Kur of Gor (39 page)

"I thought she might be special to you,” said Peisistratus.

"No,” said Cabot.

"As I understand it,” said Peisistratus, “from Arcesilaus, and others, she was enclosed with you on the Prison Moon."

"That is true,” said Cabot.

"Surely that was no mere happenstance. She would have been selected for you, selected for you by Priest-Kings, and doubtless with great care, with all their shrewdness, and science, selected to be irresistible to you, a slut of your dreams, that you might be tempted from your honor."

"Perhaps,” said Cabot, angrily.

"The Priest-Kings are cruel,” said Peisistratus.

"True,” said Cabot.

"She is English, is she not?"

"Yes."

"Intelligent, highly educated, and such?"

"Yes."

"Nicely curved?"

"Doubtless."

"And extremely beautiful?"

"Perhaps."

"She is, too, as I understand it, a self-confessed slave."

"Yes,” said Cabot, “the words were spoken on the Prison Moon itself."

"Here,” said Peisistratus, “you may have her for nothing. She is goods, and honor, I assure you, is no longer in the least involved."

"True,” said Cabot.

"So take her,” said Peisistratus.

"No,” said Cabot.

"Surely you want her in your arms,” said Peisistratus.

Cabot shook his head.

"Surely you want her at your feet, on her belly, licking and kissing, whimpering, begging,” said Peisistratus.

"She is a vain, cold, haughty bitch,” said Cabot.

"No, Master!” wept the slave, inadvertently.

Gone surely then was her facade of disdain, of boredom, and such.

She was then much alive, and vulnerable.

She then, quickly, fearfully, put her head down, doubtless fearing to be beaten.

"Look up, slut,” said Peisistratus.

The slave lifted her head.

"See that throat, and those features,” said Peisistratus. “Perhaps two and a half silver tarsks?"

It is difficult to speculate on these matters, but it seems clear she was a beauty, given the limitations of her species. To be sure, she was fresh to her bondage, had received little training, and knew little, at that time, of a slave's major concern, that of serving and pleasing, selflessly, intimately and inordinately, the males of her species.

"Keep her,” said Cabot.

"To be sure,” mused Peisistratus. “Doubtless the slave fires have not yet been kindled in that lovely little belly."

"May I speak, Master?” begged the slave.

Peisistratus nodded.

"I fear, Master,” she said, “I already feel such fires."

"And when did this first come about?” inquired Peisistratus.

"On the Prison Moon,” she said, softly, “when first I acknowledged myself—explicitly, publicly—slave."

"You do not yet know what it is to feel slave fire,” said Peisistratus.

"Yes, Master,” she whispered.

"Have the other girls taught you nothing of interesting men?” asked Peisistratus.

"A little, Master,” she said, shyly, not meeting his eyes.

"You posed well,” he said.

"Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

"Now,” he said, “we shall see if you can dance."

"Please, no, Master!” she wept, suddenly, frightened.

Peisistratus gestured to the musicians, who reached for their instruments.

"No, Master, please!” she cried. “I do not know how to dance!"

"All women know how to dance,” said Peisistratus. “Make certain the coins jangle well."

"Please, no, Master!” she wept.

"She is a pretty slut,” said Peisistratus.

"I want paga,” said Cabot, angrily.

Peisistratus gestured to the musicians, and they touched memories of Gor, of her rivers and lakes, her trails, her valleys and mountains.

"Dance!” commanded Peisistratus.

And the slave danced, as she could, danced for fear of the whip, for fear of her life, danced for the pleasure of men, hoping to please them, hoping that they might see how beautiful and desirable she was, and would be kind to her, and then for the sudden desperation of her awakened needs, and danced as what she was, a slave.

"Enough,” said Peisistratus.

The musicians put aside their instruments, and the slave had collapsed, sobbing, to the floor.

"You are right,” said Peisistratus. “She is not much good."

The slave, prostrate, wept. Her small body had tried to please. Surely they knew she was not a dancer, not a trained dancer, one whose smallest, subtlest motions might drive a man mad with desire. The coins, dangling from her throat, made a tiny sound, on the flooring.

"Paga,” said Cabot.

"You have had too much,” said Peisistratus.

"Paga,” said Cabot.

"Paga,” repeated Peisistratus, summoning the slave with a gesture.

Quickly, summoned, she hurried to the small table, knelt, and retrieved the goblet.

"You cannot even see her clearly, can you?” asked Peisistratus.

Doubtless the form of the slave, bedecked with coins, her only garment, swam before his eyes.

"It is truly she?” said Cabot, uncertainly.

"Yes,” said Peisistratus.

"Why have none claimed her?"

"I have forbidden it,” said Peisistratus. “I have given the orders."

"Rescind them,” said Cabot.

"No,” said Peisistratus.

"Why not?"

"There are the quotas,” he said. “She is unclaimed."

"Surely you understand my position here,” said Cabot. “I can accept no slave."

"Your position, as I understand it,” said Peisistratus, in English, “is that you could become master of human Gor, that you could have armies, palaces, riches, hundreds of slaves."

"And she is part of the temptation, is she not?” asked Cabot.

"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.

"I want paga,” said Cabot.

"It is a matter of honor, is it not?” inquired Peisistratus.

"There is nothing to be done,” said Cabot. “There is the cage. It is like the arena."

"I am to inform Agamemnon that you decline his offer?"

"You may do whatever you wish,” said Cabot.

"Drink no more, not now,” said Peisistratus.

"Paga!” demanded Cabot.

"Remember the arena,” said Peisistratus.

"Paga!” thundered Cabot, in fury.

Swiftly the slave pressed the goblet about her body, as she had been taught, associating the metallic, rigid cruelty of the goblet and the fire of the drink with the softness, the readiness, the warmth, and the desirability of her body, in this way making it clear that both goods were proffered, both placed at the disposal of the master, both the drink and the female. And the girl inadvertently gasped, startled, as the metal rim pressed into her belly, bespeaking the dominion to which she was subject, and she looked down into the swirling liquid in the cup, and Peisistratus smiled, for did not the fire in the goblet in its way stand token for another fire, and might she not suspect this, that which might burn in the grasping, liquid softness of a slave's belly?

The girl then lifted the goblet to her lips and kissed it slowly, humbly, regarding Cabot over its rim, and then she put down her head between her extended arms, and offered him the goblet.

"No,” begged Peisistratus.

Cabot reached out, and clutched at the goblet, and some paga spilled, to the right thigh of the slave.

"How do you choose to die?” asked Peisistratus. “One who herds tarsk would not choose to die so."

"It does not matter,” said Cabot. “There is nothing to be done."

"You are of the Warriors,” said Peisistratus.

"Once,” said Cabot.

"Still,” said Peisistratus.

"There is nothing to be done."

"Look into the paga,” said Peisistratus. “Do you like what you see there?"

"No,” said Cabot.

"Is that you?"

"Yes."

"No,” said Peisistratus. “The paga lies."

"How can it lie?” asked Cabot.

"It deceives you, it betrays you."

"Paga can betray no one,” said Cabot, patiently, forming the words very slowly.

"No,” said Peisistratus, “but it can show you one who betrays himself."

"I am he,” said Cabot, slowly.

"You are he,” said Peisistratus. “Now swirl the paga, and look again into it."

Cabot moved the fluid in the goblet, and peered into it. One supposes, in that troubled, swirling fluid, there was nothing to be seen, other perhaps than reflections, rivulets, small currents.

"What now do you see?” inquired Peisistratus.

"The arena,” said Cabot, slowly.

"Then you have not forgotten it?"

"No,” said Cabot. “I have not forgotten it."

He then slowly, carefully, poured the paga unto the table, and it ran from the table to the floor.

"Slut,” said Peisistratus.

"Yes, Master?"

"Get out!"

"Yes, Master,” cried the slave, and rose up, and, with a jangle of coins, fled from the table.

Cabot then cast the goblet from him, and it clattered on the flooring, several feet away, and rolled to the side.

He then slumped down, to the side of the table.

"Let him sleep,” said Peisistratus to one of his men.

Chapter, the Twenty-Third:

WHAT OCCURRED IN A GLADE

The grass was long and soft in the area, abundant, and green and flowing, in the soft wind.

Cabot stirred.

He was no longer in the Pleasure Cylinder.

He did not open his eyes. He felt the weight of the iron on his limbs, on his wrists and ankles.

He heard a sound of chain. Something was bending over him. He felt soft lips press against his lips. She remembered that, he thought—from near the shuttle lock.

He opened his eyes, and looked into blue eyes. She drew back a little, some inches from him.

She had been brushed and combed, washed and perfumed. She was worthy of a Ubar's pleasure garden, but he was not a Ubar.

He thrust her to the side, as he could, and she whimpered, puzzled, irritably.

He then sat up, and regarded her, his fellow prisoner, his right wrist shackled to her left, his left to her right, and so, too, with their ankles.

He shook the chains, angrily, and she cried out, in pain, for this had hurt her.

Breeding shackles, he thought. Breeding shackles!

She tried to approach him, again, and he thrust her back.

"You are a slave,” he said.

"Certainly not!” she exclaimed.

"Then you are a pet, that of Grendel."

"No,” she said, “I have been taken from him."

"Whose pet, then, are you?” he asked.

"I am not a pet,” she said.

"Where is your collar?” he asked.

"I have no collar,” she said, angrily. “I am not a pet."

"What then are you?” he asked.

"I am a free woman,” she said.

"A free woman, shackled,” he said.

"Yes!” she said.

"Have you been named?” he asked.

"I have chosen my name,” she said. “I call myself ‘Ubara'."

"That is not a name,” he said. “It is a title."

"Does it not mean Great Woman, Magnificent Woman, Most Important of Women, such things?"

"Your Gorean is still lacking,” he said.

"It suggests such things, does it not?” she inquired.

"Perhaps,” he said.

"Then I am ‘Ubara,'” she said.

"Many a Ubara,” said he, “conquered, stripped, learns to belly, and lick and kiss, as the most abject of slaves."

"Then what should my name be?” she asked.

"You wish a noble, refined, dignified, exalted, priceless name, do you not?"

"Surely,” she said.

"Then,” said he, “what of ‘Bina'?"

"Good,” she said. “I am Bina!"

He thought that would be a good name for taking her off an auction block. ‘Bina', in Gorean, is a common word for slave beads, usually of colored wood, with which a low slave might be permitted to bedeck herself. It is also a not uncommon name for a low slave.

She smiled, satisfied, arrogantly.

He, too, smiled, though, one supposes, at her arrogance.

"We have been chained together,” he observed, “in this soft, pleasant place. And to the side I see some wine, it seems, some larmas, some grapes, some wedges of soft bread."

"We are to breed,” she said.

"Why?” he asked.

"It is the will of our superiors,” she said.

"They are not my superiors,” he said.

"You need not fear for your honor,” she said, “for I am acquiescent, and will authorize your touch."

"You are generous,” he said. “But why would you do this?"

"It is the will of the superiors,” she said.

"I see,” he said.

"I know little of these things,” she said, “of breeding, and such, but even were I not acquiescent, I gather, you might, eventually, do your will upon me, in some fashion or another."

"Quite possibly,” he said. “Eventually. I am only human."

"I see,” she said.

"Come to my arms,” he said.

She approached him, and he enfolded her in his arms. He held her so, for a few moments. Then suddenly, surprised, she said, “Oh,” and trembled.

"Is anything wrong?” he inquired.

"No,” she said. “It is pleasant,” she said.

Then she rubbed against him.

He touched her.

"Oh!” she said, startled.

"You are a hot little animal,” he said, pleased.

"I do not understand these feelings,” she said.

He then pressed her back.

She tried to approach him, again, but, again, he pressed her back.

"I do not understand,” she said.

"Grendel,” he said, “loves you, but you probably do not even understand that. He risked his life in the arena, for you, against great odds."

"It was his will to do so,” she said. “He is a monster. Hold me, again!"

But he thrust her back, angrily.

"Often you have made him suffer,” said Cabot.

"Certainly!"

"I gather you never were acquiescent with him, so to speak, nor did you, so to speak, authorize his touch."

How tragically are men at the mercy of free women, he thought, at the mercy of their vanity, their whims, their petty tempers, their cruelty, and petulance. How understandable that they make them slaves, and then do with them as they please. And how interesting that the women, brought then to their place in nature, at the feet of men, fulfilled and happy, thrive in their collars. Unlike most free women they are, in their way, muchly honored, for they have been found worthy of mastering, worthy of being owned. And they will strive to be good slaves, and, indeed, what choice have they, and this, too, pleases them, to have no choice.