girl,” said the lieutenant, disappointed.
The captain smiled. He regarded the sweet, small, luscious, exposed slave curves
of the girl. “But a pretty little one,” he said.
“Face-strip yourself,” I ordered her.
The girl, fingers behind the back of her head, at the golden string, lowered her
veil. Her body had lifted beautifully when her hands had sought the string
behind her head. I noted how she had done it. I grinned to myself. She was a
slave girl and did not know it.
“Yes,” said the captain, “a pretty slave.” His eyes lingered on her unveiled
mouth, then he drank in the rest of her, then the whole of her. He looked at me.
“I congratulate you on your slave,” he said.
I acknowledged his compliment, inclining and lifting my head.
“Perhaps, tonight,” he suggested, “she may dance for us.”
“She does not know how to dance,” I said. Then, to the girl, in English, I said,
“You are not yet ready to dance for the pleasure of men.” She shrank back. “Of
course not,” she said, in English. But I could see that, in spite of her anger,
her denial, her eyes had been excited, curious. Doubtless she had, from time to
time, wondered what it would be like, a collared slave girl, to dance naked in
the sand, in the light of the campfire, laboring vulnerably under whip-threat to
please Gorean warriors. It would be a long time, I thought, before the cool,
white-skinned Alyena would beg, “Dance me! Dance me for the pleasure of men!”
“She is barbarian,” said I to the captain. “She speaks little Gorean. I told her
she was not yet ready to dance for the pleasure of men.”
“A pity,” said he. In Gorean female dance the girl is expected, often, to
satisfy, fully, whatever passions she succeeds in arousing in her audience. She
is not permitted merely to excite, and flee away: when, at the conclusion of the
swirling music, she flings herself to the floor at the mercy of free men, her
dance is but half finished; she has yet to pay the price of her beauty.
“You must have her taught to dance,” said the captain.
“It is my intention,” I said.
“The whip,” said the captain. “can teach a girl many things.”
“Truly have you spoken,” I agreed.
“A pretty slave,” he said, and then turned his kaiila away, his men following,
to continue his examination of the men of the caravan. As he turned his kaiila,
the lieutenant, who had accompanied him, he who had asserted that I was a Kavar
spy, he who had urged them to slay me, cast me a dark look. Then he, too, was
with the rest, and Farouk, down the caravan line.
“It will not be necessary, Master,” said Alyena, loftily, in Gorean, “to use the
whip on me, to make me dance.”
“I know,” I laughed, “Slave!”
Her fists clenched.
“Veil yourself, “I said.
She did so.
“Remain within,” I said, “and do not peer out.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I saw her eyes, blue, angry, over the yellow veil, and then I, laughing, with my
scimitar, brushed down the right-hand curtain of the kurdah, it dropping,
concealing her within, a slave girl.
Gradually, as a girl begins to realize she is a slave, truly, in a society in
which there are slaves, and in which one can truly be just that, and without an
escape, a fantastic transformation takes place in her. I could already see the
beginnings of this transformation in Alyena. She was already becoming excited
about her collar, and her ownership by men. She was becoming curious about them.
She was becoming brazen, and shameless, as befits an article of property. She
was now permitting herself thoughts and dreams that might have scandalized a
free woman, but were for her, only a slave, quite appropriate. She was becoming
petty, and pretty, and provocative. She was becoming sensual. She was becoming
sly, clever, owned. Recently she had stooped to stealing a date. Though I had,
of course, punished her for this, I was, secretly, quite pleased. It meant she
was becoming a slave girl. Now I had seen her lift her body, beautifully, in
removing her veil before men. I had seen her curiosity about what it would be to
dance before them. She had informed me that it would not be necessary for me to
use the leather on her, before she would apply herself to the lessons of the
dances of slave girls. She thought herself, in herself, quite free, a slave only
in name and collar, but in this she was deceiving herself. Let her keep that bit
of pride, I thought, until some master takes it from her, and she, shattered,
prone on the tiles, or submission mat, knows then, truly, she is only slave.
The lovely Alyena, though she did not know it, and would have refused to believe
it, was coming along quite well.
She was becoming a slave girl.
5 What Occurred in the Palace of Suleiman Pasha
“What do you want for her?” asked Suleiman. He sat on cushions, on rugs of Tor.
He wore the kaffiyeh and agal, the cording that of the Aretai.
Before us, on the smooth, scarlet, inlaid floor, stood the girl. Her body was
relaxed, but, nonetheless, held beautifully. She was looking away. She seemed
bored, a bit insolent.
Low on her hips she wore, on a belt of rolled cloth, yellow dancing silk, in
Turian drape, the thighs bare, the front right corner of the skirt thrust behind
her to the left, the back left lower corner of the skirt thrust into the rolled
belt at her right hip. She was barefoot; there were golden bangles, many of
them, on her ankles, more on her left ankle. She wore a yellow-silk halter,
hooked high, to accentuate the line of her beauty. She wore a gold, locked
collar, and, looped about her neck, many light chains and pendants; on her
wrists were many bracelets, on her upper arms, both left and right, were
armlets, tight, there being again more on the left arm. She shook her head, her
hair was loose.
“Prepare to please a free man,” I told the girl.
She was blond, blue-eyed, light-skinned.
She bent her knees, weight on her heels, lifted her hands, high over her head,
wrists close together, back to back, on her thumbs and fingers, poised, tiny
cymbals.
I nodded to the musicians. The music began. There was a bright flash of the tiny
finger cymbals and Alyena danced for us.
“Do you like the slave?” I asked.
Suleiman watched her, through heavily lidded, narrow eyes. His face betrayed no
emotion. “She is not without interest,” he said.
I removed from within my robes the belt in which I had concealed gems. I cut the
stitching, which held the two sewn pieces together and, one by one, placed the
gems on the low, inlaid, lacquered table behind which, cross-legged, sat
Suleiman. He looked at the gems, taking them, one after the other, between the
first finger and thumb of his right hand. Sometimes he held them to the light. I
had made certain I knew, within marketing ranges, the values of the stones, and
what, within reason, they would bring in weights of pressed dates.
To the right of Suleiman, languid, sat another man. He, too, wore kaffiyeh and
agal, a kaftan of silk
. He was a salt merchant, from Kasra.
“I regret,” said Ibn Saran, “that we could not travel together to Kasra, and
then Tor.”
“I was called away swiftly,” said I, “on matters of business.”
“It was my loss,” smiled Ibn Saran, lifting to his lips a tiny, steaming cup of
black wine.
Suleiman, with his finger, pushed back certain of the stones toward me.
I replaced these in my wallet. His greatest interest, apparently, lay in the
sereem diamonds and opals.
Both sorts of stones were rare in the Tahari gem trade.
He lifted his eyes to Alyena. Her body seemed barely to move, yet it danced, as
though against her will. It seemed she tried to hold herself immobile, as though
fighting her own body, but yet that it forced her to dance, betraying her as a
slave girl to the gaze of masters. Her eyes were shut, her teeth clenched on her
lip, her face agonized; her arms were above her head, her fists clenched, and
yet, seemingly in isolation, seemingly against her resolve, her body moved,
forcing her to be beautiful before men. A fantastic intensity is achieved by
this dancer’s artifice. It was not lost on Suleiman, or Ibn Saran.
I had waited a month at the Oasis of Nine Wells before being granted an audience
with Suleiman.
Ibn Saran, not taking his eyes from Alyena, lifted his finger. From one side a
slave girl, barefoot, bangled, in sashed, diaphanous, trousered chalwar,
gathered at the ankles, in tight, red-silk vest, with bare midriff, fled to him,
with the tall, graceful, silvered pot-containing the black wine. She was veiled.
She knelt, replenishing the drink. Beneath her veil I saw the metal of her
collar.
I had not thought to have such fortune. She did not look at me. She returned to
her place with the pot of black wine.
Ibn Saran lifted another finger. From the side there hastened to him another
girl, a fair-skinned, red-haired girl. She, too, wore veil, vest, chalwar,
bangles, collar. She carried a tray, on which were various spoons and sugars.
She knelt, placing her tray on the table. With a tiny spoon, its tip no more
than a tenth of a hort in diameter, she placed four measures of white sugar, and
six of yellow, in the cup; with two stirring spoons, one for the white sugar,
another for the yellow, she stirred the beverage after each measure. She then
held the cup to the side of her cheek, testing its temperature; Ibn Saran
glanced at her; she, looking at him, timidly kissed the side of the cup and
placed it before him. Then, her head down, she withdrew.
I did not turn to look back at the first girl, she who held the silvered pot.
I wondered if she belonged to Suleiman or Ibn Saran. I supposed to Suleiman, for
it was within his palace that we sat, concerned with our business.
Suleiman, reluctantly, pushed two more stones back toward me. Not speaking, I
put them in my wallet.
In her dance, Alyena turned. I smiled. Beneath the small of her back, on the
left side, I could see, through the yellow silk, that the bruise had not yet
healed. She had received it on the caravan march; four days earlier, before the
bruise had been inflicted on her, we had been joined by the officers and escort
sent forth from Nine Wells. She had received it at a watering place. She had
been carrying a large bag of churned verr milk on her head. It had been given to
her by an agile, broad-shouldered, handsome young nomad. I had seen it and, in
my opinion, she had asked for it. She, with her burden, had walked past him,
near him, and as a slave girl. He had leaped to his feet and, swift, with
fingers like pliers, had administered a sharp, jocular bit of instruction to the
bold wench. Her yelp resounded for a radius of a quarter of a pasang about the
watering hole, startling even the verr and kaiila. She dropped the churned verr
milk, the bag’s seams fortunately for her not splitting, and spun to face him,
but he was towering over her, not four inches from her. “You walk well, Slave
Girl,” he told her. She staggered backward, frightened, stumbling, until she was
backed against the backward-leaning trunk of a flahdah tree. She looked up at
him. “You’re a pretty little slave girl,” he said. “I would not mind owning
you.” She turned her head away. “Oh!” she cried. His hand was on her body, and
she, writhing, weeping, with her heels, pushing herself, back scraping on the
bark, climbed almost a foot up the slanting trunk, before he, through her veil,
truth of her, the deepest truth of her, which no longer may she conceal.”
“No!” cried the girl.
“On such a girl,” I said, “brazenly, making it evident to all, they tell the
secret, which she is no longer permitted to hide, that she is slave, only
slave.”
“No!” she cried.
“Your brand and collar, Alyena,” I said, “fit you well.”
“No!” she wept. I heard her fingers pull at her collar.
“Rejoice,” said I, “that they are on your body. Many slave girls never know
them.”
She lay in the dark, twisting, weeping, hobbled, pulling at her collar.
Ibn Saran, watching the yellow-silked, collared slave dance, sipped his hot,
black wine.
I saw that he was interested in the beauty.
She bent down, her leg extended and, moving it, flexing it, slowly, to the
music, from her knee to the thigh, caressed it. Alyena was good, because, in her
belly, though she still did not know it, burned slave fire.
Sometimes she would look at us, her audience. Her eyes said to us, I dance as a
slave girl, but I am not truly a slave girl. I am not tamed. I can never be
tamed. No man can tame me.
In time she could learn she was truly slave. There was little hurry in such
matters. In the Tahari men are patient.
Before Suleiman, now, there lay five stones, three sereem diamonds, red,
sparkling, white flecked, and two opals, one a common sort, milky in color, and
the other an unusual flame opal, reddish and blue. Opals are not particularly
valuable stones on Earth, but they are much rarer on Gor; these were excellent
specimens, cut and polished into luminescent ovoids, still, of course, they did
not have the value of the diamonds. “What would you like for these five stones?”
he asked.
“A hundred weights of date bricks,” I said.
“That is too high,” he said.
Of course it was too high. The trick, of course, was to make the asking price
high enough to arrive at some reasonable exchange value later on, and, at the
same time, not insult a man of Suleiman’s position and intelligence. To make the
first price too high, as though I were dealing with a fool, might result in
unfortunate consequences for myself, the least among which might have been
immediate decapitation, supposing that Suleiman had had an excellent breakfast
and a pleasant preceding night with his girls.
“Twenty weights of date brick,” he said.
“That is too low,” I said.
Suleiman studied the stones. He knew his suggested price was too low. He was
merely concerned to consider what they might, competitively, be worth.
Suleiman was a man of discrimination, a
nd taste; he was also one of high
intelligence.
It had been he who had organized the trap.
It had been night, when I had first suspected the nature of the trap, the sixth
night after the joining of the caravan of Farouk by the escort of Aretai
soldiers.
The lieutenant to the captain, high officer of the escort, came to my tent. It
had been he who had suspected me of being a Kavar spy, who had urged the killing
of me. We bore one another little good will. His name was Hamid. The name of the
captain was Shakar.
He looked about himself, furtively, then sat himself in the tent, unbidden, on
my mats. I did not wish to kill him.
“You carry stones, which you wish to sell to Suleiman, high Pasha of the
Aretai,” had said the lieutenant.
“Yes,” I had said.
He had seemed anxious. “Give them to me,” he said. “I will carry them to
Suleiman. He will not see you. I will give you, from him, what they bring in
pressed date bricks.”
“I think not,” I said.
His eyes narrowed. His swarthy face darkened.
“Go,” he said to Alyena. I had not yet hobbled her.
She looked at me. “Go,” I said.
“I do not wish to speak before the slave,” he said.
“I understand,” I said. Only too well did I understand. Did he find it essential
to slay me he would do well not to perform this deed before a witness, be it
only a slave.
He smiled. “There are Kavars about,” he said, “many of them.”
To be sure, I had seen, from time to time, over the past few days, riders, in
small groups, scouting us.
When the guards or the men of our escort rode toward them, they faded away into
the hills.
“In the vicinity,” said Hamid, “though do not speak this about, there is a party
of Kavars, in number between three and four hundred.”
“Raiders?” I asked.
“Kavars.” he said. “Tribesmen. And men of their vassal tribe, the Ta’Kara.” He
looked at me closely. “There may soon be war,” he said. “Caravans will be few.
Merchants will not care to risk their goods. It is their intention that Suleiman
not receive these goods. It is their intention to divert them, or most of them,
to the Oasis of the Stones of Silver.” This was an oasis of the Char, also a
vassal tribe of the Kavars. Its name had been given to it centuries before, when
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