by John Norman
“What am I bid?” he asked.
The girl whimpered piteously. He turned about and, with his right hand, open, cuffed her, as one cuffs a slave. Her head was struck upward and to the left. There was a bit of blood at her lip, which began to swell. There were tears in her eyes. She looked at him. She was silent.
“What am I bid?” asked the auctioneer.
“Four tarsks,” said a man.
“Six,” said another.
“Fifteen,” called out another.
“Sixteen,” said a man.
The girl, shuddering, standing as she had, her hair in her mouth, her hands behind her head, put her head down, miserably. She did not dare to look even at the bidders, who might own her. She knew that her needs had betrayed her.
I smiled to myself. The selection of this woman for service in the Kurii cause now seemed clearer than it had before. She, like others, doubtless, when their political duties were finished, would have been collared and silked, and set to the task of learning to please masters. I thought she would make, in time, a good slave. She was already adequately beautiful and, in time, in bondage, might become incredibly beautiful. Her responsiveness, though not unusual for a slave girl, was surely impressive for an unmarked Earth girl in her first sale. Responsiveness, of course, is something that can increase and deepen in a woman, and under the proper tutelage and discipline, does so. The female slave, in the fullness of her womanhood, and helplessness, attains heights of passion from which the free woman, in her pride and dignity, is forever barred. She is not a man’s slave.
“Twenty-two tarsks,” called a man in the crowd.
“Twenty-four!” called another.
Yes, the responsiveness of the girl on sale had been impressive. In some months, in the proper collar, and at the right slave ring, I suspected she would become paga hot, hot enough to serve even in the paga taverns of Gor. Her head was down.
“Twenty-seven tarsks,” called a man.
How shamed she was. Why was she so ashamed that she had sexual needs and was sensuously alive? Of course, I reminded myself, of course, she was an Earth girl.
“Twenty-eight tarsks,” called a man.
The girl’s body shook with an uncontrollable sob. Her secret, doubtless long hidden on Earth, that she had a deep, latent sexuality, had been ruthlessly and publicly exposed in a Gorean market. She had writhed, and as a naked slave.
“Twenty-nine tarsks,” called a man.
She had writhed not only as a woman, but as a slave.
Her head was down. Her body shook.
For a moment I almost felt moved to pity. Then I laughed, looking at her. Her responses had revealed her as a slave.
“Forty tarsks,” said a voice, triumphantly. It was the voice of Procopius Minor, or Little Procopius, who owned the Four Chains, a tavern near Pier Sixteen, to be distinguished from Procopius Major, or Big Procopius, who owned several such taverns throughout the city. The Four Chains was a dingy tavern, located between two warehouses. Procopius Minor owned about twenty girls. His establishment had a reputation for brawls, cheap paga and hot slaves. His girls served nude and chained. Each ankle and wrist ring had two staples. Each girl’s wrists were joined by about eighteen inches of chain, and similarly for her ankles. Further each girl’s left wrist was chained to her left ankle, and her right wrist to her right ankle. This arrangement, lovely on a girl, produces the “four chains,” from which the establishment took its name. The four-chain chaining arrangement, of course, and variations’ upon it, is well known upon Gor. Four other paga taverns in Port Kar alone used it. They could not, of course, given the registration of the name by Procopius Minor with the league of taverners, use a reference to it in designating their own places of business. These four taverns, if it is of interest, are the Veminium, the Kailiauk, the Slaves of Ar and the Silver of Tharna.
“Forty tarsks,” repeated Procopius Minor, Little Procopius. He was little, it might be mentioned, only in commercial significance, compared to Procopius Major, or Big Procopius. Big Procopius was one of the foremost merchants in Port Kar. Paga taverns were only one of his numerous interests. He was also involved in hardware, paper, wool and salt. Little Procopius was not little physically. He was a large, portly fellow. To be sure, however, Procopius Major was a bit larger, even physically.
The girl looked up now, sensing the cessation in the bidding, the repeating of a bid, the tone of the voice of Procopius Minor.
Her hands were still behind the back of her neck. She had not been given permission to remove them. She looked out at Procopius Minor. She shuddered. She realized that he might soon own her, totally.
“I have heard a bid of forty tarsks,” said the auctioneer, Vart. I supposed it would be good for the girl to serve for a time in a low paga house. It is not a bad place for a girl to begin to learn something of the meaning of her collar. “Do I hear another bid, a higher bid?” called Vart. Yes, she would look well in chains, kneeling to masters in a paga tavern. “My hand is open,” called Vart. “Shall I close my hand? Shall I close my hand?”
He looked about, well pleased. He had never counted on getting as much as forty tarsks for the blond barbarian.
“I will now close my hand!” he called.
“Do not close your hand,” said a voice.
All eyes turned toward the back. A tall man stood there, lean and black. He wore a closely woven seaman’s aba, red, striped with white, which fell from his shoulders; this was worn over an ankle-length, white robe, loosely sleeved, embroidered with gold, with a golden sash. In the sash was thrust a curved dagger. On his head he wore a cap on which were fixed the two golden tassels of Schendi.
“Who is he?” asked the man next to me.
“I do not know,” I said.
“Yes, Master?” asked the auctioneer. “‘Is there another bid?”
“Yes,” said the man.
“Yes, Master?” asked the auctioneer.
“I take him to be a merchant captain,” said a man near me.
I nodded. The conjecture was intelligent. The fellow wore the white and gold of the merchant, beneath a seaman’s aba. It was not likely that a merchant would wear that garment unless he were entitled to it. Goreans are particular about such matters. Doubtless he owned and’ captained his own vessel.
“What is his name and ship?” I asked.
“I do not know,” said the man.
“What is Master’s bid?” asked the auctioneer.
There was silence.
We looked at the man. The girl, too, in the sales collar and position chain, her hands behind her neck, looked at him.
“What is Master’s bid?” asked the auctioneer.
“One tarsk,” said the man.
We looked at one another. There was some uneasy laughter. Then there was again silence.
“Forgive me, Master,” then said the auctioneer. “Master came late to the bidding. We have already on the floor a bid of forty tarsks.”
Procopius turned about, smiling.
“One silver tarsk,” said the man.
“Aiii!” cried a man.
“A silver tarsk?” asked the auctioneer.
Procopius turned about again, suddenly, to regard the fellow in the back, incredulously.
“Yes,” he said, “a silver tarsk.”
I smiled to myself. The slave on sale was not a silver-tarsk girl. There would be no more bidding.
“I have a bid for a silver tarsk,” said Vart. “Is there a higher bid?” There was silence. He looked to Procopius. Procopius shrugged. “No,” he said.
“I shall close my hand,” said the auctioneer. He held his right hand open, and then he closed it.
The girl had been sold.
The girl looked at the closed fist of the auctioneer with horror. It was not hard to understand its import.
The auctioneer went to her and pulled the hair from her mouth, then threw it back over her right shoulder. He smoothed her hair then, on both sides and in the back. He might have
been a clerk adjusting merchandise on a counter. She seemed scarcely conscious of what he was doing. She looked out, fearfully, on the man who had bought her.
The auctioneer turned to the buyer. “With whom has the house the honor of doing business?” he asked.
“I am Ulafi,” said the man, “captain of the Palms of Schendi.”
“We are truly honored,” said the auctioneer.
I knew Ulafi of Schendi only by reputation, as a shrewd merchant and captain. I had never seen him before. He was said to have a good ship.
“Deliver the girl to my ship,” said Ulafi, “at the Pier of the Red Urt, by dawn. We will depart with the tide.”
He threw a silver tarsk to the auctioneer, who caught it expertly, and slipped it into his pouch.
“It will be done, Master,” promised the auctioneer.
The tall black then turned and left the warehouse, which was the market of Vart.
Suddenly the girl, her hands still behind the back of her neck, threw back her head and screamed in misery. I think it was only then that her consciousness had become fully cognizant of the import of what had been done to her.
She had been sold.
Vart gestured to the slaves at the windlass and they turned its large, two-man crank, and the girl ‘who had been sold was drawn from the sales area. The next girl was a comely wench from Tyros, dark-haired and shapely. At a word from Vart she stood with her hands behind her neck, arching her body proudly for the buyers. I could see she had been sold before.
3. What Occurred On The Way To The Pier Of The Red Urt; I Hear The Ringing Of An Alarm Bar
It was near the fifth hour.
It was still dark along the canals. Port Kar seems a lonely place at such an hour. I trod a walkway beside a canal, my sea bag over my shoulder. The air was damp. Here and there small lamps, set in niches, high in stone walls, or lanterns, hung on iron projections, shed small pools of light on the sides of buildings and illuminated, too, in their secondary ambience, the stones of the sloping walkway on which I trod, one of many leading down to the wharves. I could smell Thassa, the sea.
Two guardsmen, passing me, lifted their lanterns.
“Tal,” I said to them, and continued on my way.
I wore, as I had the night before, the garb of a metal worker.
I heard an urt splash softly into the water, ahead of me and to my left.
I passed iron doors, narrow, in the walls. These doors usually had a tiny observation panel in them, which could be slid back. The walls were sheer. They were generally windowless until some fifteen feet above the ground. Yards, and gardens and courts, if they exist, are generally within the house, not outside it. This is very general in Gorean architecture. But there were few gardens or courts in Port Kar. It was a crowded city, built up from the marshes themselves, in the Vosk’s delta, and space was scarce and precious.
There were pilings along the walkway, to which, here and there, small boats were moored. The walkway itself varied from some five feet to a yard in width.
I had stayed at the sales in the warehouse of Vart for a time after the sale of the blond barbarian. I had not wished to leave immediately after her sale, for that might have indicated, had there been a curious observer present, that that sale had been the one in which I had been interested.
The dark-haired, shapely girl from Tyros had gone for twenty-nine tarsks. She had proved, under Vart’s touch, a hot, helpless slave and the bidding then had been quick and meaningful. She had been purchased by Procopius Minor for the Four Chains. He seemed well pleased with the buy. She was hot and she had cost him not forty but only twenty-nine tarsks. He had then, I conjectured, forgotten the blond barbarian. Tyros is a city enemy to Port Kar. Many men in Port Kar would enjoy having a girl of Tyros weep herself slave in their arms. She would make good money for Procopius Minor. She had been an excellent buy, a superb bargain. He might even enjoy using her himself. Who was the girl who had been previously sold? Ah, yes, the blond barbarian, purchased by Ulafi of Schendi.
The next two women sold had been a mother and daughter from Cos. they were sold to separate buyers, as pot girls. The mother brought sixteen tarsks and the daughter fourteen. They were among the eleven women, including the blond barbarian, who had been sold by Bejar to Vart. They had been taken in the capture of the Blossoms of Telnus. The crew and male passengers of the Blossoms of Telnus had also been sold by Bejar to Vart, but these had been auctioned by Vart in the morning, on the wharf blocks, as work slaves.
I had then stayed for only two more sales, and had then left, those of a peasant girl, blond, from southwest of Ar, and a merchant’s daughter from Asperiche. The peasant girl brought eight tarsks; the merchant’s daughter, to her indignation, brought only six. She had not yet learned slave heat. A strong master would teach it to her. She would learn it, or die. Frigidity is accepted by Goreans only in free women. Slave fires, of course, lurk in every woman. It is only a question of arousing them. Once the slave discovers her sexuality, a venture in which the humiliated slave, to her dismay, is forced to participate to the fullest, she can never again ignore it. Once she has begun to learn the orgasms of the slave girl she can never again be contented with anything less. She is then a master’s girl. “I beg for your touch, Master,” she whispers. Perhaps he will satisfy her; perhaps he will not. It is his whim. He is the master.
I stopped on the walkway. Ahead, some yards, was a girl dark-haired, lying on her belly on the walkway, reaching with her hand down to the canal, to fish out edible garbage. She was barefoot, and wore a brief, brown rag. I did not think she was a slave. Some free girls, runaways, vagabonds, girls of no family or position, live about port cities, scavenging as they can, begging, stealing, sleeping at night in crates and under bridges and piers. They are called the she-urts of the wharves. Every once in a while there is a move to have them rounded up and collared but it seldom comes to anything.
I was not worried about the girl. I was more alert to the fact that, moments before, two guardsmen had passed. The rounds of guardsmen are generally randomized, usually by the tossing of coins, different combinations corresponding to different schedulings. One of the most practical strategies for those who would avoid guardsmen, of course, is to follow them in their rounds. I was very aware of the fact that I carried, in my sea bag, the ring which the blond barbarian had had on the Blossoms of Telnus and the notes, bearing the signatures and seals of Schendi bankers, who had been made out to Shaba, the geographer of Anango, the explorer of Lake Ushindi, and the discoverer of Lake Ngao and the mysterious Ua River. I thought these might bring him out of hiding, with the Tahari ring, if I could not locate him by means of the blond Earth girl who had been purchased by Ulafi, captain of the Palms of Schendi, merchant, too, of that city.
The girl, hearing my approach, drew her legs up quickly under her, and rose to her feet, turning to meet me. She smiled, brightly. She was pretty.
“Tal,” said she.
“Tal,” said I.
“You are strong,” she said.
We were in the vicinity of the pier of the Red Urt. It is not a desirable district.
I put down my sea bag.
She looked up at me.
“It is dangerous for you here,” I said. “You should be home.”
“I have no home,” she said.
She traced an idle pattern on my left shoulder with her finger tip.
“Who would want to hurt a little she-urt,” she said.
“What do you want?” I asked. I was alert to the tiny sound behind me.
“I will please you for a tarsk bit,” she said.
I did not speak.
She suddenly knelt before me. “I will please you as a slave girl, if you wish,” she said.
“When I want a slave girl,” I said, “I will have a real slave girl, not a free woman pretending to be a slave girl.”
She looked up at me, angrily.
“On your feet, free woman,” I said.
She got up angrily. She
was not a slave. Why should I accord her the privilege of kneeling at my feet?
“I’m hot and I’m pretty,” she said. “Try me.”
I touched her flanks. They were good. I then took her by the upper arms. I looked into her eyes. She lifted her lips to mine.
“No!” she screamed, wild-eyed, as I suddenly lifted her from her feet and spun about, she knowing herself lifted helplessly into the path of the blow. I dropped her inert body to one side.
“You should take your breath,” I told him, “before you approach. Too, you should have your arm raised early, that the movement of the sleeve not be audible. Too, you should have the girl, in her diversion, keep her eyes closed. That could be natural enough, and, in that way, you would not be reflected in the mirror of her eyes.” It had not been difficult to detect his approach, even apart from the more obvious clues I had called to his attention. The senses of a warrior are trained. His life may depend on it.
With a cry of rage the man attacked. I caught the club hand, which was clumsy, and, twisting it, dashed his face first into the walkway. I then took him by the hair and thrust the side of his head into the wall. He slumped down, unconscious. I took binding fiber from my sea bag and tied his wrists together behind his back, and crossed and tied his ankles. I then turned to the girl. I tied her hands behind her back, and then took her by the ankles and held her upside down, thrusting her head and shoulders, and upper body, under the cold waters of the canal. In a few seconds I pulled her up, sputtering, and sat her, tied, against the wall across from me. She gasped for air; she tried to clear water from her eyes. She choked. Her hair and the rag she wore were wet. She backed further against the wall, drawing her legs up, pressing her knees closely together. She looked at me, frightened. “Please, let me go,” she said. Dawn would be well glistening now over the marshes to the east. It was still rather dark in the canal streets with the buildings on each side. There was fog visible on the canals.
