Mariners of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “You think they sensed in me,” she said, “that I should most appropriately be a belonging of men, a female slave?”

  “Yes,” I said, “and I think what they sensed in you was what they most feared in themselves.”

  “I wonder,” she said, “how they might fare in the collar.”

  “Most, I conjecture,” I said, “would not be adjudged worthy of a collar. Forget them. And I suspect that those on whom it was found fit to be placed would soon learn the vacuity of their former views, the artificiality and poverty of their previous ideology, and hasten to press their lips fearfully upon the feet of masters.”

  “It is my hope,” she said, “that they would find happiness.”

  “It matters not,” I said, “as they would then be slaves.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “So you did not veil yourself?” I said.

  “No, Master,” she said, “and, in my part of the world, in my civilization, it is not customary to do so.”

  “Truly?” I said.

  “Truly,” she said.

  “What slaves!” I said.

  “But few have masters,” she said.

  “That is remedied on Gor,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said, “—my Master.”

  “You had best be on your way,” I said.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “Bargain well,” I said.

  “I trust,” she said, “that I will not be switched, if I have done my best.”

  “You will be,” I said, “if your best is not good enough.”

  “I see,” she said, uneasily.

  I had scarcely ever used the switch on her. Like the whip, it is commonly most effective on its peg. When she realizes that she is subject to the whip, truly, and that it will be used on her, if she is not pleasing, it is seldom, if ever, necessary to use it. Knowing it is there, she will commonly do her best to avoid its stroke, will commonly do her best to be pleasing, fully pleasing. Usually, of course, the girl, after a bit of time at the slave ring, does her best to be pleasing not to avoid the whip or switch, which is a rather prudential, mercenary motivation, after all, but, rather, because she wants to be pleasing to her master. She is, after all, a slave, and he is her master.

  I did switch her well, once.

  The little she-sleen had wished to reassure herself that she was truly a slave, and had dared to be lax in her duties, and, when questioned, had unwisely been curt, even insolent. I think she was surprised at the force with which she was seized and bound.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she wept, at my feet, alarmed. “It is not necessary to strike me! I will mend my ways! I will be good!”

  It had doubtless been a test on her part, to ascertain permissions, latitudes, limitations, and such, but I thought it well for her to comprehend what might be the consequences of such a test.

  She had, after all, been lax in her duties and, when questioned, had been curt, even insolent, and so, whatever might have been the motivation for these unwise hazards or indulgences, they would have their predictable outcome. In moments, startled, disbelieving, she had rolled, twisting, and miserable, sobbing, crying out for mercy, under the blows of the switch.

  “You have been displeasing,” I informed her.

  “Forgive me, Master!” she wept, her fair skin flaming with pain.

  I then put the switch again to her, and, after a time, as she shrieked for mercy, I desisted, and left her, blubbering on the tiles, bound, behind me.

  “Master,” she wept. “Master!”

  I left her there, bound, for better than an Ahn.

  Before I untied her, I put the switch to her lips, and she kissed it, fervently.

  Thereafter I had revoked her general permission to speak, for several days. She must then ask permission to speak, before daring to do so. Too, instead of the normal protocol of her kneeling when entering my presence, or being addressed, I forced her to do such things on her belly, to crawl on her belly into my presence, and remain on her belly before me, unless given permission to assume a different attitude. Too, for some days, I kept her in the bondage of the she-quadruped, or she-tarsk, not permitting her to rise to her feet, but she must go about on all fours. Too, her food and water must be taken from pans on the floor, without the use of her hands. More than once, afterwards, I had caught her pressing her lips to her fingertips, and then pressing her fingertips against her collar. More than once, as well, I had seen her lift her slave-ring chain to her lips, and kiss it.

  Her little test was then over and done.

  She now realized that she was truly a slave, would be treated as one, and, if appropriate, would be punished as one.

  If she had entertained any doubts as to the matter, I gathered they were now dispelled.

  She had, some days ago, been returned to the normal parameters of her bondage, had been given a general permission to speak, was permitted to walk about, was permitted to use her hands to feed herself, though I sometimes hand fed her, and was permitted a slave’s normal modalities with respect to entering a room, being addressed, and such, being allowed to kneel, rather than belly.

  She became ever more affectionate, ever more eager to please.

  Sometimes, as though for good measure, I gave her a stroke of the switch below the small of the back.

  I wagered that those who had known her on a far world, when she had been free, might have enjoyed doing so, as well.

  I wondered what those who had known her on her own world would think of her now.

  I thought the females she had known might envy her, and I thought the males she had known, if they were men, would not be displeased to own her.

  I found her, all in all, despite her limitations, and what I had paid for her, an excellent property. Certainly she was a pleasant little beast to have in one’s collar. She would require more training, of course, but I would give her that. One of the pleasures of the mastery is seeing to the improvement of the slave, training her, and such.

  “Do the best you can, in the market,” I told her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  She had wanted to be caressed, but I had thought it best to send her to the market first. Her slave fires, which had begun periodically to roar apace, made her now more a slave than she had ever been.

  Those flames would bring her periodically to a man’s feet.

  Do they not put her in bondage more than her brand, her collar, and chains?

  I opened the door, and watched her go down the balcony, and descend the stairs, leading to the street.

  I thought of her, in her way, as being also of the Scribes, though, in her world, I gather that that caste is unknown, despite the fact that it is one of the five high castes. I had spoken to her for many Ahn, telling her of Gor, for what is a paga girl likely to learn of Gor, serving paga, serving pleasure, in an alcove? And she, in her turn, often nude at the slave ring, or before me, stripped, kneeling, hands braceleted behind her, had told me much of her world. It seemed to me a complex, but sorry world, one crowded and polluted, one of noise, fumes, and smoke, of pushing and shoving, one of haste with few places to go, or worth going, one without much love, and one, clearly, without Home Stones, if one can conceive of such a world. Too, it seems those of her world, incredibly, do not much care for their own world. Are they not like animals who would soil their own nest, like madmen who would poison their own air and water? Given a garden of loveliness, would they not burn it, and turn it to ash?

  She had now disappeared down the stairwell, on the way to the market.

  How beautiful she was!

  And how fetching she was, barefoot, in the brief, ragged tunic of blue rep-cloth.

  She had clutched the coins in her hand.

  Had she been natively Gorean she would probably have carried them in her mouth.

  When the fellows in the market saw the color of the tunic they would guess, I supposed, and correctly, that she was the property of a Scribe.

  Chapter Thirty-Five


  The Wharfing of an Unusual Ship

  From the bulwarks of the large, unusual ship men strangely clad threw down ropes to docksmen, who fastened them to mooring cleats.

  The sea end of the pier had now been cleared by guardsmen, that the ship might be attended to, but the land end of the pier, and the adjacent waterfront, even to the warehouses, and the streets leading up to the city, were still swarming with people, men, and women, and boys.

  Brundisium is one of the world’s largest, busiest ports, with one of the finest harbors on the planet, host to a hundred traffics, headquarters of a hundred Merchant houses, but never, until now, had there been seen such a ship.

  “Yes,” had said the stranger. “I have seen that ship! It is, or was, a ship of the shogun, Lord Temmu!”

  “Come from the World’s End?” I said.

  “Yes!” he said, pressing forward.

  “Stop!” said a guardsman. “Go back!”

  A lowered spear barred our way, and that of others.

  “Wait!” I cautioned the stranger.

  We then stood back, in the crowd.

  “Make way, make way!” called a herald.

  Making their way to the pier were members of the port’s administration. I knew several, from my work in the harbor office, in the registry.

  How would one record the arrival of this ship, I wondered. What would be its registry, its port of origin, who would be its master, what would be its business, its cargo?

  We waited behind the line of guardsmen, while the port’s delegates approached the ship.

  A gate in the bulwarks of the ship swung back, and was fastened open. Through this opening, several men began to thrust forth, foot by foot, a loading plank. They were short, sturdy men. They were barefoot. They wore short, hitched-up robes, with short sleeves.

  “They are from Schendi,” said someone near us.

  “Too light,” said another.

  “See the eyes!” said a man.

  “Tuchuks,” said a man. “I saw one once.”

  “Yes!” said a fellow.

  I looked to the stranger.

  “Pani,” he said.

  “Do they speak the language?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said the stranger.

  I recalled that last night the stranger had alluded to this matter. It had had to do with the will of Priest-Kings.

  “What is such a ship doing here, in Brundisium?” I asked the stranger.

  “I do not know,” he said.

  “Should you not, at the first opportunity,” I said, “seek to make contact with the ship?”

  “No,” he said.

  I recalled the two Assassins, of yesterday evening.

  “It is that ship,” said he, “which is, or was, of the much-diminished navy of Lord Temmu, but the war was going badly. The fleet of Lord Yamada was approaching the cove, when the great ship slipped away.”

  “You think,” I said, “it may be a prize, taken by the ships of Lord Yamada’s admiral?”

  “I think it unlikely,” he said, “quite improbable, but, in any event, caution is advised.”

  “Why unlikely, why improbable?” I asked.

  “It was not in the cove when the fleet of Lord Yamada made its appearance,” he said.

  “It could have been overtaken and seized elsewhere,” I said.

  “That is possible,” he said. “But one wonders why Lord Yamada, rich with resources, with many ashigaru, with many ships, with many villages and rice fields, with his war well in hand, on the brink of victory, would send a single ship to Brundisium, or even, say, to Kasra or Telnus.”

  “It is then likely,” I said, “that it is still of the forces of Lord Temmu.”

  “Almost certainly,” said the stranger. “But let us see how matters unfold.”

  “What are you talking about?” asked a fellow.

  “Of far and strange things,” said the stranger.

  “Pani, I gather,” I said, “have been in Brundisium before.”

  “I have gathered so,” said the stranger, “long ago, by the intervention of Priest-Kings.”

  “For what reason?” I asked.

  “To hire men, to buy women,” he said. “To establish camps, to secure timber, to obtain tarns, to prepare a resistance, to ready themselves to wage a war anew.”

  “Why would they come again?” I asked.

  “I do not know,” said the stranger.

  “Look,” said a fellow pointing. “It is Demetrion!”

  “Who is Demetrion?” asked the stranger.

  “He is the harbor master,” I said.

  Demetrion had taken time to don his formal robes, lengthy and abundant, of white and yellow. He was approaching the lowered gangplank, one end resting on the pier, the other fastened, roped, to the bulwarks, on each side of the opened gate. With Demetrion were his aides, also of the Merchants, and two Scribes, one of which was Phillip, my superior in the registry.

  The guardsmen had rather followed Demetrion’s party, for which, I gathered, they had been waiting, and this permitted the stranger and myself, and the crowd, generally, to proceed several yards further down the pier. The guardsmen did, however, maintain an open space about the gangway.

  Demetrion paused at the foot of the gangway and lifted his hand in greeting. “Tal,” he said.

  “Tal,” said a thin, angular fellow, in an unusual, sashed robe, in which were two curved swords, a larger and a smaller, who stood at the bulwarks, to the right of the gangway, as one would look toward the ship.

  “Be welcome, noble friends,” said Demetrion, “to the great port of Brundisium.”

  The fellow on the ship bowed, slightly, presumably acknowledging this salutation. His hair was drawn back on his head, and fastened in a knot, behind the back of his head.

  “I am Demetrion,” called out Demetrion. “Harbor master in Brundisium.”

  Demetrion looked up to the bulwarks, but there was no response. The fellow on the ship did not exchange greetings, identify himself, or the ship, or state his business.

  “Permission to come aboard,” called Demetrion.

  “No,” said the fellow on the ship.

  “No?” said Demetrion.

  “No,” said the fellow.

  Demetrion had placed one foot on the gangplank, in anticipation of boarding the ship. Two of the Pani, at the height of the gangplank, had instantly removed the longer of their two swords from their sash, and, two hands fixed on the long, tasseled handle, drew back the weapons.

  Demetrion stepped back, on the pier.

  “The great port of Brundisium is a neutral port, open to all shipping,” said Demetrion. “I trust you come in peace.”

  “We seek one Cineas,” said the fellow on the ship, who seemed to be its captain, or, in any event, in a position of some authority.

  “I know no Cineas,” said Demetrion.

  “I know him,” said the stranger to me. “He is a mariner, who went ashore with me, and others, at Daphna. We arrived in Brundisium, together, oarsmen, some days ago. I soon spent my coin. But he seemed well supplied with silver.”

  “Enough,” I asked, “to hire Assassins?”

  The stranger looked at me, startled. “Yes,” he said.

  Four Pani rapidly descended the gangplank, passed Demetrion and his party, and threaded their way through the crowd.

  The stranger pressed back, unwilling, I gathered, to be noted. He did, however, scrutinize the four Pani who, intent on some mission, looking neither to the left nor right, moved quickly past.

  “Do you know them?” I asked, when they had passed.

  “I know one,” he said, “Tatsu, who was on the voyage west to the World’s End, to the Twelve Islands.”

  “Then the ship sails still for Lord Temmu?” I said.

  “I think so,” said the stranger.

  “What is your business here?” called Demetrion to the fellow by the bulwarks, who seemed in authority.

  That individual, however, made no answer.


  “I know not your people, your land, your city, your ship, your family, your caste, your clan,” said Demetrion, “but whoever you be, if anyone, there is wharfage due in Brundisium.”

  Many were about, and I fear that Demetrion sensed he had been affronted, and that his office, and station, had been too little recognized, let alone respected.

  The man above Demetrion, on the deck of the strange ship, near the height of the gangway, the presumed captain or officer, drew forth from his sash a small sack and tossed it to the pier. It stuck the planks of the pier, at Demetrion’s feet, with an unmistakable sound.

  This drew a response from the crowd.

  “Pick it up,” said Demetrion to one of his aides, unwilling to do so himself. He was a personage of dignity, harbor master in Brundisium, perhaps the most important single person in Brundisium, or, at least, the best-known and most prominent. Brundisium has no Administrator and no Ubar. It is ruled by a Merchant Council, with its day to day affairs managed by an executive committee, chief of which is the harbor master.

  Demetrion’s aides were as reluctant as he to stoop to retrieve the small, but weighty sack. The two Scribes, as well, looked away. Little love is lost between the Scribes and Merchants. The Scribes is a high caste and the Merchants is the richest caste. Each therefore regards itself as superior to the other, and each, then, would be reluctant to seem to lower itself before the other. I would have been quite willing to retrieve the sack and deliver it to Demetrion, but Phillip, my superior, was in his party, and there is, of course, the dignity, and the prestige, of the caste to maintain.

  To my surprise, the stranger left my side, and slipped, unprevented, between the guardsmen, retrieved the sack, assured himself, it seemed, of its weight, which was apparently impressive, and climbed up the gangplank.

  Neither of the Pani warriors at the top of the gangplank lifted their swords.

  The crowd began to murmur, in astonishment.

  The stranger, at the head of the gangplank, held out the sack of coin to the angular fellow, who had cast it to the feet of Demetrion.

  “If this coin is what I think it is, from its weight,” he said to the spare, angular fellow, presumably the captain, or a high officer, “it is too much.”