Swordsmen of Gor (37 page)

I lifted the taper again, now to the left, as I made my way down the aisle, and the woman, actually now a girl, as she was a slave, put her hand before her eyes, shielding her eyes.

It was she.

There was a rustle of chain as she sought first obeisance position.

“Kneel up,” I told her.

She did so. I do not think she recognized me, at first.

“Have you not been taught the way of the mat, girl?” I asked.

“Master?” she said.

“Do you not understand the meaning of the mat and chain?” I asked. “Interest me.”

“I do not know how,” she whispered. “Is my body, before you, a male, not enough?”

I smiled. How like a stupid free woman was she still! Did the free woman not think there was nothing more to attracting a man than that she be a woman? To be sure, the hint of a bosom, the suggestion of the sweet width of hips, within the robes of concealment, was indeed attractive, and even free women understood this quite well, for not all slaves were in collars. Similarly a tone of voice, a turning of the head, perhaps provocatively, the hurried readjustment of a veil, it having somehow become inadvertently disarranged, could turn the knife in a fellow’s belly. Yes, I thought, I suppose she is right, in a way. That a woman is a woman can be a thousand times more than enough, so to speak. Had not nature, in her indifferent judgments, brought these complementarities together? Suppose there were somehow ten thousand randomnesses. Amongst these some would be more likely to result in the replication of genes than others. Is the swiftest of the tabuk not most likely to escape the sleen or larl? How is it that the vision of the tarn can discern the movement of even an urt at a thousand feet? The shark who detects the trace of blood in remote water, will he not be the first to feed? Will not the moth who detects the odor of its female four pasangs away through the warm, night air be the first to flutter to her side? The beast which, somehow, sees fit to defend its young, is likely to have young which will survive it. Amongst all adventitious assortments some embody the future, not all. Yes, I thought, I suppose it is enough for the female to be a female. Something in that luscious configuration will trigger a genetic response selected for over millennia. From the point of view of rationality one shape is presumably little different from another. What is to choose from between the circle and triangle, but blood and time are attuned to a different geometry.

And, of course, the slave, as the others at their mats, was bared to the vision of free men. How different they are from us, I thought, and was therein well pleased. It also occurred to me that women go to great lengths, almost always, unless subglandular, moronic, insane, culturally suppressed, or somehow ideologically perverted, to dress themselves attractively. For example, the robes of concealment, prescribed for, and almost universally accepted by, Gorean free women, certainly of the higher castes, were not uniform, drab garmentures imposed on them by, say, an oppressive society which regarded women as inferior, unclean, and morally dangerous, but, in their abundance, in their layers and veilings, in their arrangements and drapings, were tasteful and attractive, and, above all, surely, bright and colorful. One may not see that much of a woman in the robes of concealment but there is no doubt that there is one in there somewhere, and there is no missing that. Yes, a woman can be quite attractive in the robes of concealment, and there is no doubt of that. Once again we note that not all slaves are collared. To be sure, the robes of concealment are, in their way, a tease, a provocation. Surely the women are not unaware of that. Perhaps that is one reason that men so relish the removal of such garments and the placing of their occupants in the more revealing and delightful garmentures of slaves. “You will tease no more. I will now look upon you as I wish, for you are now no longer yours, but are now ours, the property of men. Rejoice, the games are over. You are beautiful. Know yourself exhibited, and owned.”

But the girls on the mats, of course, were not even accorded a slave strip. They were mat slaves, and bared suitably.

Was her body not enough?

In a sense, one supposed, surely, but, so far beyond that, so far indeed, were the fluidities and graces, the appetitions, the performances, the subtleties, the movements, the needs, the readinesses, the petitions, of the female slave!

“In one sense,” I said, “your body is enough, and more than enough, but, in another sense, and one more important than that of brief, mindless couplings, that body is no more than a beginning, something needed, but something not enough in itself, something far from enough in itself.”

“But, why, Master?” she asked.

“Because you are no longer a free woman,” I said. “Because you are now a slave.”

“I do not understand,” she whispered.

“Because you are now a thousand times more female than before,” I said.

“Master?” she said.

“Because you are now a slave,” I said.

“Have pity on me!” she wept.

“Display yourself,” I said, “girl.”

“I do not know how!” she said.

“It is instinctual in you,” I said. “It is in your blood. You are a female.”

“Do not so humiliate me!” she begged.

“Begin,” said I, “slave.”

“Yes,” she wept, “I am a slave!”

“Now,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she wept.

“Ah,” I said, “I see you have thought of these things before, perhaps in your dreams, perhaps in the secrecy of your boudoir, perhaps in your imaginings, perhaps in putting the loop of a strap about your left wrist, and, suddenly, dramatically, drawing it tight.”

She sobbed.

“Excellent,” I said. “It is a shapely limb, is it not? Would it not look well in an ankle shackle?”

“Have mercy!” she begged.

“You are well aware, are you not, of the weight of the chain on your collar, of the sound of its links, and how you are fastened to the floor ring, naked, before a male?”

“Master!” she protested.

“Continue,” I said.

“Must I?” she said.

“Now,” I said.

“I was free,” she said. “You are making me behave as a slave!”

“And how are you behaving?” I asked.

“As a slave!” she said. “I am behaving as a slave!”

“Is it not appropriate?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“Because I am a slave!” she said.

She collapsed to the mat, sobbing.

“Kneel up,” I said to her, kindly. “You did well.”

She then knelt before me.

“Keep your knees together,” I advised her. I was, after all, only human. I then put the switch before her, and she leaned forward and, timidly, licked and kissed the supple leather implement.

She looked up. “Have me,” she whispered. “Please.”

There was a small stand, near the mat, in which a taper might be held.

“As a free woman?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said, “as what I am, a slave.”

I gathered she had often thought of what it might be, to be a slave in the arms of a master.

“You are,” I said, “the former Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers.”

She regarded me, terrified.

“Do not deny it,” I said. “I know it is true.”

“Do not kill me!” she begged.

“That is not my intention,” I said.

“You are of Ar?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“You want me, for a bounty,” she said.

I supposed there were bounties on certain citizens of Ar, who had managed to escape the wrath of vengeful crowds, the pursuits of licensed and unlicensed capture squads.

“No,” I said. “And, as far as I know, there is no bounty on you.”

“I saw my name on a proscription list, posted on the public boards,” she said.

“I do not doubt it,” I said.

“They want me, to kill me,” she said.

“Perhaps in the heat of the moment,” I said. “But I would suppose, after a time, that their sense of vengeance would be more than satisfied if they found you wore a collar in the north. Indeed, I have learned from others that various women of your sort were merely publicly flogged and collared, some then to become state slaves, most to be sold out of the city, to be distributed with contempt amongst inferior markets.”

“Does the proscription list not mean death?” she asked.

“Strictly,” I said, “it means apprehension, but it is true, that it is commonly a warrant for death, certainly for males, and often for women, free women.”

“They wanted our blood,” she said.

“At the time, in the rage of the crowd, I do not doubt it,” I said. “But, now, you might rather be brought before a praetor, for the iron and the collar.”

“Is that true?” she said.

“I do not know,” I said. “We could always take you there, and see.”

“No,” she said. “No!”

I smiled.

“I am not what I was,” she said. “The Kef has been fixed in my thigh, the steel is on my neck.”

“It is true,” I said. “You are not what you were.”

“I was not high amongst the Serisii,” she said. “I did not enter into their business. I was a lowly daughter, pampered and spoiled, given to a life of luxury and indolence! I had no control over the affairs of the house!”

“But you bore the name,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I bore the name.”

“But no longer,” I said.

“No,” she said, “no longer.” This was true. There was no longer a Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers. She was gone. There was now, not even really in her place, only an animal, a lovely animal. As far as I knew Torgus had not even, as yet, seen fit to give her a name. She then regarded me, frightened. “You know me,” she said, “or who I was. What do you want of me? If you do not want my blood, or to bind me, and trade me for a bounty, what do you want? Why have you sought me out?”

“No woman in a collar,” I said, “should be curious as to why a man might seek her out.”

“No, no,” she said. “You want more.”

“Perhaps I wish to buy you for a friend,” I suggested. I had, indeed, toyed with the idea of buying her for Pertinax. She was quite attractive. Might she not look well chained to his cot in the barracks? A strong man needs a slave, and is never content with less. Pertinax could certainly do worse than having his collar on one such as this.

She looked at me, frightened. I think it had not really occurred to her, other than as an abstract possibility, that she might be simply purchased and given to someone.

“Buy me?” she said, weakly.

“Yes, like a kaiila or tarsk,” I said.

“And then I would belong to another?”

“Of course,” I said.

“No,” she said. “There is something else, and I am frightened.” She looked up, blinking against the light of the taper. “What is it?” she asked.

“I want to speak to you,” I said. “I will question you. I want information.”

“I know nothing,” she said. “I am naked. I am on a chain. I am a slave.”

“The Serisii were high in Ar,” I said, “close to the throne. You, and others, sought escape from the city. Plans must have been laid against such eventualities as the rising. You must have heard one thing or another.”

“Master?” she said.

“What of Seremides?” I asked. “He was powerful in Ar, a deputy, so to speak, of Myron, the
polemarkos
.”

“Surely he was apprehended and impaled,” she said.

“I have not heard so,” I said. A capture and impalement of such consequence would surely have been noted, and broadcast, I thought, throughout a dozen cities and a hundred camps.

The slave was silent.

“You have heard nothing?” I said.

“Nothing,” she said.

Too, I thought his capture would be a coup of considerable dimension, and one whose fame would be soon registered on the public boards of a dozen cities, whispered about a thousand campfires, even as far north as the forests, but, here, too, I had, as yet, heard nothing.

“Were you,” I asked, “as a scion of the Serisii, a confidante of the Ubara?”

“Surely not, Master,” she said. “But, as of the Serisii, whose fortunes were closely intertwined with those of Cos and Tyros, I, and others, were often entertained in the Central Cylinder.”

“What was the nature of these entertainments?” I inquired.

“They were not unusual,” she said, “for the occupation. There were exquisite feasts from the largesse of Ar. While some in the streets hunted urts to live, we enjoyed the most delicate of a hundred viands, the richness of a hundred rare wines. The foremost poets of the city sang their works for us. The preeminent musicians, of those who remained within the walls, played for us. Theatricals were staged. Acrobats and jugglers were engaged. Former free women of Ar, collared, but decorously attired, served the tables. Sometimes slaves were brought in, to dance for us, though probably, in particular, for the men, officers of Tyros and Cos, mercenary captains, bankers, such as the Serisii, high merchants, well-known traders, and such. One slave, a very beautiful slave, who had been given to Myron, the
polemarkos
, was brought forth several times, and forced to dance before the men, bejeweled, bangled and necklaced, but otherwise naked, under whips. Her name was Claudia.”

“Once Claudia Tentia Hinrabia,” I said, “the last of the Hinrabians.” Claudius Tentius Hinrabius had been an administrator of Ar, later deposed. He who acceded to the rule of Ar had been Cernus, in effect, a usurper.”

“Yes,” said the slave.

Talena had held Claudia as a rival to her own considerable beauty, which was alleged to be unsurpassed on all Gor. These sorts of claims, of course, were absurd, as there was no dearth of beauty on Gor. The markets were filled with it. Who is to say that this very beautiful woman is more or less beautiful than this other? To be sure, both Talena and Claudia, in their different ways, were very beautiful women. I suspected the hostility of Talena toward Claudia was as much motivated by considerations of politics as of vanity. Claudia had been the daughter of a former administrator of Ar; and Talena was merely the disowned daughter of the great Ubar, Marlenus, whose whereabouts had then been unknown. Her position had been bestowed upon her by foreign enemies, who had found it expedient to have a puppet on the throne of Ar. Indeed, Claudia’s claim to stand high in Ar was far sounder than that of Talena herself, who had been disgraced, and sequestered shamefully, in effect imprisoned, in the Central Cylinder, while Marlenus carried on the business of the state, prior to his hunting trip to the Voltai, in which it had been feared he had perished.