Mariners of Gor

by Norman, John;

“Perhaps he has need of an Assassin?”

  “Perhaps,” said Cabot.

  “Tyrtaios is interested in taking the ship,” I said.

  “He will not move until it is practical,” said Cabot.

  “Tyrtaios is dangerous,” I said.

  “Yes,” said Cabot.

  “He should be done away with,” I said.

  “I do not think so,” said Cabot.

  “Why not?” I said.

  “At our destination,” said Cabot, “we may need every sword.”

  At this point, Seremides approached, Tyrtaios at his back.

  “I am pleased to see that you do well, noble Callias,” said Seremides. “We had feared you might have been injured. We cannot understand the apparent attack upon you, of which you have informed us.”

  “I cannot account for it myself, noble Rutilius,” I said. “I did not know the men.”

  “It is perhaps then a mistake of some sort, that they thought you another, an enemy, or such?”

  “I think so,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”

  “A most tragic misunderstanding,” said Seremides.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “At least, you are well, unhurt, and safe,” he said. “That is what is most important.”

  “My thanks,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”

  He, with Tyrtaios, withdrew.

  “I knew not,” said Cabot, “the noble Rutilius of Ar was so solicitous of your welfare.”

  “His name is not Rutilius,” I said.

  “I know,” said the tarnsman.

  “There were, I think,” I said, “quarrels, too. One struck a mast brace.”

  “I am not surprised,” he said.

  “Forgive me,” I said, “but I think I shall look in upon a slave.”

  “Certainly,” said the tarnsman.

  The slut had not cried out, had not attempted to warn me. So now let her find herself shuddering in abject terror beneath the stern gaze of Callias, Callias before her, a Callias very much alive.

  To be sure, I could well understand why the bound slave would not have attempted to warn me of danger, even were she aware of it.

  I knew, after all, her former identity.

  I turned my attention to the second mast, and approached it, the tarnsman with me.

  I expected to find her white with terror, as she must now realize I was still alive. To be sure, it is a rare slave who will meddle in the matters of masters. It is hers, is it not, as an animal, to await the outcome, and learn her disposition? To meddle may be to invite death. Is it not better for a slave to see little and know even less? As it is said, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.

  I was then before the slave.

  “Interesting,” said the tarnsman.

  The figure which earlier had been barely discernible from the platform and ring, and had been relatively still, for so long, was now struggling. I was much surprised. A lantern was lifted by a fellow. I could no longer detect her long, dark hair, where it had fallen loosely about her white tunic. Her head had been covered, wrapped about or hooded, with some light material, cloth, or canvas. She made tiny, futile noises, scarcely audible a yard or two from the mast. I unknotted the cord holding the sacking over her head, and thrust it up enough to see her mouth, only that. The packing had been thrust deep in her mouth, and bound in place, tightly, behind the back of her neck. I jerked the sacking, which was of canvas, back down, over her head.

  She whimpered piteously, beggingly. Even when a woman is gagged, one can easily read such sounds.

  “Are you going to leave her like that?” asked the tarnsman.

  “She is a slave,” I said.

  “Unhood her, ungag her,” said the tarnsman. “She may have seen something.”

  I complied, and the girl turned her head aside, and blinked against the lantern. Then, she turned to face me, and lifted her head, her eyes half shut. “Oh, Master!” she breathed.

  Her exclamation seemed one of unspeakable relief, of joy, of gratitude. It was almost as though the collar on her neck might not have been a public collar, say, that of the ship of Tersites, but, rather, a private collar, say, that of Callias of Jad.

  I did not understand this.

  The tarnsman seized her chin in his right hand, and lifted and turned it, so that she must look upon him. I gather the grip was painful.

  “Speak,” he snarled. “What occurred here? Who was about? How did it happen? Speak, female, speak, woman!”

  I was startled that he has spoken to her in terms of her sex, simply, regardless of her condition, that she was so obviously bond. It was clearly the voice of one of the master sex addressing one of the slave sex, bluntly, directly, intending to be told the truth. I suspected, this unsettling me, he would have spoken identically even were she free. It seemed incomprehensible to me, of course, that a free woman, for example, might be so addressed. But what was a free woman but a slave without a master? How stood the conventions of society, the habits, rules, customs, and such, against the biological facts of an uncontaminated nature? Surely he spoke to her in a way that went far beyond the trivia of tunics and collars, brands and chains. What do they do, such things, the collar, bracelets, and such, other than confirm her womanhood upon a female? To be sure, slaves, as free woman are not, are well advised to answer quickly and truthfully any queries of a free man. There are many ways to encourage speech in a reluctant slave. Indeed, as you know, in a court of law, the testimony of slaves is commonly taken under torture.

  I saw that she was terrified of the tarnsman.

  “Speak,” I said to her, “kajira.”

  She cast me a grateful glance, grateful that I understood her helplessness, and terror, and that she was only a slave.

  I was therein pleased, for it betokened to me that she before me now well understood her condition, that she was truly a slave, and only a slave.

  This is a moment of truth, of understanding and insight, of submission, which few women in a collar ever forget.

  “I saw nothing! I know nothing, Master!” she said. “It was dark. My head was down, my eyes were closed. They approached silently. I was suddenly started. I heard a tiny noise. My head was yanked up, by the hair. It hurt so! I saw two men! One from each side! Masked! I opened my mouth to scream, and a fistful of wadding was thrust into it, and I could scarcely whimper. This was secured in place, and something was pulled over my head, like a sack, and I could not see, and I felt a cord knotted at my throat, this securing the covering in place. I struggled. I was frantic. I was helpless. I could see nothing. I could not speak. I did not know what was transpiring. I know nothing, nothing, Masters! That is the truth, Masters! Be merciful to a slave! She is collared, she dares not lie, Masters!”

  I looked to the tarnsman. “It is possible,” I said to the tarnsman, “that the slut knows nothing.”

  “‘Slut’, Master?” asked the slave.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “It is possible,” said the tarnsman, “and likely. It is likely that these men would wish no witnesses to their act, even if the act were such that it might be condoned, or even hoped for, by the slave.”

  “Oh, no, Master!” said the slave.

  “Blackmail, amongst confederates, or conspirators,” said the tarnsman, “is always a possibility. Thus the fewer that witness a deed the better. That the slave was not slain may indicate that they find her of interest, presumably slave interest. That is understandable. She is not a poor piece of meat. I think she might sell well.”

  The slave looked at him, startled, gratefully. Once she had regarded herself as too beautiful to be a slave; then she had come to realize that her beauty, while not negligible, was far exceeded by many slaves. This can be a very sobering experience for a woman, even one of great attractiveness, finding that her beauty, perhaps quite extraordinary for a free woman, may be quite average for a slave. For the first time she finds herself placed amongst, and ranked amongst, women of great
interest to men, women even selected with this in mind. In so chastening a situation the female’s original complacency and arrogance is likely to be replaced by a hope that men, or some men, might find her at least similarly pleasing. Certainly she will try to be so. It might also be recalled that the slave had become even more beautiful after her collaring. This commonly occurs, and, doubtless, a number of reasons are involved, ranging from the physiological to the psychological, from the physical to the emotional.

  “That it was done easily and efficiently,” said the tarnsman, “her neutralization, her removal from the game, from the board, so to speak, the straightforward gagging and hooding, suggests that they are proficient in such things, are perhaps slavers or raiders, or others, accustomed to the acquisition and management of women. This gives us some information. Also, that there were clearly two men involved is worth noting.”

  I nodded.

  “Do you know more, slave?” asked the tarnsman.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “She is perhaps lying,” I said.

  “No, no, Master!” said the slave.

  “It is strange, is it not,” I said, “that the deck watch failed to note such intruders, and that the alarm bar did not ring until men were pouring onto the deck?”

  “Do you think it strange?” asked the tarnsman.

  I considered the deck watch.

  “No,” I said.

  “Nor I,” said he.

  I undid the ropes which held the small wrists of the slave above her head, and then freed her of the belly ropes.

  The hail had stopped, but the air was still moist.

  Leros had now been on the platform and ring for several Ehn. He had had his cloak bundled on his back.

  When freed, the slave, not dismissed, and in the presence of free men, went to her knees.

  Her head was down.

  This was appropriate.

  Many are the beautiful symbolisms between masters and slaves.

  How natural are such things.

  And how perfectly they reflect categorical relationships, and absolute realities.

  “Your tunic is soaked,” I said, “and your hair is bedraggled.”

  “A slave fears she is not pleasing to masters,” she said.

  “You are suitable on your knees, with your head down,” I said.

  “May I lower it further, Master?” she asked.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  I felt her lips on my boots.

  “I am sorry if I displeased Master,” she said.

  I was silent.

  She, this woman, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar. She, this slave, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar.

  “Thank you for punishing me, Master,” she said.

  “It is nothing,” I said.

  “It is late,” said Tarl Cabot. “She is to be returned to the Kasra area, is she not?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “She was displeasing,” said the tarnsman.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Shall I have a punishment tag brought,” asked the tarnsman, “and a thong?”

  The punishment tag, as noted earlier, would be wired to the slave’s collar, her hands would be tied behind her back, and she must hurry to her keeping area, where discipline would be meted out by her keepers, the large women.

  “What do you think, slave?” I asked her.

  I recalled her former terror that this might be done to her. I gathered it was very unpleasant for a lovely slave, a slave such as she, well-curved and delicious, a man-pleasing slave, the sort that men wish to buy, the sort that men wish to own, the sort that men find attractive, and care for, an exquisite, feminine slave, to find herself at the mercy of the ill-tempered, hating, envious, jealous, unhappy, gross brutes likely to be found in charge of a keeping area.

  “It will be done with me as masters please,” whispered the slave, head down, at my feet.

  “It will be done with you as masters please,” I assured her, “have no fear, slave, but what would you like?”

  “That it may be done with me as masters please,” she said.

  This answer pleased me.

  “You have come far in bondage,” I said.

  “It is my hope to please my masters,” she said.

  “You have been punished enough,” I said. “You may go.”

  “Keep me,” she said. “I beg to please you!”

  “Please me?” I said.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “How?” I asked. “In what way?”

  “As a slave,” she said. “As the slave I am!”

  “Do you know what you are saying?” I asked.

  “Oh, yes, Master!”

  “Speak,” I said.

  “I beg attention,” she said.

  “Attention?” I said. After all, why make things easy for a slave, particularly such a slave.

  “You would make me speak, of these things, I, knowing who I once was?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “Seize me, take me!” she wept, lifting her face to mine. “Put me to use! I beg it! Employ me as a means to your pleasure, a mere means! I ask nothing else, or further! I am collared! Behold me! I am a needful slave! Be kind! I beg! Put me to your pleasure! What am I for if not to please you? Put me to your pleasure, Master! Use me! I beg it!”

  “And it was so,” I asked, “even from Ar?”

  “Yes, Master,” she wept, putting her head down. “Even from Ar!”

  I found this answer of interest.

  “The deck is hard, cold, and wet,” said the tarnsman. “There is a large coil of rope nearby.”

  The lantern was lifted a little higher, better illuminating what knelt at my feet, head down.

  She did not now dare, her confession uttered, to raise her face to mine.

  “Your use has not been given to me, slave girl,” I said.

  “But you have tied me,” she said.

  “As might any man,” I said.

  She put her hands on my legs and looked up at me. I saw in the light of the lantern that her face was streaked with tears.

  “Might not a slave find favor with Master?” she asked.

  “Go,” I said.

  “Master!” she begged.

  “Must a command be repeated?” I inquired.

  “No, Master,” she said, quickly. She then pressed her lips again, fervently, to my boots, and then rose to her feet, backed away, head down, and then turned and ran, weeping, from the lantern light, disappearing in the darkness.

  “You well know how to handle a slave,” said the tarnsman.

  I did not respond.

  “The slut was quite ready,” said the tarnsman.

  It is interesting to see how helpless slaves can be, like a blanket of heat and need. Much, I supposed had to do with the collar, with slavery itself.

  Odd, I thought, how bondage can free them.

  It is no wonder men put them in collars.

  They belong in a collar. They want them. In the precincts of the collar they find themselves, fulfill themselves, and are whole.

  “Her use is not mine,” I said.

  I looked at the large coil of rope to the side.

  “To be sure,” said the tarnsman, “it is scarcely the furs of love, spread on the floor at the foot of a master’s couch.”

  As is well known, it is a mark of great favor for a slave to be permitted on the couch of a master.

  If I owned the lovely Alcinoë, I doubted she would soon be there. Such a mark of favor is not easily purchased.

  “She is a ship slave,” I said. “I do not own her.”

  “It would be dangerous, as well,” he said, “for he who calls himself Rutilius of Ar finds her of interest.”

  I had gathered that from long ago.

  “I wonder what is his interest in her,” said the tarnsman.

  “She is not without slave interest,” I said.

  “She has grown in beauty,” said the tarnsman.


  “That is common in the collar,” I said.

  “True,” he said.

  “It seems she has become a helplessly hot little slut,” he said.

  “That, too, is common in the collar,” I said.

  “True,” he said.

  “If she were a free woman,” said the tarnsman, “I suspect she would purchase a collar, and kneel before you, begging you to make her your slave.”

  I was silent.

  Few free women can so conquer their pride. Slaves, on the other hand, are not permitted pride.

  That is one of the attractions of a slave.

  Free women often fear to be in a man’s arms, fearing what will become of them. Perhaps few understand the meaning of their restlessness, their irritations, their distractions, their turnings and thrashings in the night, or perhaps, somehow, they understand them only too well.

  Many pillows have been dampened with the tears of free women.

  Do they know the source of their tears?

  Perhaps.

  Many are the cultural expectations imposed upon the free woman. Is she not more of a slave than a slave? Abundant are her limitations; narrow are the corridors permitted for her movements; stout are the bonds of convention wherein she is bound. Can she fail to sense the invisible ties which bind her? How natural, then, imbued by unquestioned prescription and expectation, for her to justify the walls within which she is imprisoned. How natural then her pride, her aloofness, her struggle to maintain the pretenses demanded of her. What is her will compared to the weight of society? Too, is it not easy to make a virtue of necessity, that ice should commend cold, and the stone its lack of feeling? How natural then that she should, with all innocence and conviction, often with a raging earnestness, praise the treachery which has been done to her, and struggle to betray herself, to deny herself to herself. How natural then that she should compete with her sisters in her imperviousness to desire, in her frigidity and inertness, in her estrangement from herself. How glorious is the free woman! She possesses a Home Stone, as a slave may not. But she is a woman, still, and that, however denied, is adamant. It continues to exist. Its hereditary coils reign in each living particle of her body. Truth, primitive and antique, remains true. Her nature is with her, for it is herself. Does she suspect at times that there is a slave masquerading within her robes? Does she not, at times, hear the whimpers, the cries, of the slave within her? Does she not long, at times, for the collar of a master, for the weight of his chains? Does she not know in her heart that she is his rightful slave?