Furthermore, the small opening, approximately eighteen inches square, and set some ten inches off the floor, in the bars, with its small, heavy gate, can be easily negotiated only on the hands and knees. A girl cannot dart from a typical Tahari female-slave alcove. That she must enter and leave it on her hands and knees is thought to have a desirable psychological effect on the girl, impressing on even a haughty girl that she is only slave. Too, of course, this posture, on the girl’s part, makes it convenient to leash her upon leaving the alcove.
The alcoves are usually eight to ten feet deep, with a flat floor and rounded sides and ceiling, the sides about four feet wide at their widest, and the ceiling about four feet in height, at its highest. They are usually furnished with cushions, and comfortable, silken bedding, and they may contain a small chest, in which the slave may keep small articles whose use has been given to her, rings, bracelets, armlets, bangles, cosmetics, silks, such things. The slave herself, of course, can own nothing, but is herself owned. Even a high slave, like Ibn Saran’s Vella, would not own the silks with which she might be commanded to adorn herself. The amenities of the alcove, of course, such as the cushions and bedding, may be removed, if the masters wish.
I looked up at the window, in which the girl had stood. It was now empty.
Doubtless Vella was even now in her quarters, returned there by the slave master. Though spared the indignities of the common quarters or an alcove, and the inconveniences and irritations of being housed with lesser slaves, and though her quarters might be sumptuous and well-appointed, I did not doubt but what she, actually only another slave, had been summarily desilked and locked within.
She was not to be permitted to watch in triumph my departure for Klima.
What she had failed to do at Nine Wells, her master, Ibn Saran, silken, pantherlike and lithe, had well accomplished. The small, delicious owned brunet would not be permitted to watch. She would be denied that gratification, that pleasure. She would be instead put in her quarters, or cell.
Perhaps even now she lay angry, frustrated, upon her divan, nude, pounding her small clenched fists on the silks.
She would have heard the bolts being slid into place, the snapping of the locks.
It is thought useful, upon occasion, to deny slave girls small pleasures, small gratifications. It helps to remind them that they are slaves.
Perhaps she might hope that Ibn Saran might recollect her in the evening, and summon her to his cushions.
I gathered that she crawled well to him.
Perhaps she could then press him eagerly for details, until he wearied of her importunities, and snapped his fingers, and she bent forward, obediently, helpless, silenced by the will of a master, to please him.
She was a slave, merely a slave.
I smiled. I inhaled the perfume. Hamid took from a man nearby a slave hood. I saw the sky, grayish, the descending moons, the desert, and then the hood was pulled over my head, jerked tight, and locked.
* * * *
We trudged, climbing, chained, and hooded, half dragged, tortuously, up the long slope. Time seemed measured in steps, the blows of the whip, the slow turning of the sun, over the Ahn, from one shoulder through the heat to the other.
For twenty days had we marched. Some thought it a hundred. Many had lost count. More than one man raved, insane in the chain. We had begun with more than two hundred and fifty men. The chain was heavier now. Lengths had been removed from it. But still was it heavier. We did not know how many now carried the chain, or the remaining lengths.
Normally one would not attempt to move a coffle on the desert in the day, but the march to Klima is made in the sun, that only the strong will survive. We were given little to eat, but much water. In the desert, without water, even the strong die swiftly.
“Kill us! Kill us!” one man kept screaming.
At the crest of the slope we heard a man call “Hold!” The chain stopped.
I sank to my knees, the crusts about my thighs. The inside of the slave hood seemed bright and granular. Even within it I closed my eyes. I held my hands, my neck, as still as possible, for the least movement would shift the collar, the manacles, the chain at my waist, and stir burning iron in the raw, abraded flesh. I did not wish to lose consciousness. Too many I feared who had lost it had not regained it. The guards of the chain did not see fit to dally overlong with the inert.
The salt clung to my body.
The sun was the sun of the late spring in the Tahari. The surface temperature of the crusts would be in the neighborhood of 160 degrees Fahrenheit. The air temperature would range from 120 to 140 degrees Fahrenheit. The marches to Klima are not made in the Tahari summer, only in the winter, the spring and fall, that some will survive them.
I lifted my head to the sun, and shut my eyes against the redness, the heat and refulgence that seemed to fill the hood. I put down my head. Even in the hood I sensed the reflected heat radiating from the crusts.
It pleases Kurii, I thought, that Tarl Cabot will serve at Klima. How amusing they would find that. There was a bit of silk, now doubtless bleached by the sun, thrust and wrapped in my collar. Doubtless another, too, would be pleased that I served at Klima.
A kaiila moved swiftly past me, its paws scattering salt. I felt it in the marks on my back, and in the chain sores.
“Kill us! Kill us!” the man screamed again, from somewhere in the chain behind me, several collars away.
Another kaiila moved past me, moving toward the front of the chain. My fists clenched.
I wondered if I could endure another day. I knew that I could. I had much to live for. There was a bit of silk, wrapped, fastened in the collar I wore.
“Kill us! Kill us!” screamed the man.
“There are too many,” I heard one of the guards say.
“Alternate collars,” said a voice.
“No!” a voice screamed. “No!”
The guards knew the water. We did not.
It seemed a long time we knelt in the crusts. After some Ehn I heard men afoot near me. They were moving down the chain. I tensed in the hood. Suddenly the chain before me, jerked. I heard no sound. Then the chain pulled down. I struggled to my feet, pulling against the chain with my neck, wild, not able to see. “Kneel,” said a voice. I knelt. I tensed. I could not see in the hood. I knelt, a chained captive in the crusts. I could not lift my hands before my body. I was helpless, absolutely. “No,” I heard a voice cry, “No!” The chain at my throat, from behind, shook, and sprang taut. I heard feet, scraping in the crusts, slipping. There was a cry, and I felt, through the chain, a drag, and shudder. Then the men continued on their way.
“I misjudged the water,” I heard Hamid say.
“It does not matter,” said someone.
We knelt in the crusts. Somewhere, a few feet from me, I heard a man singing to himself.
Another man came down the chain. I heard him open the collars on either side of me.
I heard, a short time later, wings, the alighting of one or more large birds. Such birds, broad-winged, black and white, from afar, follow the marches to Klima; their beaks, yellowish, narrow, are long and slightly hooked at the end, useful for probing and tearing.
The birds scattered, squawking, as a Kaiila sped past. The birds are called zads.
“On your feet, Slaves!” I heard. The lash struck me twice. I did not object to it. I could feel it. The blood coursed through my body. The pain was sharp, rich, and deep, and keen. I did not object to the pain, for I could feel it. Elation coursed through me, fierce, uncontrollable, for I was alive. The lash struck again. I laughed, struggling to my feet. I stood straight. “March, Slaves!” I heard, and I began again the march, moving first with the left foot, then the right, that the march be uniform, that the chain be carried evenly. It was heavier than before, but I carried it lightly, for I was alive. No longer did I object to the salt in my flesh, the heat. It was enough that I lived. How foolish it seemed then, suddenly, that one should want more. How should one wan
t more, save perhaps health and honor, and a woman, slave at one’s feet? I marched onward again, brushing through feeding zads, once more toward Klima. I hummed to myself a simple tune, a tune I had never forgotten, a warrior tune from the northern city of Ko-ro-ba.
* * * *
Four days later, on a crest, the voice again called “Hold!” and the chain held.
“Do not kill us! Do not kill us!” screamed a voice. I recognized it. It was the voice of the man who, through much of the march, had cried for us to be killed. He had been silent since the noon halt of four days ago. I had not known whether he had survived or not.
Kaiila moved past us.
I heard collars being opened. For the hood I could not see. The silk which was tied in my collar was removed. It was tied, by order of Hamid, who rode near, about my left wrist, under the manacle. I felt the silk in the circular wrist sore. A heavy key was then thrust in the lock of my collar. The lock contained sand and salt. In the heat the metal was expanded. The lock resisted. Then the key, forced, with a heavy snap, turned, freeing the lock bolt. The collar was opened. The collar was jerked from my throat, and dropped, with the chain, in the crusts. The man then moved to the next prisoner.
No man fled from the chain.
“We may not take kaiila in,” said a man.
We stood for some minutes. I felt the blood and salt in the split shreds of the leather wrappings on my legs. I took care not to move the manacles and chain.
I felt a key inserted in the lock of the slave hood. To my surprise it was thrust up, and jerked from my head. I cried out in sudden pain, the unbelievable white light, hot, fierce, universal, merciless, shuddering in the scalding air of the encircling, blazing crusts, from horizon to horizon, exploding, stabbing, searing like irons at my face and eyes. “I’m blind,” cried a man. “I’m blind!”
Kaiila moved along the line. It would be long minutes before we could see.
We heard chains being looped and gathered. More kaiila passed me.
My limbs felt weak, and ached. I was dizzy. I could scarcely move. I could scarcely stand.
“Take salt,” said a voice. It was Hassan!
“You live!” I cried.
“Take salt,” he said.
He fell to his knees, and thrust his face into the salt. He bit at the crusts. He licked crystals from them.
I followed his example. We had not had salt in four days.
“Look,” cried one of the guards. We lifted our heads. We struggled to our feet. We gritted our eyelids, to shut out the heat, the blinding light.
“Water!” cried a voice. “Water!”
It was a man, come from the desert about. He had not been in the chain. He wore no manacles.
“Water!” he cried. He staggered toward us. He wore a bit of cloth. His body moved awkwardly. His fingernails were gone. His mouth and face seemed split, like dried crust.
“It is an escaped slave from the desert,” said Hamid. He unsheathed his scimitar, and loped toward the man. He bent down easily from the saddle, the blade loose, but he did not strike, but returned to the other guards. The man stood in the crusts, looking after the rider, stupidly. “Water,” he said. “Please, water.”
“Shall we have sport?” asked Hamid of two of his fellows.
“The trek has been long,” grinned one, “and there has been little diversion.”
“The head?” asked one. “The left ear?”
“Agreed,” said the other. They loosened their lances.
“Water,” said the man. “Water.”
The first man, kicking the kaiila forward, missed his thrust. The gait of the kaiila in the crusts was not even. The mark, too, was not an easy one. To strike it would require considerable skill.
The haggard man stood in the crusts, stupidly.
“The right ear,” said the next man, grasping the long, slim lance, eight feet Gorean in length, marked with red and yellow swirling stripes, terminating in an extremely narrow point, razored, steel, some eleven inches in length, and lanceolate, as the leaf of the flahdah tree. All the time he had not taken his eyes from the target.
“Water!” cried the man. Then he screamed as the lance struck him, turning him about.
The second rider had been skillful. The blade had penetrated below the helix and opened the ear, lifting and parting, in its upward movement, the helix.
The man staggered back in the crusts, he lifted his hand. The first rider cursed. He had charged again. This time, the man, stumbling, trying to turn away, had been struck on the left arm, high, just below the shoulder. I was startled that there was so little blood, for the wound was deep. It was as though the man had no blood to bleed. There was a ridge of reddish fluid at the cut. I watched through narrowed eyelids, grimacing against the light. To my horror I saw the man press his mouth to the wound, sucking at the bit of blood. He did not move, but stood in the crusts, sucking at the blood.
Hamid, easily, on the kaiila, his scimitar still light in his hand, rode behind the man. I did not watch, but turned away.
“The point is to Baram,” said Hamid. Clearly the second rider had been the finest.
“We may not take the kaiila in,” said one of the guards.
“We have water sufficient for the return trip,” said another, “moving at an unimpeded pace.”
To my amazement I saw one of the guards unlocking the stomach-chain and manacles of one of the prisoners. Already the man’s slave hood had been removed. And we had, already, been freed of the neck chain.
I looked about, through half-shut eyes. I stood unsteadily. I counted. There were twenty prisoners standing in the crusts. I shuddered.
Hamid rode to my side. He had wiped his blade in the mane of his kaiila. He resheathed the blade. I felt the heat. We stood on a crest, overlooking a broad, shallow valley.
Hamid leaned down. “There,” he said, pointing into the broad valley. “Can you see?”
“Yes,” I said.
In the distance, below, perhaps five pasangs away, in the hot, concave, white salt bleakness, like a vast, white, shallow bowl, pasangs wide, there were compounds, low, white buildings of mud brick, plastered. There were many of them. They were hard to see in the distance, in the light, but I could make them out.
“Klima,” said Hamid.
“I have made the march to Klima,” said one of the prisoners. He cried out, elatedly, “I have made the march to Klima!” It was the man who had, for many of the days, cried out for us to be slain. It was he who had, since the noon halt of four days ago, been silent.
I looked at the prisoners. We looked at one another. Our bodies were burned black by the sun. The flesh, in many places, had cracked. Lighter colored flesh could be seen beneath. There was salt on us, to our thighs. The leather wrappings about our legs were in tatters. Our necks and bodies were abraded, raw from collar and chain. In the last days we had been denied salt. Our bodies were cruel with cramps and weakness. But we stood, all of us, and straight, for we had come to Klima.
Twenty had come to Klima.
The first prisoner, whose bonds had been removed, was thrust in the direction of the compounds. He began to stagger down the slope toward the valley, slipping in the crusts, sometimes sinking in to his knees.
One by one the prisoners were freed. None attempted to flee into the desert. Each, as he was freed, began to trudge toward Klima. There was nowhere else to go.
The man who had cried out, “I have made the march to Klima!” was freed. He staggered toward the compounds, running, half falling, down the long slope.
Hassan and I were freed. Together we trudged toward Klima, following the straggling line of men before us.
We came upon a figure, fallen in the salt. It was he who had run ahead, who had cried out, disbelievingly, joyously, “I have made the march to Klima!”
We turned the body over in the salt. “He is dead,” said Hassan.
Together, Hassan and I rose to our feet.
Nineteen had come to Klima.
&n
bsp; I looked back once, to see Hamid, he who was in the fee of the Guard of the Dunes, the Salt Ubar, who was supposedly the faithful lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai. He turned his kaiila, and, with a scattering of salt, following the others, disappeared over the crest.
I looked up toward the merciless sun. Its relentless presence seemed to fill the sky.
I looked down.
About my left wrist, knotted, bleached in the sun, was a bit of slave silk. On it, still, lingered the perfume of a slave girl, one who, purchased, had been useful to Kurii, who had testified falsely against me at Nine Wells, who had, contemptuously, insolently, cast me a token of her consideration, a bit of silk and scent, to remember her by, when I served at Klima. I would not soon forget pretty Vella. I would remember her well.
I looked up at the sun again, and then, bitter, looked away. I put the wench from my head. She was only a slave girl, only collar meat.
The important work was that of Priest-Kings. Hassan and I had not found the steel tower. We had failed.
I was bitter.
Then I followed Hassan, who had trudged on ahead, wading in the salt, following him toward Klima.
15
T’zshal
At Klima, and other such areas, salt is an industry. Thousands serve there, held captive by the desert. Klima has its own water, but it is dependent on caravans for its foods. These food stores are delivered to scouted areas some pasangs from the compounds, whence they are retrieved later by salt slaves. Similarly, the heavy cylinders of salt, mined and molded at Klima, are carried on the backs of salt slaves from storage areas at Klima to storage areas in the desert, whence they are tallied, sold and distributed to caravans. The cylinders are standardized at ten stone, or a Gorean “Weight,” which is some forty pounds. A normal kaiila carries ten such cylinders, five to a side. A stronger animal carries sixteen, eight to a side. The load is balanced, always. It is difficult for an animal, or man, of course, to carry an unbalanced load. Most salt at Klima is white, but certain of the mines deliver a reddish salt, which is called the Red Salt of Kasra, after its port of embarkation, at the juncture of the Upper and Lower Fayeen.
Tribesmen of Gor Page 31
