by John Norman
“Each day?” I asked.
“One every two or three days,” he said, “sometimes two or more together.”
“For what purpose, to what end?” I asked.
“In time,” said he, “all will become clear.”
“I would have it clear now,” I said.
“The pay is good,” he said, touching the stater lightly, at the edge, as though he might move it toward me.
“Berths are won by the sword, I understand,” I said.
“Sometimes,” he said.
“And if berths were limited?” I asked.
“Then, surely,” he said.
“I am cognizant of the fellows you seek,” I said.
“Men such as you,” he said.
“I have no wish to feel a knife in my back,” I said.
“Such an assailant,” he said, “would be dealt with summarily, and unpleasantly.”
“That would do me little good,” I said.
“Discipline is rigorous,” he said.
“Among such men it must be,” I said.
“Surely,” said he.
“Men such as I?” I asked.
“I fear so,” he said.
It was now too late to make the rendezvous to the west, on Daphne, even were a vessel to leave this night, even had I the wherewithal to book passage. For some reason I had lingered too long in Brundisium. Why was that? But, too, I had voyaged on the sky ships, and more than once. I did not know if I would choose to so voyage again. I would leave it, like much else, to the future. There are many roads. I had taken such service for the pay, but, too, for the difference, the danger, the adventure. Too, for the pleasure of knotting cords on the wrists and ankles of slave fruit, on luscious, bipedalian, barbarian cattle.
But now I was again on Gor, and now, at least for the time, was content. There are many roads.
And surely there were enough Earth women here, if one’s tastes ran in such directions.
I thought of Earth stock, now familiar in Gorean markets.
How exciting, and beautiful, so often, was such stock! To be sure, we, and others, were selective, very selective.
Doubtless that made a difference, a great difference.
How little the men of Earth valued it. Why did they not better protect it? It can be worth a man’s life to try to take a free woman from a Gorean city, even a slave. We strive to protect our free women, and even our properties, our verr, our kaiila, our slaves. Did the men of Earth not prize their females? Did they not realize how attractive, how exciting, how valuable, how wonderful, how desirable, they were? Was that so hard to see?
Then I thought of true free women, our own women.
How different were the women of Earth from them, those of Earth lacking Home Stones, with their brazenly unveiled features, their openly displayed ankles, the pleading silk of their secret lingerie, so fit for slaves. They were not Gorean free women. They belonged on the block, being bidden for. I could not understand why the men of their world did not see this, why they did not realize how valuable their females were, and what might be done with them. Certainly it was clear enough to us. Could they not see what they were, what they needed, what they wanted? Did they not understand them? Why did they deny them the ownership and domination without which they could not be fulfilled, without which they could not be women? Why did they not kneel them, and inform them that they were women, and now, owned, would be treated as such? Did they think they were not women, that they were something else, neuters, sexless creatures, or such, inert cultural contrivances? Did they not realize what it might be, to have one at their feet, collared, owned, trained to their tastes, hoping to be found pleasing?
It is very pleasant.
It is also pleasant, of course, to take a Gorean free woman and teach her the collar, and kindle her slave fires, until she crawls to you, begging, indistinguishable from a barbarian, and then like them, forever then a slave.
They are all women.
There is no real difference.
They are all women.
The golden stater was thrust toward me.
I thrust it back.
“No?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
He replaced the coin in his wallet.
“It is men such as you,” he said, “which we want, and will have.”
“I think not,” I said.
“Do you know who I am?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“Tyrtaios,” he said.
“I do not know the name,” I said.
“Let it be known that you have refused Tyrtaios,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“It may explain much later,” he said.
“And serve as a lesson to others?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“Weapons are at the door,” I said. “Do you wish to meet outside?”
“I wish you well,” he said, and, rising, turned about, and left. I saw two others rise, as well, and follow him through the portal.
A proprietor’s man approached, and lingered by the table, looking toward the portal through which the three men had exited. He did not look at me. He said, softly, “Beware.”
“Paga,” I said.
“I will send a girl,” he said.
“Master,” she said, a moment later, kneeling. It was the same woman, she from Asperiche.
“Knees,” I said.
She widened them, reddening.
Did she not know how to kneel before a man?
“Paga,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, rose, and, with an angry jangle of bells, withdrew.
She seemed to me insufficiently deferential.
She had lied before, and I had not had her lashed.
Did she still think she was a free woman? Had she not yet learned she was a slave?
Lying is permitted to the free woman, not the slave.
I supposed she was the sort of slave who would misinterpret a forbearance as weakness, the sort of slave who would abuse a lenience.
That is unwise on their part, for it is easy enough to remind them of their bondage, fiercely, and with unmistakable clarity.
I thought of another woman, one first seen in a large emporium, on the world Earth. I recalled that she, in the warehouse on Earth, had looked well at my feet, stripped, on her back, as I had turned her, looking up at me, bound hand and foot, clearly ready for processing.
I trusted she would not be so foolish.
If she were, the whip would quickly instruct her in deportment.
Yet vanity in a woman is charming, even endearing. Let them lie about their sales price, the wealth and position of their master, the loftiness of their former station, and such.
But it is quite another thing to be in the least bit displeasing.
It is interesting to see how carefully some, at first, will tread a line, flirting with a master’s patience, practicing a deference akin to insolence, and then to note their dismay when they discover that the line has been moved by the master in such a way that they find themselves clearly on its wrong side, the whip side. Informed that their games are done, they then strive to be wholly pleasing, as the slave they now know themselves to be.
It is so much easier for all concerned then.
Perhaps they merely wished to be taught their collar.
If so, their wish is granted.
The slave is not a free woman. She is a property, a belonging, an animal one owns. One expects total pleasingness from her, deference, and subservience, instant and unquestioning obedience, and, at a word or the snapping of fingers, the provision of ecstatic gratification.
“Fellow,” I called to the proprietor’s man.
He came to the table. He seemed uneasy. One notes such things. At his belt hung the coin sack.
“Who is Tyrtaios?” I asked.
“I have heard the name,” he said. “Beware.”
“I have refused him,” I said.
“That has be
en gathered,” he said.
“Do you let your girls touch coins?” I asked.
“No,” he said. He rustled the coin sack at his belt.
I looked beyond the fellow, to the back of the room, on the left, several yards away, where the slave from Asperiche was waiting, to dip the goblet in the vat. The proprietor, a coarse, swollen fellow in a soiled apron, was himself tending the vat. It was a low tavern. The coin box, with its slot, and lock, was behind him.
“Do you think I have had too much to drink?” I asked the proprietor’s man.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“I have the ostrakon here,” I said, “with its number. Bring me my weapons.”
“I fear they are missing,” he said, not looking at me.
“Why is that?” I asked.
“Forgive us, Master,” he said. “We wish to live.”
“There is a back exit from the tavern,” I said.
“I fear it is watched,” he said.
The slave had now dipped the goblet in the vat, and had turned about.
“I see,” I said.
“It is your service they want,” he said, “not your life.”
I supposed that was true. A crossbow bolt loosed in the darkness would handle such a matter, conveniently, before a shadow could be noted, a blade drawn.
“What lies in the north?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Remain at hand,” I said.
“Master,” said the girl, kneeling.
Under my scrutiny, she widened her knees. She placed the goblet on the low table, behind which I sat, cross-legged.
“You seem displeased to be in a collar,” I said.
“I am in a collar,” she said. “What more is there to say?”
“Perhaps you have not yet learned it,” I said.
She was silent.
“Perhaps you do not yet realize you belong in one,” I said.
“May I withdraw?” she asked.
“Position,” I said.
She went to position, kneeling back on her heels, her back straight, her belly in, her shoulders back, her head up, the palms of her hands down on her thighs. One does not break “position” without permission.
I reached into my wallet. There was little left. I removed a Brundisium tarsk-bit, which is a large coin, the size perhaps intended to compensate for the slightness of its value.
“Open your mouth,” I said.
“I am not permitted to touch money,” she said.
I placed the coin in her mouth. “Do not drop it,” I said. The coin was far too large to swallow, and, held in her mouth, she could not speak. She was effectively, and embarrassingly, silenced.
She cast a wild, piteous glance at the proprietor’s man.
“I think,” I said, “it is true, that I have had too much to drink.” I then dashed the contents of the goblet on the startled, recoiling slave. She shook her head, and, blinking and twisting, tried to free herself of the paga. It was in her hair, and had drenched her face, and upper body. It ran down her body to her belly and thighs. She stank then of the drink. She shivered. I looked to the proprietor’s man. “She has been found displeasing,” I said.
“She will be lashed,” he said.
“Later,” I said.
“Master?” he said.
I removed my cloak. “You will put this on,” I said, “and draw the hood, and precede me through the door.”
“Certainly not,” he said.
“I thought you wished to live,” I said.
He donned the cloak, and drew the hood about his features.
“What is going on?” asked the proprietor, come from the vat.
“Do not interfere,” I said. Men about regarded us. Some rose up, but none approached.
“Now,” I said to the proprietor’s man. “You will exit the tavern, and walk to the left, toward the wharves.”
He bent down, and, drawing the hood and cloak more closely about him, exited the tavern.
I would let him precede me by a few yards. He left the tavern, and I remained behind for a bit, back, within the threshold. Then I, too, exited. As I had expected, very shortly, figures emerged from the shadows, two, though I had expected three, following the proprietor’s man, which two figures I followed. The lights of the tavern were soon behind us, and the wharf streets, in this section of the city, are narrow, crooked, and dark. Normally men carry their own light in such streets, or have it carried for them, often with guards or retainers in attendance.
As I had expected the two figures soon rushed forward and seized the proprietor’s man. I heard scuffling, and heavy blows, presumably of clubs. Intent on their work, presumably to beat their victim senseless and convey him, bound, to some predesignated location, the fellows were oblivious of my approach.
It was short work.
“What did you do to them?” asked the proprietor’s man.
“They will be all right,” I said. “You will not lose two customers.” I had not broken the neck of the first, nor the back of the second. It did seem pertinent to render them unconscious, which I did by taking each by the hair, when they were down, stunned, and yanking their heads together. Two clubs were somewhere on the pavement, but I did not know where they were.
“What are you doing?” asked the proprietor’s man.
It was dark.
“Making this worth our while,” I said. “You played your part very well.”
“My part?” he asked.
“Of course,” I said.
I pressed one of the wallets into his hands, and retained the other.
“Is there a garbage trough nearby?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said, “several, the nearest down the street, toward the water.”
“My cloak,” I said. “It will be chilly by the water.”
After a bit, we had deposited the two ruffians in a trough.
“How will this be explained?” asked the proprietor’s man.
“They were set upon in the darkness, and robbed,” I said.
“I do not think their principal will be pleased,” said the proprietor’s man.
“I suspect he will be more pleased than you realize,” I said.
“You have exceeded his expectations?” asked the proprietor’s man.
“I expect so,” I said.
“You are then a two-stater hire?” he asked.
“I would think so,” I said.
“I must return to the tavern,” said the proprietor’s man.
“We will go together,” I said. “I trust my weapons will be available.”
“Certainly,” he said.
On what ship, I wondered, would I take passage? Certainly I had lingered about the docks frequently enough, in the early morning, watching, not really knowing why. Observing, waiting, for what?
I recalled her lot number had been 119, not that it mattered.
She was a slave.
Chapter Seven
I, and certain others, had been kept in that basement, or dungeon, at the foot of the stairs, with the damp, soiled straw, and the dim light, filtering in from above, in its narrow, dust-sprinkled shaft of illumination, for days. After four days I had been removed from the sirik. I could then freely move my hands and feet, and the linkage was not on my neck. How helpless we are in the sirik, and perhaps beautiful. But I was then, two days later, as some others had been, fastened to the wall. They do with us what they please. This was done by means of a collar and chain, which ran to a heavy ring, dangling from a plate, anchored in the wall. I felt even more helpless than when in the sirik, for in the sirik one may move about, with its small steps, and lift one hands to one’s mouth, to feed oneself, when permitted to use one’s hands. Now, with a rustle of chain, I could move no more than a two or three feet from the wall. And the collar was heavy on my neck. Doubtless the room, or dungeon, with its heavy, thick walls, was quite enough to keep us in place. Within it we were helpless enough, were we not, considering the walls, the bar
red gate at the top of the narrow stone stairs, our nudity, the men about, and such, but, one supposes, our chaining, of one sort or another, must have had its purpose, or purposes; perhaps it was intended to be mnemonic or advisory, or perhaps instructive, to leave us in no doubt that we were slaves, and only that, or, perhaps, it was merely because men enjoyed seeing us that way, so vulnerable and helpless in such impediments, impediments of their choice. I suppose I should have resented my nudity, and such constraints, and being exposed to frequent, open, public, appraisive scrutiny, as the men might wish, as the animals we now knew ourselves to be, and, sometimes, being forced to take food and water on all fours, from pans, not permitted to use one’s hands and such, but I found it, somehow, this helplessness, this subjection to complete, uncompromised masculine domination appropriate for me, fitting, reassuring, and thrilling. Here, as I had not on Earth, I felt myself a woman, and, for the first time, radically and basically female, far beyond anything I had experienced on Earth. Here, in a way, I had learned what I was, basically, and naturally. No longer needed I pretend to be something else, some sort of imitation man, a pseudoman, or a facsimile man, or something advised to be manlike, or a creature to which sex should be unimportant or irrelevant, or a neuter of some sort, or, worse, a nothing, something meaningless, no more than a societally contrived artifact. I was now what I was, myself, and wholly so, though I was ankle-deep in straw, nude, on another world. Doubtless this had something to do not simply with my needs, and the unhappiness I had known on Earth, but, too, with the men of this world, dominant, powerful, virile men, who would see me as a woman, and slave, and treat me as such, men so natural, so astonishing and mighty, that before them I knew myself a slave, and could be but a slave.
Women came and went in this place, some introduced, some removed. Sometimes men in rich robes, muchly different from the simple tunics of the guards, came to review us. Notes were taken, and lists made. I strove, desperately, as I had in the training house, to improve my Gorean. It would be the language of my masters. I had felt the monitory switch frequently enough in the house, from my branded, collared instructresses, when I erred in grammar, or ventured a poorly chosen or inept word. Here, in the basement, or dungeon, it was much easier; here my mistakes brought only amusement, ridicule, or contempt. I bartered portions of my rations for instructions. Several times, a few of us would be aligned, and examined, our feet widely spread, our hands clasped at the back of our neck, or at the back of our head. This was done with me, twice. Sometimes a slave was taken to the side, and made use of, in the straw. Some of us spoke Gorean natively, for we were not all outworlders, cattle brought from the slave world. These often wheedled the guards for information, calling up from the bottom of the stairs, for we were not permitted on the stairs, save to be entered into the place or removed from it. We learned little, I fear. We did know we were near the water. We could hear it, outside. After a time, I could follow much of the Gorean about me. It seemed that this building, which I took to be large, judging from the size of the basement, or dungeon, was some sort of depot, from which supplies, and such, at least currently, would be taken north. So much had been gathered from chance remarks overheard. It was apparently not clear even to the guards what lay to the north. I began to dream in Gorean.
