Read Online Smugglers of Gor by John Norman - Free Book Online

approached, even when starving, refused to be wooed even by the golden staters of Brundisium when it became clear to them the likely nature of many of their companions. One does not wish to have a foe at one’s back or side. Others declined service when their would-be recruiters refused to reveal to them the length and nature of the service intended, and even its location. Indeed, I think that many, perhaps most, of the recruiters did not know the answers to such questions themselves. It was known that the first leg of their journey would take them north, somewhere north. What might occur there, or thereafter, was unclear. More frighteningly, at least to many, was the level of weapon skills which were being sought. Many potential recruits were put to the test of arms, pitted against one another, only the winner to be accepted. Some men killed more than one man to win their place.
    “The cards have been unkind to you,” said a voice.
    “That is not unusual, of late,” I said.
    “More paga?” she asked.
    “He has had enough,” said the voice.
    “Where are you from?” I asked.
    “Asperiche,” she said.
    “How came you here?” I asked.
    “I was taken in my village,” she said, “by raiding corsairs from Port Kar, and later sold south.”
    “How much did you bring?” I asked.
    “Two silver tarsks,” she said.
    “Here?” I asked.
    “Yes, Master,” she said.
    “When?” I asked.
    “The last passage hand,” she said.
    “Summon the proprietor’s man, and a whip,” I said.
    “Master?” she asked.
    “In the current market you would bring no more than thirty-five, copper,” I said.
    Trembling, she knelt, tears in her eyes. “Forgive me, Master,” she said.
    I motioned her away, impatiently, clumsily.
    “Thank you, Master,” she said, and leapt up and fled, with a flash of bells, from the small, round table, at which I sat, cross-legged.
    “Are you weak?” asked the voice. “Why did you not have her lashed?”
    “Do you think I am weak?” I asked.
    He regarded me, for a moment. “No,” he said.
    “I am unarmed,” I said.
    “But weapons are checked at the door,” he said.
    “They are entitled to their vanity,” I said.
    I looked after her. The bells were on her left ankle. They were all she wore, other than her collar. It was not a high tavern.
    “How did you know she was lying?” he asked.
    “The market, the season,” I said.
    “It seems you are an excellent judge of such things,” he said.
    “Of such things?” I asked.
    “The likely price of collar-meat,” he said.
    “I am of the Merchants,” I said.
    “The Slavers,” he said.
    I shrugged.
    “The Slavers,” he said.
    “Very well, the Slavers,” I said. We regard ourselves as a subcaste of the Merchants. Do we not acquire, and buy, and sell? What difference is there, other than the nature of the goods handled?
    “Slavers,” said he, “are cunning, and skilled with weapons.”
    “Much like the scarlet caste,” I said.
    “Or the black caste,” he said.
    “I am not an assassin,” I said. I wondered if he were.
    “Slavers must plan, and raid, and seize,” he said. “Often they must fight their way into a house, or pleasure garden, and fight their way free.”
    “I have met men on the bridges,” I said. To be sure, there seemed little danger on the ships, the sky ships, save at departure and arrival, leaving or re-entering the atmosphere. There seemed little danger, too, on the slave world. They did not, it seemed, protect their women. Perhaps they did not realize their value.
    “You have had too much to drink,” he said.
    “You followed me from the gambling house,” I said.
    “You lost heavily,” he said. “Perhaps tonight you will feed from the garbage troughs.”
    “Perhaps,” I said. “Who are you?”
    “One who places a golden stater on a table,” he said.
    I looked at the small, round, golden disk. The staters of Brundisium are prized on the Streets of Coins in a hundred cities. They