Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “Agreed,” said more than one fellow.

  “Not every slave,” said Drusus Andronicus, menacingly, “will serve as a prize.” Paula, at his feet, looked up at him, radiantly, and then pressed her lips to his thigh.

  Surtak, never taking his eyes from Lucilius, still in the box of honor, not yet having dared to descend, said, “The slave, Lyris, is mine.” I did not think any would dispute him in this, not humans, because to them, whatever her outstanding beauty amongst Kur females, she would seem a monster, nor Kurii, fearing the ax of Surtak. Lyris looked up at Surtak, “Give me harnessing,” she said. Surtak looked down upon her, and, lifting his ax, said, “On your belly.” Lyris then lay prone before Surtak, and Surtak placed his large, clawed foot on her back. “Give me harnessing,” she begged. She made a gasping, startled, frightened noise, as she was pressed down into the grass, deeply. She found herself held in place, beneath his foot. She was helpless. She could not move. “There is no harnessing for a slave,” he said. “You are now no different from the Kur females who were enslaved following the accession of Lord Arcesilaus to the throne of the Metal World. They are all enslaved, and so, too, are you.”

  “But,” she said, “I favored Lord Agamemnon, your lord.”

  “You were carried away as easily as might have been a mere human female,” he said, reminding her of her abduction by Lord Grendel. “This contretemps was embarrassing, and put plans awry. You are fortunate that parts of you were not nailed to a dozen gates.”

  “You always wanted me,” she said, wildly, accusingly, protestingly. “I saw it in your eyes. You always wanted me, and as a slave!”

  “Of course,” he said.

  “Free me!” she said.

  Then she gasped, as the claws of that massive foot, pressing down, dug into her back.

  “You were displeasing,” he said.

  “I was overpowered, carried away,” she said.

  “We can learn much from our human friends,” he said. “A man has the right to enslave a woman he finds displeasing.”

  This assertion surely required considerable qualification. For example, there is the matter of a shared Home Stone that would militate against such things. Similarly, certain cities are allied, some cities are colony cities founded by emigrants from a mother city, and so on. On the other hand, Gorean males do not respond well to insults, contempt, mistreatment, and such. Offending males may expect to be summoned to a bridge, or field, at dawn; an offending or careless woman is subject to the risk of finding herself naked, chained at a slave ring. This probably accounts for the rather elaborate protocols of etiquette that commonly govern interactions between Goreans of different cities or towns. Contrariwise, friends, male or female, are accorded considerable liberties along these lines. I have heard males insult one another outrageously, with uproarious abandon, and free women bare their claws, so to speak, exquisitely lacerating one another with impunity.

  “And what is the right of a mere man,” he said, “surely cannot be denied to one who is Kur.”

  “Mercy!” she said.

  “You have been found displeasing,” he said.

  “You always wanted to own me,” she said, “even on the Metal World!”

  “And now, in full justification,” he said, “it is so.”

  “You put me in a collar,” she said. “I still wear it. I cannot take it off. Remove it!”

  She had been collared, I recalled, on the Sleen’s Back Bridge, by Surtak, shortly after the exchange, she for Eve, Eve for she, had been effected.

  “Collars are appropriate for slaves,” he said. “You will continue to wear it. It looks well on you, slave. It, and its meaning, much enhance your beauty, a thousand times, indicating what you now are, and what may be done with you.”

  “At least,” she begged, “give me harnessing!”

  “You will be stripped to your collar,” he said, “that all, looking upon you, will know you are a slave.”

  She moaned, held down, beneath his foot.

  “You will be well worked,” he said, “and I will derive from you extraordinary pleasure, frequently and lengthily.”

  She moaned, again.

  “Do you understand, pretty Lyris?” he asked.

  “—Yes,” she said.

  “‘Yes’?” he asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “—Master.”

  Surtak then looked up, again, to the box, and he roared in fury, for Lucilius had withdrawn.

  “Where is he?” cried Surtak. “I would have him within the rings!”

  “He is gone, Commander,” said a Kur. “I know not where.”

  Surtak removed his foot from the back of Lyris, scowled down upon her, and thrust her rolling to the side with his foot. “Worthless slave,” he said, “your meaningless beauty distracted me. It could be mine at any time. And I let myself, at this crucial moment, be distracted! I have lost my prey!”

  Lyris, from her side, put her head down, fearing to meet the eyes of her master.

  Surely she could not be held accountable for the unperceived exit of Lucilius. Was it her fault that her form, and her wholeness, the whole of her, should so disturb, stimulate, provoke, and stir a male of her species, should bring about such mighty feelings, overwhelming and irresistible, of desire, lust, passion, and possessiveness? How was she to blame? Had these realities not been contrived in the innocent corridors of evolution, with no more thought or intention than the tides of Thassa or the orbits of worlds? But she, too, no less than he, was the product of these blind, inexorable processes. I suspect the complementarities of nature are not without explanation. I suspected that my own form, and that of others like me, must be seen in a certain way by men. It must stimulate them with desire, the passion to hold it, to possess it, and own it. And yet, have we not been fashioned by the same dark tools? For one who longs to possess, is there not one who longs to be possessed, for one who desires to own is there not one who desires to be owned, for one who desires to master must there not be one who longs to be mastered? Why should we attempt to repudiate and deny the forces that have fashioned us? We long for the collars of our masters.

  “Lucilius has gone,” said Surtak. “I am commander. I say it so. I raise my ax. Let those who will, raise another against me. The rings are open.”

  A Kur to the side growled.

  “Do you wish an ax?” inquired Surtak, eagerly. I feared the Kur thirst for blood was on him.

  The other Kur moved back, concealing himself amongst his fellows.

  “Lucilius has fled the rings,” said Surtak. “He abandoned the ax. I have lifted it. Those who would follow him, depart, and seek him out.”

  Not a Kur moved.

  “We shall withdraw from this soiled, ignominious field,” said Surtak. “I serve Lord Agamemnon.”

  “He is served,” said several of the Kurii.

  “What of feeding?” asked a Kur, pointing toward the huddled kajirae.

  “Surely,” said Surtak, “think of feeding, but think, too, of the men about, armed humans, who have other uses in mind for the collared she-beasts, men who outnumber you twelve to one. I doubt you could reach the table of your banquet. Feed, yes, but later, if you would live, on less controversial provender.”

  “What of the human, Decius Albus?” asked a Kur.

  “He is gone,” said a Kur. “Cohorts bore him away.”

  I supposed that Master Albus might still be unconscious, reposing in a tharlarion wagon, hastening back to Ar, to the House of a Hundred Corridors.

  “Well,” said the Lady Bina, imperiously, “bring paper, enough of it, and a marking stick, and a helmet!”

  “There will be no slip of paper for this one,” said a quiet, menacing voice.

  We heard a sudden cry of pain, and a gasp.

  We looked about, to the kajirae, and saw, standing amongst them, Tyrtaios, the Assass
in. He had pulled one of the kajirae, the former Lady Alexina, to her feet by the hair. He now held her, by the hair, bent over, her head at his left hip, in leading position.

  “No, no!” she wept, “no!”

  He tightened his grip in her hair.

  “Please, no—Master, Master!” she wept.

  “Dispute her with me who will,” he said.

  But none stepped forward.

  “You?” he asked Kurik. “No,” said my master. “You?” he asked Drusus Andronicus. “No,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  I had gathered, from earlier in the afternoon, that it was understood that the skills of Tyrtaios were well known, and that he might have easily killed either Kurik or Drusus Andronicus, either singly, or together.

  “Perhaps, one day,” said Drusus Andronicus, “you will meet your match.”

  “I think not,” said Tyrtaios.

  He then departed, the former Lady Alexina stumbling beside him, her head at his hip.

  I did not envy her such a master.

  “I think he will leave Ar,” said Kurik.

  “Doubtless several will,” said Drusus Andronicus. “Decius Albus, if he survives, will still be mighty in Ar, as the Ubar’s trade advisor.”

  “What of the men about?” asked Kurik.

  “I suspect Decius Albus will take them back,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “And they will take fee?” asked Kurik.

  “Gold speaks,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “And you?” asked Kurik.

  “Scarcely,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “I wish you well,” said Surtak.

  “Leave the service of Agamemnon,” said Kurik.

  “He is my lord,” said Surtak, “the Eleventh Face of the Nameless One, he who should be Theocrat of the Metal World.”

  “He is a tyrant, and monster,” said Kurik.

  “He is my lord,” said Surtak.

  “Protect him, care for him,” said Lord Grendel.

  I understood in no way this solicitude for Lord Agamemnon, whom I knew as little more than a voice, hideous and menacing, emerging from what seemed on the outside to be little more than a container, a metal box.

  Farewells were exchanged, and Surtak, ax in his grip, turned away.

  “Heel,” he said to Lyris.

  The Kurii then left the field, following Surtak. Lyris was a bit behind him, on the left.

  “Good,” said the Lady Bina. “Here is paper, and a marking stick, and here the helmet, as well. Be patient, fellows. We will soon raffle away the goods.”

  “Master!” I wept, at the feet of Kurik. “Master!” I was in terror, and muchly distraught. How well aware then I was that I was only a slave!

  “You will return with me to the wagon,” he said. “I doubt that Grendel can be torn from the side of Eve, and both may prove to be of assistance to the Lady Bina, and will surely serve to guard her on her return to the wagon, in case any of the fellows recollect she lacks a Home Stone.”

  “I am not to be raffled away then!” I said.

  “We will see how pleasing you can be,” he said, “on the grass, in the dirt and ruts under the wagon. There will still be time then, if you are insufficiently pleasing, to return you here, and give you a number.”

  I pressed my lips to his feet, weeping, kissing them wildly, gratefully, in a slave’s joy and submission, repeatedly, again and again. “I will try to be pleasing, Master,” I wept. “I will try to be pleasing, so pleasing!”

  Chapter Sixty-Two

  “Stand there, before us,” said Drusus Andronicus, “both of you.”

  Paula and I rose to our feet, and stood, facing the men.

  “Remove your clothing,” said Kurik, sitting, cross-legged, beside Drusus Andronicus, he similarly at ease. “You are to be assessed.”

  “Please, no, Master,” I said. “I am so poor a slave, next to her!”

  “Oh, no, dear Phyllis,” said Paula. “You are far more beautiful than I! We have known that from so long ago, so well, from our former world!”

  “Be silent,” said Kurik, “and get your clothes off, now, both of you, quickly. Do not dally.”

  And so we stripped, before our masters. My plea, my protest, had not been heeded. The slave does not demur. She may not. It is not permitted. She obeys.

  We had then, commanded, removed our clothing, and stood before them, naked slaves.

  In a sense, the command to remove our clothing might have seemed somewhat ironic to one of Earth, for we had both been, as our masters kept us, when permitting us clothing, slave clad. We both had worn only a brief, light, sleeveless garment, of clinging rep cloth, a typical slave tunic of Gor. There would be little chance we could be mistaken for free women. Our necks were closely encircled with our collars. One does not slip the Gorean slave collar. Paula was no longer kept in the relatively modest, opaque, silken tunics she had worn when of the House of a Hundred Corridors, tunics I had then envied her. Little, save her beauty, would now distinguish her from the typical slave on the street. I had become, as one will, in her collar, more brazen. I felt proud, even assertive, in the indignity of a tunic. I was no longer ashamed of my body, but even vain, I fear, where it was concerned. I realized it had value, and had been so desirable and attractive that it had been collared. The brand and collar, of course, are indisputable marks of quality, as might be the stampings on plates and vessels, the tags sewn into the rugs of Tor, and the labels fixed on the cloaks of Turia. How many free women, I wondered, could match the slave in beauty? How many would dare to walk and stand, and move, as a slave, with such casual, unconscious ease, such assurance and womanly grace, the grace of a woman who knows herself so special and prized that she is collared and owned? Did they so, would they be remanded to guardsmen for the collar? Is it a slave’s fault that she is a woman, and must now reveal her woman’s beauty, and her womanly needs? Is it a slave’s fault that men have, whether she wished it or not, put slave fire in her belly? Is it a slave’s fault that she now accepts herself as a vital, needful sexual creature, who cannot help her responsiveness to masters, nor wishes to do so, and lives for their touch? It is no wonder that we are sometimes switched gratuitously in the streets, and that the backs of our thighs, and our arms and shoulders, may bear the marks of a free woman’s displeasure. Do they envy us the freedom of our collars, the joys of our owned womanhood?

  And so we stood before our masters. Tears were in my eyes.

  “Paula,” said Drusus Andronicus, “brought a golden tarsk.”

  “That is my understanding,” said Kurik, of Victoria. “And were I so abundantly pursed, I might have bid more.”

  “You are of the blue-and-yellow caste,” said Drusus Andronicus. “What do you think your Phyllis might bring?”

  The Slavers’ colors are blue and yellow. Usually, however, these are worn, if worn, as a pair of chevrons, low on the left sleeve, usually of a darker garmenture. Slavers are often not forward in displaying their caste colors. Such an arrogance might prove indiscreet, and might well put free women ill at ease.

  “It is hard to say,” said Kurik.

  “Be bold,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “It would depend on the market, the supply and demand, the time of year, such things,” said Kurik.

  “Well, this time of year, Ar, a typical market,” said Drusus Andronicus. “For example, would she sell in the Curulean?”

  I recalled that Paula had been sold in the Curulean.

  “No,” said Kurik. “She would not sell in the Curulean. In the Curulean they will not even accept a slave, even for a minor block, unless they are sure she will bring at least four or five silver tarsks.”

  “Phyllis, then,” said Drusus Andronicus, “would be sold in a smaller market, a lesser market?”

  “Yes,” said Kurik.

  “She is such a slave?”
said Drusus Andronicus.

  “Yes,” said Kurik.

  “What do you think she would bring?” asked Drusus Andronicus.

  “A silver tarsk five,” said Kurik, “perhaps two silver tarsks.”

  “Excellent,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “Originally I thought she would only do for a pot girl, or a kettle-and-mat girl,” said Kurik. “To be sure, there is a market for pot girls, and kettle-and-mat girls.”

  “It seems she has improved in her collar,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  “They all do,” said Kurik.

  “Examination position,” said Drusus Andronicus.

  We both then spread our legs widely, clasped our hands behind the back of our necks, and raised our heads, looking toward the ceiling. In some cities, the hands are clasped behind the back of the head. To be sure, a slave may be examined in any number of attitudes and positions. The “standard position,” on the other hand, at least in the High Cities, as I have been informed, is either the hands-behind-the-back-of-the-neck position or the hands-behind-the-back-of-the-head position. The position is assumed, naturally, while the slave is unclothed, first, that her body be wholly vulnerable, and, second, that nothing interfere with, or impede, the assessment or appraisal. The position of the hands behind the neck or head facilitates appraisal, getting the hands out of the way, and the locking of the hands discourages any attempt on the part of a slave, should she be so foolish, as to attempt to either shield her body or fend away examining hands. The position also lifts the breasts nicely. The raising of the head, fixing the eyes on the ceiling or sky, makes it difficult for the slave to anticipate where, and how, she might be touched. A slave assessment is commonly thorough. After all, money is generally involved. She must, for example, expect her hair, and her nails, of both the hands and feet, to be considered. And she must expect the command to open her mouth, widely, for her teeth to be examined. Many barbarians are characterized not only by a vaccination mark, but by tiny bits of metal in the teeth. The latter, fillings, are sometimes taken, by some Goreans, to be an esoteric form of barbarian adornment. The vaccination mark, on the other hand, is often taken as a subtle brand, this leading some Goreans to suppose that the woman was already a legal slave somewhere, and has only been stolen from, or purchased from, her former master. These misunderstandings commonly occur with Goreans who have been limited to the “First Knowledge,” as it is called. There is a “Second Knowledge,” to which intellectuals, and the higher castes, have access. For example, many Goreans limited to the “First Knowledge” do not realize their world is one of many, and think that “Earth,” of which they have heard, and from which many barbarian slaves are obtained, is merely a remote country or land falling outside “known Gor.” Much of Gor, of course, even for educated Goreans, is terra incognita. One might add that it is speculated that there is also a “Third Knowledge,” which is limited to Priest-Kings. I know little or nothing of Priest-Kings. They are supposedly the “gods of Gor.” I take it that they are men, or some sort of men, perhaps more handsome or godlike than others, with a technology capable, at least until now, of holding Kurii at bay. It seems they inhabit the Sardar Mountains, from which geographical feature Goreans orient themselves and their maps. It might be mentioned that there is no perfectly clear distinction between the “knowledges,” as much in the “First Knowledge” is, as would be supposed, included in the “Second Knowledge.” The “Second Knowledge,” in a sense, “goes beyond” the “First Knowledge.” Also, it should be noted that it is not unprecedented for an individual of one of the lower castes to be apprised of the “Second Knowledge.” There is nothing secret, or, at least, altogether secret, about the Second Knowledge. On the other hand, this seems not to be the case with the “Third Knowledge,” that attributed to Priest-Kings. Indeed, many of the “Laws of the Priest-Kings” seem intended to discourage humans from inquiring into certain forms of knowledge, for example, those leading to technologies by means of which, eventually, after a cascade of steps, a planet might be rendered unlivable, even shattered and destroyed. Men, or common men, may be unaware of what is in their own best interests, but Priest-Kings, whoever or whatever they may be, one supposes, are very much aware of what is in their own best interests. A suspicious, thoughtless, bellicose, territorial, aggressive species is perhaps best limited to clubs and caves. In the “examination position,” as noted, the slave stands with her legs widely spread. This anchors the slave in place, so to speak, as it is difficult to move easily from this position. Physically, it increases the slave’s vulnerability, and, psychologically, it exponentially augments her sense of, and her awareness of, her vulnerability. In this position she well knows herself a slave, a domestic animal, being appraised as what she is, stock.