by John Norman
“What have you done to me?” I said, at last, lying in the dirt beside him, by the reduced embers of the fire, looking up at him from my side, bound by his will.
“Is it not clear?” he asked.
“Master?” I said.
“I have stripped you,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“It is time to put you on the common chain,” he said. “You are unbound.”
I struggled to my feet, and he then conducted me, his right hand on my left upper arm, to the common chain, on which several girls were already placed. He sat me by the chain, removed the shackle from my right ankle, looped it about the chain, and fastened it on me again, thus tethering me to the common chain. In this camp it was strung not between two trees, but between two heavy posts, to which it was bolted, the posts some twenty paces apart.
“So, Master,” I said, “the slave is stripped.”
“There are many ways to strip a slave,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
“Ordering her to disrobe, or tearing away her tunic, are but two,” he said.
“I understand,” I said.
“To be sure,” he said, “that is pleasant.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
After I had confessed so much of myself to him, so revealed who was in my collar, I had almost hoped I would hear the issuance of a disrobing order, or that his hands, at my neckline, would have torn away my tunic.
But he had conducted me to the girl chain.
“It is all of the slave which is owned,” he said.
“That is understood by the slave,” I said.
“The slave’s every thought,” he said, “even her subtlest, least feeling, is owned by the master.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
He rose to his feet. I swiftly knelt, and looked up at him. “Master,” I said.
“Keep your knees closed,” he said, annoyed, his voice brusque.
I quickly closed them. I smiled to myself, a little. I do have power, I thought.
“It seems this slave is in the care of Master,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“You hold the key to her shackles?”
“As of now,” he said.
“You knew the slave’s name, ‘Allison’, even from Ar,” I said.
“So?” he said.
“But the slave,” I said, “does not even know Master’s name.”
“Desmond,” he said.
“That is not a Gorean name,” I said.
“It is,” he said, surprised.
“Surely not,” I said.
“It is, in the vicinity of Harfax,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“My Home Stone,” said he, “is that of Harfax.”
“What was Master doing in Ar?” I asked.
“Curiosity,” said he, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“I have heard,” said he, “there are tharlarion races in Venna tomorrow. To be sure, it is the season. Would you care to attend?”
“Yes,” I said, “yes, Master!”
“You may, if you wish,” he said, “remain chained in the wagon, with the curtains tied shut.”
“I beg to accompany Master,” I said.
“If you do so,” he said, “you will do so as a kajira.”
“What does that mean?” I asked.
“You will see,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I had said.
* * * *
The crowd milled about, some descending the tiers, others climbing them.
The robing of a Gorean crowd is colorful, particularly on holidays, or in attendance at public events, races, and such. Doubtless that is all very familiar to you, but perhaps, as it is so familiar to you, you do not much note it.
Some slaves, as I, were on short ring chains, but many were loose, wandering about, though back-braceleted. I supposed it would then be difficult for them to pilfer small objects, dared they to do so. On the other hand, I suspected there were subtler reasons underlying this lovely constraint. Does it not remind the girl that she is a slave, and only a slave? Certainly she is constrained as one. But men, too, the monsters, seem to enjoy having women helpless before them, fully at their mercy, and what woman, rendered so helpless, does not then the better understand that she is a woman. Too, of course, it helps to draw a sharper distinction between us and free women, as though the scantiness of our tunics, and the obviousness of our lovely, slender, locked collars, compared to the richness of their robes, and veils, and half veils, were not enough!
I saw a lovely-legged, long-haired girl in a brief blue tunic. I did not know if that were because her master favored the blue, or if he might be a scribe.
A vendor went by, just below our level, on the walkway, hawking tastas.
I wished he in whose charge I was, Desmond, in the black and gray of the Metal Workers, would return. Though I hated him, I wanted to be helpless near him. I wanted to be such that he might exploit me, as he pleased.
Far below, on the broad, level area, inside the rail, I saw two girls, in tunics of yellow and blue, the Slaver’s colors, back-braceleted as other slaves, but also, interestingly, joined together, neck to neck, by a yard of chain. I stood up, to get a better look. There seemed something different, or interesting, about them, or something familiar, something I could not place. Perhaps, I thought, I had seen one or the other, perhaps both, somewhere in Ar, perhaps at the laundry troughs, or in a market. Perhaps in some way they were a matched pair, and were to be sold as such. It did not seem likely, on the other hand, they were twins, as one was blonde and the other darkly haired, rather like myself. Perhaps, then, they were matched in some other sense, or, even, not really matched at all, save in the sense of each being undoubtedly of slave interest.
After the rescue, if that be the word, of the blind Kur, I had learned more of the past of Lord Grendel. Some I had learned from the Lady Bina, but more, interestingly, from the translator. As the newcomer to our domicile was incapable, for most purposes, of uttering intelligible Gorean, Lord Grendel taught me the use of the translator, so that I might have a means of understanding the newcomer, and communicating with him. The Lady Bina was already familiar with the device. Interestingly the Lady Bina seemed muchly to esteem the newcomer, and even to stand in some awe of him. “He is true Kur,” she had whispered to me. Certainly she showed him more respect, or deference, than she commonly accorded to her own colleague, or friend, or guard, Lord Grendel, for whom she often seemed to entertain, for all his devotion to her, and for all her dependence on him, something like a patient, tolerant, pitying contempt. She regarded him as imperfect, and malformed, as if he might be a monstrosity or cripple of some sort. Perhaps, in some sense, he was. I did not know. To be sure, she realized that he had his uses. Sometimes, before we had left the domicile, I had lingered in the vicinity of Lord Grendel and the blind Kur, whose name I had heard many times, but could not begin to say. No equivalent to it, in Gorean phonemes, had been programmed into the translator. When it was pronounced in Kur the translator, in Gorean, would be silent. I had sometimes stayed by the two beasts while they spoke in Kur, turning on the translator, but lowering the volume, putting my ear to the device. They could hear the Gorean from the translator, even from across the room, and probably more clearly than I, who was adjacent to it, but it was of no interest to them, and they paid it little, if any, attention. After a bit, it was probably not even noticed by them. The blind Kur had expressed interest, in the beginning, in the machine’s being on, but Lord Grendel had authorized the harmlessness of its use with the explanation that “they are curious little beasts.” “Yes,” had said the newcomer, “they all are.” It seemed then that he knew something, as I had earlier suspected, about human female slaves. The newcomer had never seen me, of course, but I had no doubt he could have picked me out promptly from a hundred slaves by scent. To be sure, I had no doubt he could have performed the same feat w
ith the Lady Bina, from, say, a hundred free women. So, too, of course, and more fearfully, might have a sleen, put on our scent. Much from the Lady Bina and from the translator I did not understand, that having to do with distant worlds, exotic engineerings, unusual weaponries, strange customs and holidays, diverse races and cultures, troubled histories, and such, and with mysterious projects, factions, and wars, seemingly current, but some things were clear, or reasonably so, that they were the remnants of advanced peoples who, having destroyed their ancestral world, and having migrated to the exile of artificial spheres, uncontaminated and unpolluted, livable and unradiated, coveted new and better worlds. I did learn, in passing, something, too, of Lord Grendel. In the plans of some Kurii, it had been hoped that an alliance might be formed between themselves and the humans of Gor, that the surface of Gor might be shared, putatively in peace, for a time. Supposedly this would be acceptable to those who were the guardians of two worlds, my world, called Earth in my native language, and Gor, the Priest-Kings of Gor, a mysterious set of beings regarded with great awe, both by humans and Kurii. Supposedly the Priest-Kings, whoever or whatever they might be, concerned to protect the two worlds of Tor-tu-Gor, in particular, Gor, a generally undamaged world, and their own, would allow this alliance, provided their weapon and technology laws were respected, laws designed to keep dangerous power out of the hands of species too aggressive, or stupid, to manage it with intelligence. Lord Grendel speculated that the Kurii would begin in peace, and then, bit by bit, eliminate Gorean humans, save perhaps for those which might be kept as work beasts and food, and have the surface of the world for themselves. The next phase would be when Kurii were abundant on Gor, and suitably emplaced. Then, by means of smuggled weapons, and the aid of the technology of the metal worlds, the Priest-Kings themselves might be attacked and eliminated, following which the world would belong to Kurii, who might then, with their various, competitive factions, contest it as they might. As a phase in this program, in order to facilitate an approach to humans, a series of experiments were to be performed, producing a set of hybrids, part Kur, part human, who, hopefully, could profitably interact with Gorean humans. This program was abandoned, after one such experiment, the result of which was the supposed monstrosity, Grendel, later Lord Grendel. He had several fathers, interestingly, as the genetic materials of several male Kurii were injected into, and fused within, a single human egg, which was eventually brought to term in the human female from whom the egg had been originally extracted. She, after the offspring was shown to her, had killed herself. Lord Grendel, part Kur and part human, was apparently not found acceptable by humans, and so the program was discontinued. Interestingly, for most practical purposes, he was not found acceptable by Kurii either, and became, in effect, an outcast on the steel world of his birth. A second plan was formed, to convert, bribe, or suborn, and then support, with power and riches, a human to further their projects. There was an attempt to recruit a disaffected human, one alienated from, and inimical to, Priest-Kings, a warrior, whose name was not spoken. Apparently this warrior not only declined to accept this commission, but became involved somehow in the politics of the steel world itself, participating in a revolt which brought about, in the steel world in question, a change in governance.
I, personally, saw little difference between Lord Grendel and another Kur. To the Kur, on the other hand, certain differences were apparently offensively obvious. For example, the paws and feet of Lord Grendel had but five digits, rather than the six found in the paws and feet of a normal Kur. There were other apparently subtle differences of appearance, as well, but these, or most of them, seemed negligible to me. Perhaps most interestingly, Lord Grendel could approximate human phonemes. One supposes, of course, that there might also be other differences, internal differences, of a sort less easy to detect, in physiology, and, perhaps, in sensibility, disposition, consciousness, and such. Lord Grendel, as I have mentioned before, claimed to be Kur. The newcomer accepted him as Kur. But the newcomer, of course, was blind.
I looked about myself.
The next races were with bipedalian tharlarion. Such races, given the beasts, are faster, rougher, and more dangerous. Such races are apparently difficult to anticipate and analyze, presumably from the unpredictability of the beasts, which are sometimes refractory, and sometimes wayward and aggressive. Sometimes a favorite will balk, and an unknown bound to victory. Some people will not bet on such races.
I could no longer see the two back-braceleted, neck-chained kajirae. As they had been in a blue-and-yellow livery, the colors of the Slavers, I supposed they might have been brought to the races to be offered. I supposed them such then that men might bid well on them. I suspected that if I were to be put up now, men might bid well on me, as well. Was I not different now than I had been, now that I was collared? Had I not been stalked by the Metal Worker? Had he not stood between me and a beast? To be sure, he had treated me with abruptness and authority in the market of Cestias, long ago, and had availed himself of my lips near Six Bridges, taking so presumptuous a liberty, when I was in no position to resist. He had given me a blanket in the wagon. But he had forced me to cook for him, the same night, and had put me to the indignity of all fours, as though I might have been a she-tarsk, and had fed me by hand. To be sure, I was grateful for the food. He had then had me lie beside him, “bound by his will,” reclined as the mere slave I was, and had had me speak, and speak. I had told him so much, and revealed so much of myself, baring myself, my past, my thoughts, my hopes, fears, and feelings before him, as only a slave might bare herself before a master, and then, when I was so open, so confessed, so exposed, so vulnerable, so helplessly exhibited, he had informed me that he had “stripped me.” And well then had I been stripped, stripping myself, before that man! How well he then knew me! What had I left to hide from him, but then it is all of a kajira that is owned. He had then put me on the girl chain. But as I lay there that night, in the dirt, shackled to the common chain, I was pleased, so pleased, that I had been able to speak. But, I wondered how it was that he, a master, should be interested, if indeed he had been, in the thoughts and feelings of a kajira. Surely we kajirae were only beasts to be worked and put to use, and to be whipped if we were not pleasing. But, I thought, perhaps he is the sort of master who would be satisfied with owning nothing less than all of a kajira. The kajira, of course, knows that it is all of her that is owned. That is clear in law. But how frightening it sometimes is for her to realize that that is true, that it is all of her that is owned.
I supposed the saddle beasts, the racers, were now being prepared for the final races, which would culminate the day.
Tor-tu-Gor was still bright, but there were long shadows, from the awnings, lying across the nearer track. Across the way, at the far track, male work slaves were scattering water on the track.
People were now beginning to return to the tiers.
I sat there on the tier, tunicked, my legs closely together, my hands braceleted behind me, my left ankle fastened to the tier ring. I picked out the slaves in the crowd, in their colored tunics. I saw one slave in a short tunic which was white, with broad, diagonal black stripes. Her master, I thought, must be an old-fashioned fellow, a traditionalist, or such. Such tunics, it seemed, were once quite common, indeed almost a universal uniform of kajirae, but, later, happily, a great deal of variety had been introduced into slave tunics, in color, cut, neckline, and such. Masters now had a great many options at their disposal when it came to clothing their properties, if they chose to clothe them. We girls, muchly concerned, like all women, with enhancing our appearance, with being attractive, even beautiful, muchly approved this state of affairs. And, of course, though the final word is the master’s, it is a rare master who is immune to the delights which a lovely slave might choose to present for his consideration. Surely he does not wish his girl to be out of fashion, which might cast discredit on his taste, or wallet, or both. And now we might compete in a hundred new ways with one another, almost like
free women who compete by means of the many luxurious varieties of their own bright, colorful, beautifully draped garmentures. To be sure, there is no danger of mistaking the brief, slight, dramatically revealing tunic of a slave with the concealing robes and veils of a free woman. I noted, again, the slave in the white, black-striped tunic. It was not unattractive. She had good legs.
I pulled a little at the bracelets which held my hands confined behind my back. How different this is from my former world, I thought. Here one thinks nothing of lovely, collared, back-braceleted, briefly tunicked slaves moving about in a crowd. Such a striking contrast with the others about, those well robed, so fully clothed! But how taken for granted here such beauties are! It is no more than a cultural commonplace. But on my former world this sort of thing would attract a great deal of attention, say, the appearance in a crowd of a lovely young woman, barefoot or sandaled, half naked, briefly tunicked, her neck in a collar, clearly locked on her neck, her hands braceleted closely, helplessly, behind her, perhaps even on a leash.
“Oh!” I said, for a cloth had been, from behind, suddenly slipped over my head. It was looped twice about my head and knotted in the back. I was blindfolded! “Master?” I said.
There was laughter from about.
I felt my head pulled back by the hair, and I was then, head back, facing upward, toward the billowing, striped awning, which I could not see.
I felt harsh masculine lips crush my lips.
I could not move, for the hand in my hair.
I could not speak, for the pressure.
Too, I had not been given permission to speak.
Then I moaned, and squirmed, and fought, and feared, and involuntarily trembled, for I sensed my body might yield to him.
How could I help myself?
I was a slave!
I feared that, in a moment, I might, to the amusement of those about, press myself piteously against him.
Had he touched me, as one might touch a slave, so confidently, so certainly, and possessively, I feared I would have leaped to his touch, even spasmed.
