Swordsmen of Gor (21 page)

Cecily stood docile, hooded and bound, on the leash, her head lowered. She knew it would be done with her as masters pleased, and she, a slave, wished to be done with as masters pleased.

I located a slender, supple branch, and broke it off.

“Oh!” cried Constantina, stung across the back of the thighs.

“Now,” I said, picking up the leash, “let us be on our way.”

We then continued our journey.

Chapter Seven

WE REACH A RESERVE;

THE SIGNS VANISH;

WE WILL WAIT

After an Ahn we came to the edge of a deep ditch, some twelve feet or so deep, and as wide. It extended for some hundreds of yards to the left and right. We could not see the corners, where it would turn and begin to enclose a large rectangle of ground.

It was a relief to have come through the tangles of our earlier passage. We had been moving largely eastward.

I stood at the edge of the ditch.

“Do not move closer,” I told Constantina and Cecily. “There is a drop here.”

I thought the reserve, what I could see of it, was awesomely impressive.

“Have you been here before?” I asked Pertinax.

“No,” he said.

“The signs continue,” I observed.

A wand was nearby, across the ditch and to the left. A ribbon dangled from it. I could see another wand or two, beyond it, to its left, along the ditch, and another to my right, perhaps a hundred yards away. I supposed such wands and ribbons, at intervals, lined the edges of the ditch.

“This is clearly a reserve,” I said.

“Clearly,” he agreed.

“It may be one of Port Kar,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“The ribbons will tell,” I said. They were green. That suggested Port Kar. Thassa, the sea, is generally green. Indeed, pirates commonly painted their ships green, to make them less discernible at sea, certainly while under oars, with the masts lowered. Colors in the Gorean high cultures, as in most cultures, have their connotations or symbolisms. Too, in the Gorean high culture, certain colors tend to be associated with certain castes, for example green with the Physicians, red, or scarlet, with the Warriors, yellow with the Builders, blue with the Scribes, white with the Initiates, and so on.

“This is very impressive,” I said. “I think I shall unhood Cecily for a moment. You may unhood your slave, too, briefly, if you wish.”

“How beautiful it is!” said Cecily.

“Unhood me!” demanded the Lady Constantina.

“Apparently,” I said to Pertinax, “your slave wishes one or more additional, corrective strokes of the switch.”

“No!” said the Lady Constantina.

She started to move awkwardly, turning about, pulling at her bound wrists, apprehensive, frightened, bewildered and helpless in the hood.

Was I behind her, again, with a switch?

“Be careful,” I said to her. “There is a drop.”

She stood very still then, whimpering.

“Hold still,” said Pertinax. “I will unhood you.”

“Wait,” I said to Pertinax. “I heard no suitable request.”

Constantina straightened her body, angrily. “Please,” she said, to Pertinax, in a voice venomous with irony, “unhood me,” adding, “—
Master
,” in a tone of voice which was more than anything else an insult.

“Of course,” he said, fumbling with the strings at her neck.

She would not have addressed me, I was sure, as she did Pertinax. Her contempt for him was in no way disguised. But then he was, of course, her employee, so to speak.

I was angry but would not interfere. She was, after all, a free woman. A slave who had spoken so to a Gorean master would have been instantly subjected to discipline, would have been instantly punished, and grievously, if not slain. She would never again dare to so address her master. In moments, sobbing, she would be at his feet, begging forgiveness. The slave addresses her master, and all free persons, with deference. She is a slave. She does not wish to die.

“It is beautiful,” I said, agreeing with Cecily.

“The prospect is not unpleasant,” said Constantina, freed of the hood.

The hair of both girls was damp, from the hood.

We stood before a reserve.

The trees were spaced, yards apart, and were lofty. There was a solemnity about the vista, as with colonnades stretching into far shadows, a world of living columns, with capitals of shimmering foliage.

They were Tur trees.

These are used mostly for strakes, keels, beams, and planking.

Needle trees, of which there were none here, are usually used for masts. They are a softer wood, and, less rigid, more flexible, are more inclined to bend with the wind and the yard, and so, under certain conditions, violent conditions, less likely to snap. Too, the wood is lighter and this is useful in the raising and lowering of masts. The yards, too, as would be supposed, are commonly of needle wood. Needle trees, too, come to maturity more rapidly than Tur trees, and may thus be the sooner and the more frequently harvested.

“Rehood your slave,” I said to Pertinax.

I was attending to this chore with Cecily.

Constantina jerked angrily, futilely, at her bound wrists and cast Pertinax a look of fury, which seemed to dare him to comply with my instruction.

“Now,” I said to Pertinax.

“Do you think it is necessary?” he asked.

“Do it,” I said.

“Very well,” he said.

Constantina’s angry features disappeared within the folds of the hood.

“Oh!” she said.

Pertinax had jerked the strings on the hood against the back of her neck, and had then knotted them snugly under her chin. She then knew herself nicely hooded. I think Pertinax enjoyed that. I thought there might be a man in him, somewhere. Indeed, I suspected he might now be ready to learn how to handle a slave leash, and I supposed that he would not be displeased to have Constantina on such a leash, a slave leash. Too, to get the girls across the ditch, it would help not to have them on a common leash.

So I cut the leash at the center, so that we had, in effect, two leashes. I then put Cecily over my shoulder, her head to the rear, as a slave is carried.

I was pleased to see Pertinax draw Constantina to him, on the leash.

I think she was surprised.

Perhaps she thought it was I.

When a girl is hooded it is hard for her to know who has her leash.

For example, a girl might be taken out, hooded, leashed, by one fellow, and, later, certain arrangements having previously taken place, arrangements unknown to her, she may, when she is knelt and unhooded, find herself, on her leash, looking up into the eyes of a stranger.

She has been sold.

To be sure, I supposed that Pertinax might at present be still somewhat diffident about leash-mastering a female.

Doubtless there was still much of Earth in him.

He could learn, of course.

I supposed a woman could usually tell, even in a hood, from the way the leash was used, whether or not she was in the custody of one accustomed to the leashing and handling of a woman.

When a woman is put through slave paces she is not unoften on a leash. Sometimes masters have contests with their girls in such a fashion. The winning girl often receives a sweet, the loser, often, two or three strokes of the switch, to encourage her to do better next time.

It is not unusual to leash a slave, for tethering her, for taking her on a walk, and such.

Slaves, on the leashes of their masters, are a common sight in the high cities, in the streets, on the bridges, and so on.

On a leash, a slave is nicely displayed.

“The signs continue,” I said. “We will enter the reserve.”

Pertinax made ready to lift Constantina in his arms.

“Do you think she is a free woman?” I inquired.

He looked at me, puzzled.

“See how I carry Cecily,” I said.

She was over my left shoulder, her head to the rear.

A slave is not likely to be accorded the dignities appropriate to a free woman. The free woman is to be carried, if carried at all, gently, respectfully, nestled in one’s arms. For example, one may not wish her to risk soiling the hem of her rich robes, or the brocade of her slippers. Sometimes a free woman will wait, before, say, a rivulet or puddle, even a small one, to be carried to safety by some lucky fellow. The manner of carrying the slave is usually quite different. She is carried as property, as though she might be no more than produce, and her head is to the rear so that, even were she not hooded, she cannot see where she is being carried. That is for the master to know, for the slave to learn. And so, in this way, even in such a small way, even in such a trivial way, we discover yet another way in which a distinction may be drawn between the slave and the free woman. In the manner of small fordings and such the slave will usually wade after the master, the water perhaps to her knees. Free women, of course, may own female slaves, whom they often treat with great cruelty. For example, if a female slave, owned by a free woman, dares to look at a male, she may be whipped. And it is not unusual, in these small fordings, and such, of which we spoke, for the free woman to put her slave into the mire, and use her body as a bridge, in this way protecting her garments and the daintiness of her feet and ankles.

In a moment then Pertinax had scooped up the Lady Constantina and had her over his shoulder, her head to the rear.

In this position even an unbound free woman is helpless.

I had seen more than one so carried, captured in war. She can do little but scream and pound her small fists futilely on a fellow’s back, squirm, kick her legs, and such.

I then, with some difficulty, descended into the ditch, and, then, on the other side, slowly, step by carefully placed step, made my way to the level. I was followed, momentarily, by Pertinax. Some dirt slipped, but he was then at my side. The declivity, though deep, was not steep. The ditch was not intended for defense. It was primarily a boundary, but it did, too, discourage the entry of animals into the reserve.

We put the girls on their feet, safely away from the edge of the ditch, into which they might have had a nasty tumble.

“There is the next sign,” said Pertinax, pointing.

“Yes,” I said.

I went to the nearest wand, and held up the green ribbon, which was dangling from it. I held it in two hands. As I had supposed, there was printing on the ribbon.

“Can you read this?” I asked Pertinax.

“Not well,” he said. “What does it say?”

“It is a simple legend,” I said. “It says ‘These are the trees of Port Kar.’”

“This is the reserve of Port Kar then,” he said.

“One of them,” I said. “These seem to be Tur trees, all Tur trees.”

I went to one of the trees a few yards back and to the left. It was tagged. It wore the badge of Port Kar.

“This beauty,” I said, looking upward, “has been marked. It is selected, marked for the arsenal, for the yard of Cleomenes.” I supposed it would be harvested in the fall, when it would have finished its season’s growth. The time of year, now, as nearly as I could tell, from the vegetation, was late summer. I hoped our business in the area could be finished before the onset of winter. Winters can be quite bitter in the northern forests. The yard of Cleomenes was one of the yards under the aegis of the arsenal of Port Kar, of which yards there were several.

I looked ahead, and some yards to the right, deeper into the reserve, where another sign, in its yellow, indicated our route.

“Let us continue our journey,” I said.

Pertinax offered me Constantina’s leash.

“Lead your own slave,” I said.

I moved ahead, with Cecily.

I heard Constantina gasp, as she was jerked forward.

We had been entered into the reserve now for perhaps the better part of an Ahn when the signs we had been following assiduously could no longer be detected.

I examined the last sign, the one beyond which we noted no other sign. It was clear, and, as yet, showed no sign of fading. It seemed unlikely then that the next sign, if there had been one, would have become undetectable.

“I think this is the last of the signs,” I said.

“No!” said Pertinax, alarmed.

“They seem not to continue,” I said.

“They must!” insisted Pertinax.

We looked about. Each sign had been reasonably obvious from the vantage point of the preceding sign. This pattern, however, clearly, no longer held.

“I do not understand,” said Pertinax, obviously concerned.

“What is wrong!” demanded Constantina.

“Was your slave given permission to speak?” I asked.

“She has a standing permission to speak,” said Pertinax, uneasily.

“Surely not when hooded,” I said.

“Oh?” said Pertinax.

“No,” I said.

“May I speak?” said Constantina, quickly.

Pertinax looked at me, and I nodded.

“Yes,” he said.

“Something is wrong!” she said. “What is going on? What is wrong?”

I smiled.

Women are so much at one’s mercy, so helpless, when bound, and hooded.

I went behind her and took her by the upper arms and held her. “Nothing is wrong,” I told her. “And, besides, curiosity is not becoming in a
kajira
.”

“Something is wrong, is it not?” asked Pertinax.

“I do not think so,” I said.

“What are we to do?” he asked.

“Wait,” I said.

“We have long trekked,” he said. “It will soon be dark.”

“We have some food, a bota of water,” I said.

“It is dangerous here,” he said. “There may be animals.”

“That is possible,” I said, “but I do not think there is much to fear in the reserve. The oddity of the ditch discourages the entrance of animals, and, as there is little grazing here, there would be few herbivores, and there being few herbivores, there will be few carnivores. Too, the human is unfamiliar prey to most carnivores, the panther, the sleen, the larl, and such. They will certainly attack humans, and humans are surely within their prey range, but, given a choice, they will usually choose prey to which they are accustomed, wild tarsk, wild verr, tabuk, and such.”