Prize of Gor (73 page)

In the instant their eyes had met she saw that he seemed startled. Then he had not expected to find her here in the festival camp!

Trembling, she lifted her head again and looked at him.

He was regarding her, regarding her now as a man regards a slave, candidly, appraisingly, speculatively. She wondered if, after all, he recognized her.

His glance went slowly, lingeringly, from her small feet, to her trim ankles, to the lovely calves and thighs, to the love cradle of her, to the narrow waist, to the swelling sweetness, the vulnerable softness, of her breasts, to the soft shoulders and her white throat, now innocent of a steel circlet, to her glossy hair, now of slave length, to the face, thought beautiful, and surely exquisitely feminine, by many, and to the trembling lips, and the darkly lashed, longly lashed, gray, wide, frightened eyes.

Though she was a slave she felt her body heat and flush helplessly, being so regarded.

Did she not know her beauty was public? Had she not learned that, forcibly and clearly, in the Kettle Market in Ar, on Targo’s sales shelf?

It seemed she was being regarded as a mere, interesting, sleek animal, perhaps as a very special sort of tarsk or kaiila.

How could he look at her in that fashion? How dare he look at her in that fashion?

Then she recalled she was slave.

When again their eyes met it seemed that it might be as though he were seeing her for the first time. Again it seemed to her that he might be startled, or surprised, perhaps even astonished, looking upon her. But this was not an astonishment, not now, at seeing her here, in the camp, that she should be here, but an astonishment, it seemed, that she was now as she was, was now as he found her to be. Had she changed so much, she wondered. Perhaps he did not recognize her?

“Wine, slave!” called a fellow from another group.

“Coming, Master!” she called, and relievedly turned about, hurrying to her new summoner, mercifully breaking the spell which had held her, as an immobilized slave, before his gaze.

She made her way to her new summoner. And she moved, of course, as what she was, a slave.

She suddenly thought that perhaps she should try to walk like a free woman, stiffly, clumsily, affecting mannishness, moving straightly, striding, attempting to conceal her vulnerability and sex. But then she did not do so for she did not wish to be struck. She stumbled a bit, undecidedly, then resumed her progress toward her new master of the instant. Then, angrily, tossing her head and hair, defiantly, not looking back, wondering if he were still watching her, not knowing, putting the shames of Earth behind her, she approached her new summoner proudly, naturally, gracefully, beautifully, a summoned slave. She would show Mirus, if he were still looking, what he had lost! She was suddenly joyous, and fulfilled, in being a slave! She recalled how surprised he had seemed to be, not just seeing her here, in the camp, but seeing her as she now was. Did he think she would go for tarsk-bits now? There had been twenty-one bids on her! Surely there had been no mistaking the admiration implicit in his scrutiny when he had so openly appraised her. How natural now were her carriage, her grace, her deferentiality! Was this the consequence of her training? In one sense, no, for her training had done little more than liberate the slave within her; in another sense, her training had, of course, improved, refined, and enhanced the slave self that had longed for such tutelage. Dispositionally she had longed to submit to males, serve them and love them. Dispositionally she had longed for male dominance. Such needs, of course, are most perfectly satisfied within the master/slave relationship. This is not to claim, of course, that Goreans instituted female slavery in order to satisfy the needs of women. The origins probably lie closer to the interests and desires of imperious, unconquered men, the pleasures and utilities to be found in the ownership and mastery of such delicious creatures. And one supposes that the women prefer it this way, that the men will do with them as they please, for that is part of the strength to which they long to submit. In any event, the institution of female slavery is part of the very fabric of Gorean society. It is both historical and contemporary; it is honored in custom and tradition; it is honored in practice; it is pervasive, societally and culturally; it is familiar, recognized and unquestioned; it is ingredient in the law and enforced with all the sanctions of the law. Ellen had never expected, of course, to find herself in a society in which such an institution actually existed, in a society allied with nature rather than opposed to her. Earth had not prepared her to even entertain such a possibility. Too, of course, she had never dreamed that she would, in fact, find herself on such a world an owned, branded chattel. But here, at last, on Gor, her femininity, and deepest self, had been freed. The genetic template had always been there, fastened in her by eons of evolution, part of what made her what she was, a woman; the training, and the Gorean milieu, had merely, so to speak, freed her to be herself, had encouraged her to be herself, had required her, she willing or not, to be herself, or be fed to sleen, or cast to leech plants. Genetically, she desired to love and serve men; in the Gorean milieu she had learned ways of doing so. For example, genetically, she desired to render obeisance to men; on Gor she had learned certain conventional ways in which this might be done, such as the first and second positions of obeisance.

When Ellen had served the fellow his wine, pouring evenly, carefully, she straightened up and looked back to the other group, sitting about its fire.

Mirus was no longer there. She did not know where he had gone, doubtless about his business, perhaps in one of the tents of the camp.

She looked about herself, to see if others were about who might desire her service. She saw another slave, such as herself, some yards away, stripped, her skin partly illuminated in the firelight, also with one of the two-handled, red-figured pitchers, serving. She is pretty, thought Ellen. I think it is Renata. I wonder how many bids were put in on her.

When Ellen had poured for the fellow, she had been careful not to let her hair fall forward and brush his shoulder. She knew such things might be arousing to men, and that Gorean men, with their powerful sexual appetites, were easily aroused. If he were to cast her down between the fires and put her to his peremptory pleasure, she had little doubt but what it would be she who would be blamed. Is it not always the slave who is blamed, who must writhe beneath the whip? Had there been a sufficient number of iron belts in the camp she supposed that she might have been locked in one. She was supposed to heat until, on the block, she would be pathetically, uncontrollably needful. Had he been her master, in private compartments, she would not have hesitated to permit such an inadvertence, or she might have tied the loose bondage knot in her hair, on the left, as a mute plea for attention. “Serving wine,” although it will usually have its obvious meaning, is commonly used as a euphemism on Gor for serving the pleasure of a master. “Has he had you serve him wine yet?” one girl might ask another. “Wine, Master?” is a question which might be put by a slave to her master, or to her master’s guests, if she has been made available to them. Another example of this idiom is found in phrases such as, say, “Your slave begs to serve you wine” or “The slave begs to serve her master wine.” There are also, differing from city to city, rituals connected with this sort of thing, as when the slave kneels, kisses the cup, and then proffers it to the master, with two hands, arms extended, head down between her arms. Sometimes the cup is first warmed at the breasts, for Goreans commonly drink wine warm, or pressed meaningfully against the slave’s lower belly, the hard rim of the cup pressed inward, severely, against her yielding flesh. These rituals, as noted, differ from city to city. Also, of course, masters may differ, as well, and each will, if he wishes, train his slaves to his pleasure in this matter, as in other matters.

“Ellen,” said a slave.

“Renata?” asked Ellen.

“Yes,” said the girl, suddenly, rather pleased. It was the slave Ellen had seen earlier, yards away, serving in the half darkness. Ellen knew her. She was red-haired. She had been close to Ellen in the coffle for days, and, sometimes, at night, in their chains, between the stakes, they had whispered to one another. She had also been in the same exhibition cage, and they had been in ankle-coffle together for the earlier bathing. She had been ‘Auta’ before, but the scribe had not cared for that name, and had given her the name ‘Renata’. So now she was Renata. She liked this name, but was not yet accustomed to responding to it. To be sure, slaves learn quickly to respond to the names given them by their masters.

“Do you have much wine left?” asked Renata.

“Not much,” said Ellen. “I must return to the vat for more.”

“I would go now,” said Renata. “There is not much left in the vat.”

“Ah!” said Ellen. “Thank you — Renata.”

“It is nothing,” said Renata.

Ellen did not want to be caught with an empty pitcher and the vat empty, perhaps for Ehn, even an Ahn, until its supply might be replenished. She could wait near the vat on the other hand, until it was once more full. No one could be angry about that. It was not as though someone had sent her for wine and she had been dilatory in returning. And, of course, she had no access to the other vats in the camp, for they were guarded jealously by their own vat masters, with their own assigned slaves.

And so Ellen returned to the vat, stopping on the way to serve two men.

She wondered if Mirus had recognized her. She was sure he had, from the first glance. But then he had looked upon her as though she might be a complete novelty to him, an astonishment to him, a totally unknown, lovely slave. Perhaps he had thought he recognized her, and had, but then, later, thought that he had been mistaken, that the slave he saw could not possibly be she for whom he had originally taken her?

Could I have changed so much, Ellen asked herself. Could I have become so different, and so completely a slave?

“Ah, Ellen!” called the portly vat master, one of the caste of vintners. “One can scarcely scrape the bottom of the vat! These loafing tarsks drink like desert kaiila! Hurry to the sutlers! Tell them to trundle a new cask to the vat of Callimachus!”

Ellen stood there, clutching her pitcher. She regarded the vintner with dismay.

She did not want to make her way to the sutlers for that way took her into the darkness, and into the tented areas, closer to the walls of the city. Too, if she went directly, it might take her near the crates containing the strange beasts that had terrorized her, even within their confinements.

“Hurry!” said the vintner. “Do not just stand there! Run!”

“Yes, Master!” cried Ellen, frightened.

“Stop!” he cried.

“Master?” inquired Ellen.

“Leave the pitcher, stupid girl!” he called.

Confused, frightened, she put the pitcher on the bench near the vat, where others already reposed.

She suddenly fled to Callimachus, the vintner, the vat master, and fell to her knees before him. “Might not another slave, a swifter slave, a more beautiful slave, better accomplish this errand, Master?” she inquired.

Ellen was not eager to leave the fires of the festival camp.

“I have already sent Louise,” he said. “She is not yet back!”

“Perhaps she will return soon, Master,” said Ellen. “Surely a slave better suited to this errand than I might be found.”

“So the stupid little slave wants the lash!” he cried.

“No, Master!” cried Ellen.

“Up!” he cried. “Run! Run like the kaiila!”

And so Ellen sprang to her feet and hurried toward the darkness.

“Stop!” cried the vat master. “That way, that way!” he cried, pointing.

“Yes, Master!” she wept.

He would have none of an indirect, or circuitous, route. What was it to him if she must fear for her life in the midst of beasts?

They are confined, she told herself. There is no danger. And that is truly the shortest, most direct route. If I were to go differently I might become lost. I might be apprehended by guardsmen. Would they believe my story, she wondered, that she was on an errand? At the least she might spend the night swathed in coarse ropes, suspended from a hook in their guardhouse. And what would be her punishment from the Cosian slave masters, for her foolishness, ignorance and confusion? And what if they thought she had tried to escape? As she was a barbarian, they might think her that stupid. She did not wish to be crippled, or fed to sleen. There is no danger, she reminded herself. The beasts are confined.

And so Ellen sped toward the city of Brundisium.

She hurried among the fires. She felt men reach out and grasp for her, but she sped on. She passed dancing circles where sinuous slaves, lot numbers on their left breasts, swayed their beauty before lusty brutes who might soon bid upon them.

She had a reasonably clear idea where lay the temporary stockade of the sutlers, and its direction had been reconfirmed for her by the vat master but moments ago.

She must seek out the dealers of wine amongst them, and deliver the order, to be brought to the vat of Callimachus of Cos, to whose tablet it would be marked. Ultimately, however, in theory, the cost of the wine, as tabulated, and the cost of its distribution by such as Callimachus, was to be borne by the state of Cos, as the festival camp was organized on her behalf. To be sure, Ellen had heard it rumored that she, Cos, might suggest that its donation, that of the wine, and the coverage of associated expenses, would be a welcome, suitable gesture of gratitude on the part of Brundisium for the many benefits she had received at the hands of Cos, and the alliance of the two powers, and such. But such concerns were not those of a slave. And, in the end, she supposed, Brundisium, in turn, might decide that this benevolence might be best exacted of her merchant caste, and particularly of those dealing in wines. But here, again, these were not concerns for such as she, a slave.

In a short time Ellen was beyond the fires and among the tents, most of which were dark. She was taking the most direct route, but, as yet, had not entered into the vicinity of the crates of certain beasts, those the glimpses of which and the roars and cries of which had caused her considerable alarm. She stumbled twice, and once struck into a box. Putting out her hands she felt, nearby, a tharlarion saddle. Once, running, she nearly stepped on a chained, sleeping sleen. Its sudden rising up and vicious snarl terrified her. If she had struck against it her leg might have been ripped from her with one savage snap of the jaws. She fled about it, further into the darkness. She began to cry. She stopped. She was now afraid to run. Why was there not more light? Torches, lanterns, lamps, anything? Surely at places in the camp, even away from the festival fires, there was some light. But very little here. Men might find their way among the tents with the aid of a lantern, a torch, or such, but she had no such device. She put out her hand and touched something that loomed wall-like in the darkness, canvas. She turned about. She cried out, softly, piteously, her progress suddenly arrested by a tent rope, taut, running diagonally downward from its pole to its peg, anchored in the dirt, some feet from the tent. She put our her hands in the darkness, to feel her way.