tharna, what lay concealed behind that mask of gold. For a moment I felt sorry for the golden creature before whose throne I knelt.
"As for you," said Lara, her mask glittering down upon me, "you admit that you did not steal the coins from Ost, and in this admission you admit that he gave them to you."
"He thrust them in my hand," I said, "and ran." I looked at the Tatrix. "I came to Tharna to obtain a tarn. I had no money. With Ost's coins I could have purchased one and continued my journey. Should I have thrown them away?"
"These coins," said Lara, holding the tiny sack in her hand, gloved in gold, "were to buy my death."
"So few coins?" I asked skeptically.
"Obviously the full sum would follow upon the accomplishment of the deed," she said.
"The coins were a gift," I said. "Or so I thought."
"I do not believe you," she said.
I was silent.
"What full sum did Ost offer you?" she asked.
"I refused to be a party to his schemes," I said.
"What full sum did Ost offer you?" repeated the Tatrix.
"He spoke," I said, "of a tarn, a thousand golden tarn disks and provisions for a long journey."
"Golden tarn disks - unlike those of silver - are scarce in Tharna," said the Tatrix. "Someone is apparently willing to pay highly for my death."
"Not your death," I said.
"Then what?" she asked.
"Your abduction," I said.
The Tatrix stiffened suddenly, her entire body trembling with fury. She rose, seemingly beside herself with rage.
"Bloody the yoke," urged Dorna.
Thorn stepped forward, his blade raised.
"No," screamed the Tatrix, and, to the astonishment of all, herself descended the broad steps of the dais.
Shaking with fury she stood before me, over me, in her golden robes and mask. "Give me the whip!" she cried. "Give it to me!" The man with the wrist straps hastily knelt before her, lifting it to her hands. She snapped it cruelly in the air, and its report was sharp and vicious.
"So," she said to me, both hands clenched on the butt of the whip, "you would have me before you on the scarlet rug bound with yellow cords, would you?"
I did not understand her meaning.
"You would have me in a camisk and collar would you?" she hissed hysterically.
The women of the silver masks recoiled, shuddering. There were exclamations of anger, of horror.
"I am a woman of Tharna," she screamed, "First in Tharna! First!"
Then, beside herself with rage, holding the whip in both hands, she lashed madly at me. "It is the kiss of the whip for you!" she screamed. Again and again she struck me, yet through it all I managed to stay on my knees, not to fall.
My senses reeled, my body, tortured by the weight of the silver yoke, now wrapped in the flames of the whip, shook with uncontrollable agony. Then, when the Tatrix had exhausted herself, by some effort I find it hard to comprehend, I managed to stand on my feet, bloody, wearing the yoke, my flesh in tatters - and look down upon her.
She turned and fled to the dais. She ran up the steps and turned only when she stood at last before her throne. She pointed her hand imperiously at me, that hand wearing its glove of gold, now spattered with my blood, wet and dark from the sweat of her hand.
"Let him be used in the Amusements of Tharna!" she said.
Chapter 12 "Andreas of the Caste of Poets"
I had been hooded and driven through the streets, stumbling under the weight of the yoke. At last I had entered a building and had descended a long, swirling ramp, through dank passages. When I was unhooded, my yoke had been chained to the wall of a dungeon.
The place was lit by a small, foul tharlarion lamp set in the wall near the ceiling. I had no idea how far below ground it might be. The floor and the walls were of black stone, quarried in giant blocks of perhaps a tone apiece. The lamp dried the stone in its vicinity, but, on the floor and most of the walls, there was a dampness and the smell of mold. Some straw was scattered on the floor. From where I was chained, I could reach a cistern of water. A food pan lay near my foot.
Exhausted, my body aching from the weight of the yoke and the sting of the lash, I lay on the stones and slept. How long I slept I didn't know. When I awoke, each of my muscles ached, but now it was a dull, cold ache. I tried to move and my wounds tortured me.
In spite of the yoke I struggled to a cross-legged sitting position, and shook my head. In the food pan I saw half a loaf of coarse bread. Yoked as I was, there was no way to pick it up and get it to my mouth. I might crawl to it on my belly, and if my hunger were great enough, I knew I must, but the thought angered me. The yoke was not simply a device to secure a man, but to humiliate him, to treat him as if he were a beast.
"Let me help you," said a girl's voice.
I turned, the momentum of the yoke almost carrying me into the wall. Two small hands caught it, and struggling, managed to swing it back, keeping my balance.
I looked at the girl. Perhaps she was plain, but I found her attractive. There was a warmth in her I would not have expected to find in Tharna. Her dark eyes regarded me, filled with concern. Her hair, which was reddish brown, was bound behind her head with a coarse string.
As I gazed on her she lowered her eyes shyly. She wore only a single garment, a long, narrow rectangle of rough, brown material, perhaps eighteen inches in width, drawn over her head like a poncho, falling in front and back a bit above her knees and belted at the waist with a chain.
"Yes," she said with shame. "I wear the camisk."
"You are lovely," I said.
She looked at me, startled, yet grateful.
We faced each other in the half darkness of the dungeon, not speaking. There was no sound in that dark, cold place. The shadows of the tiny tharlarion lamp far above flickered on the walls, on the face of the girl.
Her hand reached out and touched the silver yoke I wore. "They are cruel," she said.
Then, without speaking more, she picked up the bread from the pan, and held it for me. I bit two or three voracious mouthfuls of the coarse stuff and chewed it and gulped it down.
I noted her throat was encircled by a collar of grey metal. I supposed it indicated that she was a state slave of Tharna.
She reached into the cistern, first scraping the surface of the water to clear it of the green scum that floated there, and then, in the palms of her cupped hands, carried water to my parched lips.
"Thank you," I said.
She smiled at me. "One does not thank a slave," she said.
"I thought women were free in Tharna," I said, gesturing with my head toward the grey metal collar she wore.
"I will not be kept in Tharna," she said. "I will be sent from the city, to the Great Farms, where I will carry water to Field Slaves."
"What is your crime?" I asked.
"I betrayed Tharna," she said.
"You conspired against the throne?" I asked.
"No," said the girl. "I cared for a man."
I was speechless.
"I once wore the silver mask, Warrior," said the girl. "But now I am only a Degraded Woman, for I allowed myself to love."
"That is no crime," I said.
The girl laughed merrily. I love to hear the sudden glad music of a woman's laughter, that laughter that so delights a man, that acts on his senses like Ka-la-na wine.
Suddenly it seemed I no longer felt the weight of the yoke.
"Tell me about him," I said, "but first tell me your name."
"I am Linna of Tharna," she said. "What is your name?"
"Tarl," I said.
"Of what city?"
"Of no city."
"Ah!" said the girl, smiling, and inquired no further. She would have concluded that she shared her cell with an outlaw. She sat back on her heels, her eyes happy. "He was," she said, "not even of this city."
I whistled. That would be a serious matter in Gorean eyes.
"And worse than that," she laughed, clapping her hands, "he was of the Caste of Singers."
It could have been worse, I thought. After all, though the Caste of Singers, or Poets, was not a high caste, it had more prestige than, for example, the Caste of Pot-Makers or Saddle-Makers, with which it was sometimes compared. On Gor, the singer, or poet, is regarded as a craftsman who makes strong sayings, much like a pot-maker makes a good pot or a saddle-maker makes a worthy saddle. He has his role to play in the social structure, celebrating battles and histories, singing of heroes and cities, but also he is expected to sing of living, and of love and joy, not merely of arms and glory; and, too, it is his function to remind the Goreans from time to time of loneliness and death, lest they should forget that they are men.
The singer was thought to have an unusual skill, but so, too, were the tarn-keeper and the woodsman. Poets on Gor, as in my native world, were regarded with some skepticism and thought to be a little foolish, but it had not occurred to anyone that they might suffer from divine madness or be the periodic recipients of the inspiration of the gods. The Priest-Kings of Gor, who served as the divinities of this rude planet, inspired little but awe, and occasionally fear. Men lived in a truce with the Priest-Kings, keeping their laws and festivals, making the required sacrifices and libations, but, on the whole, forgetting about them as much as possible. Had it been suggested to a poet that he had been inspired by a Priest-King the fellow would have been scandalized. "I, So-and-So of Such-and-Such a City, made this song," he would say, "not a Priest-King."
In spite of some reservations the Poet, or Singer, was loved on Gor. It had not occurred to him that he owed misery and torment to his profession, and, on the whole, the Caste of Poets was thought to be a most happy band of men. "A handful of bread for a song," was a common Gorean invitation extended to members of the caste, and it might occur on the lips of a peasant or a Ubar, and the poet took great pride that he would sing the same song in both the hut of the peasant and the halls of the Ubar, though it won for him only a crust of bread in one place and a cap of gold in the other, gold often squandered on a beautiful woman who might leave him nothing but his songs.
Poets, on the whole, did not live well on Gor, but they never starved, were never forced to burn the robes of their caste. Some had even sung their way from city to city, their poverty protecting them from outlaws, and their luck from the predatory beasts of Gor. Nine cities, long after his death, claimed the man who, centuries ago, had called Ko-ro-ba the Towers of the Morning.
"The Caste of Poets is not so bad," I said to Linna.
"Of course not," she said, "but they are outlawed in Tharna."
"Oh," I said.
"Nonetheless," she said, her eyes happy, "this man, Andreas, of the Desert City of Tor, crept into the city - looking for a song he said." She laughed. "But I think he really wanted to look behind the silver masks of our women." She clapped her hands with delight. "It was I," she continued, "who apprehended and challenged him, I who saw the lyre beneath his grey robes and knew him for a singer. In my silver mask I followed him, and determined that he had been within the city for more than ten hours."
"What is the significance of that?" I asked, for I had heard something of the sort before.
"It means one is made welcome in Tharna," said the girl, "and this means one is sent to the Great Farms to be a Field Slave, to cultivate the soil of Tharna in chains until one dies."
"Why are strangers not warned of this," I asked, "when they enter the gates?"
"That would be foolish indeed, would it not?" laughed the girl. "For how then would the ranks of Field Slaves be replenished?"
"I see," I said, now understanding for the first time something of the motivation behind the hospitality of Tharna.
"As one who wore the silver mask," continued the girl, "it was my duty to report this man to the authorities. Yet I was curious for I had never known a man not from Tharna. I followed him, until we were alone, and then I challenged him, informing him of the fate that lay before him."
"Then what did he do?" I asked.
She dropped her head shyly. "He pulled away my silver mask and kissed me," she said, "so that I could not even cry for help."
I smiled at her.
"I had never been in the arms of a man before," she said, "for the men of Tharna may not touch women."
I must have looked puzzled.
"The Caste of Physicians," she said, "under the direction of the High Council of Tharna, arranges these matters."
"I see," I said.
"Yet," she said, "though I had worn the silver mask, and counted myself a woman of Tharna, when he took me in his arms, I did not find the situation unpleasant." She looked at me, a little sadly. "I knew then that I was no better than he, no better than a beast, worthy only to be a slave."
"You do not believe that?" I demanded.
"Yes," she said, "but I do not care, for I would rather wear the camisk and have felt his kiss, than live forever behind my silver mask." Her shoulders shook. I wished that I could have taken her in my arms, and comforted her. "I am a degraded creature," she said, "shamed, a traitress to all that is highest in Tharna."
"What happened to the man?" I asked.
I sheltered him, she said, "and managed to smuggle him from the city." She sighed. "He made me promise to follow him, but I knew that I could not."
"What did you do?" I asked.
"When he was safe," she said, "I did my duty, giving myself to the High Council of Tharna and confessing all. It was decreed that I must lose my silver mask, don the camisk and be collared, and be sent to the Great Farms to carry water to Field Slaves."
She began to weep.
"You should not have given yourself to the High Council," I said.
"Why?" she asked. "Was I not guilty?"
"You were not guilty," I said.
"Is love not a crime?" she asked.
"Only in Tharna," I said.
She laughed. "You are strange, too," she said, "like Andreas of Tor."
"What of Andreas?" I asked. "When you do not join him, will he not come searching for you, re-enter the city?"
"No," she said. "He will think I no longer love him." She lowered her head. "He will go away, and find himself another woman, one more lovely than a girl of Tharna."
"Do you believe that?" I asked.
"Yes," said she. "And," she added, "he will not enter the city. He knows he would be caught and, considering his crime, he might be sent to the mines." She shuddered. "Perhaps even be used in the Amusements of Tharna."
"So you think he will fear to enter the city?" I asked.
"Yes," said she, "he will not enter the city. He is not a fool."
"What," cried a merry young voice, insolent and good natured, "could a wench like you know of fools, of the Caste of Singers, of Poets?"
Linna sprang to her feet.
Through the door of the dungeon a yoked figure was thrust by the butt ends of two spears. He stumbled through the entire room before he struck the wall with the yoke. He managed to turn the yoke and slide down the wall to a seated position.
He was an unkempt, strong-looking lad, with cheerful blue eyes and a mop of hair like the mane of a black larl. He sat on the straw, and smiled at us, a jolly, impish, shamefaced smile. He stretched his neck in the yoke and moved his fingers.
"Well, Linna," he said. "I have come to carry you off."
"Andreas," she cried, rushing to him.
Chapter 13 "The Amusements of Tharna"
The sun hurt my eyes. The white sand, perfumed, sprinkled with mica and red lead, burned my feet. I blinked again and again, trying to lessen the torture of the glare. Already I could feel the heat of the sun soaking into the silver yoke I wore.
My back felt the jab of spears as I was prodded ahead and stumbled forward, unsteady under the weight of the yoke, my feet sinking to their ankles in the hot sand. On both sides of me were other wretched fellows, similarly yoked, some whining, some cursing, as they, too, were driven forward like beasts. One, silent, to my left, I knew to be Andreas of the Desert City of Tor. At last I no longer felt the spear point in my back.
"Kneel to the Tatrix of Tharna," commanded an imperious voice, speaking through some type of trumpet.
I heard the voice of Andreas next to me. "Strange," said he, "usually the Tatrix does not attend the Amusements of Tharna."
I wondered if I might be the reason that the Tatrix herself was present.
"Kneel to the Tatrix of Tharna," repeated the imperious voice.
Our fellow prisoners knelt. Only Andreas and I remained standing.
"Why do you not kneel?" I asked.
"Do you think that only warriors are brave?" he asked.
Suddenly he was struck from behind, brutally in the back by the butt of a spear, and, with a groan he sank downwards. The spear struck me, too, again and again, in the back and across the shoulders, but I stood, somehow strong in the yoke, like an ox. Then with a harsh crack a lash suddenly struck my legs and curled about them like a fiery snake. My legs were jerked from beneath me and I fell heavily in the sand.
I looked about myself.
As I had expected I and my fellow prisoners knelt in the sands of an arena.
It was an oval enclosure, perhaps a hundred yards in diameter on its longest axis, and enclosed by walls about twelve feet high. The walls were divided into sections, which were brightly colored, with golds, purples, reds, oranges, yellows and blues.
The surface of the area, white sand, perfumed and sparkling with mica and red lead, added to the colorful mien of the place. Hanging over favored portions of the stands, which ascended on all sides, were giant striped awnings of billowing red and yellow silk.
It seemed that all the glorious colors of Gor which had been denied the buildings of Tharna were lavished on this place of its amusements.
In the stands, shaded by the awnings, I saw hundreds of sliver masks, the lofty women of Tharna, reclining on benches softened with cushions of colored silk - come to view the Amusements.
I also noted the grey of the men in the stands. Several were armed warriors, perhaps stationed there to keep the peace, but many must have been common citizens of Tharna. Some seemed to be conversing among themselves, perhaps laying wagers of one sort or another, but most sat still on the stone benches, glum and silent in their grey robes, their thoughts not easily read. Linna, in the dungeon, had told Andreas and me that a man of Tharna must attend the Amusements of Tharna at least four times a year, and that, failing that, he must take part in them himself.
There were cries of impatience from the stands, shrill, female voices oddly contrasting with the placidity of the silver masks. All eyes seemed turned to one section of the stands, that before which we knelt, a section that gleamed with gold.
I looked above the wall and saw, vested in her robes of gold, regal on a golden throne, she who alone might wear a golden mask, she who was First in Tharna - Lara, the Tatrix herself.
The Tatrix arose and lifted her hand. Pure in its glove of gold it held a golden scarf.
The stands fell silent.
Then, to my astonishment, the men of Tharna who were yoked in the arena, kneeling, rejected by their city, condemned, chanted a strange paean. Andreas and I, not being of Tharna, were alone silent, and I would guess he was as surprised as I.
Though we are abject beasts Fit only to live for your comfort Fit only to die for your pleasure Yet we glorify the Masks of Tharna. Hail to the Masks of Tharna. Mail to the Tatrix of our City. The golden scarf fluttered to the sands of the arena and the Tatrix resumed her throne, reclining upon its cushions.
The voice speaking through the trumpet said, "Let the Amusements of Tharna begin."
Squeals of anticipation greeted this announcement but I had little time to listen for I was jerked roughly to my feet.
"First," said the voice, "there will be the Contests of Oxen."
There were perhaps forty yoked wretches in the arena. In a few moments the guards had divided us into teams of four, harnessing our yokes together with chains. Then, with their whips, they drove us to a set of large blocks of quarried granite, weighing perhaps a ton apiece, from the sides of which protruded heavy iron rings. More chains fixed each team to its own block.
The course was indicated to us. The race would begin and end before the golden wall behind which, in lofty splendor, sat the Tatrix of Tharna. Each team would have its driver, who would bear a whip and ride upon the block. We painfully dragged the heavy blocks to the golden wall. The silver yoke, hot from the sun, burned my neck and shoulders.
As we stood before the wall I heard the laughter of the Tatrix and my vision blackened with rage.
Our driver was the man in wrist straps, he from the Chamber of Urts, who had first brought me into the presence of the Tatrix. He approached us, individually, checking the harness chains. As he examined my yoke and chain, he said, "Dorna the Proud has wagered a hundred golden tarn disks on this block. See that it does not lose."
"What if it does?" I asked.
"She will have you all boiled alive in tharlarion oil," he said, laughing.
The hand of the Tatrix lifted slightly, almost languorously, from the arm of her throne, and the race began.
Our block did not lose.
Savagely, our backs breaking, stinging under the frenzied lashing of our driver, cursing the colorful sands of the arena that mounted before the block as we dragged it foot by foot about the course, we managed to come first within the zone of the golden wall. When we were unchained we discovered we had been dragging one man who had died in the chains.
Shamelessly we fell in the sand.
"The Battles of Oxen," cried one of the silver masks, and her cry was taken up by ten and then a hundred others. Soon the stands themselves seemed to ring with the cry. "The Battles of Oxen," cried the women of Tharna. "Let them begin!"
We were thrown on our feet again, and, to my horror, our yokes were fitted with steel horns, eighteen inches in length and pointed like nails.
Andreas, as his yoke was similarly garnished with the deadly projections, spoke to me. "This may be farewell, Warrior," said he. "I hope only that we are not matched."
"I would not kill you," I said.
He looked at me strangely. "Nor would I kill you," he said, after a time. "But," he said, "if we are matched and we do not fight, we will both be slain."
"Then so be it," I said.
Andreas smiled at me. "So be it, Warrior," he agreed.
Though yoked, we faced one another, men, each knowing that he had found a friend on the sands of the arena of Tharna.
My opponent was not Andreas, but a squat, powerful man with short-clipped yellow hair, Kron of Tharna, of the Caste of Metal Workers. His eyes were blue like steel. One ear had been torn from his head.
"I have survived the Amusements of Tharna three times," he said as he faced me.
I observed him carefully. He would be a dangerous opponent.
The man with wrist straps circled us with the whip, his eye on the throne of the Tatrix. When the glove of gold once more lifted, the dread conflict would begin.
"Let us be men," I said to my opponent, "and refuse to slay one another for the sport of those in silver masks."
The yellow, short-cropped head glared at me, almost without comprehension. Then it seemed as though what I had said struck, deep within him, some responsive chord. The pale blue eyes glimmered briefly; then they clouded. "We would both be slain," he said.
"Yes," I said.
"Stranger," said he, "I intend to survive the Amusements of Tharna at least once more."
"Very well," I said, and squared off against him.
The hand of the Tatrix must have lifted. I did not see it for I did not care to take my eyes from my opponent. "Begin," said the man in wrist straps.
And so Kron and I began to circle one another, slightly bent so that the projections on the yoke might be used to best advantage.
Once, twice, he charged, but pulled up short, seeing if he could bring me forward, off balance to meet the charge. We moved cautiously, occasionally feinting with the terrible yokes. The stands grew restless. The man in wrist straps cracked his whip. "Let there be blood," he said.
Suddenly the foot of Kron swept through the white perfumed sand, bright with mica and red lead, and kicked a broad sheet of particles toward my eyes. It came like a silver and crimson storm, taking me by surprise, blinding me.
I fell on my knees almost instantly, and the charging horns of Kron passed over me. I reared up under his body, heaving it on my shoulder, backwards, over on the sands. I heard it hit heavily behind me, and heard Kron's grunt of anger, and fear. I couldn't turn and drive the spikes through him because I could not risk missing.
I shook my head wildly; my hands, yoked helplessly, tried vainly to reach my eyes, to tear the blinding particles from my vision. In the sweat and blindness, unsteady under the violently swinging yoke, I heard the squeals of the frenzied crowd.
Blinded I heard Kron regain his feet, lifting the heavy yoke that bound him. I heard his harsh breathing, like the snorting of an animal. I heard his short, quick, running steps in the sand, thudding toward me in a bull-like charge.
I turned my yoke obliquely, slipping between the horns, blocking the blow. It sounded like anvils hurled together. My hands sought his, but he kept his fists clenched and withdrawn as far as he could in the bracelet of the yoke. My hand clutched his withdrawn fist and slipped off, unable to keep its grip from the sweat, his and mine.
Once, twice more he charged, and each time I managed to block the blow, withstanding the shock of the crashing yokes, escaping the thrust of the murderous horns. Once I was not so fortunate and a steel horn furrowed my side, leaving a channel of blood. The crowd screamed in delight.
Suddenly I managed to get my hands under his yoke.
It was hot, like mine in the sun, and my hands burned on the metal. Kron was a heavy, but short man, and I lifted his yoke, and mine, to the astonishment of the stands, which had fallen silent.
Kron cursed as he felt his feet leave the sand. Painfully, as he writhed, hung in the yoke, I carried him to the golden wall, and hurled him against it. The shock to Kron, bound in the yoke, might have killed a lesser man, breaking his neck.
Kron, still a captive of the yoke, now unconscious, slid down the wall, the weight of the yoke tumbling his inert body sideways in the sand. My sweat and the tears from the burning irritation of the sand had now cleared my vision.
I looked up into the glittering mask of the Tatrix. Beside her I saw the silver mask of Dorna the Proud.
"Slay him," said Dorna the Proud, gesturing to the unconscious Kron.
I looked about the stands.
Everywhere I saw the silver masks, and heard the shrill command, "Slay him!" On every side I saw the merciless gesture, the extended right hand, palm turned inwards, the cruel, downward chopping motion. Those who wore the silver masks had risen to their feet, and the force of their cries pressed in on me like knives, the air itself seemed filled with the bedlam of their command, "Slay him!"
I turned and walked slowly to the center of the arena.
I stood there, ankle deep in the sand, covered with sweat and sand, my back open from the lash of the race, my side torn from the driving horn of Kron's yoke. I stood unmoving.
The fury of the stands was uncontrolled.
As I stood there in the center of the arena, alone, silent, aloof, not seeming to hear them, those hundreds, rather thousands, who wore the silver masks understood that their will had been spurned, that this creature alone on the sand beneath them had thwarted their pleasure. Standing, screaming, shaking their silver-gloved fists at me, they hurled their frustration, their invective and abuse on my head. The shrill rage of these masked creatures seemed to know no bounds, to verge on hysteria, on madness.
Calmly I waited in the center of the arena for the warriors.
The first man to reach me was the man in wrist straps, his face livid with rage. He savagely struck me across the face with his coiled whip. "Sleen," cried he, "you have spoiled the Amusements of Tharna!" Two warriors hastily unbolted the horns from the yoke and dragged me to the golden wall.
Once more I stood beneath the golden mask of the Tatrix.
I wondered if my death would be quick.
The stands fell silent. There was a tenseness in the air, as all waited for the words of the Tatrix. Her golden mask and robes glittered above me. Her words were clear, unmistakable.
"Remove his yoke," she said.
I could not believe my ears.
Had I won my freedom? Was it thus in the Amusements of Tharna? Or had the fierce, proud Tatrix now realized the cruelty of the Amusements? Had that heart hidden in those cold, glistening robes of unfeeling gold at last relented, shown itself to be susceptible of compassion? Or had the call of justice at last triumphed in her bosom, that my innocence might be acknowledged, my cause vindicated, that I might now be sped honorably on my way from grey Tharna?
One emotion leapt in my heart, gratitude. "Thank you, Tatrix," I said.
She laughed. "that he may be fed to the tarn," she added.
