Plunder of Gor (24 page)

Chapter Sixteen

I had knelt before him, head down, as was appropriate.

“Beat me,” I had said, “if I am not pleasing.”

“Lie here, to my side,” he had said, “the bara position will do.”

I had then lain beside him, in bara.

“Lita,” said he.

I had not realized he had risen to his feet. His foot nudged me. I was still in bara.

“Master?” I said.

“You seem lost in reverie,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“Position,” he said.

I went to position.

My knees, as was customary, were closed.

“What were you thinking of?” he asked.

“Of many things,” I said, “of my former world, of friends I knew, of various slaveries, of your mastery.”

“Have I been cruel to you?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said, carefully.

“But I have been a master,” he said.

“Very much so, Master,” I said.

“You are very responsive in your collar,” he said.

“I am a slave,” I said.

“Would you like to be sold to a woman?” he asked.

“No,” I said, “but it will be done with me as Master pleases.”

“In the past few months,” he said, “I fear your leash has been too short.”

“A slave may not question,” I said. I understood what he meant, of course, that the discipline imposed upon me might have been excessively severe. That was a judgment with which I could scarcely disagree. In the literal sense, as I have suggested, earlier, I had seldom been leashed, at least publicly. He had usually had me follow him, even in the streets, naked, my wrists bound behind me. This had brought me more than my share of abuse from annoyed free women, many of whom carried switches. Occasionally he would leash me in the house, either fastening me to one ring or another, or having me perform, as the animal I was, on the leash. In the training house I had been taught to perform on a leash, give a master pleasure on a leash, and such. A slave comes to love her leash. On a leash, usually naked, a woman is in little doubt of her slavery. Leashes are usually of chain or leather.

“I have decided,” he said, “to give you a tunic.”

“It will be as Master pleases,” I said.

As I have mentioned, I had once made the mistake of begging clothing too zealously, even that of a slave. “You have not yet earned clothing,” I had been informed, and then I had been switched.

I had never been subjected, interestingly, to the Gorean slave lash. I was not eager for the experience.

“You will be less conspicuous in a tunic,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. In some cities, even camisks and ta-teeras were outlawed on the streets. To be sure, slaves are to be clad as slaves. The usual garb of a slave is a brief tunic.

“And, if I were to keep you housed,” he said, “that might provoke even greater curiosity.”

I was silent.

“And if I were to house you remotely,” he said, “in the countryside, that might arouse even greater interest.”

I understood very little of this, if any.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“‘Lita',” I said.

“And what is the name of your master?” he asked.

“Tullius Quintus, of Ar,” I said. “It is on my collar.”

“How does your collar read?” he inquired.

I did not know why he was asking me such things.

Was I to be beaten, if I could not recall? What slave does not know her master? What slave does not know what is on her collar?

“‘I am the slave of Tullius Quintus, of Ar',” I said.

“Good,” he said.

These questions seemed to me strange.

“In more than one tavern,” he said, “and twice in the Plaza of Tarns, I have encountered inquiries pertaining to you.”

“Offers to buy?” I asked. Such things were not unknown. It can be flattering, of course, for a girl to know that men might be interested in buying her, in owning her.

“No,” he said, “or not usually. Rather there seems to be curiosity as to your antecedents, to the manner of my keeping of you, and such.”

“Perhaps they think I am a runaway free woman,” I said, “a free lover, concealing herself as a slave?”

“Do not be absurd,” he said. “You are clearly a slave. Just as it is impossible for a free woman to impersonate a slave, so it is impossible for a woman, once she has learned her collar, to impersonate a free woman. Her bondage is manifest in every fiber of her body, in her every expression and movement.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I had little doubt that I had muchly changed since Earth.

“I do not wish you to appear different, or mysterious,” he said.

“I am a barbarian,” I said.

“Many notice,” he said, “but not all. Your Gorean is excellent.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

“That you are a barbarian does not make you that different,” he said. “There are many barbarians. They are cheaply acquired and they sell well. Many are ecstatic, to be rescued from Earth, to be brought to a fresh, untainted, beautiful world, and to find themselves in the collars of true men.”

“How, then, am I mysterious?” I asked.

“I do not think you are mysterious, in yourself,” he said. “No. I see you much as a presentable, common slave, one nicely vendible amongst others. Indeed, in the past months you have become more appetitious and more lovely, which commonly happens in the collar.”

“Am I as attractive as a pleasure slave?” I asked.

“Vain slave,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“More attractive than many,” he said.

This answer muchly pleased me. I supposed I was vain, but are not all slaves vain, all women vain?

“Surely I am not mysterious,” I said.

“It is not that you are mysterious, in yourself,” he said, “so much as that some sense me to be mysterious, and this mystery then attaches to you. I think that is it.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I have not been keeping you as a common slave,” he said. “And men wonder why. You are naked in public, which suggests I am afraid you may be stolen, or will try to flee. Are you so special? What is different about you? See? And you do not leave the house alone. You do not run errands. You are not visible at the public laundry troughs. You do not consort with other slaves. You have no friends. Why are you not, amongst the porticoes and colonnades, chatting and gossiping with your collar sisters, seeking news, a word dropped in the tiers of the Central Cylinder becoming common knowledge by nightfall, not comparing collars and masters, not complaining about the recent quality of the tunic cloth, not whispering delightedly of the intrigues and doings of free women, and so on.”

Much in my bondage was mysterious, and much in my master seemed to me mysterious. For example, I was not at all sure that his Home Stone was truly that of Ar. Months ago he had seemed unaware that heavy traffic on the streets of Ar was prohibited during daylight hours. Also, he had occasionally asked questions, and inquired directions, of passers-by, on the streets and in the squares, the answers to which I would have supposed would be well known to a native of the city. Some of his interlocutors had surely taken him for a guest or visitor. I did not even know his caste, a matter concerning which Goreans are not likely to be reticent. One may be the most easily traced by means of caste, and city, and Home Stone. I did not even know if my master had a Home Stone, and, if so, what Home Stone it might be. And Ar was a large and populous city, one in which, possibly, one indivi­d­ual might not be known to others, and in which an isolated individ­ual might attract little notice, might even, so to speak, vanish from sight. Might not one then, possibly cultivating obscurity, or concerned with secrecy, think of choosing such a concealment? Who, on a beach, would be likely to attend to a single grain of sand? And yet it seemed notice had been taken of such an individual, for those of Ar, following seasons of invasion and occupation, of intrigue and espionage, of treachery and betrayal, of politics, proscriptions, and terror, were more wary than many of those of my former world would have been, of strangers in the streets.

“We will be best concealed, by being least concealed,” said Tullius Quintus.

“Then we are mysterious, it seems,” I said.

“But must not seem so,” he said. “So tomorrow you will be clothed, and allowed to run in the city, and such.”

“Do you not fear I will escape?” I said.

“Tunicked,” he said, “collared, and branded? Surely you are not serious.”

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

“Too,” he said, “Ar is walled, gates are guarded, and a slave, unaccompanied, is not permitted outside the walls.”

I nodded. Doubtless it was true.

“Moreover,” he said, “the world will see to it that you are kept in your collar.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do you object?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said.

“Why?” he asked.

“Because I am a slave,” I said.

“And wish to be a slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered, head down.

“I despise you,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, “but I must be what I am.”

On this world I had come to realize that even on Earth I had longed to be a slave, had yearned to be a slave, and now, the matter wholly out of my control, I was on Gor, and whether I wished it or not, I was a belonging, a property, helplessly collared.

“Suppose I am asked my master's caste,” I said, “or from whence he derives his coins. How shall I make answer?”

“Say the Builders,” he said. “That will do.”

I wondered if he might not be of the Builders. As far as I could tell, he had related well to Lysander, who was of that caste. Had he not been an unquestioned, accepted, and welcomed guest at the supper I had helped serve in the house of Lysander, Administrator of Market of Semris? Not all members of a caste, of course, are active in the crafts or professions associated with the caste.

“From whence, should I be asked,” I asked, “shall I say my master derives his coins?”

“Say,” said he, “he does business, engaging now and then in speculations.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Perhaps then, his caste was that of the Merchants. Surely one particularly associated business with that caste, the risks and hazards of economic venturing, the exciting, harrowing matters of profit and loss, of investment and speculation.

“Master,” I said.

“Yes?” he said.

“Am I truly only a work slave, a pot girl, a kettle-and-mat girl?”

“Certainly,” he said. “Why do you ask?”

“I fear I have a greater value to you than would be suggested by that,” I said.

“Dismiss the thought,” said he.

“Am I truly only a copper-tarsk girl?” I asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “Look at yourself. Find a pool of still water and examine your reflection. Find a public bronze mirror and, when no free woman is about, regard yourself.”

“I thought Master suggested that I might be more attractive than at least some pleasure slaves,” I said.

“More attractive than many,” he said.

“Perhaps then I am of interest to Master,” I said.

“I find you of some interest,” he said.

“Of slave interest?” I said.

“Possibly,” he said.

“A slave is pleased,” I said.

I tried to kneel better in “position.” I was back on my heels, my hands, palms down, on my thighs, my back straight, my head up. My knees were closed.

“You look well on your knees,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” I said. It thrilled me to be on my knees before a man. I was of the sex that belonged to his sex.

I saw his eyes, and trembled. He regarded me, fiercely. I was before him.

“Split your knees,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, approvingly, “you look well on your knees.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

My belly began to flame. My thighs were open, before him. He owned me.

“Go to all fours,” he said. “Fetch the leash, and bring it to me, in your mouth.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Chapter Seventeen

“Who whips you?” she asked.

“Tullius Quintus, of Ar,” I said.

Actually he had never whipped me, though I had occasionally felt his switch, and her question was no more than a polite way of inquiring to whom I might belong. Most Gorean slaves are seldom, if ever, whipped. The reason for this is simple. They strive to be pleasing, and, striving so, are found pleasing. Few Goreans would consider gratuitously whipping a slave. That would be as pointless as gratuitously whipping a kaiila, or any other sort of animal. It would be incomprehensible; it would be absurd; it would make no sense. To be sure, the whip is there, and may be used at the master's discretion. The slave well knows she is subject to it. Occasionally she may be whipped, to remind her that she is a slave. That is something she is never to forget.

“My master,” she said, “is Camillus, he whose shop is on Emerald.”

We were at the Teiban Market.

“My master speculates,” I said. “He is doubtless of the Street of Coins.”

“You do not know?” she asked.

“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” I said.

“My name is Lita,” she said.

“Mine, too!” I said.

“Hist!” she whispered. “Let us speed away. A free woman approaches.”

We hurried off, going different ways. Free women, I had learned, are not pleased to note slaves in converse. Perhaps they fear that slaves might be dallying, thus possibly neglecting their duties.

Doubtless that is it.

But I think it is really because they hate us, so virulently, and want to humiliate and hurt us, even in small ways, they with all their pride, power, and goods, and we, utterly helpless and powerless, with nothing, not even a rag or collar we can call our own.

Why do they wish to deny us even small pleasures, so important to women, such as those of sweet converse? Do they not themselves frequently indulge in such sweet delights, delights so natural and precious to our sex?

Why should they deny them to us?

Why do they hate us?

Is it our fault that men prefer us, bid on us, and will own us?

In any event, free women neglect few opportunities to remind a slave that she is a slave.

Do they see in us what they might be, and want to be?

How cruel they are to us!

How their switches sting!

I looked back over my shoulder, furtively, frightened.

How vulnerable we were, in our tiny tunics, our single garments, with no nether closure, our bodies so briefly and degradingly bared, before those fierce, looming beings in their resplendent robes and veils!

I no longer saw the free woman. She must have turned aside, or something. I felt a flood of relief. I was not even natively of Gor, and yet I feared them, feared them so. But why should I not? Was I not collared? Was the band of light steel not locked on my neck? Then I recalled that though I was not natively of Gor, I was surely now of Gor, truly and wholly, for I was a Gorean kajira.

Slaves fear free women, terribly. Certainly I feared them, terribly. I, a slave, was so different from them! The men, whose pleasure objects we were, were our only protection from them. How grateful we were. How we strove to please our masters, for so many reasons. It was not simply the fear of their whips, though this fear was genuine, and warranted. We knew that if we were not pleasing, we would be whipped, and as the slaves we were. But rather I think it had more to do with the radical dimorphism of the sexes in our species, divided essentially into the master sex and the slave sex. They gave us the mastering, which we, slaves, so desperately craved, wanted, and needed. What woman does not want her master, what man does not want his slave?

For several days now I had been tunicked, and had, from time to time, sometimes for Ahn at a time, to my joy, been allowed the freedom of the city. Ar, I gathered, was a typical “high city,” with its noisy, colorfully garbed, bustling crowds, its affluent quarters and its sorrier districts, some of which were not to be frequented at night; here were places of lofty towers, often linked by graceful, narrow, arching, railless bridges, which I feared to tread, places of glorious fountains, parks, and broad, tree-lined boulevards, and places, too, of mazelike, tiny, crooked streets, and step wells, places of great houses and places of sordid insulae. Here I became acquainted with a splendid civilization, a colorful, intricate, complex civilization, a high, thriving civilization which, as most high civilizations, had a place for slaves, that place in which I found myself. I looked about myself. How glorious was the civilization of Gor! How grateful I was that I had been brought here. How grateful I was that I must have had some appeal to men, however little, that they would permit me to know such a world, in the only way that I, from Earth, was worthy to know it, as a vendible, collared slave. In such a civilization, what could I be but a slave, a humble, joyful, grateful slave?

And then, suddenly, in my joy, I was afraid, terribly afraid, for slavery is not without its terrors. I was not free. I did not own myself, but was owned by another. It would be done with me as others wished. I was a rightless property, a vendible good, a small, soft, collared beast, subject to chains and the whip, who could be bought and sold. I was ownable, and owned. I was a slave.

“Oh!” I cried.

“Clumsy slave!” cried the woman, lifting her switch. There was a swirl of veils and robes, and I flung myself to my knees, my head to the stones.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” I cried.

“My robes are disarranged, my veils are awry!” she screamed.

I shuddered, at her feet.

“Who whips you?” she screamed.

“Tullius Quintus,” I exclaimed, “of Ar!”

“We shall see!” she cried. “Kneel up, you disgusting creature!”

I knelt up, and she, bending down, seized my hair and pulled my head back, sharply. I cried out, wincing.

“Who owns you?” she said.

“Tullius Quintus, of Ar,” I said.

“Liar!” she cried.

“Mistress?” I said.

“Lying slave!” she cried.

“It is on my collar, noble Mistress!” I wept.

“Liar, liar!” she screamed.

Some men, and one or two women, had gathered about.

“Mistress?” I said.

“So you would deceive a free person?” she cried.

“No, exalted Mistress,” I cried.

“Do you think I cannot read?” she said.

“Exalted Mistress?” I said, bewildered.

“You thought I would not look,” she said. “But I know the wiles of lying slaves!”

“I do not understand, great Mistress,” I said.

“That is not what is on your collar,” she said.

“I cannot read!” I said.

The switch struck me across the left upper arm, and then the right upper arm, and tears streamed down my cheeks.

“You should be thrown to sleen,” she said.

“Mercy, glorious Mistress,” I said. “I thought truly that was what my collar read.”

“Liar!” she said. “Do not think to trick a free person. We are a thousand times more clever than a stupid slave.”

“I thought my collar read so, truly,” I wept.

“Liar, liar!” she said, the switch speaking again, twice.

“You should be boiled alive,” she said, “sleen for you, cast you naked and bound amongst ravenous leech plants.”

“Please, no, Mistress,” I begged.

“Insulting, clumsy, wicked slave!” said the free woman.

“What does my collar read, Mistress?” I begged.

“You know very well, miserable she-tarsk! Remove your tunic. You will rue the Ehn you obstructed my way, and dared to lie to me!”

“Forgive me,” exclaimed a man, “but I am much smitten with your beauty!”

I surely did not need such an appraisal at this time, however welcome it might have been at another time, under different circumstances, the free woman standing over me, switch in hand. Might she not be further incensed? And, too, was I not a copper-tarsk girl, a mere copper-tarsk girl?

The free woman spun about, to regard the fellow who had spoken, he in the white and gold of the Merchants, and his robes well draped.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but in this wry contretemps your veil slackened, a misfortune for you but a splendid boon to the discerning masculine eye.”

“Oh?” said the free woman.

“Forgive me,” he said, “but I could not but note, however inadvertently, the loveliness of your features.”

She reached to the street veil, but did not hastily fasten it in place. The glance I had seen of her did not suggest to me that she would be likely to be entered into the plans of roving slavers.

“You will forgive me, will you not?” he asked.

“Perhaps,” she said, fastening the veil.

“May I not escort you from this unfortunate place, with its lamentable associations,” he said, “bringing you safely to your domicile, after, perhaps, if I might prevail upon your patience, a glass or two of ka-la-na?”

“Very well,” she said, as though reluctantly. Then she looked down upon me. “You are contrite, are you not?” she asked.

“Very much so, Mistress,” I said.

“And I trust you have been well instructed?” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Thank you merciful, kind Mistress.”

She then turned about. “One must try to be patient with slaves,” she said.

“So true,” said the man.

“I fear I am too indulgent, too lenient, with slaves,” she said. “It is a weakness of mine.”

“What might be a fault in one,” he said, “is often a lovely credit or merit in another.”

“Do you think so?” she asked.

“Mercy becomes one so beautiful,” he said.

“Please forget you glimpsed my face,” she said.

“I do not know if I will ever be able to do so,” he said.

As they departed, her hand lightly on his arm, he glanced over his shoulder, and smiled.

I did not know him, but I was grateful to him. To whom may a slave look for protection from a free woman if not to a man? Is it not men who put us in collars, and keep us there?

So I retained my tunic, and escaped a belaboring that I feared would have been particularly severe.

My master, whatever his name might be, resided on Venaticus. I must hurry home.

Apparently my collar had been misrepresented to me in Market of Semris, or had been changed in my sleep, my gruel having possibly been affected by the introduction of some sedating substance.

So, again, I realized, my master had had recourse to yet another precaution to make it difficult to follow him. But, I recalled, in his flight from the environs of Market of Semris, he had spoken of “gold,” but gold only as and when it pleased him. Too, as I recalled, he engaged, at least occasionally, in speculation.

I did not know in what way I might be involved in these matters.

A man looked down at me. “You had best go,” he said. “Free women do not much care for slaves, and particularly not for pleasure slaves.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.” I then leapt up, and sped away. In my hurrying home, I remembered what he had said. He had thought of me, it seems, apparently quite naturally, as a pleasure slave!

Perhaps then I was not a mere copper-tarsk girl, after all.