Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

  “Surely you know what you are doing here,” an instructress once said to me.

  “Mistress?” I had said.

  “You are a slave, are you not?” she asked.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I had said.

  “And only a slave?” she said.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said, “only a slave.”

  “And what is a slave?” she asked.

  “Mistress?” I asked.

  “A property,” she said. “Goods, merchandise.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said.

  “So now you surely know what you are doing here?” she said.

  “I am being trained,” I said.

  “For what?” she said.

  “That I may be pleasing to a master,” I said.

  “We would like you to live past your first night at his slave ring,” she said.

  “I will try to be pleasing,” I said.

  “Very pleasing?”

  “Yes, Mistress!”

  “Wholly pleasing, in every way?” she said.

  “To the best of my ability,” I said.

  “So, then,” she said, “what are you doing here?”

  “Mistress?”

  “You are goods, merchandise,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said, “I am goods, merchandise.” It was true; that is what I now was.

  “So now you understand what you are doing here,” she said.

  “Mistress?” I said.

  “You are being readied for sale,” she said.

  I well knew myself a slave, of course. I had sensed this even on Earth, and there was obviously no doubt about it here, on Gor. Here I might or might not wish to be a slave, but, in either case, it was what I was. Here my will was nothing. Whether I might kiss my fingertips and press them to my collar, or sob and scream, and try to tear it from my neck, it was on me. And my thigh was marked, with the Kef, the most common slave brand on Gor, a mark which showed all who might look upon it what I was, and only was, kajira. Still I had not thought, actively, or very actively, of being sold.

  Now, as I was being marched through streets I could not see, naked, back-braceleted, a bead fastened in this small slaver’s necklace, the wind and sunlight on my bared body, I knew I was being taken, for the first time, to market, a market where I would not buy but be bought, as much as a verr, or a basket of suls.

  Still I was delighted to be out of the house.

  I wondered who might buy me.

  I was soon to be owned, the property of a particular master.

  “I regret,” had said one of the mistresses, “that we did not have more time to train you.”

  “You are pretty,” said another, “and you will do your best to please, will you not?”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said.

  “Many men do not object to a half-trained girl,” said another. “They are cheaper, and they may train them to their taste.”

  “There are others coming in,” said another, “who must be prepared.”

  “A city fell,” said another.

  “You are a barbarian, Allison,” said another, “and barbarians are apt pupils, as they are already three-quarters slaves, but the new arrivals will be former Gorean free women.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “How we will love to have them under our switches,” said another.

  “We will teach them that they are now slaves,” said another.

  It was hard for me to imagine such women as slaves, from what I had heard of them, but I knew, too, that there were few bred slaves, at least in the sense of being the products of the slave farms. The overwhelming majority of female slaves on Gor would have once been Gorean free women, of one caste or another. Too, Gorean free women, whatever might be the expectations of their society concerning them, were surely women, with all the instincts, needs, desires, and drives of the human female, all the complex genetic codings of such latent in each cell of their bodies. And I had heard guards exchanging remarks, after the passage of one free woman or another in the house, perhaps shopping for a serving slave, or a silk slave, speculating on her possible value on the block. It was just as well our exalted visitors had remained oblivious of such conversations. Within the robes of concealment, it seems, following the views of the guards, there was always a slave, lacking only the collar.

  “The slave, Allison,” I said, “thanks Mistresses for the training they have given her.”

  They had kissed me, and, shortly thereafter, one of the guards arrived, the hood dangling in his hand.

  We continued to make our way through the streets.

  At that time, hooded, I did not realize the striking beauty of a Gorean city, how so many of its buildings, the lofty towers and graceful bridges, the spacious porticoes, the splendid colonnades, and such, were bright with color, nor was I aware of the wealth of colors in clothing, both that of men and women. I did realize, of course, from the house, that slave tunics came in a variety of cuts and colors, in samples of which I had been forced to pose before mirrors, but each was commonly of one color. They were, after all, slave tunics. The house tunics, incidentally, those worn in the house, were commonly drab, usually being brown or gray. There are fashions in such things, of course, for both the free and the slaves, with respect to colors, textures, materials, cuts, hemlines, and so on. How and when fashions changed, and why they changed, was not clear. Doubtless there were setters of trends, say, highly placed officials, wealthy Merchants, Actors, Singers, and Poets, certain women of noble family and high caste, and such, but why should one option rather than another succeed in being adopted, however transiently? Perhaps the higher, better fixed, more established or influential members of the Cloth Workers had something to do with it, with hints, with words dropped now and then, with boulevard posters, with some judiciously distributed free garmenture, here and there, and so on. Doubtless each time a fashion changed at least the high Cloth Workers, masters of the foremost garment houses, would sell more garmenture, at least to the fashion conscious, to those who were concerned to keep up with the times, to those who feared to be pitied or ridiculed for being out of style, and such. With respect to slave tunics, for example, it was several years, apparently, since the common slave tunic was white with black striping, usually with a diagonal striping. And, of course, if masters and mistresses might be concerned with the garmenture of their kajirae, as simple and brief, and as revealing and demeaning, as it might be, one can well imagine their concern with their own garmenture, particularly if they were of high caste.

  The coffle chain was a girl chain, and, accordingly, light. Nonetheless it would hold us, its prisoners, in a perfect, neck-linked custody. This is not unusual, incidentally, the lightness. The custodial hardware of Gor, where kajirae are concerned, is commonly light. It is also, of course, strong, or strong enough, at least, to well exceed the strength of women. It is also, commonly, graceful, even lovely, and is designed to set off and enhance the beauty of its prisoner, while putting her wholly at the mercy of the free. She is, after all, a slave. Its usual purpose, then, is not merely to hold the lovely prisoner but to make it clear to any observer, casual or otherwise, that she is powerless, vulnerable, defenseless, and unprotected, accordingly, not merely to confine her, but to expose her, or should one say, in the case of a slave, as she is goods, to display her. For example, the slave bracelets we wore, which pinioned our wrists so helplessly behind our backs, were attractive. One might have mistaken them for ornaments or jewelry, were it not for the inflexible metal links which joined them.

  I have wondered sometimes if free women do not sometimes wonder what it would be to find themselves in such “ornaments” or “jewelry,” stripped and helpless within them.

  Did they realize that they might be that beautiful?

  Perhaps an iron is being heated, and a collar has already been removed from its peg.

  It is common, incidentally, to fasten a girl’s hands behind her back. In that way she is more helpless, her arms nicely drawn back, and her b
eauty, obviously, is better exhibited, more exposed to sight and touch. Too, of course, braceleted as she is, she is incapable of fending away or resisting caresses, even if she, unwisely, should wish to do so. I did not know my place in the coffle, other than the fact that I was neither first nor last, for I could feel the weight of the coffle chain on both the front and back ring of the coffle collar. It was the only collar I now wore. When I had been aligned in the house, awaiting my chaining, I had been hooded. Therefore I was not only ignorant of the number of girls in the coffle, but of the construction of the coffle, as well. Sometimes the most beautiful girl is first on the coffle, sometimes last. Sometimes the coffle is arranged merely in order of height, the tallest girl then placed first.

  Interestingly, as I was hooded, I was very little self-conscious in this march. Had I not been hooded I would have been terribly, miserably, self-conscious. Naked slaves are sometimes seen in the streets but that is usually only the case with a new girl or one being punished. Clothing, of course, is at the discretion of the master, whether or not it is to be permitted, and, if so, its nature, whether say, a modest tunic, or a camisk, or slave strip. A new girl, sent into the streets naked, is well apprised of her bondage, and may soon be depended upon to be at her master’s feet, zealous to improve her performance and service a thousandfold, that she may be granted a garment, some garment, even the brief, disgraceful tunic of a slave, perhaps hitherto scorned. We are, as it is said, not permitted modesty, no more than a she-sleen or she-tarsk, but we will do much for a garment, however scanty. So much we are in the power of our masters! As I could not see, interestingly, I was concerned very little that I might be seen. Too, I was with others, as bared and helpless as I. In the hood, and with others, I had a sense of anonymity.

  By now, I was sure we had been in the streets for at least twenty Ehn. Even coffled we must have been marched for better than a pasang. We had, so far, as far as I could tell, attracted no particular attention. I gathered then that such sights, a coffle of nude slaves, were not uncommon in the streets. Not uncommon, too, might be a line of roped verr, a string of tethered kaiila, or such. Our house was on the Street of Brands but, as I was given to understand, this is more a reference to a district or a part of a district than an actual street. To be sure, apparently several slave houses were in the same vicinity. One also heard of a Street of Coins, of which a similar observation would seem warranted. This, too, seemed to refer more to a particular district, than a particular street, one in which several money houses were to be found. In passing, I will note something of interest, at least to a barbarian. On your world pieces of paper, even with impressive printing on them, are seldom accepted in exchange for actual goods. The Gorean thinks generally in terms of metal, copper, silver, and gold, something obdurate and solid, which can be handled, split, quartered, shaved, and weighed, or else in terms of actual goods. It would be dangerous to try to buy a sleen or slave, or a sul or larma, from a Gorean for no more than a piece of paper. On the other hand, notes are exchanged amongst various coin houses, or banking houses, without difficulty. Sometimes the wealth of a city has been transferred from Jad to Ar, or Ar to Jad, in the form of a piece of paper, sewn into the lining of a robe. In such a way wealth can be exchanged, even back and forth, without a tarsk-bit changing hands.

  We continued our march.

  We did not know our destination, or destinations. Would you explain such things to sleen or kaiila?

  I did note that the footing was now less smooth, less polished, more irregular. Too, more than once I felt dampness, or grime. In this part of the city, wherever it was, it seemed the shopkeepers, or residents, were less scrupulous in their housekeeping. It is understood that the streets in a Gorean city, local bridges, and such, are the responsibility of those in the neighborhood, not of the city or state. The responsibilities of the city and state tend to be limited, mostly to protection, civil and municipal, and arbitration. Whereas a city will often have a coinage, so, too, may private citizens. For example, the golden tarn disk of the banker Publius may be more valuable than that of Ar itself, or, at least, that of the Ar of the occupation, when someone named Talena graced the throne of Ar. Charity, care of the simple, the needy, and such, is handled privately, usually by clan lines, or caste councils. As the city or state is managed by men, and is armed, it is feared. Goreans prefer to be governed as little as possible. The city or state, on the other hand, which has properties, farms, and such, as well as it support from taxes, often supports public festivals, concerts, performances, and contests, competitions, for example, of strength, speed of foot, archery, javelin casting, riding, singing, drama, poetry, dancing, and such.

  I occasionally heard men and women about. Conversation. Some bargaining. One fellow was hawking tastas, which is a confection, mounted on a stick. Sometimes female slaves are referred to as tastas.

  I could hear the chain on its rings as we moved.

  I felt myself prodded by a switch.

  In many respects I did not know where I was, not only the district in which I might be, but even the city. I was sure, from the size of the house in which I had been trained, the city was large, at least by Gorean standards. It would take a large city with a substantial commerce to support a house so complex and impressive. I would learn it was Ar. Even were I familiar with the city, which I was not, I would have been thoroughly disoriented given the hood and the many twists and turns of the narrow streets. I was sure, of course, from my secret reading, that I was on Gor. I was still shaken by the comprehension that such a world actually existed. On it I found myself hooded, naked, and coffled, a slave. How could such a world exist and not be known, or, I thought, is it known? Perhaps it is known, but as a guarded secret, official or governmental, to be kept from the general public? Is it the will of the Priest-Kings, the alleged lords of this world, I wondered, that the existence of their world be known or not? Were the Gorean manuscripts intended to be hints of Gor, allusions to that world, a modality by means of which possibly alarming facts, facts for which a general population might not be ready, might be concealed under the veil of fiction? Or were such manuscripts somehow dangerously smuggled to Earth, against the will of, and without the consent of, Priest-Kings? I supposed, on balance, the existence of such manuscripts did not concern entities as mighty and mysterious as the supposed Priest-Kings. Doubtless they knew of them, but thought little of them one way or another. What difference might such thing make to them, the remote and disengaged gods of a world? But I now, at least, was in no doubt as to the reality of Gor. I felt it beneath my bared feet. I twisted my head a bit inside the hood I wore. I could not see. I was helpless. I jerked a little at the bracelets which held my hands behind my back. I, once Allison Ashton-Baker, once a member of a prestigious, wealthy sorority at an exclusive educational institution on the planet Earth, once a scion of the envied upper classes on my world, was helpless, and on Gor, a manacled, hooded, coffled slave!

  “Oh!” I cried, suddenly pelted with gravel.

  “Kajirae, kajirae!” I heard, a sing-song, mocking chanting of children. “Kajirae, kajirae!” Small stones, stinging, one after another, apparently from almost at my elbow, were hurled against me, and, from the disturbance in the coffle, the rattle of chain, and cries of surprise and pain, I knew I was not the only victim of this petty aggression. “Kajirae, kajirae!” they mocked, running beside us, now on each side. I cried out with pain, struck by a supple, barkless branch, a child’s makeshift switch. I heard the sound of such implements strike elsewhere, as well. “Please, no, Masters!” cried out more than one member of the coffle. They had addressed the word ‘Masters’ to children! Then I realized the children were doubtless free persons. “Please be kind, please be kind, Masters!” I wept, stung twice again. “Be off with you,” said one of the guards to our young assailants. “If you would beat a slave, buy your own!” There was laughter, from adults about. We tried to hurry, stumbling on. “Do not gaze upon such worthless, disgusting things!” I heard a woman’s
voice say, perhaps admonishing a daughter, a child, one paused to look upon the coffle. Then we were beyond the children.

  We continued on.

  My body still stung.

  The coffle was stopped, twice, before discharging one or more of its occupants, once when, apparently, a line of wagons was passing near us. They were probably produce wagons. We were pressed to the side, against a wall to our left. Some such wagons are driven by teamsters, others are conducted by small boys, with sticks. In the better part of the city such wagons move only at night, when they are less obstructive of traffic. I heard the creaking of wheels, their sound on the stones, and some grunting, and snorting, apparently of large beasts. These were draft tharlarion as I now realize, but I had not, at the time, seen such animals. Most Gorean streets are narrow, winding, and crooked. The boulevards, on the other hand, are spacious and straight, often with plantings. Many Gorean streets have no names, really, other than, say, the street of the “smithy of Marcus,” the alley “where Decius the cobbler has his shop,” and so on. The streets are familiar, of course, to those who live in their vicinity. Others may inquire their way, or fee a guide. The second time we were stopped we were ordered to the side, and ordered to kneel, our heads to the stones. The palanquin of a free woman was passing. It stopped. Perhaps the free woman had parted the curtains of the palanquin for a moment, to regard us. The palanquin then moved on.

  “Up, beasts,” we heard.

  We struggled to our feet.

  We continued on, for another twenty Ehn, or so.

  In what district of the city might we be?

  I was sure we had passed through more than one.

  My Gorean was acute enough, now, to detect some differences in accents. The local diction, with its lapses, and grammar, and vulgarities, its rapidities, its simplicities, its contractions, its elisions, unusual words, and vulgarities, was quite other than that of my instructresses, intelligent women who uniformly spoke, as nearly as I could determine, an educated, excellent Gorean. Four had supposedly attained to the “Second Knowledge,” whatever that was. All could write. I had some difficulty in even understanding the speech about me. I would learn that some members of some castes even reveled in a deliberately barbarous or vulgar Gorean, as though this were some badge of quality or superiority by means of which they might distinguish themselves from their despised “betters.” It was sometimes said that the power of Marlenus, the Ubar himself, rested ultimately on the lower castes, whom he cultivated and flattered. Is it not, ultimately, in the mass that the power lies? Who else, at a word, might swarm into the streets, armed with paving stones and clubs? Woe to the former free Gorean woman of high caste who, enslaved, might fall into the power of her hitherto despised “inferiors.” Each Gorean caste, interestingly, regards itself as equal to, or superior to, all other castes. Accordingly, each member of each caste is likely to have his caste pride. In some sense this doubtless contributes to social stability, and, surely, it tends to make the average fellow content with his own person, profession, background, antecedents, and such. He respects himself, and these things. Even the Peasants, commonly regarded as the lowest of castes, regards itself proudly, and with justification, as “the ox on which the Home Stone rests.” A casteless society, an open society, in which elevation, wealth, and success is supposed to depend, or does depend, on the outcome of merit and free competition will obviously generate an enormous amount of frustration, jealousy, envy, and hostility. In such a society most will fail to fulfill their ambitions and must almost inevitably fall short of achieving at least the greatest rewards and highest honors which such a society has to bestow. In an open race to which all are invited and in which all are free to run there will be only one winner, and many losers. It is natural then for the loser to blame not himself but the course, the starter, the conditions, the judge, the rules of the race, even that there is a race, at all.