by John Norman
"Quiet is the night," called one of the camp guards, and this call was echoed by the others.
Again, three times, I heard the cry of the fleer.
My master slipped behind me. He held me, with his left hand. I felt, from the side, his knife slip beneath the veils at my face and throat. Then the knife's edge, I feeling it, thin, obdurate, pressed at my jugular.
"What is the duty of a slave girl?" he asked.
"Absolute obedience, Master," I whispered, frightened. "Absolute obedience." I scarcely dared to whisper, for fear of moving my throat beneath the knife.
I felt the knife leave my throat. I felt the black cloak in which I had been wrapped, concealing the largely white, rich, shimmering raiment in which I had been robed, slipped away.
"Run," said my master, indicating a path through the trees, past the far end of the camp. "And do not let yourself be captured."
He thrust me from him and I, miserable, confused, began to run.
I had gone no more than a dozen steps when I heard one of the guards at the camp cry out, "Halt! Stand! Name! City! Stand!" I did not stop, but pressed on.
"Who is it?" cried a man. "A free woman!" I heard. "Is it the Lady Sabina?" I heard cry. "Stop her!" I heard. "After her!"
I ran, madly.
The men, as I now think of it, must have been as confused as I was. I knew only that I feared them, and had been commanded to run. Too, my master had told me to avoid capture. Ignorant, wild, terrified, I ran.
I stumbled and fell, and scrambled to my feet, and ran again. I heard men crying out, and then, more frighteningly, I heard several leaving the camp, splashing across the stream, crashing through brush behind me. I was now among the trees, out of sight of the camp, but I was being pursued, by how many men I did not know.
They were Gorean men.
I fled in terror.
"Lady Sabina!" I heard. "Stop! Stop!"
As I ran I realized that the probabilities of there being a free woman, robed, in the vicinity of the camp, who was not the Lady Sabina, were extremely low. Perhaps she had fled from the camp? Perhaps, for some reason, she wished to flee the match with Thandar of Ti, whom I understood she had never seen. There must have been men in the camp who, almost immediately, would have verified that the Lady Sabina was still within the camp, but many, having only moments to act, would be unable to make that verification. If the running woman was the Lady Sabina she must be caught for her loss would mean the failure of the alliances pending between the Salerian Confederation and Fortress of Saphronicus. Too, she must be caught swiftly, for the forests at night were dangerous. Sleen might take her or, perhaps, prowling outlaws. Too, in the camp were no hunting sleen. Accordingly, the sooner she could be retaken the better. It was night, and, even in the morning, her trail would be less fresh, less obvious. And, if the woman were not the Lady Sabina she should, anyway, be brought in. Surely a free woman in the midst of the night forest constitutes a mystery which must be solved. Who is she? From whom is she running? Is she alone?
I had no time to think. I was only running.
Too, I believe the men of the camp had little time to ponder their courses of action.
It was natural that many of them should have leapt to my pursuit.
I fled through the thickets. I heard men crashing through the brush behind me. I did not know how many followed. I suspect that of the seventy or eighty men in the camp twenty or more had immediately plunged after me, perhaps even more. Surely, too, attention was drawn to that end of the camp near which I had been first seen. It was there that men would have peered into the darkness, there that they would have been marshaled into more organized defensive groups or more organized search parties.
"Stop!" I heard. "Stand! Stand!"
I ran, stumbling, striking branches and brush away from me. My robes were torn.
The crashing in the brush behind me grew louder.
No more swiftly could I run. It was not merely that I was encumbered by the robes. I knew that I could not, in any case, outrun the men. They were stronger and swifter than I. I was only a girl. Nature, whatever might be her reasons, had not fitted me to outrun males. I was frightened suddenly that it had not been her intention that women escape men. Then I realized how foolish this was, to so personalize nature, to ascribe to the cruel, blind processes of the world deliberate intentions. Rather it had been the selections of nature which had determined this. Women who had escaped men would have been lost to the gene pool. Caught women would have been led back to the caves, to suffer the indignities of impregnation by their captors, being forced to reproduce their kind. Similar considerations may have a bearing on the smaller size and strength of women. Yet matters are far more complicated than these considerations suggest. For, in the intricacies, and interplay of both natural and sexual selection, not merely a swiftness, a size and strength would have been selected for in women but an entire set of genetic dispositions; it seems inconsistent to suppose that evolution would select only for the outside of an animal and not for its inside as well, that only matters such as external configuration would have a bearing on its survival or desirability and not its dispositions to respond in certain ways. Surely the same evolution which has selected for the fangs of the lion and the speed of the gazelle has selected as well for the disposition to hunt and the disposition to flight, that has selected for the strength of the male and the weakness of the female has selected as well for the disposition to conquer and the disposition to surrender. We are, to a large extent, one supposes, the products of environments, but it is well to remember that the maximum, shaping environments in which our nature was stabilized and forged are ancient ones; the sense in which environment determines endowment is the sense in which it determines which endowments are to be perpetuated.
With misery I suddenly realized my genetic heritage was that of a type which could be caught by men.
The hands of a man seized me.
"Hold, Lady," said he.
I gasped, and shook, held in his arms.
"Why have you fled, Lady Sabina?" asked he. "It is dangerous." Then he called out, "I have her."
I tried to escape, but I was held fast.
In a moment several more men were about me. He who had held me then released me. I stood, captured, in their midst. I did not speak. I averted my head.
"Is it the Lady Sabina?" asked a voice.
"Face me," said a voice.
I did not face him, but kept my head averted. I felt hands put on my shoulders.
Firmly I was turned to face the speaker. "Lift your head," he said. "To the moonlight."
I kept my head down, but he, with his hand, lifted my head up, that the moonlight might fall upon my veiled face.
I saw that it was the captain, or camp's leader. Suddenly I realized he should not have pursued me. He should have remained in the camp.
He studied what he could see of my eyes in the uncertain moonlight, shattered through the branches of the forest. He backed away, and studied the robes I wore. Then he said, "Who are you?"
I did not speak. If I had spoken he would instantly have detected my accent, my faltering Gorean, and would have marked me as a barbarian girl.
"You are not the Lady Sabina," he said. "Who are you?"
I kept silent.
"Do you flee an unwanted companionship?" he asked. "Was your retinue ambushed? Do you flee outlaws?"
Again I did not respond.
"Do you flee slavers?" he asked. "We are honest men," he said. "We are not slavers." He regarded me. "You are safe with us," he said.
Moonlight filtered through the branches.
"Who are you?" he said.
I again did not respond. This time he seemed angry.
"Do you choose to be face-stripped before men?" he asked.
I shook my head, negatively.
His hands were at the first veil, the street veil.
"Well?" he asked.
I did not answer.
I felt the veil lifted awa
y from my face. "Remove your gloves," he said.
I slipped the gloves from my hands. He took them and threw them to my feet.
My hands felt the night air.
"Speak," he said.
When I did not respond to him, he pulled away the house veil. The men crowded more closely about. The flesh of my face was now concealed from the direct vision of the strong males by only three veils, the pride veil, the veil of the citizeness and the sheer fifth, or last, veil. Already, in stripping me of the house veil, outrage had been done to me. It was as though the privacy and intimacy of my house had been violated. It was as though they had invaded my house and taken my dress from me, forcing me to stand before them in my slip.
"Who are you?" asked the man again. How could I tell him who I was? My master had not even given me a name.
"The pride veil will be next, if you do not speak," said the man.
I wondered what these men would do with me if they discovered I was not even a free woman. I forced the thought from my mind. Free men do not take it lightly that a Kajira would dare to don the garments of a free woman. This is regarded as an extremely serious offense, fit to be followed by terrible punishments. It can be worth the life of one to do so. I began to tremble.
The pride veil was ripped from me. It was as though my slip had been torn away by the invaders in my house.
The lineaments of my face could now be detected beneath the veil of the citizeness. The last veil, in its sheerness, and transparency, is little more than a token.
"Perhaps now, dear Lady," said the captain, "you will choose to speak, choose to reveal your name and city, and your business in this vicinity so late in the night?"
I dared not speak. I turned my head to the side, with a wild sob, as the veil of the citizeness was torn away. I wore now only the last veil. It was as though in my own home an almost final shield of modesty had been taken from me, leaving me only a bit of wide-strung netting, inviting the ripping hand of a master.
The hand of the man reached to the last veil. His hand hesitated. "Perhaps she is free?" asked one of the men.
"Perhaps," said the captain. He lowered his hand.
"She is quite pretty to be free," observed one of the men. Some assent was given to this.
"Let us hope, for your sake, my dear," said the captain, "that you are free."
I lowered my head.
"Consider yourself my prisoner, Lady," said the man. He felt my forearms, detecting that I was right handed. I felt a loop of leather put about my right wrist and drawn tight. It was a double loop, drawn through itself, and tightened. The other end of the closed loop, about a foot from my hand, was taken in the grasp of a soldier. My captor then turned about and began to return to the camp. He was followed by his men. I was led, wrist-thonged, with them.
I had been captured.
In a few minutes we approached the camp. I was carried across the stream, into the camp area. Many were the torches, much was the confusion we encountered there.
The soldier who carried me put me on my feet. I was then again the prisoner of the wrist thong in his grasp.
A man ran toward us, holding up a torch. "The Lady Sabina," he cried, "she is gone! She has been taken!"
With a cry of rage the leader, or captain, ran toward the tents, his men racing behind him, I struggling and gasping, jerked and dragged by the thong which held me.
Straight to the pavilion of the Lady Sabina sped the captain.
I, on the tether, accompanying the soldier who controlled me, hurried, too, to that pavilion. I was pulled within, on the thong. A man within turned, white-faced, to the captain. "They came," he said. "They took her!"
To one side lay two soldiers, wounded. The maids of the Lady Sabina, who had been with her in the tent, stood terrified to one side. One held her shoulder, where there was a large bruise.
"They were here!" said the soldier, pointing to the shuddering slaves.
"What happened?" demanded the captain.
One of the girls, she with the bruise, spoke. The back of the tent was slashed. "In force they came," she said, "many of them. We tried to defend the mistress. We were buffeted aside. They were men, warriors. We were helpless!" She pointed to the back of the tent. "They entered there, and withdrew similarly, the mistress in their power!"
The application of numbers and power is an element of strategy. The men of my master had been outnumbered, surely, by the many soldiers of the camp, but at the point of attack their numbers were superior, overwhelming. Twenty men may breech a wall held by a hundred men, if the twenty men but attack where the wall is defended by only two. In the confusion, as the attention of men had been directed elsewhere, the forces of my master, though not impressive numerically, had been sharply and irresistibly applied. His stroke, in the context, had not been difficult.
I swallowed hard. I realized I had been only a diversion, a pawn. I felt bitter, and terrified.
"Of what city were they?" demanded the captain of one of his wounded men.
"I do not know," said the man.
I had seen the men of my master removing insignia from their garments before the attack.
"We know their direction of flight," said one of the soldiers. "If we act swiftly, we may mount satisfactory pursuit." "Let us act with dispatch," urged another, "that we may swiftly overtake them."
The captain struck at the heavy pole of the tent with the side of his fist. The pole, though it was deeply anchored, shook in the dirt.
"Arm the men," said he. "Issue bows, light rations. All men. Assembly in ten Ehn."
"Yes, Captain," said a man. Men left the tent. The two wounded men were carried away.
The captain then turned to face me. I shrank back. Some four men besides the captain remained in the tent, one of them he who held my wrist thong.
The captain's hand fixed itself in the sheen of the last veil, the fifth veil. Beneath it my features, frightened, could be seen. It was only a token, but, when it was torn away, even the token would be gone. I would stand before men, face-stripped. It is interesting to me, how I thought of this at the time. Doubtless much depends upon context and is relative to the culture. On Earth, few women veil their face, and yet many will veil their bodies. On Earth body veiling tends to be cultural, and not face veiling. On Gor, for free women, both body veiling and face veiling are cultural, and tend to be widely practiced. I suppose, objectively, there is something more to be said for face veiling than body veiling. Bodies, though differing remarkably, one to the other, tend perhaps to be somewhat more similar than faces. Accordingly, if one should be concerned to protect one's privacy and one's feelings, and such, it seems that the face might preferably be veiled. In the face, surely, it is easier to read emotion and individuality than in a body. Should not the face then, if one is concerned with concealment and privacy, be veiled? Is the face not more personal and revealing than the body? Does it not make sense then to consider it a proper object of concealment in a free person? Is one not entitled, so to speak, to privacy in the matter of one's thoughts and feelings, sometimes so manifest in one's facial expressions? However this may be, there are congruencies and dispositions which seem appropriate in given contexts. Veils seem correct, and right, with the robes of concealment. Too, seeing the lust of men to discern your features, and understanding what face veiling and unveiling means to them, tends to influence one's views of these matters. I was terrified that such men see my face. I did not want my face to be seen by them. In many Gorean cities, only a slave girl goes unveiled.
I felt his hand tighten in the veil. Then he jerked it away. I was face-stripped, completely. I closed my eyes, with shame. I reddened. It was as though the last bit of netting, mockery of modesty though it might be, had been ripped away. My face, my feelings, my emotions, now lay bare to them. My face, though I wore robes of concealment, was as naked as that of a slave girl.
"I wonder if you are free, my beauty," said the captain.
My mouth, now that he had torn away the veil
, was fully exposed to his. Nothing now separated his mouth, his tongue, his teeth, from mine. From his point of view I then, though I might be free, might as well have been a slave girl.
I looked at him.
"Release her wrist thong," said he to the soldier who held the thong. He dropped the thong, and it dangled, loosely, from my wrist.
"A wrist thong scarcely comports with the dignity of a free woman," said the captain to me.
He walked about me, as a man walks about a woman. I had the feeling he saw me naked beneath the robes.
"Are you free, my beauty?" he asked. He drew his sword. I shuddered. "Are you free?" he asked. He put the sword at my left ankle, and, curiously, lifted the robes of concealment a bit. "I hope for your sake," said he, "that you are free. If you are not, I will not be much pleased."
I felt the blade on my leg, lifting up the robes further. "Step from your slippers," he said.
I did so, trembling.
I felt the steel on my leg, lifting the robes yet higher. They were above my knee now.
The three slave girls in the tent, gowned, watched with apprehension.
The robes were lifted higher, some inches above my knee.
"If you are free," said the captain, "you are rather pretty to be free."
"Captain," said a voice from outside the tent, "the men are ready."
"I shall join you momentarily," he said.
"Yes, Captain," said the man.
The captain then again turned his attention toward me. He was angry. He spoke softly, but menacingly. "You have made a fool of all of us," he said. "Thus, I hope that you are free." The blade moved a bit higher on the leg. I trembled. "Yet," said he, "the leg is not bad. It is a leg which is pretty enough to be the leg of a slave girl. I wonder if it is the leg of a slave girl." He lifted the robes to my hip. I felt the steel against my hip.
The men in the tent cried out with anger. The slave girls gasped and shrank back.
"It is as I thought," said the captain. He stepped back, but he did not sheath his sword.
"I will give you twenty Ihn," said he, "to remove the clothing of a free woman and to fall naked on your belly before me."
