Swordsmen of Gor (12 page)

There I thrust her back against a small tree and, pulling her arms behind her, fastened her wrists together, behind the tree, so that she stood before me, fastened in place.

She pulled at the ropes a bit, futilely.

She looked at me, angrily. “Let me go!” she said.

“Why were you following me?” I asked.

“I was not following you!” she said.

“You are aware that you can be seen easily, from the shore?” I said.

She looked about, frightened. “Yes?” she said.

“There may be intruders about,” I said. “I saw several disembarked yesterday. Pertinax tells me that there have been many of them. Some may still be about. Others may arrive.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“I thought you might,” I said.

“This is Gor,” she said. “Do not leave me here, a woman, bound as I am!”

“Then you acknowledge yourself a woman?” I said.

“Of course!” she said.

“And you are not a man?”

“No,” she said, “I am not a man — I suppose.”

“You suppose?” I asked.

“I am not a man,” she said.

“You are quite different?” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said, jerking at her bonds.

“Perhaps?” I inquired.

“Yes,” she said. “I am quite different!”

“I wonder if you understand that,” I said. “That you are radically different, wholly and absolutely different, wonderfully different.”

“Wonderfully different?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “but you have not yet learned your womanhood.”

“I hate being a woman!” she said.

“That is because you have not yet been put at the feet of men,” I said.

“Untie me,” she said.

“I like you as you are,” I said.

“Untie me!” she said.

“Free yourself,” I said.

“I cannot!” she said.

“Then you will remain as you are,” I said.

“I was not following you,” she said. “I was fetching water, I lost my way.”

“And forgot containers, in which water might be brought?”

She was silent.

“Perhaps, rather,” I said, “you wished merely to look upon the sea, in the early morning, to hear the gulls, and such.”

“Yes,” she said, “that is it!”

“But you feared to be caught, unengaged in labors, lest Pertinax, your master, beat you for dalliance?”

“You have found me out,” she said, sadly. “Please do not inform my master.”

“Your severe master?”

“Yes,” she said, head down, “I do not wish to be beaten.”

“You have never been beaten in your life,” I said.

She looked up, angrily.

“It is hard to know whether there is a man in Pertinax or not,” I said. “If there is, it is hard to see, for the spineless urt.”

A flicker of a smile crossed her countenance.

How she despised him!

Women despise men for weakness, and fear them for strength.

“And I doubt you have ever looked on anything,” I said, “without considering how it might be put to your advantage.”

“That is not true!” she said.

“Perhaps when you were younger,” I said.

“Let me go!” she said.

“You are a mercenary, of sorts,” I said.

“I am a mere, worthless slave,” she said, humbly, “only a Gorean slave girl.”

“We are going to have a talk,” I said.

“Release me!” she demanded.

I stood back, and, for a time, regarded her.

“Do not look at me like that!” she said.

“Why should I not do so?” I inquired.

“It, it makes me uncomfortable!” she said.

To be sure, the tunic was a bit long, and heavy, but her arms, at any rate, were bared.

“Please,” she said.

“A slave,” I said, “should hope that she would be so looked upon, and should hope that she would find favor in a man’s eyes.”

“Beast!” she said.

“You are a slave, are you not?” I asked.

“Certainly!” she said.

“And your master is Pertinax?” I said.

“— Yes!” she said.

“What is your brand?” I asked.

“I am not branded!” she said. “That is a cruel thing to do, and Pertinax, my master, has not had it done to me.”

“A slave should be branded,” I said.

“I am not branded,” she said.

“Do I have your word on that?” I asked.

“Certainly!” she said.

I then went to her tunic, and, on the left side, lifted the tunic to the hip.

“Monster!” she wept, and pulled at the ropes.

The common branding site is the left thigh, just under the hip. The common tunic, of course, covers the brand. A side-slit tunic makes the brand easily detectible, and certain other garments, as well, for example the common camisk.

“Do not!” she said, pulling away.

Some masters, after all, are left-handed.

“Beast, beast!” she said.

I smoothed down the tunic, on both sides, and she pressed back, against the slim trunk of the tree, and turned her head, angrily, and looked to the side.

“You are not branded,” I said, “at least not obviously.”

“I told you that,” she said, angrily.

“I thought you might be lying,” I said.

“I was not,” she said.

“A slave should be branded,” I said. “It is an explicit recommendation of Merchant Law.”

“My master is too kind to brand me,” she said.

“It is not a matter of kindness,” I said. “It is simply something to be done with a slave, routinely.”

“Well, I am not branded,” she said, turning to look at me, angrily.

“You are sure you are a slave?” I asked.

“— Certainly,” she said. “If you look closely, perhaps you can see that I am in a collar!”

“Do you like your collar?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said. “It is humiliating, degrading, and hateful.”

“Is it uncomfortable?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Most slave girls love their collars,” I said. “Many would not trade them for the world.”

“I see,” she said.

“They are certificates of their attractiveness, that they are of interest to men, that they have been found worth collaring.”

“I see,” she said.

“Collar!” I snapped.

“What?” she said.

She had not lifted her head, exposing her throat and the encircling collar.

I approached her and examined the collar. “This collar is not engraved,” I said. “Should it not identify you as the property of Pertinax, of Port Kar?”

“It is a plain collar,” she said.

“Doubtless it is locked,” I said.

“Certainly,” she said. “I am a slave.”

I turned the collar, and tested the lock, and then turned it, again, so that the lock was at the back of the neck.

“You see!” she sniffed.

That she seemed so calm about this convinced me that she had access to the key, that either it would be within the hut, or, perhaps, more likely, on her person. It seemed clear to me, from what I had seen of her relationship with Pertinax, her supposed master, he would not have it.

I was reasonably certain she would be terrified if the key were not in her own possession.

In the hut, it might be available to others.

I supposed, then, that the key would be about her person, somewhere.

“What are you doing?” she said.

“Here,” I said, “at the hem.”

“Do not!” she wept, trying to pull away.

It was a moment’s work, with the point of my knife, to free the key, which I then held before her.

She averted her head, in misery.

I wondered if she knew the penalties to which a Gorean slave might be subject, for such a crime.

I supposed not.

“Come back!” she cried.

I had turned about and walked down, toward the shore, and stood there, my ankles in the lapping water.

“No!” she begged.

I spun the key far out into the waves.

“No, no!” she called.

I then returned to where I had left her.

“The collar is locked!” she said. “I cannot take it off!”

“That is common with female slaves,” I said.

“You do not understand!” she hissed.

“What do I not understand?” I asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” she said, sullenly.

“Do not fear,” I said. “With proper tools the collar may be easily removed. Any metal worker, with the proper tools, could manage the business without difficulty.”

“Beast!” she said.

“How does it feel to be collared, truly collared?” I asked.

“I hate you!” she said.

“Now that you are truly collared,” I said, “I think certain other adjustments would be in order.”

“Stop!” she said.

But, tied, as she was, she could not deter my work, and I carefully, without being extreme, or excessive, in the matter, shortened the skirt of her tunic in such a way that it would be more typical in length for that of a Gorean slave girl.

“Beast, monster!” she hissed.

“I do not think Pertinax will mind,” I said. “And if he wishes to shorten it further, to make it truly ‘slave short,’ or ‘slave delightful,’ he is free to do so.”

“Do you not understand!” she exclaimed. “If someone sees me like this, they will take me for a slave!”

“You are a slave, are you not?” I asked.

“— Yes, yes,” she whispered.

“And I did not slit the skirt at the left thigh,” I said, “so Goreans will assume it is branded. If it were discerned that it lacked the brand, they would doubtless soon see that the oversight, one scarcely pardonable, was remedied.”

In her distress I do not think she even understood what I was saying.

I then fastened my hands at the neckline of the tunic.

“No,” she said. “No!”

“Why not?” I asked.

“I am not a slave!” she said. “I am a free woman!”

“Perhaps you are a slave and do not even know you are a slave,” I said.

“No, no!” she said. “I am free, free!”

I did not remove my hands from the neckline of the tunic.

“Speak!” I said.

“I was hired!” she said.

“You and Pertinax,” I said.

“Yes!” she said.

“To whom are you in fee?” I inquired.

“Men,” she said, “anonymous. I was approached on Earth, and it was I who recruited he whom you know as Pertinax.”

“Your Gorean is acceptable,” I said.

“We were given weeks of intensive training on Earth,” she said, “and more on Gor.”

“Continue,” I said.

“I was given a retainer of one hundred thousand dollars,” she said, “and so, too, was Pertinax, and we are to receive one million dollars each at the accomplishment of our mission.”

“The deposit was seemingly made to a given bank, one selectively chosen, and you were furnished with what appeared to be documentation of this,” I said. “But I am confident the money was never in actuality deposited.”

She regarded me, wildly.

“To be sure,” I said, “you were doubtless given funds, which led you to believe the business was in earnest.”

“More than five thousand dollars,” she said.

“I see,” I said.

“I shall collect the rest when I am returned to Earth,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“I shall return to Earth shall I not?” she said.

“You are on Gor, girl,” I said, “and on Gor you will remain.”

“No,” she said. “No!”

“And there will be others,” I said, “as greedy, and foolish, as you.”

Wide were her eyes.

“You are, doubtless unknowingly, a minion of a life form known as Kurii,” I said. “Kurii, however one views them, have a sense of honor, a sense of what is appropriate, of what is proper. I assure you they have little respect for traitresses.”

“I do not believe you!” she said.

“As you wish,” I said.

“What would be my fate?” she asked.

“You are nicely faced, and figured,” I said.

“No!” she said.

“It would amuse Kurii,” I said, “that you would sell for a handful of coins.”

“You are trying to frighten me,” she said.

“You were not to be trusted,” I said. “Why should you expect that others were to be trusted?”

“I will not be frightened!” she insisted.

“When the iron is put to your thigh,” I said, “you will know what you are.”

“No!” she said.

“Then you will finally be worth something. Someone will get some good out of you.”

“No!” she said.

“Continue to improve your Gorean,” I said. “You may be well whipped for errors.”

“Let me go!” she said.

“But we have not finished our chat,” I said.

“Release me,” she said. “What if someone should see me as I am?”

“What is your role here?” I asked.

“Surely you do not expect me to speak,” she said.

“As you wish,” I said.

My hands tightened at the neckline of her garment.

“Do not!” she said. “You are of the warriors. You have codes. I am free, a free woman! I am not to be touched! I am to be treated with respect and dignity! I am not a slave! I am a free woman!”

I removed my hands from her garment, and stepped back.

“Now untie me,” she said.

I left her bound.

She did have nice legs. Such women put a strain on the codes.

“I think,” I said, “that you are indeed a free woman, but, you must remember, you are one of Earth, not Gor. There is a considerable difference. For example, you have no Home Stone.”

“What is a Home Stone?” she said.

“Surely you have heard of them,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “but I do not understand them.”

“I am not surprised,” I said.

She pulled at the bonds.

“Do not look at me like that!” she said.

“Do you not know how appealing to a man is the sight of a bound woman?” I asked. “Masters not unoften bind their slaves and order them to squirm. The slave then is well reminded of her dependency and helplessness. And the master, for his part, now knows the slave is wholly his, prostrate at his mercy, and he finds this pleasant, and stimulating. Too, the woman is aroused, as well, and knowing herself helpless, and wholly in the master’s power, is soon beside herself with readiness. This has much to do with dominance/submissive ratios, which are pervasive in nature. Too, much can be accomplished along these lines by merely dressing the woman as one pleases, and seeing to her obedience and service. The master/slave relationship is extensive and complex. It is not all a matter of putting the slave to one’s pleasure, though, to be sure, without that it is nothing.”