Conspirators of Gor

by John Norman

  “What does it say?” asked the Lady Bina, for the beast seemed in no hurry to surrender the paper.

  “‘Put on a collar, and visit the barrack’,” read the beast.

  “Do you think that would further my project?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. Then he turned to me. “Squeeze the larmas,” he said to me.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  * * * *

  And so I made my way toward the tower of Six Bridges.

  I was wary, as I did not wish my laundry to be soiled.

  There was a reason for my fear.

  All this was before the incident of the blind Kur.

  I had taken a roundabout way to Six Bridges, to avoid encountering the laundry slaves of the establishment of the Lady Daphne, a private laundering house in the vicinity of Six Bridges. In Ar there are several private laundering houses and they tend to live in an uneasy truce with one another, allotting districts amongst themselves. Six Bridges was in the district of the house of Lady Daphne. These houses do not relish intrusions into their territory, either by other houses or by independent services. Two of her girls, large girls, for such are best at such things, had intercepted me twice, once a month ago, and once last week.

  “Discard your laundry,” had said one last month.

  “No,” I had said. “Go away. Let me alone.”

  “A barbarian!” had said the other.

  “What do you have under that kerchief?” inquired the first. She yanked it back, down about my neck.

  “Nothing!” laughed the second.

  “Go away!” I had implored them, tears springing to my eyes.

  “As bald as a tarn’s egg!” said the first. “She must have been quite displeasing.”

  I was not bald now, but there was not much hair there either, little more than a brush of darkness, soft to the touch. Still I was happy to have so much.

  “She does not please me,” had said the second.

  “Is the laundry heavy?” asked the first.

  “No!” I said, frightened.

  “Yes it is. It is too heavy for you,” said the first.

  “Stop!” I said.

  The bundle was pulled away from me and cast into the gutter, which, in this district, runs through the center of the street. The two then trod it underfoot, into the drainage and mire.

  “You are to accept no more customers here,” said the first girl.

  “The tower of Six Bridges,” said the other, “belongs to the house of Daphne.”

  I had then recovered the garments and returned to the house of Epicrates.

  After that, for four trips, though I was terrified of the bridges, I had ascended a tower several Ehn from that of Six Bridges and warily made my way, by stairwells, and connecting bridges, to the tower of Six Bridges. Once I had seen the two ruffians lurking below in the street, presumably alert to intercept either me or another.

  I kept to the center of the bridges as much as possible, kneeling to the side if a free person was passing. The bridges I utilized were not really narrow. Most were two to three paces in width. But they were high, and railless. Sometimes I became dizzy. It made me sick to look over the edge of such a bridge. I stayed as far from their edges as possible. “A barbarian,” laughed more than one person passing me. How superior they felt to me! How superior they were to me! Too, you tread roads, paths, and bridges to the left. I suppose this is natural, and rational. In this way your right hand, which might wield a weapon, a dagger or staff, faces the stranger whom you pass. Thus, on the left, you are better positioned to defend yourself, if necessary. On the other hand, in the part of my old world, that called Terra, or Earth, that part from which I derived, one treads to the right. How uneasy that would make you! Presumably there are historical, political reasons for that, perhaps involving a blatant declaration of differences amongst states, different symbols, different currencies, different customs, different practices, different ways of doing things. One does not know. In any event treading on the left, for a long time, made me uneasy, particularly on the high bridges.

  To be sure, it was easy enough, soon enough, for the delivery girls of the house of Daphne to ascertain, from amongst their customers, that competition lurked about.

  Accordingly, it took Lady Daphne’s ruffians, both natively Gorean, little time to extend their surveillance to the local bridges, this easily done from a higher bridge, or even from the roof of the tower of Six Bridges itself.

  Accordingly, last week, seeing one of the two approaching rapidly on the connecting bridge, I turned about to flee, only, to my consternation, to see the other, who had been following me.

  Caught between them, on the high bridge, I sank to my knees, dizzy and sick, and put down the bundle, frightened, trembling.

  I knew, weak and unsteady, I could be easily swept from the bridge, and might even, trying to stand and move, stagger, and precipitate myself over the edge.

  I began to shudder.

  How close the edge seemed, the sharp drop much closer than it could have been in reality.

  I could then not even manage to kneel.

  So I lay on my belly, my hands at the side of my head, unable to move. I just did not want them to touch me. I felt wind on my tunic, I saw a wisp of cloud pass by.

  “What is wrong with her?” asked one of the girls.

  “I do not know,” said the other.

  I was aware of the laundry being lifted, and, piece by piece, cast from the bridge, doubtless fluttering to the street far below.

  The two girls from the house of Lady Daphne then withdrew.

  I lay there for a long time, not daring to move, while occasionally a man or woman moved past me.

  “Are you all right?” asked a man.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Do you want me to carry you into the tower?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  Later, inch by inch, I crawled on my belly to the edge of the bridge and looked over the edge.

  Here and there below, on a lower bridge, and on the street, I could see bits of the laundry, cast about, scattered, and crumpled. While I watched, a sheet was taken by a wind and swept from the lower bridge, whence it fluttered to the street below. An occasional person looked up, and then moved on.

  After a time, I backed away from the edge, and then, on my hands and knees, carefully made my way to the security of the tower and the descending stairwell.

  I recovered what laundry I could from the lower bridge, and the street, and returned to the house of Epicrates. I was not beaten. Lady Delia, companion of the pottery merchant, Epicrates, with coins received from the Lady Bina and the beast, later remunerated a number of customers who had lost their goods.

  “It would be better, in the future,” said the Lady Bina, “if you kept to the streets, for it would then be easier to recover lost articles.”

  “Mistress wishes to continue her enterprise?” I inquired.

  “Certainly,” she said.

  “Perhaps we could avoid the district of Six Bridges,” I said.

  “If it were not the district of Six Bridges,” said the Lady Bina, “it would be another district.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I had said, in misery.

  “Too,” she had said, “Six Bridges houses several of our best customers.”

  “Yes, Mistress,” I had said.

  And so it came about that I was taking a roundabout way to Six Bridges, this time, at least, again on the street level. Once more I was hoping to avoid the laundry slaves of the establishment of the Lady Daphne. I had first encountered them a month ago on the street, and then, more frighteningly, on the bridge last week. Usually, of course, I did not encounter them. Had I done so regularly our service would have been irreparably disrupted. Twice I had been accompanied in my rounds by the Lady Bina, and once by the Lady Delia. If the laundry slaves had been about then, and noted my passage, they had not disturbed me, as I was accompanied by a free person. The beast, of course, did not
accompany me. It seldom went out while Tor-tu-Gor reigned amongst the towers. Had he been with me I would have had little doubt but what the laundry slaves of the Lady Daphne would have kept their distance, if not have fled altogether back to her house. Men sometimes became embroiled, as mercenaries, in the disputes between the laundering houses, but the routine policing of territories was generally entrusted to slaves.

  I was within fifty paces of one of the lower entryways, a back entryway, to Six Bridges when, to my dismay, I saw my two nemeses, one emerging from a doorway to the left, the other from a doorway to my right. I had little doubt they had been waiting there, watching, for me to come close enough to surprise. Carrying the laundry, a rectangular bulk of it, steadying it on my head with two hands, I could not well have turned about and fled.

  They were too close.

  Both were smiling.

  Both were carrying a peeled, supple branch.

  I did not know how long I could hold the laundry, if those branches were laid against the back of my thighs, or across my arms and shoulders. They would avoid my face, I was sure, lest I be permanently marked or damaged.

  I was, after all, goods, perhaps goods of some value.

  The first of the two laundering slaves whipped her branch viciously through the air, twice. I heard its swift rush through the air. The other slapped her branch in her palm.

  “Why are you not on the bridge?” laughed the first.

  “You looked well, paralyzed, unable to move, cowering on your belly,” said the second.

  “She is a barbarian,” said the first.

  “I will enjoy this,” said the second.

  “I mean you no harm,” I said. “Please! Please let me pass. I must do as I am told.”

  “So, too, must we,” laughed the first.

  “You were warned,” said the second.

  They then, improvised switches at the ready, stepped forward. They lifted their arms, eager, grinning, but then, to my amazement, they stopped, and turned white.

  “First obeisance position,” said a voice behind me, sharply, a male voice, “switches in your teeth.”

  The two laundry slaves swiftly went to first obeisance position, kneeling, head to the ground, palms of their hands on the ground, the switches crosswise in their teeth.

  Both were discomfited, frightened, in the presence of a man, presumably a free man.

  “You, you with the laundry,” said the voice. “Remain standing, where you are, and do not turn around.”

  I think the man then withdrew a few feet behind me.

  Then he said to the two laundry slaves, “Get on all fours, and approach me, the switch in your teeth, both of you.”

  I watched them, frightened, crawl past me. The first one cast me a look of terror, of misery.

  In the house I had been trained to crawl thusly to a man, humbly, the switch held crosswise between my teeth. It is one way in which a slave may bear the whip or switch to her master.

  She does not know how, or if, it will be used.

  She will soon learn.

  I did not turn around.

  “Now turn about, and belly,” said the voice.

  Then I sensed that the slaves had been put to their bellies, their heads toward me.

  I then heard some small, frightened sounds, as though limbs had been jerked about, behind backs, and then tiny noises, as though wrists had been thonged together, and not gently.

  I then heard two small cries, accompanying a ripping of cloth.

  “Now,” said the voice, “let us see about these switches.”

  “Mercy, Master!” said the first of the two laundry slaves.

  “Were you given permission to speak?” he asked.

  “No, Master, forgive me, Master!” said the girl.

  A moment later I heard the switch being applied to the two slaves, a blow for one, and then a blow for the other, and so on.

  There was much sobbing.

  “Knees,” said the voice.

  “Henceforth,” said the voice, “you are not to bother this slave, or any other, as they are about their work. If you do, you will be placed on a slave ship for Torvaldsland or Schendi. Do you understand?”

  “Yes, Master,” they said.

  Then they cried out with pain, as though they might be being dragged at a man’s hip, in leading position.

  “Move,” he said, and I saw the two slaves pass me, on the right, tied together, closely, head to head, by the hair, their tunics torn to the waist, their hands thonged tightly behind them, their backs and the back of their thighs richly striped from the blows of a switch.

  “Stop!” he called.

  Instantly they stopped.

  “Tell your Mistress,” said the voice, “that this district is open, and will not be defended, or contested. It, and its pricings, are not to be managed, or controlled. If the Lady Daphne does not find these arrangements acceptable, her house will be burned to the ground.”

  “Yes, Master!” they said.

  “Now, go,” said the voice.

  The two bound, chastised slaves then, awkwardly, as they could, uncomfortably, half stumbling, fled down the street.

  “Do not turn around,” said the voice behind me.

  I remained still, looking ahead, frightened, balancing the laundry, holding it in place with my two hands.

  “A slave thanks Master,” I said. “A slave is grateful.”

  I trusted he would not now, himself, take the laundry and cast it to the gutter. Would that not be a rich Gorean joke, at the expense of a helpless slave, a joke worth recounting in the taverns?

  “You are Allison, the barbarian slut of the Lady Bina, are you not?” asked the voice.

  “I am Allison,” I said, “girl of the Lady Bina, who resides in the house of the pottery merchant, Epicrates.”

  “The barbarian slut,” he said.

  “I am barbarian,” I said, “Master.”

  “A barbarian slut,” he said.

  “If Master pleases,” I said.

  I sensed I was being regarded, from behind, as a slave may be regarded.

  “How is it that Master knows a girl’s name, and that of her Mistress?” I asked.

  “Hold still,” he said.

  I stiffened, angrily.

  I felt his hands at the side of my body, and then at the sides of my waist, and then at my hips, and then a bit down, at the sides of my thighs.

  Had I been on Earth, and free, I would doubtless have spun about, and struck him. But I was on Gor, and a slave.

  “Not bad, for a barbarian,” he said.

  “I assure Master,” I said, “that many of us are quite as good as his native Gorean girls.”

  Certainly we were all of the same species, and all in our collars.

  “I am told we sell well,” I said, angrily.

  “For copper tarsks,” he said.

  My fingers dug into the laundry, angrily.

  Did he know of the Metellan district, or the house of Menon?

  “Do not turn around,” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Straighten your body, girl,” he said.

  “Is Master pleased with what he sees?” I asked.

  “I have seen worse,” he said.

  “A slave is pleased, if Master is pleased,” I said, acidly.

  I was sure now whose was the voice whose face I could not see.

  It was he from the Sul Market, he whom I loathed.

  I had seen him about, from time to time.

  “It seems Master follows a slave,” I said. “Perhaps Master will make an offer for her.”

  “You are a vain slut,” he said. “What makes you think anyone would want you?”

  “I am lovely,” I said.

  “That is all you are,” he said.

  “At least that is something,” I said.

  “Certainly,” he said.

  “How did you know my name, and that of my Mistress?” I asked.

  “Curiosity is not becoming in
a kajira,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “Are you any good in the furs?” he asked.

  “Perhaps Master would care to try me, and see,” I said.

  “You are boldly spoken,” he said.

  I shrugged.

  “Perhaps I will try you,” he said, “and see.”

  “I am owned by another,” I said, quickly.

  “But a woman,” he said.

  “She might hire men,” I said.

  “If she could hire men,” he said, “you would not be doing laundry.”

  “Surely a barbarian slut could be of no interest to Master,” I said.

  “Barbarians look well,” he said, “naked, collared, chained, licking and kissing at one’s feet, bringing the whip to a fellow in their teeth, and such.”

  “I have laundry to deliver,” I said.

  “Remain where you are,” he said.

  “There is another, of course,” I said.

  “I know,” he said.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “What do you know of it?” he asked.

  “Very little,” I said. “It is the pet of Lady Bina.”

  “Do not be naive,” he said.

  “Master?” I asked.

  “Do you know what form of life it is?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “It is Kur,” he said.

  So he knew that word.

  “I know little of such things,” I said.

  “What,” he asked, “is it doing on Gor, and what, too, is the Lady Bina doing on Gor?”

  “I do not know,” I said.

  “You are stupid,” he said.

  “I find Master hateful,” I said.

  “You would look well at my feet,” he said.

  “I have laundry to deliver,” I said.

  “Do not move,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You would find out what it is to be owned by a man,” he said.

  “A slave thanks Master,” I said, “for his intervention in her behalf, in the matter of the laundry. With his permission, she now begs to be dismissed, that she may be about her work.”

  “Are you red-silk?” he asked.

  “Of what business is that of Master?” I asked. Then I said, quickly, “Yes, I am red-silk.”

  One must be careful how one responds to a Gorean male, if one is a slave.