by John Norman
“If I could find one, I could choke it out of him,” said Thurnock.
“And the attack would be made elsewhere,” I said.
We made our way past a shelf where several women were on sale.
“The matter is hopeless,” said Thurnock.
“Not at all,” I said.
I was more troubled by the fact that on the voyage from the Cove of Harpalos to the beach of Nicosia we had not encountered the small, dark island originally encountered on the voyage from Nicosia to the Cove of Harpalos. Similarly, on the voyage from Nicosia to Sybaris, after painting the Tesephone white and yellow, colors of the Merchants, so that it would stand out, and not be difficult to detect amongst the billows of Thassa, we had again failed to encounter the small, dark island.
“Lands do not move,” had said Clitus. “It is small. We passed it, unknowingly.”
“That must be it,” I had granted him.
“You obtained charts at the Cove of Harpalos,” had said Clitus. “Is it not on the charts?”
“No,” I said.
“It is not charted,” had said Clitus. “It is too small. Many tiny islands fail to appear on the charts.”
“You must be right,” I had said.
“You do not think the matter is hopeless?” asked Thurnock.
“No,” I said.
“It is hopeless,” said Thurnock. “How can we know which village, of some sixty-three or so villages, will be attacked?”
“By arranging the matter ourselves,” I said. “How else?”
“I do not understand,” said Thurnock.
“I have a plan,” I said.
Chapter Ten
I Return to a Tavern Hitherto Patronized; I Begin to Put my Plan into Effect
“Buy me!” whispered Lais, softly, tensely, that no one would hear. “I beg it, Master! Buy me!”
I had returned, following my plan, to the large tavern, The Living Island, whose proprietor, as I understood it, was a man named Glaukos. It was not yet crowded, but it was still early. It was in this establishment that I had first heard of the destruction of Nicosia prior to its actual destruction, and in which Aktis had noted baubles and trinkets on a dancer’s belt much like those which had figured in the trade goods of the raiders’ advance scout, he posing as an itinerant merchant.
The paga girls who were not yet serving were kneeling in the display area, to the right of the paga vat, each chained by the left ankle to a ring. The chains were some four or five feet in length, and the rings were separated by a pace or so. The length of the individual chains and the spacing of the rings allows the girls to better present themselves for consideration. The chains, holding the girls in place, work out well for both the tavern and the patrons. From the point of view of the tavern the girls cannot rise up and rush about, competing for desirable customers, this arrangement minimizing squabbles and altercations, sometimes resulting in bite wounds, scratch marks, and gouts of lost hair. From the point of view of the patrons, on the other hand, the girls can be examined and assessed, one after another, in a serial, leisurely manner. One picks as one pleases.
I had scarcely arrived at the display area, to peruse the still-available offerings of the tavern, when one of the girls, she, like the others this night, in a brief yellow tunic, slit at the left hip, startled, looking up, hurled herself prone on the floor, squirming forward on her belly, pulling against the chain and manacle, extending her right hand to me, piteously. “Master!” she begged. “Me! Me!”
One or two of the other girls looked at her, annoyed. Such demonstrativeness sometimes brings the lash. Some of the others began to preen, and three others went, too, to their belly.
The most common second-obeisance position is to lie prone with the arms at the side of the head, but one sometimes sees the arms down, stretched back, at the sides of the of the body, commonly palms up. First-obeisance position is more common, where the girl kneels, head down, with her hands, palms down, beside her head.
“Master!” she wept.
“Do not cut your ankle on the manacle,” warned the vat master. Carelessness in such matters can be a cause for discipline. Scars can lower a girl’s value.
But his admonition did little to reduce the pressure of the manacle, taut on its chain, on her fair, well-formed, slim ankle. Slavers, in assessing goods, take ankles into consideration. In many Earth cultures, ankles are brazenly, conveniently, exhibited. To that extent the slaver’s work is facilitated. On Gor, few free women exhibit their ankles. The raider or capturing slaver, of course, always hopes for the best. In the case of many Gorean women their ankles are never really exhibited until they are sold from the block.
“Master, Master!” begged the girl.
“It seems she knows you,” said the vat master.
I gave no indication that I recognized her.
“Is she any good?” I asked the vat master.
“She is hot, helpless, and worthless, like any other slave,” said the vat master.
“Please, Master!” wept the girl.
“Which one?” asked the vat master.
“That one,” I said.
The vat master freed her of the manacle, and I turned and strode away, to an obscure table at the far end of the floor, she hurrying behind me.
“Buy me!” whispered Lais, softly, tensely, that no one would hear. “I beg it, Master! Buy me!”
“Only a slave begs to be bought,” I said.
She kept her head down, kneeling at my feet. She shook her head a little, bringing her hair forward, exposing the back of her neck, the tiny hairs. “Master sees,” she said, “that my neck is in a collar.”
How beautiful is a woman whose neck is in a collar.
“I see,” I said, “as you are collared, that you are indeed a slave, an animal, an object, an article of merchandise, which might be bought and sold.”
“Yes, Master,” she whispered.
“But are you a slave in your mind, your heart, and belly, in every cell of your body, in every drop of your blood?”
“Yes, Master,” she said, “since you first bound and touched me, weeks ago.”
“I gather then,” I said, “that you now understand what you are, and welcome it?”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You are of Earth, are you not?” I asked.
“Surely Master recalls,” she said.
“Need I repeat my question?” I asked.
“I was of that world,” she said, “until I was brought here, as I now know was fitting, to be the slave I now am!”
“I gather that your adjustment to legal slavery proceeded expeditiously.”
“It takes little time to adjust to legal slavery,” she said, “when one is stripped, marked, collared, and whipped.”
“On the other hand,” I said, “I gather that, in your case, the mark and collar, and such, was no more than a suitable, public acknowledgement of a hitherto concealed inward truth, that you are a natural slave, a rightful slave, a woman who is a slave, and wants to be a slave.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “For years I put aside my dreams and fantasies, for years I strenuously denied my most inward and profound reality, as my culture prescribed, but I always knew it, and, after your touch, I accepted it, at last, and gladly. In your arms I could no longer deny it. If one is a slave, why should one not be a slave? Let the free woman be free; let the slave be a slave. Let each find her joy as she can, as she would.”
“I think your value, your price, of late, is much improved.”
I had gathered that that might be the case from the vat master.
“I am told some of us sell well, indeed, that some of us bring high prices, as much as two silver tarsks,” she said.
“And some more,” I said.
“Are not the women of my world of interest to Gorean
men?” she asked. “Are we not exotic in our way, helpless and different, so needful? Do they not enjoy owning and mastering us, handling us, and treating us, as we deserve, as the properties we are? As a man, perhaps you do not realize how thrilling it is for a woman to be dominated, mastered, and owned.”
I did not respond. I supposed that there might be genetic codings having to do with dominance and submission. In any event, these behaviors appeared to be pervasive in the animal kingdom. Could it be that some genetic combinations are selected for, those which lead to survival, health, happiness, and thriving? But such questions are perhaps outside the scope of the codes.
“I now despise the worthlessness, the emptiness of freedom,” she whispered. “What is a woman who is not owned?”
“The Gorean free woman,” I said, “is glorious and priceless, a jewel of inestimable value.”
“I fear free women,” she said. “I think they are unhappy, cruel, and filled with hate. What are they really but forlorn, miserable slaves not yet in their collars?”
“You may lift your head,” I said.
How beautiful she was, the dark hair, the brief yellow tunic, slit at the hip, kneeling before me.
“I do not think I would be expensive,” she said. “Patrons often buy girls off the floor.”
It is common for a paga girl, a state slave, a laundry slave, a girl from the mills, to long for a private master. To be the single slave of a beloved Master is a common hope amongst kajirae.
“I do not think I am unattractive,” she said.
On Gor, beauty amongst slaves is common, and, accordingly, cheap.
“You chose me from the line,” she said. “You had me loosed from my chain.”
“Perhaps for an evening’s sport,” I said.
“At first, I did not recognize Master,” she said. “The garb? Not of the Merchants? Is he truly of the Mariners, an officer, a helmsman, an oarsman?”
“Do not concern yourself,” I said.
“Yet you carry a blade,” she said.
“Where one is a stranger, it is well not to go unarmed.”
“Many are strangers in Sybaris,” she said.
“I am one of them,” I said.
“I am helpless,” she said. “I can only beg to be bought.”
“There are many strong Masters,” I said, “capable of treating you as the slave you are.”
“And I would be bought by one,” she said, “he whom I entreat, he before whom I now kneel.”
“I take it,” I said, “you are familiar with slave obedience.”
“Yes, Master,” she said. “A slave is to obey unquestioningly and immediately. I have been taught it by the whip.”
“Listen carefully,” I said. “I do not think I am recognized here, but I am uncertain of the matter. I came here originally in the guise of a merchant from Brundisium, Kenneth Statercounter. Now, should inquiries be made, I am Eiron, an oarsman from Naxos on Daphna. You know no more. I shall shortly send you for paga. You are to take a goblet from the shelf at random and fill it at the paga vat yourself. I do not want the goblet to be selected by the vat master or filled by the vat master. If this proves impractical, return and inform me. Later, I shall appear drunk. Whatever happens, do not involve yourself.”
Her eyes, lifted to mine, were full of fear.
“Do you understand, slave girl?” I asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I was standing near the wall of the tavern, far from the entrance, to the right, as one would enter, where few were about.
That seemed appropriate for one who might have a secret to conceal.
“Paga,” I said, clearly.
Two fellows at a nearby table looked about, and then returned to their drinking.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
Chapter Eleven
I Meet Glaukos, Proprietor of The Living Island; Things Go Smoothly, if Not Altogether Pleasantly
The girl, Lais, had been dismissed.
She was now back on her chain, in the display area.
I thought that that was best for her, safest for her. The vat master, not pleased, had toweled tears from her cheeks. Her hair was damp where she had tried to use it for the same purpose. She must now, in her manacle, on her chain, on her knees, smile, as hitherto, sparkle as she could, and once more present herself well. She is to be attractive to customers. She is a paga girl. It is not pleasant to be cuffed, nor switched, nor feel the kiss of the supple, five-stranded Gorean slave whip, designed to administer admonitions to the female slave who has somehow failed, or is suspected of having failed, to be fully pleasing. A free woman may be as unpleasant and displeasing as she wishes; but the girl who is marked, collared, and tunicked, should the master permit her clothing, may not be so.
The attendant, with belt and coin box, having noted the delivery of paga, the vessel now before me, had arrived at the table.
“Master?” he said.
Paga girls are not permitted to touch coins. Indeed, kajirae, as a whole, are seldom permitted to touch coins, save in structured situations, as in shopping, redeeming laundry, or such. In passing it might be noted that, in many cities, it is a capital offense for a kajira to touch a weapon.
I pretended sluggishness, even stupor.
“You dismissed the girl,” he said. “Perhaps she was unsatisfactory? If so, I will have her beaten.”
“Paga, paga,” I said, head down, speech slurring. “This is a night to remember. The taverns of beautiful Sybaris, the slaves of Sybaris. No more collar meat, not now. Paga. I want more paga.”
“It seems this is not the first tavern Master has visited this evening,” said the attendant.
“Paga, more paga,” I growled, head down.
“It is before you,” said the attendant, and rattled the coin box. “One tarsk-bit.”
I raised my head, groggily. “What?” I asked.
“A tarsk-bit,” said the attendant.
I reached out, locating the goblet, and, gripping it firmly, determinedly, in two hands, lifted it, and swilled down the contents in one dramatic, cascading drainage.
“A tarsk-bit,” the attendant reminded me.
“I have no tarsk-bit,” I said.
“What?” said the attendant, eyeing the emptied goblet.
“No tarsk-bit,” I said, “no copper. Spent them all.”
“Master jests,” said the attendant.
“No,” I said. “No tarsk-bit, no copper. Spent them all.”
The attendant turned about, and signaled, subtly, to two large fellows lounging on a wall-bench behind and to the left of the paga vat, who then, rising, began to approach the table. Their approach was such that I was pleased that I was not without resources.
“Take this, instead,” I said.
I reached into my bulging pouch, hung from my belt, and handed the attendant a small, bright disk. Even in the light of the nearby, dangling tharlarion-oil lamp, it was clear that the color of the disk was not copperish.
“This is not a tarsk-bit,” he said.
“I know,” I said. “I am destitute of tarsk-bits. I am sorry. I hope that will do.”
“It is yellow,” he said.
“Gold,” I said.
“It is not a coin,” he said.
“The Village of Flowing Gold,” I said, “does not mint coins.”
“What is The Village of Flowing Gold?” he asked.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said, warily.
“Is this gold?” he asked.
“Certainly,” I said.
“Where is The Village of Flowing Gold?” he asked.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said. “It does not exist. I misspoke. Doubtless it was the paga. I said nothing.”
The attendant bit at the small disk of metal.
“Go, let it be tested,” I said.
“I think it is gold,” he whispered to the two fellows who were now about him, one on each side.
“One who is of the Merchants, who deals in gold, or one who is of the Metal Workers, who crafts ornaments of gold, or some of those who are of the yellow caste, the Builders, could make the determination,” I said. “They have access to the crucible, the heat, the chemicals. The determination can be made in several ways.”
“I have not enough money in my coin box to change this,” said the attendant.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said. “I have plenty more.”
The attendant turned to one of the two fellows with him and pressed the disk into his hand. “Laios,” he said, “take this to Glaukos.”
Glaukos, as I recalled, was the proprietor of The Living Island.
The fellow who had been given the small disk sped away.
“I will bring more paga to your table, immediately, noble Master,” said the attendant.
“I feel I must be on my way,” I said. I reached nervously inside my robe, as if to reassure myself that the rolled parchment there was secure. I trusted that this tiny movement had not escaped the notice of the attendant, whose eyes narrowed at the action.
“Dally,” said the attendant. “Ctesippus, here,” he added, “will keep you company,” indicating the second large fellow. the larger of the two who had approached the table.
“Remain where you are,” said Ctesippus.
“Very well,” I said.
“I will fetch you some paga,” said the attendant, withdrawing.
“He is very kind,” I said.
I doubted that the goblet would be filled from the contents of the paga vat.
“Stay where you are,” said Ctesippus.
“Why should I not do so?” I asked.
I watched the attendant. He did not stop at the paga vat but carried the empty goblet through the beaded curtain to the side. Shortly thereafter, he re-emerged onto the floor, carrying the goblet, brimming with fluid, and approached my table, now followed by a short, smiling, thick-legged, coarse-featured fellow, in a silken, gold-embroidered house tunic.
The attendant placed the vessel on the table, carefully, turned about, and took his leave.
