Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

  One cannot help, you must understand, in the closeness of the quarters, the small space between the benches, brushing against a master now and then. There is so little room.

  “Oh,” I gasped, startled.

  His large hand had closed on my leg, above the knee.

  “Please, Master,” I whispered, smiling, protesting.

  Then I shuddered. His grip was strong, commanding. It would be difficult to free myself. I was holding a large platter of strips of roast bosk, fastened in threes with wooden skewers, one of the choices for the second ostrakon.

  I saw Marcella approaching, in the narrow aisle. She was carrying a vessel of steaming kal-da.

  She did not look pleasant.

  “Struggle,” said he.

  “I might spill the platter,” I said.

  “You are rather pretty for an eating-house girl,” he said.

  In the past such compliments had been few. Of late, they had been more frequent. Too, of late, I had been more often assigned to the tables. Who knows how often fellows will come to the eating house, or why they will seek one table rather than another?

  “Would Master not like to have me at his slave ring?” I whispered. “I would try to please him.”

  He grinned, and removed his hand from my leg.

  “May I serve Master?” I asked.

  “What have you?” he asked.

  “Roast bosk,” I said.

  “I have paid only the first ostrakon,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  “Be off, pretty slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Infamous she-sleen!” said a woman.

  I had not noticed that the unpleasant free woman, she who, some days ago, had castigated me for a too-casual tunicking, was again in the vicinity. Once again, which did not surprise me, she was alone.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

  I quickly tried to hurry away, and Marcella, who was now near, between the benches, stood to one side, I supposed that I might pass. I smiled at her. Usually she would have expected me to turn about and move back, retracing my steps, removing myself from her path. I did not really want the attentions of the kitchen master, even though he had, of late, discouraged the other girls from bullying me. Surely she must understand that. She could have him. I wanted better game, higher game.

  “Thank you,” I said to Marcella, smiling, as I went to move past her, anxious to remove myself as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the free woman.

  “Oh!” I cried, in misery, stumbling, plunging over Marcella’s extended foot, sprawling between the benches, the platter of steaming meat flying ahead of me, meat and gravy showering about, then the platter clattering between the benches. Two or three men stood up, angrily wiping gravy and hot meat from their backs and shoulders. Marcella, simultaneously, had screamed, and turned, as though it might have been she who had been so discomfited. And I, too, screamed, but in pain, as the scalding kal-da soaked and burned through my tunic, and drenched my calves and ankles. “Clumsy slave!” cried Marcella. “You tripped me!” I cried. “I did not! You tripped me!” she screamed. Several of the masters laughed, some brushing themselves off, some others helping themselves to a three of skewered slices of the roast bosk, which they retrieved from the table, the floor, their laps. I was on my hands and knees, in pain, from the scalding, tears bursting from my eyes. Masters, I knew, did not look lightly on clumsiness in a slave. Too, to make matters worse, if they could be worse, the roast bosk was an item available only for the second ostrakon. I recalled that one of the girls in the kitchen, who had spilled porridge, had been put under the five-stranded Gorean slave lash. I had felt it once, in the house of Tenalion. “You tripped me!” I cried to Marcella. I did not want to be whipped! “You tripped me!” screamed Marcella. “No!” I cried. “Yes!” she screamed. She did not wish to be whipped either. “I saw the whole thing!” said the free woman. “That one,” she said, pointing at me, “is to blame!” “No, Mistress,” I sobbed. “That one, that one!” repeated the free woman, indicating me. I did not see how she, from her location, could have seen what occurred. I did know that she did not like me. A free woman, of course, may lie, for they are free. Marcella was lying, of course, but she had the words of a free woman spoken on her behalf. “Thank you, Mistress,” said Marcella, respectfully, much pleased at the course events were taking. I was sobbing, and still in pain. I did not want to be stripped, tied, and put under the whip. I feared the pain, and terribly, but, too, it is humiliating to be beaten for clumsiness, to be beaten as an inept slave, one who has failed to be pleasing. The slave is to be both beautiful and graceful. If she is not, let the lash instruct her. She is a slave. She is not permitted the woodenness, the awkwardness, of the free woman. “You should be sold for sleen feed!” said the free woman, coming angrily from her place, and hurrying about the table. I was still on the floor, on all fours, miserable, in pain. The boards were greasy. The tunic, in back, was wet, with warm fluid. It clung to my body. My legs hurt.

  “Forgive me, Mistress!” I begged.

  I felt the slipper of the free woman kick me, twice, viciously, in the left thigh. There would be marks there. I sensed she had spit upon me.

  “I am sorry, Mistress!” I said. “Please, forgive me, Mistress!”

  I went to my belly, in the grease and scraps, between the benches.

  “Oh!” I wept, again kicked.

  “Thank you, Mistress!” I said. “Thank you, Mistress!”

  Should a slave not be grateful for her improvement?

  “Aii!” I wept, again kicked.

  “Thank you, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Thank you, Mistress!”

  “What is going on here?” demanded a voice. Someone was making his way toward us, pushing, between the benches. My heart sank. It was the voice of Menon, my master. I had been several weeks in his establishment, but he seldom appeared in the kitchen. I was not sure he would remember the miserable, frightened slave purchased in the Metellan district. I struggled to my knees, held them closely together, and kept my head down.

  “This slave tripped me, Master,” said Marcella, indicating me.

  “Have you received permission to speak?” inquired Menon.

  “No, Master,” said Marcella, turning white, dropping to her knees, head down.

  “Well, Masters?” inquired Menon.

  “They were passing between the benches,” said a fellow. “One of the girls tripped, and fell.”

  “That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “tripped the other!”

  “I see,” said Menon.

  I kept my head down.

  “You saw?” inquired Menon.

  “Certainly,” said the free woman.

  Menon turned about, a bit. I took him to be noting the place, across the table, with its dish and mug, where the free woman had been sitting.

  “Did any others see?” inquired Menon.

  No one volunteered to speak. Most, of course, would have had their backs turned to the aisle.

  “That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “should be lashed bloody, to the bone, and fed to sleen!”

  “There would not be much nourishment there,” said a fellow.

  There was laughter.

  I could not help it if I were slighter than many slaves, more slender. Many men, of late, I had been given to understand, did not find fault with me on this score. Certainly I had been one of the most beautiful girls in the sorority, and here, in the garmenture of slaves, what beauty I might possess, as that of other female slaves, left little to conjecture.

  “Be silent!” screamed the free woman to the men.

  There was silence.

  I was afraid. As I was now well aware I was a female slave and what that meant on Gor, I would have been terrified to address a free man or men in that tone of voice, let alone utter words bearing such an import.

  What would have been done with me?


  But she was free.

  There was no band on her neck.

  She was not an animal.

  She was not purchasable.

  She was not owned.

  “The house,” said Menon, “is distressed that your views have been shown less deference than they deserve.”

  “You know,” said the free woman, “that she, that one, is a she-tarsk, a she-urt, a she-sleen, one who tunicks herself provocatively, who brushes against masters, who lingers in serving, who leans too closely to the diners, who puts her half-naked body before them shamelessly, who smiles so prettily, like a paga slut at the loading docks, advertising her master’s tavern.”

  “And she is a barbarian, as well,” said Menon.

  “Yes,” said the free woman, triumphantly. “A barbarian!”

  Menon recalled I was a barbarian.

  “My Home Stone,” she said, “is that of Ar.”

  Menon nodded. Although his establishment was within the walls of Ar, it was not likely he shared its Home Stone. As he was of the Peasants, I supposed his Home Stone, the community stone, so to speak, not that of his domicile, would be that of some village in the environs of Ar.

  “Is there no way to assuage your wrath?” asked Menon.

  “No,” said the free woman.

  Menon drew his pouch on its strings up from his belt, and opened it.

  “No,” she said.

  Menon fetched from within the pouch a handful of copper tarsk-bits.

  “Perhaps,” said the free woman, “she needs only to be well lashed.”

  Menon dropped the coins into the palm of the free woman.

  “The master, of course,” she said, “will decide, as he pleases, what is to be the fate of a neck-banded she-tarsk.”

  “Thank you, Lady,” said he.

  I do not know if she looked again at me, but she hurried about the table, to her place and, a moment later, made away.

  Menon was crouching near Marcella, who was shaking.

  “There is a mark here,” said Menon to her, “on the outside of your right leg, above the ankle.”

  Marcella said nothing.

  Menon lifted up my left leg. “This mark,” he said, “is on the front of your left leg, just above the ankle.”

  My heart leapt. It must be, then, that I had struck against Marcella’s ankle, thrust into my path, as I had tried to hurry past.

  “You must have been hurrying,” said Menon to me.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “What happened?” he asked.

  I sensed he knew well what happened.

  “I stumbled,” I said.

  Marcella gasped, gratefully, softly.

  “I see,” said Menon. He smiled. “You should be more careful,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You, too,” he said to Marcella.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “It would not do,” he said, evenly, “for another slave to stumble in your vicinity.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you understand?” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said, pale.

  Menon turned to me. “You are Allison, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”

  “You are to come with me,” he said. “Leading position.”

  I rose to my feet, and bent over, that my hair might be easily grasped. I felt his hand lock itself in my hair. My head was down, at his left thigh.

  “Marcella,” he said.

  “Master?” she said, apprehensively.

  “You will return to the kitchen, and return naked, with a pan of water, and no rags,” he said, “and clean this mess.”

  “No rags?” she said.

  “Your hair will do,” he said.

  Marcella had long glossy, dark hair, which fell well behind her. She was very proud of it. We envied her for it.

  “Too,” said he, “when this is done, you are to inform the kitchen master that you are to serve the tables daily for the next twenty days, but, in this period, you are not to be permitted clothing.”

  “Master!” she wept.

  “And as your hair will be soiled,” he said, “you will have the kitchen master crop it short, as short as that of a mill girl.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “And at night, for this period, of twenty days, you are to be put in close chains.”

  “Please, no, Master!” she wept.

  “Would you prefer all this, and the lash, as well, once daily, for the next twenty days?”

  “No, Master!” she said.

  “Perhaps, in the future, you will be more careful,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she sobbed.

  “Come along, Allison,” said he, and began to make his way between the tables, and I, in the sullied, soaked tunic, stumbled along at his side, sometimes brushing into patrons, sometimes striking against benches, jutting out, in the narrow space between the tables.

  “May I speak, may I speak?” I gasped, dragged along, at his side.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Please do not whip me!” I said.

  “Do you deserve to be whipped?” he asked.

  “I trust not, Master!” I said.

  “Do not all kajirae deserve to be whipped?” he asked.

  “I trust not, Master!” I said.

  “But they are slaves,” he said.

  “Even so,” I said.

  “Surely they know what they have done, or failed to do, even if masters do not,” he said, “and thus well know, given their lapses and faults, however infrequent or slight, which may have escaped the notice of the masters, how richly they deserve to be whipped, and, accordingly, should have no objection whatsoever to having the lash at any time well laid upon them.”

  “I trust Master jests,” I said, stumbling along, my hair hurting.

  He laughed.

  How helpless we are in the hands of men, if they but choose to be masters! How they play with us, and use us as they please!

  We are so different from them!

  We are so small, so helpless in their power!

  Yet I would not trade the Gorean man, with all his might and will, all his arrogance and power, all his virility and masculinity, all his forcefulness and possessiveness, all his ambition and aggression, all his energy and intelligence, his seeing us as women, and astonishingly different, and rightly, deliciously ownable, for all the males I knew on Earth.

  “Surely, surely Master jests,” I said.

  “Come along,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, as if I had any choice!

  Slaves, as other animals, are seldom whipped on Gor. The reason for that is simple, and obvious. The slave, subject to the whip, and knowing herself so, is careful to avoid it, insofar as it lies in her power. She does her best to satisfy her master, and in all the ways of the slave, all of them. And, obviously, she who satisfies a man fully has little, if anything, to fear. Thus, it is she who is primarily responsible for keeping the whip on its peg. She is, of course, subject to discipline, and this encourages diligence. The female slave is far more likely to be beaten by a free woman than a free man. To the free man she is a joy and treasure; to the free woman she is a hated reproach and rival.

  Menon’s office was not far from the paying counter, where ostraka were vended, to be redeemed for meals.

  He pushed open the swinging partition leading to the interior, and threw me to the floor before a chair.

  They are not always gentle with us.

  We are slaves.

  I kept my eyes down. I had never been in the office before.

  “Is this the one?” asked Menon.

  “Yes,” said a voice.

  The back of my legs still hurt, from the scalding of the kal-da.

  “Remove your tunic, my dear,” said the voice.

  I instantly and unquestioningly disrobed. One of the first things a girl learns on Gor is that she is to
instantly and unquestioningly obey. It is not Earth, and the college, and the sorority, were far away.

  Here men were the masters, at least of women such as I, totally, and absolutely.

  One knows oneself their slave, unequivocally, totally, and absolutely.

  “Show him something,” said Menon.

  “Master?” I said.

  “As in slave paces,” said Menon, “posings, stretchings, curlings, liftings, twistings, floor movements, such things.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  After a short time, from the voice, I heard, “Enough.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  I had exhibited myself as the slave I now was. How faraway was the college, and the sorority!

  “She is blushing,” said the voice.

  “She is a new slave, and a barbarian,” said Menon.

  “Yet she did well,” said the voice.

  “She is born collar meat,” said Menon.

  “She is of increased attractiveness,” said the voice, “different from the Metellan market.”

  “Yes,” said Menon.

  I had sensed, earlier, that I was changing. The collar causes such things in a female.