The proprietor of the tavern took the red-haired dancing girl by the arm, she crying out, and thrust her in her costume, ten slender silver chains, five before and five behind, depending from her collar, from the sand. She fell at the side of the sand and, crouching, turned about, looking back.
“This is Jason!” called the proprietor, indicating me. “He wagers ten copper tarsks he can best any man in the house!”
“It is true,” I called, stepping to the sand, pulling off the tunic.
“I wager he cannot!” called a large fellow, a peasant, from north of the river.
The proprietor’s man, an attendant in the tavern, held the coins.
Bets were taken by the fellows in the tavern.
Men crowded about. Among them, naked, in collars, were paga slaves, with their bronze vessels on leather straps.
The big fellow lunged toward me. I let him strike me. Yet I drew back with his punch in such a way that its impact was largely dissipated. I reacted, however, as though I might have been sorely struck. The men cried out with pleasure. Jabbing, moving, I kept him away from me.
“He fights well,” said one of the men.
I then, recovering myself, seized the fellow, that he might not have the free use of his hands. It was not appropriate that I appear too accustomed to this form of sport. I had made that mistake once before, in Tancred’s Landing, and there had then been no more eager respondents to my raucous challenge. Rather guardsmen had encouraged me to leave the town with alacrity. I had, as a consequence, picked up only ten copper tarsks at Tancred’s Landing.
“Fight!” cried more than one man.
“Clumsy,” cried another.
“Coward!” cried another.
“Coward!” said the peasant.
This irritated me. I relinquished my previous determinations with respect to the manner of handling him. Caught in a swift combination he buckled to the sand. I pretended that I was exhausted, dazed, scarcely able to stand.
“What lucky blows!” cried more than one man.
I looked down at the big fellow who, groggy, was sitting in the sand. I tried to appear as though incredulous that he was down, as though I could not believe that I had somehow struck him from his feet.
“Get up!” cried more than one man.
By the arms he was pulled to the side.
“Ten tarsks,” cried another peasant, “that I can best you!”
“Can you fight further, Jason?” anxiously asked the proprietor. Such brawls, supervised, were good for the business of his tavern.
“I will try,” I said.
The second fellow, tearing off his tunic, rushed to the sand and then, scarcely hesitating, rushed upon me, fists pummeling. I think he was startled that he managed to strike home so seldom. Soon his arms were sore. I carried him longer than the first fellow. Then, when some interest seemed to lag in the contest, I finished it. He was dragged by his heels from the sand.
“I do not see how one so clumsy, and who fights so poorly, can win so often,” said a fellow near the sand.
“He has not yet met Haskoon,” said someone confidently.
“I am Haskoon,” said a bargeman, stepping to the sand. Haskoon carried his hands too high.
The next fellow, after Haskoon, was more of a wrestler than one who fights with the fists. But I did not break his back.
The fifth fellow was an oarsman on a grain galley. He was strong, but, like the others, was not trained. That his jaw was broken was an accident.
“Jason is surely now exhausted,” said the proprietor cheerily. “Who will next step upon the sand?”
But none more, as I had expected, ventured forth to meet me.
I lifted my hands and then drew on my tunic. I was not breathing heavily. I was in a good mood. I bought paga for the five fellows who had helped me earn passage money downriver to the next town. This seemed to assuage their disgruntlement. My financial resources, the ten silver tarsks, obtained from the sale of my former Mistress, the Lady Florence of Vonda, to the slaver, Tenalion of Ar, had been severely depleted. Normally such a sum would last a man months on Gor. In these times, however, given my requirements and the prices, particularly those in Lara, I had been forced to have recourse to alternative sources of income.
“You are no common brawler,” said the first fellow to me, the large peasant. “Do not speak it too loudly,” I begged of him. “Very well,” he said. “I have not felt like this,” said one of the other fellows, “since I was trampled by five bosk.”
“I am grateful to you all.” I assured them.
Slave girls crowded about me, to pour my paga. The collars were lovely on their throats.
The proprietor approached our table and I stood up, holding my goblet of paga, to welcome him. “You fought well, Jason,” he said. “Thank you,” I said. I looked down. Kneeling at my right knee, her cheek against my knee, was the red-haired dancing girl. She looked up at me timidly, her eyes shining. As she knelt the slender chains at her collar depended to the polished floor. “You fought well, Jason.” said the proprietor. “She is yours for the night. Use her for your pleasure.”
“My thanks, Kind Sir,” I said. I lifted the paga which I held, saluting the proprietor and, too, those at the table. “My thanks to you all,” I said. Felicitations were exchanged. I then transferred the paga to my left hand. I then snapped my fingers and held my right hand, open, at my hip. Swiftly the girl rose to her feet and, half crouching, put her head by my hand. I fastened the fingers of my hand deeply and firmly in her red hair. She winced, and kissed at my thigh. I then, the goblet of paga in my left hand, her hair in my right, dragged her beside me, her slender chains rustling, to the nearest empty alcove.