Witness of Gor

25

“Somewhere,” said the peasant, dully, “I heard steel, I heard shouting.”

“It was far away,” said the pit master, sitting, cross-legged, as he sometimes did, before the chained peasant.

The pit master’s legs were small for his upper body, almost bandy. He looked like a bolder of sorts, sitting there in the cell.

It was late, the same night as the raid of the intruders. I had been unable to attend upon the peasant until now, as I had been late returning to the pens. The pit master had waited for me.

“Master is all right,” I had said, relievedly, returned by the Lady Constanzia, kneeling before him.

“And I am pleased you live, little Janice,” said he, “and you, too, Lady Constanzia.”

We were both kneeling before him.

The pit master had been covered with grime and blood. He had been cut about the left shoulder. A bloody rag had been knotted about his upper body. His lower body was filthy as it seemed that one or more of the tunnels had been flooded to the height of a man’s waist, to facilitate the entry of water urts and tharlarion. These had been, I gathered, by noise and fire, herded toward intruders. But now he was clean and clad in a fresh tunic. That he had been wounded would not now be discernible, the blood stanched, the wound dressed, the dressing hidden beneath the tunic. It was not unusual, incidentally, for the pit master to be careful of his appearance when he came to the cell of the peasant. He would often bathe and attire himself in fresh, clean raiment before presenting himself before him.

It seemed strange that he would accord such courtesy and regard, such esteem, almost reverence, to one who was a mere peasant.

“I am finished, Master,” I said.

“What is honor?’ asked the pit master of the peasant.

The peasant lifted his head, and looked at him, uncomprehendingly.

“Honor,” said the pit master.

“I do not know,” said the peasant.

“I do not know, either,” said the pit master.

“I have heard of it, once, somewhere,” said the peasant. “But it was long ago.”

“I, too, have heard of it,” said the pit master, bitterly, “but, too, it was long ago.”

“Is it not something for upper castes?” asked the peasant.

“Perhaps,” granted the pit master.

“Then it is not our concern,” said the peasant.

“No,” said the pit master, bitterly, “It is not our concern.”

“Is it time for the planting?” asked the peasant.

“No,” said the pit master.

We then left the cell.