They were white-robed and chanting, and shaven-headed. The caste of initiates is rich on Gor.
I glanced to the kneeling woman in the booth of the man from Tharna. She had not dared so much as to raise her head. She had not been given permission. There are few free women in Tharna. One of the most harsh and cruel slaveries on Gor, it is said, is that of the slave girls of Tharna.
"Where are odds made on the Kaissa matches," I asked the fellow from Tharna.
"I do not know," he said.
"My thanks," I said, and turned away. The woman remained kneeling as she had been placed.
I hoped the fellow from Torvaldsland would be able to buy a good piece of meat at the market.
"Where are odds made on the Kaissa matches?" I asked a small fellow, in the garb of the leather workers. He wore the colors of Tabor on his cap.
"I would ask you that," he said.
"Do you favor Scormus of Ar?" I inquired.
"Assuredly," he said.
I nodded. I decided it would be best to search for a merchant who was on the fair's staff, or find one of their booths or praetor stations, where such information might be found.
I stepped again to one side. Down the corridor between tents, now those of the carvers of semiprecious stones, came four men, in the swirling garb of the Tahari. They were veiled. The first led a stately sand kaiila on which a closed, fringed, silken kurdah was mounted. Their hands were at their scimitar hilts. I did not know if the kurdah contained a free woman of high state or perhaps a prized female slave, naked and bejeweled, to be exhibited in a secret tent and privately sold.
I saw two men of the Wagon Peoples pass by, and, not a yard from them, evincing no concern, a fellow in the flowing robes of Turia. The fairs were truce ground.
Some six young people, in white garments, passed me. They would stand before the palisade, paying the homage of their presence to the mysterious denizens of the Sardar, the mysterious Priest-Kings, rulers of Gor. Each young person of Gor is expected, before their twenty-fifth birthday, to make the pilgrimage to the Sardar, to honor the Priest-Kings. These caravans come from all over known Gor. Most arrive safely. Some are preyed upon by bandits and slavers. More than one beauty who thought to have stood upon the platforms by the palisade, lifting laurel wreaths and in white robes singing the glories of the Priest-Kings, has found herself instead looking upon the snow-capped peaks of the Sardar from the slave platforms, stripped and heavily chained.
Colorful birds screamed to one side, on their perches. They were being sold by merchants of Schendi, who had them from the rain forests of the interior. They were black-visaged and wore colorful garments.
There were many slave girls in the crowd, barefoot, heeling their masters.
Schendi, incidentally, is the home port of the league of black slavers. Certain positions and platforms at the fairs are usually reserved for the black slavers, where they may market their catches, beauties of all races.
I stopped to watch a puppet show. In it a fellow and his free companion bickered and struck one another with clubs.
Two peasants walked by, in their rough tunics, knee-length, of the white wool of the Hurt. They carried staves and grain sacks. Behind them came another of their caste, leading two milk verr which he had purchased.
I returned my attention to the puppet show. Now upon its tiny stage was being enacted the story of the Ubar and the Peasant. Each, wearied by his labors, decides to change his place with the other. Naturally this does not prove fruitful for either individual. The Ubar discovers he cannot tax the bosk and the Peasant discovers his grain cannot grow on the stones of the city streets. Each cannot stop being himself, each cannot be the other. In the end, of course, the Ubar returns gratefully to his throne and the peasant, to his relief, manages to return to the fields in time for the spring planting. The fields sing, rejoicing, upon his return. Goreans are fond of such stories. Their castes are precious to them.
A slave girl in the crowd edged toward me, and looked up at me. She was alone.
I saw a short fellow in they street crowd. He was passing by. He was squat and broad, powerful, apparently very strong. Though the weather was cool in the early spring he was stripped to the waist. He wore trousers of fur, and fur boots, which came to the knee. His skin was dark, reddish like copper; his hair was bluish black, roughly cropped; his eyes bore the epicanthic fold. About his shoulder he had slung some coils of braided rope, fashioned from twisted sleen hide, and, in his hand, he carried a sack and a bundle of tied furs; at his back was a quiver containing arrows, and a short bow of sinew-bound, layered horn.
Such men are seldom seen on Gor. They are the natives of the polar basin.
The herd of Tancred had not appeared in the north. I wondered if he knew this.
I had arranged with Samos to have a ship of supplies sped northward.
Then he was gone, lost in the crowd.
The slave girl put her head down. I felt her timidly biting at my sleeve.
She lifted her eyes to mine. Her eyes were dark, moist, pleading.
Slave girls often need the caress of men.
"I followed you," she said, "in the crowds."
"I know," I said. I had known this, for I was of the warriors.
"I find you very attractive, Master," she whispered.
She held my arm, closely, looking up at me. Her breasts, sweet, pendant, white, were lovely in the loose rep-cloth of her tunic.
"Please, Master," she whispered.
"Are you on an errand for your master?" I asked.
"No, Master," she said. "I am not needed until supper."
I looked away from her.
Her hands, small and piteous, grasped my arm. "Please, Master," she said.
I looked down into her eyes.
There were tears in them.
"Please, Master," she said, "take pity on me. Take pity on the miserable needs of a girl."
"You are not mine," I told her. "You are a pretty little thing, but I do not own you."
"Please," she said.
"Your master," I said, "if he chooses, will satisfy your needs. If he does not, he will not." For all I knew she might be under the discipline of deprivation. If that were so, I had no wish to impair the effectiveness of her master's control over her. Besides I did not know him. I did not wish to do him dishonor, whoever he might be.
"Does your master know you are begging in the streets?" I asked.
"No," she said, frightened.
"Then," said I, "perhaps I should have your hands tied and write that upon your body."
"Oh, no!" she cried.
"Is this girl bothering you?" asked a merchant, one whose head bore the talmit of the fair's staff. Behind him were two guardsmen, with whips.
"No," I said. Then I said, "Where are the tables for the gambling on Kaissa?"
'They have been arranged but this morning," he said. 'They may be found in the vicinity of the public tents near the amphitheater."
"My thanks, Officer," said I 'The lines are long," he said. "I wish you well," I said.
"I wish you well," he said. They left.
"Thank you, Master," said the girl. At a word from me, she would have been lashed.
"Kneel and kiss my feet," I said.
She did so.
She then looked up.
"Run now to your master," I said. "Crawl to him on your belly, and beg his touch."
"Yes, Master," she said. She leaped to her feet, frightened, and sped away.
I watched her disappear in the crowds.
I laughed. What a meaningless, lovely, delicious little slave she was. How helpless she was in her needs.
Another slave girl in the crowd smiled at me. I grinned at her, and turned away.