“Your body is well worth wanting,” I said, “but if it were not animated, not living, not whole with feelings, emotions, and thoughts, it would not be worth wanting. It would be only meat, not slave.”
“All of me is wanted?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “and do not forget, it is the whole of you which is in the collar.”
“In my heart and mind,” she said, “I want to yield!”
“Of course,” I said, “all of you is in the collar.”
“But you are leaving?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, turning away.
“Wait!” she begged.
I turned, again, lifting the taper, to face her. Tears had coursed her cheeks.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“To question you,” I said, “as a former high woman of Ar, of an important house, one who might know aught of the Ubara.”
“But, why, Master?” she asked. “What is the Ubara, and her fate, to you?”
“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“Do not go!” she wept.
I paused.
She put the chain over her left shoulder, behind her.
Tears were in her eyes, her lips trembled. “I beg to be found pleasing,” she said.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
I put the taper in the stand near the mat.
tajima and i hold converse “You are quick,” said Tajima, lowering the wooden blade in the dojo.
“So, too, are you,” I said.
Several of the Pani sat about, cross-legged, at the interior wall of the open-walled, wooden-floored structure. It was, as might be recalled, at the far edge of the plaza of training.
Tajima and I bowed to one another, and then sat, side by side, cross-legged, toward the back wall.
Eight of the Pani then rose from their places and four of them, unarmed, faced the other four, similarly unarmed. They then bowed to one another, warily squared off and, shortly, engaged. Another of the Pani, an umpire or referee, or, better, I suppose, an adjudicator, began to observe and supervise the practice. He occasionally commented, even scolded. In this engagement no mortal blows were to be dealt, of course, and when a stroke which would have spelled death or disablement was held up short, the adjudicator pronounced his verdict, and one of the fellows would politely withdraw from the contest, in effect having been ruled dead or, one supposes, disabled. One-on-one combat can be stylized amongst the Pani, and may proceed rather formally, for all its sudden swiftness and violence, alternating with an almost unnatural stillness, reminiscent of a larl or panther, intent, immobile, subtly quivering, before its attack. Interestingly, although four were engaged on a side, when one was removed from the contest, his opponent did not then join with his fellows to overwhelm the survivors, but stood back. In effect, then, one had what seemed to amount to four one-on-one contests. In actual warfare, I trusted this civility would not be respected. Courtesy is one thing, but courtesy at the expense of victory seemed to me a dubious tactical election. Finally one fellow held the floor from one team, so to speak, and he was faced by three of the other group. He defeated two and was defeated by the third. The eight fellows then stood, exchanged bows, and resumed their places.
“May we speak?” I asked Tajima.
“Not now,” said Tajima, softly.
A large number of contests, of various sorts, took place in the dojo, most with weapons of wood. These were surrogates for several weapons, in particular the short sword, or companion sword, and the long sword. Some glaives without blades were used. An interesting variation on these surrogate weapons was supple poles, long, light, peeled, whiplike branches which might flash about, scarcely visible. These, I gathered, were less surrogate weapons than training devices, to quicken reflexes, and enhance skills. Occasionally steel was used, but, again, of course, the strokes were held up short. Sometimes one surrogate weapon was put against a different surrogate weapon. Sometimes an unarmed individual was to engage an individual armed, say, with a sheathed dagger. Understandably, a reasonable amount of care was taken in the dojo to reduce injury and, certainly, to prevent death, the holding of strokes, and such, but, nonetheless, bloodshed was not infrequent, and broken limbs, wrists, and arms, were not unknown. These injuries seemed to be accepted with equanimity, save where it was suspected that intent was involved. The Pani seemed to feel in such a case that something was out of balance, however slightly, and an adjustment was in order. A disharmony was in need of correction. In such case one slash reddening a wooden blade might be used to pay for another.
“Now?” I asked Tajima.
“No,” said Tajima.
The exercises and contests within the dojo were obviously intended to provide serious and detailed martial training, and I am sure they had great value in this regard. Why should they not? Indeed, had I not, long ago, in Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning, engaged in similar exercises, though commonly with actual weapons? But one can do only so much in such training, of course, whether with wood or steel. It is one thing to face a fellow with a wooden sword, say, who will hold his stroke, or try to do so, and quite another to face a fellow armed with finely edged steel who has every intention of killing you. In the latter case every corpuscle comes alive, and the whole business is commonly done within a flash or two of steel. There is no training, as it is said, which can compare with the dojo of blood.
Two days ago I had spoken to Lord Nishida, again in his pavilion, and he had been receptive to my recommendations, and I had, accordingly, sought out certain craftsmen in the camp, leather workers and metal workers, and certain suppliers, who might, over the next months, secure certain goods, formed to my specifications.
With respect to weaponry the Gorean warrior is commonly trained in the blade, shield, and spear. The blade is commonly the gladius, which is quick, light, and double-edged, suitable for both the thrust and the slash. It is an excellent infantry weapon. On tarnback, naturally, there is little call for it. Similarly, the saber, which might be used with some efficacy from, say, horseback is of little use from either kaiilaback or tarnback. The kaiila, a lofty, silken beast, stands too high at the shoulder to warrant a saber. The Tuchuks, for example, use the temwood lance, which is long, light, tough, and supple. It has no difficulty in engaging an opponent on foot. The Tuchuks also use the quiva, or saddle knife, which is balanced for throwing. I thought we might substitute for the quiva the Anangan dart, a weighted, metal dart, some eighteen inches in length, which is flung overhand and, because of its fins, requires less skill than the quiva. It would be, I supposed, primarily an auxiliary weapon, to which recourse might be had in special circumstances, those, for example, in which, on the ground, one might employ the quiva. Such circumstances, those in which the quiva might be used, would commonly be in the swirl of close combat, where even the bow might be impractical. The typical Gorean shield is heavy, large and round, of layered leather bound with metal stripping. It may shield a soldier but it cannot, even given its size, protect a tarn. More practical on the whole, I thought, everything considered, would be the metal buckler, smaller and easily managed, with one hand, rather than an entire arm. It could turn a spear thrust, whereas a thrust or thrown spear would be likely to anchor itself in the common shield. Indeed, a common infantry tactic is to disable the opponent’s shield by penetrating it with one’s spear. This, in effect, renders the shield not only ineffective but a liability, as the attack then proceeds with the gladius. The buckler I had in mind was not only easily manageable but would have two additional features of interest. First, it might be easily slung at the saddle, freeing the tarnsman’s hands, for a purpose which will soon be obvious, the use of the bow, and, second, as in some arena bucklers, it would have a bladelike edge, thus allowing it to be used to cut at an opponent’s body,
