What might have been: Warlords of Gor

One of you lovely precious readers – Mistress Donna of Dover - posted a comment yesterday asking me whether it was Olga Turlovna's book, Daughter of Gor, that inspired me to come up with Emma as a TG character transformed by Kurii science, or whether I had intended writing her that way anyway.

The truth is I had actually started writing a Gor book that was going to be called Warlords of Gor, and it was going to be centred around an ordinary Earth woman taken to Gor to serve the Kurii as an agent there. It was only after reading Daughter of Gor that I decided to follow Olga's inspiration and I promptly scrapped my original heroine, Yasmin, and wrote Emma instead.

Quite a bit of Warlords got re-written and reused for the first book and a half of the Emma series, so I don't have swathes of chapters that form a standalone Gor novel, but I thought I'd post what I originally wrote as the introduction chapter in case you're wondering what my books might have looked like if Daughter of Gor hadn't come along as it did.

I was going to use a framing sequence of the chapters being 'edited' by a haughty Gorean Free Woman, allowing me to have her make caustic comments about Yasmin's narrative as headers and footers occasionally. It's an idea I might revisit at some point as it offers a lot of scope for humour.

The other thing worth noting (that I'd forgotten about actually) is that I wrote Warlord in third person rather than the more familiar first person narrative that John Norman uses. I can't remember why I did that – possibly because I was used to writing in third person normally. Anyway, by the time the Emma books were written I'd changed perspective.

This then is what you might have been reading in place of the Emma saga if Olga hadn't written Daughter of Gor:

Warlords of Gor

An introduction by Cassandra Rossetti, scribe to the House of Mira.

Living in beautiful and fashionable Ar, as I do, and dutifully employed in the service of the noble Lady Te’Arla Mira, I have little time or opportunity to see or speak with my father, Gideon Rossetti, who owns an expensive estate just outside the city of Vonda. My father is in the business of managing a large vineyard, and his wines are renowned throughout Gor for their richness and complex flavours.

So when I received a package, delivered from a courier in Vonda, bearing the official seal of my father, I was both excited and curious. Could this be a present? Something valuable, yet not too ostentatious, to make up for past defects in his parenting skills? Sadly, no. Upon opening the package I found a number of documents, sealed in oilskin packets, and a typically terse and brief note from my miserly father. The note read:

Dearest Daughter,

It gives me great pleasure to hear that you have successfully remained in employment for over a month now. This for you is a remarkable achievement, and were I not a cynical man I would suppose that my inspired decision to cut off your monthly allowance was a motivating factor in your own decision not to resign from your job after the first week. It seems that in your spoilt case, necessity really is the mother of all invention.

You will find enclosed an initial number (5) of oil skin packets, containing a series of accounts written for me by a barbarian woman who spent some time at my estate. Gorean is not her natural language, and therefore her grammar, punctuation and spelling is in need of considerable editing and correction. I wish for you to edit the papers for me, beginning with this first set. More will follow. In return I will see that you are suitably reimbursed for your, no doubt, precious time. From the nature of the many whining, pleading and begging letters I receive weekly from you, requesting an advance on your allowance, I suspect the opportunity to earn some additional money will be welcome.

Your loving Father,

Gideon Rossetti.

I will, over the coming months, be editing these packets of papers and correcting this woman’s appalling Gorean script into prose that gentle, fashionable readers such as yourself may find fathomable. I confess to being perplexed by the contents of the first few packets. The woman seems to use many made up words that render her sentences unintelligible, even to someone as brilliant and clever as myself. There is therefore little hope that you will understand them either, dear reader. The words seem to be her attempt to convert barbarian sounds into phonetic Gorean syllables. Nevertheless, I have left such words in place and trust that future packets of her writings will revert to a more coherent structure. What my father’s interest in these writings can be may become clear when I receive further packets. His business dealings have for some time now been shrouded in secrecy, and I have often speculated that some of his work is concerned with matters other than the wine trade.

And so, on to the first packet of pages, brilliantly edited and made readable by my good self.

• Cassandra Rossetti, Official scribe to the House of Mira, in glorious Ar.

CHAPTER ONE

“Well, aren't you little Miss Popular tonight.”

“What do you mean?” Yasmin clipped a pencil behind her ear as she checked the bill she was about to present to table 9. The Estiatorio Milos restaurant on 125 West 55th Street, New York, was busy tonight, it being a Friday evening, and like the other two waitresses, she had been table hopping at a steady pace, but nothing more than usual. She gazed at Karen with a bemused expression. “I'm barely averaging tips tonight.”

“Table six.” Karen's gaze felt like an ice stiletto that was just about to be twisted in a wound. “They don't want me to wait on them. They asked for you.”

“Me?” Yasmin glanced over at table six and saw three men seated there. All three were tall and tanned, broad shouldered, with dark hair, dressed in excellently tailored Italian suits that were obviously haute couture. They looked strong, vital, confident and important. Just the sort of customers who might tip well. But why had they asked for her? Yasmin had never seen them before. “You're sure they asked for me?” Yasmin did have a few regular customers who tended to favour her services while they dined, but they were generally lonely businessmen who ate on certain nights when they were in town on business. She would smile at them, make them feel important, greet them like old friends, and they would tip generously with twenty to thirty dollars. Occasionally they might suggest going out for a drink sometime, and Yasmin would wearily have to decline, knowing that in rejecting their advances they would probably stop coming to the restaurant. Like Karen and Jill she depended on tips to bring her earnings up to a basic level. Rent in New York was expensive, and if tips were slow she sometimes found herself eating left overs in he kitchen of the restaurant at 3 AM in place of buying groceries. The other girls did too. It was an unofficial perk of the job.

“They were fucking rude,” said Karen with just a hint of jealousy. Being sent away in place of another girl obviously wounded her pride. “I'd barely greeted them, yeah, and the man in the middle told me to go, and that they wanted you to wait their table tonight.”

“I'm sorry, Karen, I've never seen them before, honestly. I'm sure it's nothing personal.”

“Whatever. Knock yourself out, girl friend.” Karen turned on her kitten heels as she heard the door open. A young couple were perched in the doorway, shaking an umbrella dry, their shoulders wet from the wind and rain. “I'll take the newcomers, unless they want little Miss Boobs and Ass to wait their table too! You see to the twat brothers at table six.”

Boobs and ass. Yasmin smiled a little to herself once Karen turned away. She glanced briefly at her reflection in the mirror. They were good boobs. And a really perky ass. She could see why Karen was pissed off. In this sort of job having some noticeable assets helped when it came to the size of a tip. And if Yasmin's boot cut trousers were super tight around her hips and ass, and if her black blouse was equally tight around her midriff and daringly unbuttoned just that little bit to show a hint of cleavage, well, it sometimes turned a ten dollar tip into a twenty dollar tip. It was playing fair. That's all the customers got. Nodding, Yasmin straightened her decorative apron tied about her hips and sauntered over to the table.

“Good evening Sirs, and welcome to the Estiatorio Milos. My name is Yasmin and I shall be waiting your table tonight.” She gave them a lovely smile. It was a well rehearsed smile, lacking in any real sincerity, but nonetheless dazzling to the uninitiated.

The man who appeared to be the leader of the group looked at Yasmin with the expression of a cat who had caught sight of a bird with a wounded wing loping its way across a garden lawn. “Yasmin. I like that name. It suits you.”

“Um, thank you.” That was a strange thing to say, she thought.

“You will be called Yasmina tonight while you serve us.” The man picked up the menu and turned it over without even reading the options. “We will order three whole roast chickens. I leave it to you to select suitable vegetables to accompany the meat. In addition, bring us wine. I am not familiar with these wines. Select bottles that will please us, girl.”

Oh-kay... these guys had better tip fucking well, thought Yasmin as she continued to smile without missing a beat. “Sorry Sir, but we don't actually have roast chickens on the menu. Now we do a sort of Greek chicken in a white wine sauce that...”

“Three whole roast chickens. You obviously have chickens in your kitchen. Your cook should be competent enough to roast them.” The man's eyes grew hard and dark. Yasmin got the impression he was well used to getting whatever he wanted in life.

“The thing is, if it's not on the menu, then...” Yasmin paused as the man produced a thick leather wallet from the inside pocket of his immaculately lined Italian jacket. While she watched, he thumbed two one hundred dollar bills and placed them on the table. “Give these to the cook. I think you will find he is now happy to roast us three chickens.”

“Yes, I expect he will be.” Yasmin gazed at the money and quietly decided to up her game. If these men were happy to throw hundred dollar bills around like that, then she was going to be the perfect waitress for them tonight. She placed her left hand on her hip and fluttered her eyelashes a little as she picked up the two bank notes. She had never actually seen a hundred dollar note before. “Whatever you want, Sir. Can I recommend the 2010 Drouhin-Laroze Clos Vougeot Grand Cru? It's the best one we have. And, uh, we only have two bottles...” Because it costs $330, though Yasmin to herself. God but if they went for that, she'd probably get a bonus from the restaurant owner for making such a big sale.

“Have you tasted it?” The man gazed at Yasmin with interest.

“No, it's well outside of my price range. It's, well, three hundred and...”

“Bring a bottle and a single glass. Quickly now, girl.”

Okay... Yasmin turned round, making sure the man got a good glimpse of her bottom. They were obviously big spenders and who knows, she could be looking at a hundred dollar tip from that table alone. A hundred dollars would buy her groceries for a week she thought as she made her way to the bar.

“Karen, I think those men are going to spend big tonight. They want a bottle of the Drouhin-Laroze!” Yasmin's pronunciation was elegant and perfect.

“Shit. You're going to mop up a serious tip, aren't you? That should have been my table.” She was annoyed, but not really with Yasmin.

“I'm sorry. I'll buy you lunch tomorrow. How's that?” Yasmin selected one of the two remaining bottles, picked up one of the best wine glasses and carried the items back to table number six. The men were deep in conversation and talking in a language that seemed vaguely familiar, though it certainly wasn't English. As soon as they saw her they switched back to English. Smiling again, Yasmin expertly uncorked the bottle and poured a small amount into the glass. “This wine is a slightly riper blend of red and blue pinot fruit, violets and plenty of warm earth. Full bodied with very serious broad-shouldered flavours. Would you care to taste it, Sir?”

“No.” The man gestured to the glass. “It's for you to taste.” He sat back with his arms folded and regarded her. “Tell me whether it is worth the price.”

“Oh.” Yasmin seemed surprised. “If you're sure..”

“I am always sure, pretty Yasmina. Do not question me. Simply drink as ordered.”

Yasmin sipped the wine and nodded her appreciation. It was smooth, silky and tasted of spiced fruit.

“Well?”

“It's lovely.”

“Good. Bring us a bottle, pretty Yasmina.”

“What about this one?” Yasmin had barely drunk a tenth of the wine.

“I do not drink from the same bottle as a kajira. Take it away and bring me a fresh bottle.”

A kajira? Yasmin stared at them in amazement, barely comprehending they were prepared to throw away the rest of the wine.

“Do I need to send for a different waitress? Are you having difficulty understanding me?”

“I'll bring you a second bottle. Of course, Sir.”

The men were talking again in that strangely familiar language when Yasmin returned with a second bottle. As she approached the table she made out some of the words.

The kajira... shipment... ensure collection... cylinder... three days... depart midnight.

“You work in imports and exports?” asked Yasmin as she uncorked the second bottle with a smile. She was just making conversation, but noticed the look of genuine surprise on the man's face. It was matched by similar expressions on the other two faces.

“You can understand us?”

“Not fully, no, but some of the words. Quite a few actually. It's an unusual mix of ancient languages. A bit of Greek, Latin, some Persian, but your pronunciation is unusual. Some of the words don't sound right.”

“How is it you understand any of the words?”

“Well, I have a gift for languages. I studied classical languages of antiquity at university, for all the good it did me. As you can see, I wait tables, with a degree in Greek and Persian. Ta-dah. So much for four years of study...”

The men exchanged looks of amazement, interest, and perhaps something more. “We're speaking Gorean. Do you know what that is?”

“No, should I?” Yasmin poured three glasses of wine.

“No, I suppose you wouldn't know. But it is an ancient language too. Derived from some of the languages you mention. Interesting. Normally it takes many months for a kajira to learn the simple basics of the language, even with... encouragement.” They all smiled.

“Well, I've always been good with languages. I learn quickly. It's just a case of understanding how languages develop, and what they have in common.”

“You have made an impression on us, Yasmina. A good one. We may wish to talk to you tomorrow.”

“Oh?”

“On a matter that would be of financial benefit to you. See that you are working here tomorrow evening.”

“Well, I'm supposed to have the day off. Karen and I will be having lunch and then we were going to...”

“See that you are working here tomorrow.” The man produced his wallet again and removed five one hundred dollar bills. As Yasmin watched with a deep seated hunger and need for the money, the man tore the bills in half. He gave one half to Yasmin and kept the other half. “You will be here tomorrow. And you shall wear a skirt. Not trousers.” He indicated the black boot cut trousers that Yasmin wore. “A skirt, cut to above the knee.” You will receive the other half of these notes and you will listen attentively to what we have to say to you. If you like what you hear, it is possible you may earn a great deal of money. How does that sound, Yasmina?”

“It sounds like I will be working here tomorrow, wearing a skirt.” Yasmin smiled, very pleased with the way things had turned out tonight.