Swordsmen of Gor (10 page)

“Men,” he said.

“Priest-Kings? Kurii?” I asked. Certainly Priest-Kings knew the coordinates for the landing of the ship of Peisistratus, but, so, too, it seemed possible, did Kurii. Certainly the coordinates had been transmitted through Kurii to Peisistratus.

“I know nothing of Priest-Kings and Kurii,” said Pertinax. “Are they not mythical?”

“No,” I said.

“Men,” repeated Pertinax.

“Men who serve Priest-Kings, or Kurii?” I asked.

“Men,” he said. “I know nothing more.”

“I think you do not fear the intruders in the forest, those who come in ships,” I said. “I think you understand them.”

He said nothing.

“Explain to me the tarns,” I said.

“They are from Thentis,” he said, “most of them, some from elsewhere.”

Thentis is a high Gorean city, east and north of Ko-ro-ba. It is famed for its tarn flocks.

One thinks of “Thentis, Famed for her Tarn Flocks,” rather as one thinks of “Glorious Ar,” of “Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning,” of “Port Kar, Jewel of Gleaming Thassa,” and so on.

“How do you know they were not mounted?” I asked.

“They are raised, but are young, and not trained,” he said. “Few but hardy tarnsters, or tarnsmen themselves, would dare to approach them in their present state. They are linked together by long ropes. They are being delivered to a rendezvous, in the forest.”

“Near the Alexandra,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, startled.

“There is a mystery here,” I said. “What is its nature?”

“I know little of it,” said Pertinax, “but I can link you with those who do.”

“As you did not discourse with me of these things,” I said, “I gathered that there were others who could, for whom you were waiting.”

“They are in the forest,” he said. “They will not be coming here. I will take you to them, in two days.”

“Your slave,” I said, “is badly in need of discipline.”

“As she has been treated this evening,” he said, “I think she is more aware than hitherto that she is a female.”

“It is unfortunate,” I said, “that some women must be reminded of that.”

“She thinks of herself as a man,” he said.

“She is mistaken,” I said. “Her thinking must be corrected.”

One could see clearly she was woman, even if she did not understand that, except perhaps in some peripheral sense.

Certainly she was nicely shaped. And I thought she might, given some instruction, and a sense of what it was to be a slave, sell well.

It is interesting, I thought, the Book of Woman. How few have opened that book. Is the seal, I wondered, so securely fastened? Is it truly so hard to break? How many women themselves have feared to open that book and read what is written there. But some do open the book, with whatever trepidation, and read what is written there. And then, page by page, they peruse the ancient text, and in it, ever more deeply, page by turning page, discover themselves, and I think there is no final page for that book, for the book is without an end, for it is the Book of Woman.

“She is from Earth, is she not?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“As are you?”

“Yes,” he said. “But so, too, I gather, are you, and your slave. Your accents.”

“English,” I said.

“It seemed so,” he said.

“You are Canadian, or American?” I surmised.

“Canadian,” he said.

“Your slave,” I said, “is Canadian?”

“No,” he said. “She is American, from the eastern seaboard of America.”

“An excellent area for slaving, I understand,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I would not know.”

I recalled Peisistratus, who had sampled women from various nations and continents, had spoken highly of several areas, Canada, Australia, England, France, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, Hawaii, the southwest of the United States, its west coast, its eastern seaboard, and such. It was pleasant, he had remarked, to take beautiful, highly intelligent, sophisticated, civilized women, so often unhappy, some even stupidly at war with their sex, and teach them their collars.

“She is from New York City,” said Pertinax.

“Not originally,” I said. “Her accent is different. I lived there for a time.”

“Then from elsewhere,” he said.

“An immigrant to that metropolis,” I said, “perhaps from Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, or somewhere.”

“I do not know,” he said.

“Perhaps one determined and ambitious, and one not too scrupulous, one intending to achieve wealth and success at any cost.”

He smiled. “Yes,” he said.

“As many others,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And now,” said I, “she is in a collar on Gor.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But it seems she does not yet know the meaning of her collar,” I said.

“No,” he smiled.

“Teach it to her,” I said.

“You do not understand,” he said. “She is my superior. There are riches behind her. It is she who recruited me.”

“A slave has such power?” I asked.

“It would seem so,” he said.

“In two days, as I understand it, you are prepared to unravel this mystery for me?”

“We will leave in two days,” he said. “There is to be a rendezvous. I will conduct you to the place.”

“You think you will then be through with the matter?” I asked.

“Surely,” he said.

“You are entangled here,” I said.

He regarded me, uneasily, startled.

“No,” he said.

“We shall see,” I said.

“Should we not free Constantina?” he asked.

“Leave her where she is,” I said. “Let her squirm in the darkness and leaves, for a time. It will do her good.”

“Is that appropriate?” he asked.

“Quite,” I said, “as she is a slave.”

“Perhaps she will work herself free,” said Pertinax.

A small sound of mirth escaped Cecily.

Pertinax looked at her, puzzled.

“She was bound by a warrior,” I explained.

“I see,” said Pertinax.

“She might, of course,” I said, “be stolen, say, by some of the brigands to whom you have occasionally alluded, or, say, be dragged away, by a sleen, to be eaten in some secluded place.”

“We must bring her in, instantly,” said Pertinax, “and free her!”

“Shortly,” I said. “You know who I am, I take it.”

“You are a tarnsman,” he said, “one known as Tarl Cabot.”

“You have read my girl’s collar?” I inquired.

“No,” he said.

“You have been waiting for me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said. “That is of less interest, I take it, than the fact that I have ridden.”

“That you are a tarnsman, yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“Master!” said Cecily. “I hear a stirring outside.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is a sleen.”

“Master!” she cried.

“It has been there for a time,” I said.

“I cannot go out,” said Pertinax, turning white. “I am no hunter, no sleen master. I am no match for a sleen. It would kill me!”

“Do not be concerned,” I said. “I saw it when I went out. The sleen is a tenacious hunter. It clearly had another trail in which it was interested. At the most it will investigate your Constantina, poking her a bit with its snout, or such. In its hunt she will be no more than an inconvenience or distraction. It might not even be hungry. It is probably gone by now.”

“Bring her in,” said Pertinax. “I beg you!”

“She is only a slave,” I reminded him.

“Please!” he said.

“To be sure,” I said, “she will not be worth much on the block if she has been mauled by a sleen.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“I saw the beast,” I said. “I watched it. There is no danger.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“It was otherwise occupied,” I said.

“There might be another,” he said.

“The sleen is territorial,” I said. “It is unlikely there would be another in the vicinity.”

“Please! Please!” he said.

“Very well,” I said. I then left the hut and went to where I had left the girl. The sleen was gone, as I had anticipated. I could see a little, from one of the moons, which was ascendant, but not yet full. The leaves about her were muchly crushed, which suggested she had done, at least at first, a good deal of squirming and, as she could, rolling about. I also saw sleen tracks near her, and could smell sleen on the leaves. She had been unable to call attention to what she must have deemed her harrowing predicament, given the gag. One might have heard something if one were quite close to her. When I came to her she had fainted. I picked her up, and carried her into the hut, and Pertinax, gratefully, closed and bolted the door. I removed the bonds and gag from the unconscious girl and replaced the binding fiber in my pouch, and left the gag out, to dry. She murmured then, in misery, and, half-conscious, huddled, trembling, on the floor of the hut.

“Let us see more of her legs,” I suggested.

“No!” cried Pertinax.

I thrust up the tunic so that I could see more of her legs. She was nicely legged, but one expects that in a slave.

The girl whimpered, but, terrified, made no effort to readjust her tunic. It was as though she realized that various things might be done to her as others might please, and that she must abide their will.

Pertinax regarded her with visible excitement. Had he never seen a slave?

“It is late,” I suggested. “Perhaps we should retire.”

“There are blankets,” said Pertinax.

“Good,” I said.

“And there are two mattresses, filled with grass,” he said.

“Why do you have two?” I asked.

Pertinax did not respond.

“Cecily and I,” I said, “if you have no objection, will share this mattress.”

“Certainly,” said Pertinax.

“Surely you should have the mattress, Master,” said Cecily, “and I should sleep at your feet.”

What she had in mind was doubtless a common arrangement in a Gorean dwelling, of which she had been apprised by other slaves while in the Pleasure Cylinder associated with the Steel World from which we had recently departed. It is common for the slave to be slept at the foot of the master’s couch, chained there to a slave ring. But in such a situation she is likely to have at least a mat and, commonly, deep, luxurious furs on which to recline. Indeed, the slave is often put to service on such furs, which are commonly spoken of as “love furs.” If she has been displeasing, of course, she may be slept naked at the foot of the couch, on her chain, on the bare tiles or stones of the floor. That is not so pleasant, and, of course, it gives the slave some time to consider how she might endeavor to be more pleasing to the master. It is a sign of favor with the master for a slave to be allowed to share the surface of the couch. On the other hand, I suspect it is commonly done, except perhaps in a house with many slaves. Certainly it is pleasant to have a slave at one’s side, of whom one may make use at any Ahn of the night or morning. It is a cusp in a slave’s bondage when she is first permitted to the surface of the master’s couch.

“Later, perhaps,” I said. “I have not had you in more than twenty Ahn.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, pleased.

Pertinax crouched down beside Constantina.

She lay still, as though frightened, disbelieving, or numb.

“Let me help you to your couch,” he said.

“No,” I said, standing up, approaching them. “You, Pertinax, are master. It is you who will have the couch, and not the slave. She will sleep at the foot of the couch, on the floor, or outside.”

“Surely not,” protested Pertinax.

I nudged the slave with my foot, not gently, and she reacted, and whimpered. “Do you understand, slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Master.”

“Then crawl to your master,” I said, “kiss his feet, and beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of his couch.”

Constantina, on all fours, head down, her long hair to the floor, crawled to Pertinax, bent down, and kissed his feet. “I beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of your couch, Master,” she said.

“Ai!” cried Pertinax, half in consternation, half in delight.

“Well?” I asked Pertinax. “A slave awaits an answer to her petition.”

“You may do so,” said Pertinax, his voice unsteady.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, and went to her place.

Cecily drew away her tunic, like the beautiful, uninhibited, shameless little animal she was, and knelt beside the mattress, at its lower left side, and lifted it a bit, and kissed it. She looked at me, expectantly, hopefully, to learn my will, and I reached down and seized her by the hair and, as she winced, in pain and delight, I drew her beside me on the mattress.

Even in the Pleasure Cylinder the slave fires had been well lit in Cecily’s lovely, helpless, vulnerable little belly, and she had soon found herself, as is common with female slaves, their victim and prisoner.

How the flames of their needs goad slaves to the feet of masters, even to the feet of those they may loathe.

I did not begrudge Cecily her ecstasies, nor would I hinder them. Some masters try to shame their slaves for what they cannot help, indeed for responses for which the master himself may have been significantly responsible, particularly if they have known them as lofty, frigid free women, now, by their will, reduced to begging animals. That, however, seems to me cruel. It does help the slave, of course, to see herself as a slave, in misery and shame, as she recalls her former contempt for such things in slaves. Now she herself understands what it is to be in the throes of being mastered.

And at a given point she throws her head back and says, “Yes, yes!” to the collar, and is whole.

Cecily, in her yieldings, was muchly pleasured, and her master, too, if it must be known, was well pleased with his slave.

Constantina had risen to her knees and was looking, hollow-eyed, dry-eyed, across the hut at us. There was a little light, from the embers of the fire.

“She is a slave, a slave!” said Constantina.

“Yes, yes, yes,” gasped Cecily, beside herself with collar rapture.

“Disgusting! Disgusting!” said Constantina.

“Pertinax,” I said, “take your slave, and put her to use.”

“No, no!” said Pertinax, frightened.