by John Norman
“There are thousands of women on Earth as beautiful as I,” she said.
“Or more beautiful,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“But your coloring,” I said, “the blond hair, the blue eyes, the fair skin, would make you an unusual gift on the islands. Would you not be exotica in the markets? Too, you had come to the attention of slavers. Perhaps other women had not. Too, your character, your mercenary nature, your pettiness, your ambition, your shallowness, your greed, fitted you well for the projected employment. Too, I suspect more than one executive, or client, with suitable connections, relished the prospect of you on Gor, thought you might look quite well, stripped on a slave block.”
“Why did Gregory not visit me at the stable?” she asked.
“He may be different from what you remember,” I said.
“He did not seek me out, even later,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said, “he has seen through you, and has been turned away by what he has seen.”
“He loves me!” she said. “A woman can tell! He loves me! He is mine, helplessly and hopelessly mine!”
“Perhaps no longer,” I said.
“A smile, a tear,” she said, “and he would be again at my feet.”
“Is that what you want?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Who is he?” I asked.
“Gregory White,” she said.
“He is now Pertinax,” I said.
“I have been brought to the quarters of Master,” she said. “I am before Master, bound and kneeling. I am a slave. What is the will of Master?”
“What do you think would be my will?” I asked.
“The will of a Master, with a slave,” she said.
I rose up, then crouched behind her, and freed her wrists. I returned the one length of ribbon to the wardrobe chest, and then stood before her.
“You have been somewhat trained,” I said.
She nodded.
“You are familiar with positions?”
“Yes,” she said.
“Assume the position of the she-tarsk,” I said.
She went to all fours.
I took a slave whip from the wall and cast it to the other side of the room. “Fetch it,” I said, “in your teeth, and return it to me.”
After a time she lifted her head to me, and I removed the whip from between her teeth.
“You are aware of certain formulas,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Speak,” I said.
“Whip me, Master,” she said.
“Have you been displeasing?” I asked.
“I trust not, Master,” she said.
“Why, then, should I whip you?” I asked.
“I am a slave,” she said. “Master may do with me as he wishes.”
“If you are not pleasing,” I said, “what will be done with you?”
“I am not a free woman,” she said. “I am a slave. If I am not pleasing, I will be punished.”
“Why do you think I had you brought to my chambers?” I asked.
“That I might serve the pleasure of my Master’s guest,” she said.
“And what might that pleasure be?” I asked.
“That I might provide him with the pleasures of a slave,” she said.
“But I think I will save you for another,” I said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“First obeisance position,” I said, unpleasantly.
Instantly, frightened, she went to her knees, her head to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor, beside her head.
“Do you wish to live?” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you beg to be permitted to live?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Beg,” I said.
“I beg to be permitted to live,” she said.
“As the worthless, and abject slave you are?” I said.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“You are the slave of Lord Yamada,” I said. “I take it you may frequently be in his presence, may serve him, and such.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“He has withdrawn the majority of his troops from the north,” I said. “He is unlikely to remain long on the defensive. What are his plans?”
“I do not know, Master,” she said.
I myself, based on my earlier conversation with the shogun, was well aware of plans imparted to me, but, in the case of a Lord Yamada there may be plans unspoken, plans behind other plans, or different plans altogether. I thought some inkling of such matters might have reached the slave. Rumors, for example, abound in the pens. Even the wisp of an allusion, or a seemingly unrelated or meaningless action, the dispatch of a messenger, the nature of the seal on a document, the ordering of a map, may sometimes hint at movements, at routes, at alliances.
“Several slaves, in the number of some one hundred and fifty, were sold for rice,” I said. “Where are they?”
“I do not know,” she said. “I am kajira! I am told nothing. I am kajira, kajira!”
“Are they penned, are they sold, distributed, are they in the fields?” I asked.
“I know nothing, Master,” she said. “Forgive me! I am only kajira!”
“What have you heard,” I asked, “of an iron dragon?”
“Little,” she said. “It is in stories, it is a fiction, a creature of imagination, a thing of legend, a creature of myth. The Pani slaves speak of it only in whispers.”
“Why, if it be such,” I asked, “should the Pani slaves so fear it, that they will not even speak aloud of it?”
“I do not know,” she said.
“Perhaps they know something you do not,” I said.
I did not doubt that the iron dragon was a creature of legend. Lord Nishida viewed it as such. Lord Okimoto seemed less skeptical. He seemed more open on the matter. Perhaps he feared some pebble of truth might lie concealed within the mountain of myth. And Lord Temmu, perhaps under the influence of Daichi, seemed to credit at least the possible existence of such a beast. Lord Yamada, on the other hand, I suspected, despite his alleged fear of its awakening, presumably manufactured for diplomatic reasons, would view such claims as preposterous, spun from no more than the fumes of benighted superstition. What gave me pause in the matter, or at least uneasiness, were the references to such a beast by so unlikely an informant as Tyrtaios, who was not Pani, and would not have been likely to be acquainted with Pani lore. Tyrtaios, as I understood him, a dark realist, as careful and prudential as a knife, was not likely to be the victim of any superstition, let alone that of an alien culture. Yet he had spoken as though this fiction might have had ribs of iron and claws of steel, might be as real as ore and fire.
“Clothe yourself,” I said to the girl.
While she rose up, and dressed, I went to a narrow window in the wall, which looked out, onto the night, and the palace courtyard. In the light of the yellow moon, I could see guards below. The window was barred.
“It seems I am a prisoner,” I had said to one of the two lovely, briefly tunicked Pani slave girls who had earlier attended on me.
“The bars, Master,” had responded one of them, “prevent intruders from entering, from the outside.”
“I see,” I said.
The window was high above the courtyard, but I supposed an unbarred window might be accessible from ropes, fastened above.
On continental Gor slavers sometimes utilized such a mode of entry. Such a portal might be used as an avenue of egress also, of course, through which a bound and gagged woman might be extracted. Sometimes the woman is not removed from the chamber but sedated. When she awakens she discovers herself bound on her couch, naked and gagged, her limbs rudely, widely spread. She then realizes she has been “marked for slavery.” This is sometimes used as a “mode of preparation” for bondage. Sometimes it is spoken of as letting the woman “cook” or “simmer” while await
ing the collar. She realizes how vulnerable she is. She does not know when she will be “collected,” only that she is to be collected. It will be done at the slaver’s pleasure, of course. She does not know, of course, who might be the slaver, or slavers, or when they will strike. Her fears torment her. Is it he, or another, one who passes her on the street, one who sits near her in the theater, one at her elbow in a market? She may try to flee, her efforts may become frantic. Then, perhaps when she feels safe, another sign or token may be discovered. Perhaps she unrolls a scroll and finds within it a slip of paper, “You are a slave,” or perhaps on the very mirror of her vanity, drawn in grease pencil, she discovers an image, the small, lovely, cursive “Kef,” much like the one which might be burned into her left thigh, somewhat below the hip. Finally, unable to stand things longer, distraught, frightened, miserable, she may take to courting the collar, traversing high bridges at night, moving on dismal streets after dark, wandering unescorted outside the walls, renting rooms in cheap inns, booking passage on lightly guarded caravans. She may actually cry out with relief and joy when she feels the ropes encircle her robes.
“It seems,” I had said, “passage would be difficult from either side.”
“Yes, Master,” had said one of the slaves.
I regarded her. Pani, like those of continental Gor, obviously chose slaves for their beauty.
“Master?” she said.
“Come here,” I said. “Do not kneel.”
The slave, summoned, commonly kneels before a free person, waiting to be commanded.
“You are slim, and exquisite,” I said. “Try to squeeze through the bars.”
“I am not permitted to touch the bars, Master,” she said.
I gestured toward the bars, and she hurried to them.
“Try,” I said.
She pressed her small body against the bars, trying to insert her body between them, even writhing against them.
“Enough,” I said.
She backed away, frightened. It had been clear that not even so small, and lovely, a body could begin to pass though those bars.
I tested them. They were sturdy, and well fixed.
“You may go,” I told the slaves.
“All windows in the palace, Master,” said the girl whom I had ordered to the bars, “are similarly barred, even those in the private quarters of Lord Yamada himself.”
I nodded, and indicated that they might leave.
They backed away, and then turned, and slipped from the room, gracefully, with the grace of slaves.
I went back to the window. Perhaps, I thought, Lord Yamada has a point in these bars. Might they not make it more difficult for an assassin to gain admittance to the palace, whether through one room or another? Bars do have their purposes, I thought, and not always to confine. Might they not also serve to protect? In any event, I seemed to be no more a prisoner than Lord Yamada himself. I had then gone to the door. I had found it unlocked.
Saru had now finished dressing herself.
She looked at me.
“Master?” she asked.
“Return to the slave quarters,” I said.
“Saru is dismissed?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Is Saru so poor a slave?” she asked.
“You had best not be,” I said, “or you will feel the whip.”
“Please!” she said.
“No,” I said.
“Do you not understand?” she said. “I am a slave! I did not know what it was to be biologically real, what it was to be wholly female. I now know! It has been done to me! I can no longer be anything but a slave. I no longer want to be anything but a slave! It is my life! I now belong in the collar of a slave! Do you not understand? It has been done to me!”
“I understand,” I said.
“Regard me as nothing, if you wish,” she said.
“I do,” I said. “You are a slave.”
It is interesting, I thought, what men can do to women, how one can turn them into slaves. To be sure, one does little more than open a door, little more than draw aside a curtain, and let them see themselves in the secret mirror, into which they had feared to look.
“I am such as is appropriately to be owned!” she said.
“I know,” I said.
“I want only to kneel, to kiss the feet of a master, to love and serve him as the slave I am, to please him, and wholly, as the slave I am!”
“I understand,” I said.
“In bondage,” she said, “at the feet of men, I have discovered who I am and what I am for, and who I want to be and what I want to be for. I have discovered myself, who I am and wish to be! I now inhabit the country of my heart.”
“On Earth,” I said, “you should have put yourself to the feet of Gregory White, and begged a collar.”
“Do not joke,” she said. “I need a man, a master. How can I be a woman without a man, without a master!”
“Your slave fires burn, do they not?” I asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“To the slave quarters,” I said. “Squirm and writhe there, in your kennel. Sweat on your chain.”
“Please,” she said. “No!”
“Perhaps, one day,” I said, “I will throw you to the feet of another.”
“Master!” she wept.
“Get out,” I said, “before you are beaten.”
“Yes, Master,” she wept.
She steadied herself at the portal, with two hands on the jamb. I feared she might fall.
At that moment, throughout the palace, there rang a large gong, the note of which was taken up by, and repeated by, smaller gongs.
“What is that?” I cried out, amidst the din.
“It is the alarm, Master!” she cried.
Chapter Fourteen
The Balcony;
My Conversation with Lord Yamada
“There!” said Lord Yamada, pointing.
“Yes!” I said.
We stood on an extended balcony, near the roof of the palace. Ashigaru were about, several armed with bows.
“It is a tarnsman, against the moon,” said Lord Akio, looking upward.
I would have given much for a glass of the Builders.
“It is one rider,” I said. “I do not think it is a raid. Hold your fire.”
“It is a scout?” said Lord Akio. I heard the metal blades of the war fan ripple briefly.
“An invasion?” said an officer.
“I understand this,” said Lord Yamada. “Bring torches! And you, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, please step forward.”
Torches were brought, several held about me, as I stood near the railing of the balcony. The rider was circling, and would shortly be near again.
“Do not loose your arrows,” I said.
“They will not,” Lord Yamada assured me. “Do you know the rider?”
“It could be one of several,” I said. “I have no glass of the Builders.”
“Bring a long glass,” said Lord Yamada, and a servitor hurried from the balcony.
“The rider,” said Lord Yamada, “may be so equipped, with what you call a glass of the Builders?”
“Almost certainly,” I said.
“A seeing tube?” he said.
“Yes,” I said. “What, I take it, you speak of as a long glass.”
“Excellent,” said Lord Yamada. “I have been awaiting this moment. As the rider approaches, please stand forward, please, even more so, Tarl Cabot san, there, in the light, and please, if you would, lift your hand, pleasantly acknowledging his presence, and inquiry.”
“What is going on, Lord?” inquired Lord Akio.
I lifted my hand, waving, to the rider, after which he whirled away.
“It is a representative of our friends,” said Lord Yamada, “the cohorts of our guest, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, come to investigate, come to ascertain his health and well-being.”
“We might have brought him down, with arrows,” said Lord Akio, nervously, snapping the fan o
pen and shut.
“A difficult shot,” said Lord Yamada, “but, if successful, it might have purchased little time, and brought about the end of the house of Yamada.”
“How is that?” asked an officer.
“We cannot protect ourselves from the lightning of the sky,” said Lord Yamada. “He who has demon birds may come and go as he pleases. He who has demon birds is elusive and may strike unexpectedly, in the day or night, at dawn or dusk. He who has demon birds, in time, could rain fire from the sky, far above futile, angrily brandished glaives, and burn with impunity where archers are not. In a year every fortress, castle, palace, barracks, warehouse, and humble shed of our house could be collapsed and charred wood, the ashes like dry fog, borne on the wind to the sea.”
“I did not expect honor and appointment,” I said to Lord Yamada, “when I was delivered to you.”
“You expected to bear the brunt of a shogun’s wrath,” said Lord Yamada, “exquisitely expressed over weeks with cords and irons, with needles and clamps, with flaming splinters, perhaps culminating eventually in the horror of the straw jacket?”
“I did not know what to expect,” I said.
“Perhaps that was just as well,” smiled Lord Yamada.
“Lord Temmu and Daichi, the reader of bones and shells, perhaps were more apprised of various possibilities than I,” I said.
“And yet,” said Lord Yamada, “they willingly supplied you to me.”
“I shall not forget that,” I said.
“I did not expect you to forget it,” said Lord Yamada.
“You wish the services of the tarn cavalry?” I said.
“Who would not?” he said.
“Surely it remains in the service of Lord Temmu,” I said.
“I know more of the house of Temmu than its master,” said Lord Yamada. “He expected to deliver you to me, and merely appoint a new commander of the demon birds. Thus, he would gratify me, avoid the flight of the iron dragon, and retain his cavalry.”
“That seems, within its limits,” I said, “a sensible, well-judged plan.”
“But one based on a faulty intelligence,” said Lord Yamada, “an intelligence which, if I am not mistaken, you share.”
