"No," she said. "I was hooded." She shuddered. "He was brought in from the streets," she said. "I remember him. The tiny body, swollen. The small, clumsy hands. His whining and giggling. The men at table laughed very loudly. It was doubtless quite amusing."
"What of the child?" I asked.
"I bore it," she said, "but, once more hooded, I never saw it. It was surely, considering its sire, a monster." She shuddered.
"Perhaps not," I said.
She laughed softly.
"Does Ho-Tu visit you often?" I asked.
"Yes," said she. "I play the kalika for him. He cares for its sound."
"You are Red Silk," I said.
"Long ago," said she, "Ho-Tu was mutilated, and forced to drink acid."
"I did not know," I said.
"He was once a slave," said Sura, "but he won his freedom at hook knife. He was devoted to the father of Cernus. When the father of Cernus was poisoned and Cernus, then the lesser, placed upon his neck the medallion of the House, Ho-Tu protested. For that he was mutilated, and forced to drink acid. He has remained in the house these many years."
"Why should he remain here?" I asked.
"Perhaps," she said, "because it is in this house that Sura is slave."
"I would not doubt it," I said.
She looked down, smiling.
I looked about the room. "I am not anxious to return immediately to my compartment," I said. "Further, I am confident that the men of the house will expect me to remain some time here."
"I will serve your pleasure," she said.
"Do you love Ho-Tu?" I asked.
She looked at me, thoughtfully. "Yes," she said.
"Then," I said, "let us find something else to do."
She laughed.
"Your room," I said, "seems to offer little in the way of diversions."
She leaned back, and smiled. "Little save Sura," she admitted.
I, glancing about once again, saw the kalika in the corner.
"Would you like me to play for you?" asked Sura.
"What would you like to do?" I asked.
"I?" she asked, amused.
"Yes," I said, "you-you Sura."
"Is Kuurus serious?" she asked skeptically.
"Yes," I affirmed. "Kuurus is serious."
"I know what I would like," she said, "but it is very silly."
"Well," I said, "it is, after all, Kajuralia."
She looked down, flustered. "No," she said. "It is too absurd."
"What?" I asked. "Would you like me to try and stand on my head or what? I warn you I would do it very poorly."
"No," she said. Then she looked at me very timidly. "Would you," she asked, "teach me to play the game?"
I looked at her, flabbergasted.
She looked down, immediately. "I know," she said. "I am sorry. I am a woman. I am slave."
"Have you a board and pieces?" I asked.
She looked up at me, happily. "Will you teach me?" she asked, delighted.
"Have you a board and pieces?" I asked.
"No," she said, miserably.
"Do you have paper?" I asked. "A pen, ink?"
"I have silk," she said, "and rouge, and bottles of cosmetics!"
In a short time we had spread a large square of silk on the floor between us, and, carefully, finger in and out of a rouge pot, I had drawn the squares that would normally be red on a board, leaving those squares that would normally be yellow blank. Then, between us, we managed to find tiny vials, and brooches, and beads, to use as the pieces. In less than an Ahn we had set up our board and pieces, and I had showed Sura the placing of the pieces and their moves, and had explained some of the elementary techniques of the game to her; in the second Ahn she was actually negotiating the board with alertness, always moving with an objective in mind; her moves were seldom the strongest, but they were always intelligent; I would explain moves to her, discussing them, and she would often cry out "I see!" and a lesson never needed to be repeated.
"It is not often," I said, "that one finds a woman who is pleased with the game."
We played yet another Ahn and, even in that short amount of time, her moves had become more exact, more subtle, more powerful. I became now less concerned to suggest improvements in her play and more concerned to protect my own Home Stone.
"Are you sure you have never played before?" I asked.
She looked at me, genuinely delighted. "Am I doing acceptably?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
I began to marvel at her. I truly believe, also, that she had never played before. I realized, to my pleasure, if danger, that I had come upon one of those rare persons who possesses a remarkable aptitude for the game. There was a rawness in her play, a lack of polish, but I sensed myself in the presence of one for whom the game might have been created.
Her eyes sparkled.
"Capture of Home Stone!" she cried.
"I do not suppose you would care to play the kalika," I proposed.
"No! No!" she cried. "The game! The game!"
"You are only a woman," I reminded her.
"Please, Kuurus!" she said. "The game! The game!"
Reluctantly I began to put out the pieces again.
This time she had yellow.
To my astonishment, this time I began to see the Centian Opening unfold, developed years ago by Centius of Cos, one of the strongest openings known in the game, one in which the problems of development for red are particularly acute, especially the development of his Ubara's Scribe.
"Are you sure you have never played before?" I asked, thinking it well to recheck the point.
"No," she said, studying the board like a child confronting something never seen before, something wonderful, something mysterious and challenging, a red ball, some squares of brightly colored, folded orange cloth.
When it came to her fourteenth move for red, my color, I glanced up at her.
"What do you think I should do now?" I asked.
I noted that her lovely brow had already been wrinkled with distress, considering the possibilities.
"Some authorities," I told her, "favor Ubar's Initiate to Scribe Three at this point, others recommend the withdrawal of Ubara's Spearman to cover Ubar Two."
She studied the board closely for a few Ihn. "Ubar's Initiate to Scribe Three is the better move," she said.
"I agree," I said.
I placed my Ubar's Initiate, a perfume vial, on Scribe Three.
"Yes," she said, "it is clearly superior."
It was indeed a superior move but, as it turned out, it did not do me a great deal of good.
Six moves later Sura, as I had feared, boldly dropped her Ubar itself, a small rouge pot, on Ubar five.
"Now," she said, "you will find it difficult to bring your Ubar's Scribe into play." She frowned for a moment. "Yes," she mused, "very difficult."
"I know," I said. "I know!"
"Your best alternative move at this point," she explained, "would be, would it not, to attempt to free your position by exchanges?"
I glared at her. "Yes," I admitted. "It would."
She laughed.
I, too, laughed.
"You are marvelous," I told her. I had played the game often and was considered, even among skilled Goreans, an excellent player; yet I found myself fighting for my life with my beautiful, excited opponent. "You are simply incredible," I said.
"I have always wanted to play," she said. "I sensed I might do it well."
"You are superb," I said. I knew her, of course, to be an extremely intelligent, capable woman. This I had sensed in her from the first. Also, of course, had I not even known her I would have supposed her a remarkable person, for she was said to be the finest trainer of girls in the city of Ar, and that honor, dubious though it might be, would not be likely to have been achieved without considerable gifts, and among them most certainly those of unusual intelligence. Yet here I knew there was much more involved than simple intelligence; I sensed here a native aptitude of astonishing dimension.