Renegades of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I am Tarl, of Port Kar,” I said, “a courier, from Gnieus Lelius, regent of Ar!”

  “Hood him,” said a voice. “Use that white cloth.”

  The white cloth I had brought with me, as a truce flag, apparently doubled, or folded, was put over my head and tied under my chin.

  “Kneel him,” said the voice.

  I was dragged up, to my knees.

  “Here are the things he had with him,” said a fellow.

  Inside the improvised hood I could see very little. I could make out shapes about me.

  “Put a rope on his neck,” said the voice.

  A shape bent toward me. I was neck-roped.

  “Release me,” I said. “Take me to Aemilianus! The message in my pouch is for him. He may be, too, interested in the contents of the diplomatic pouch. I do not know. I took it from a courier of Artemidorus, south of here, on the Vosk Road, at an inn, the Crooked Tarn!”

  “Hooded, and on a rope, I do not think you will learn much of our defenses,” said a voice.

  “Take me to Aemilianus,” I said.

  “Silence, spy,” said a voice.

  “I am not a spy!” I said, angrily.

  “Let us hang him,” said a voice. “Let us show the sleen of Cos that we do not waste time with spies.”

  “I am not a spy!” I said.

  “Good,” said another voice, approvingly.

  “Fasten the rope here,” said a fellow, to my left, “and show them that their spy is thrown over the wall, hanging against the stone, within Ihn of his entry into the city.”

  “Excellent,” said another.

  I felt the rope jerked on my neck.

  I felt hands on my arms.

  “They fired upon me! You saw it!” I said.

  “But they did not hit you,” said a fellow.

  “Would you rather that they had?” I asked.

  “It might have been better for you, had they done so,” said another, grimly.

  I was pulled to my feet.

  “The rope is secure,” said a voice.

  “I came under a flag of truce,” I said. “Is this how those of Ar’s Station respect the conventions of war?”

  The hands of the men were tight upon my arms. I could feel a breeze through the crenel to my left. Through the whiteness of the hood I could make out the opening.

  “Hold,” said a voice.

  I heard the rope being unfastened. It was now, again, a tether.

  “We had almost forgotten our honor,” said the voice. “We are grateful to you for having recalled it to us. To be sure, it shames us that this should have been done by a sleen of Cos. Yet it does not matter. That it should be remembered is what is most important.”

  “I had not realized until now,” said a man, “that we had suffered so much. I had not realized until now that we had been so deeply hurt, that our wounds were so grievous.”

  “Behind the trenches I think the Cosians are forming,” said a fellow.

  “It is the morning assault,” said another fellow, wearily.

  “Stranger,” said the voice which had first spoken of honor to me, “know that you have been spared now, in your entry into the city, because of the flag you bore. And tragically, I confess, nearly it was not so. But, now, beneath its aegis, beneath its shelter, guarded within its folds, you are as safe as though ringed by walls of iron. The honor of Ar’s Station has it so. I give you thus the option, if you wish it, to return to those of Cos.”

  “Take me to Aemilianus,” I said.

  “I think you are a spy,” he said.

  “I am not a spy,” I said.

  “You understand that if you go now to Aemilianus,” he said, “that you forfeit the protection of the flag you bore.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Take him to Aemilianus,” he said.

  “Give me something,” I said, as I was turned to the side, “if even a shred of my tunic, to cover myself.”

  “There are many Cosians forming,” said a fellow, near the wall.

  “You came as a spy,” said the voice. “It is to Aemilianus as a caught spy that you will go.”

  Hands closed tightly on my arms.

  “Take him away,” said the voice.

  11

  Aemilianus

  “There,” said a voice.

  I was forced down, on a hard surface, tiles, I thought, on my knees.

  The white cloth I had used as the truce flag was removed from my head. I blinked, looking about myself.

  I knelt, on tiles, to be sure, before a curule chair, on a stepped dais.

  To one side of the curule chair, kneeling below it, on one of the broad steps, collared and briefly tunicked, was a pale, blond slave.

  “You may leave us, Shirley,” said the man on the chair.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. Her head had been turned to the side, and her eyes had been averted. I was a free man and, had she looked upon me, without permission, she might have been punished. Slave girls do, upon the streets, occasionally look upon stripped free prisoners, sometimes even taunting them, and such, but they are not likely to do so, without permission, beneath the very eyes of their masters. The name ‘Shirley’ is an Earth-girl name but I suspected that she was not an Earth girl. Her accent, at any rate, did not suggest it. She might have been of Earth, of course. After a few months on Gor it often becomes very difficult to distinguish Earth girls from Gorean girls, at least without a careful examination of their bodies, for example, for fillings in the teeth, or an inquiry, they kneeling before you, into their specific antecedents. Goreans sometimes give Earth-girl names to Gorean girls, as they think of them as excellent slave names. To a Gorean ear names such as ‘Jean’ or ‘Joan’ have an exotic flavor, and are regarded as fit names for slaves brought in from such far-off, mysterious places as “Tennessee” or “Oregon.” Some girls, too, coming to understand the sensuous connotations of their names on Gor come to regard them then no longer as common, or plain, names, but, like the Goreans, as thrilling, beautiful names, and come to revel in them, and try to live up to them, as superb slaves. To be sure, they know they wear them now only as slave names, theirs only by the will of a master. It is true that Earth girls are regarded as slave stock by Goreans, but I think, at least these days, that there is nothing special about this, really. Women, as a whole, by many Goreans, are regarded as slave stock. As the girl left I watched her. She was quite thin. Once, I thought, she would probably have been much more fully bodied in her beauty. Once she might have been luscious, perhaps even voluptuous. By such signs I conjectured the paucity of rations in Ar’s Station. I supposed, however, that she, and others like her, might be quickly enough returned to a former condition of desirability by so simple a means as the restoration of a proper diet, both with respect to quantity and quality. By such means do dealers prepare women, grateful for the food, to bring higher prices upon the slave block. Her blond hair, too, had been cropped. In these times, I suspected there would be few unsheared slave girls in Ar’s Station, and probably, too, few unsheared free women. In the case of the slave girls, of course, their hair would simply be taken from them. The hair of the free women, on the other hand, would presumably have been donated, as a contribution to the defense of the city.

  “Yes,” said the fellow sitting on the curule chair, a strongly built man, though one now seemingly weary, one with a bloodied bandage about his head, “she was once quite beautiful.”

  I turned my attention to the man. He had, with him, on his lap, the diplomatic pouch, opened, and the letter cylinder, taken from my pouch. It had been sealed with wax and ribbon, the wax bearing the seal of Gnieus Lelius, regent of Ar.

  “Are you Aemilianus,” I asked, “commander in Ar’s Station?”

  “I am,” he said, looking at me.

  I glanced toward the retreated slave, who had turned to regard me.

  The fellow on the curule chair smiled. “She has dared to look upon you?”

  “No,” I said.

>   “They are so curious,” he said.

  I did not respond.

  “Shirley!” he called, without turning to look at her.

  “Master?” she answered, from near a side door in the back.

  “Remind me, tonight,” he said, “to whip you.”

  “Yes, Master!” she sobbed. She turned, then, and fled from the room.

  “They are women,” I said. “They cannot help themselves.”

  “I do not object that she did what she did,” he said. “It is only that, as she has done it, she is to be whipped.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Even in hard times,” he said, “it is good to maintain discipline.”

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “Besides she has not been whipped in some time,” he said, “and a taste of the whip is good for every woman, once in a while.”

  “True,” I said.

  “It helps to remind them that they are women,” he said.

  “True,” I said.

  So the girl herself would later kneel before her master, and remind him that she was to be whipped.

  Such things are not unfamiliar in the management of slaves. There is a saying that to look forward to a whipping is to be twice whipped. It is more merciful, in my view, however, at least usually, to switch or lash the girl at the time of her indiscretion. It seems to me cruel to have her dwell for hours, perhaps for a day or more, on an impending punishment. Too, I think it is cruel to hold the slave accountable for reminding the master of a discipline due. She might otherwise hope he will forget it, or let it lapse, his ire subsided. She cannot risk not reminding him, of course, for it may be a test, and few masters forget such things anyway. Should he really forget it, let her not be relieved, for he may well recall it a day or so later, and then woe to the beauty’s skin. In short, in fear and trepidation, reluctant and miserable, she will kneel before him, and remind him of her deserts. This is thought to have a salutary effect on the slave. I suppose it might, indeed, but I am uncertain of the general value of this sort of thing, at least if frequently resorted to. I tend to think it is rather cruel, and unnecessary, and I suspect that any accruing benefits may be otherwise obtained, and as easily, by regimens more typical, regimens less expensive of the slave’s misery. To be sure, much depends on the master and the girl. Some girls doubtless require this sort of thing, particularly at first. Masters differ; slaves differ. Some masters, incidentally, require a slave to request her whipping, even beg for it, from his kindness, petitioning that she may thereby be improved in her service. Afterwards, he may require her to thank him for her whipping, expressing her gratitude for his concern, his thoughtfulness, his solicitude, for her reform and correction. Here again, of course, masters differ, and slaves differ.

  This begging, and thanking, of course, is hardly likely to be heartfelt. How could it be? The whip, after all, hurts. It is merely an additional element in her punishment. I personally, again, am uncertain of the value of this way of doing things. It seems a bit excessive, if not hypocritical. I prefer a slave’s punishments to be crisp, effective, and well understood. Too, of course, rules and expectations should be clear and consistent, and the slave must understand, and expect, that any shortcomings, lapses, laxities, infringements or transgressions on her part from these rules and expectations will be reliably and predictably dealt with.

  That is important.

  She is to be fully pleasing.

  She is a slave.

  Some women, it seems, on the other hand, do not even begin to understand their collar until, having felt the lash, and again and again, and now living in terror of it, they have learned to whimper, and shudder, and weep and cringe, naked, at a master’s feet.

  It seems that is essential to convincing them.

  Masters differ; slaves differ.

  That is always an option, of course.

  But is a woman who understands the categoricality and absoluteness of her bondage not preferable? Is an eager, loving, contented, joyful slave, grateful for her collar and her mastering, joyous to be the property of a strong man, one enraptured to belong to her master, one grateful for her thrillingly fulfilling bondage, not preferable?

  Free women seldom mend their ways; they have no reason to do so; slave girls, on the other hand, as you may have gathered by now, are zealous to mend their ways; they do have reasons for doing so, for example, their susceptibility to correction.

  There is something special to a woman’s psychology when she knows that she is owned.

  Gorean masters, incidentally, seldom strike a slave; they are prepared to do so, of course, and this the slave knows; thus she tries to be pleasing; few Gorean masters will punish a girl who is honestly trying to be pleasing; there would simply be no point to it. The point is to be the girl’s acknowledged and uncompromising master, whom she is concerned to please. His interest is not to hurt her, which he would regard as a very strange interest, but to hone her, by the whip if necessary, into an obedient and delicious belonging, an attentive and devoted dream of pleasure, his own, personal, lovely, collared beast, his slave girl. Accordingly, few masters would strike a girl who is sincerely trying to please him. That would be counterproductive, so to speak, and would be a misunderstanding of, and a misuse of, discipline. Most masters will attentively train the slave, encouraging her, and helping her to understand what is required of her, as though women in their hearts did not already understand this very well. To be sure occasional strokes of the switch, or such, are often useful in this course of instruction. One must be careful of such things as posture, the attitude of the head, the grace in walking, and kneeling, the diligence exhibited in neatness, in housekeeping and various domestic duties, the skill in garbing and adornment, when permitted, in writhing, in the subtleties of tongue and hand work, and such. His role is not to injure or damage the slave, or make her miserable or terrorize her, except when it serves his purposes, but rather to see to it that she learns to fulfill herself in the beauties of bondage, so right for the human female, to see to it that she becomes his perfect slave.

  Let other masters then envy him his girl.

  In all this, of course, it is in the girl’s best interest to address herself assiduously to her lessons, develop a sensitivity to the moods of her master, and to fulfill the requirements of her condition, to be hot, devoted and dutiful.

  Gorean males, you see, are not patient with females in collars. They may have paid too much for them, to put up with anything less than perfection. Too, as they are slaves, even if they have not been paid for, but have been captured, or stolen or received as a gift, it is still inappropriate to accept from them anything less than perfection.

  They are slaves.

  That is the Gorean way.

  Gorean women understand this very well. Earth women learn it quickly.

  For the first time in their lives they become females in the order of nature.

  What pleasure can a man know superior to owning a slave? What pleasure can a woman know more fulfilling than serving her master?

  The whip, in my view, is to be used but sparingly.

  A good slave seldom feels it, but she knows it is there, and that she is subject to it, and that it will be used on her unhesitantly if its application is in the least deserved.

  That is usually quite sufficient.

  Some women occasionally desire to be bound and feel the whip, for at least a stroke or two, as it reassures them that they are in truth their master’s slave. Free women, of course, are not to be whipped, or punished in any way. The pride and glory of their rank and elevated status precludes this; it would not be dignified. This is a major difference between the slave and the free female. Sometimes a slave is whipped merely to remind her that she is a slave. Under the lash the girl is in no doubt as to her bondage.

  “Do you know your location?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “You are in the citadel,” he said.

  “I thought I might be,” I said.
It seemed a likely place to house the headquarters of the city.

  “You are Tarl, a fellow of Port Kar,” he asked, “as you told my men upon the wall?”

  “I am Tarl,” I said, “of Port Kar.”

  “And you claim to be the regent’s courier?” he asked.

  “I am the regent’s courier,” I said. “Why am I still stripped and chained?”

  “Does it not seem odd to you that the regent should employ as a courier one from Port Kar?”

  “Perhaps,” I said. “I had delivered letters to him from Dietrich of Tarnburg. Perhaps it then seemed plausible to him that I might similarly serve Ar.”

  “Dietrich, the ‘Tarn of Tarnburg’?” he asked.

  “Perhaps some call him that,” I said. “I have never heard him use that expression of himself, nor have I heard it used by those most close to him. I do not even think he would care for it.”

  “And how does he think of himself?” asked Aemilianus.

  “As Dietrich,” I said, “Dietrich, of Tarnburg, a soldier, a captain.”

  “Dietrich, of the Silver Tarn?” he asked.

  “His standard, it is true,” I said, “is that of the Silver Tarn.”

  “He is a mercenary,” said Aemilianus, bitterly.

  “He now holds Torcadino,” I said, “to halt the advance of Cos to the south.”

  “I do not believe that,” said Aemilianus.

  I then realized the degree of isolation of those in Ar’s Station. Aemilianus was ignorant of something so basic as the action of Dietrich at Torcadino.

  “Surely there is something to that effect in the letter, or letters, from Gnieus Lelius, which I have delivered.”

  “You, too, are a mercenary,” he said, bitterly.

  “I have served for fee,” I said.

  “Anyone’s gold can purchase your steel,” he said.

  “Perhaps not anyone’s,” I said. Some mercenaries chose their causes with care.

  “Do you know the contents of the diplomatic pouch, for, indeed, it seems to be such.”

  “No,” I said. “As you must have seen, its seal was unbroken.”