Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  I looked up at him, my face stinging. I tasted blood in my mouth.

  “Yes,” said he, angrily, “you would crawl to any man as a slave.”

  He then, in fury, tore open the cloak and exposed me, before him.

  He regarded me.

  “Yes, yes,” said he. “You are a slave, a slave! That is what you are, a slave! It is no wonder that you worthless little things bring a good price on a market block!”

  He then thrust me on the floor.

  I lay there, afraid to move.

  I heard him rummaging about the room. Then I heard the snap of a slave whip. I moaned. I tensed. He came and stood near me.

  “Please be kind to me, my master,” I said.

  “Barbarian slut,” he said, “Earth-girl slave, Earth-girl thrall!”

  He knew then that I was not native to this world. He had understood this, perhaps, from my accent.

  Yet I was not sure of this.

  Could he have known this independently?

  As he had spoken to me I had been at first startled. Then I had grown troubled.

  Now that I had been several months on this world I was much more aware of the subtleties of diverse accents within the language of the masters, that language which I must learn, that I might the better obey, that I might the better understand what was required of me. This accent was not that of the local guards, those I had encountered in the house, nor that of the captors, nor that of those of Treve. Indeed, it reminded me in ways of my own early accent in this language, not with respect to my native tongue, which still influenced how I spoke the language, of course, but with respect to that which I had originally absorbed in learning the language, now so long ago. My speech had, however, over the months, been heavily influenced by my time in Treve, and, in the past weeks, doubtless, by that of this city itself.

  The whip snapped again, a strict, sharp, loud sound, like the report of a firearm, a sound that seemed to ring, explosively from wall to wall.

  I was terrified.

  I did not want to feel it on me.

  But the blow did not fall on me.

  “You crawl to the feet of any man,” he snarled. “Crawl then, slut, to my feet, as well,”

  “I am bound, hand and foot!” I wept.

  “Crawl!” he commanded.

  I could move only a bit at a time, laboriously, painfully, over the stones, toward him.

  “You are slow!” he said.

  The whip snapped again.

  “Forgive me, Master!” I said.

  At last I lay at his feet, on my side. I turned my head, that my lips might touch his sandals. But he stepped away from me, angrily.

  “You are not yet at my feet, are you?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, Master!” I said.

  Again I tried, inch by inch, to reach him. But this time he seized my ankles and turned me to my stomach. My ankles were then up, behind me, fastened to my wrists. I saw the coils of the whip lying beside my head, to the left. I heard a knife slip from a sheath, a soft sound. I lay very still. The masters may do as they please. I do not wish to move unexpectedly, suddenly, and risk being cut, by accident. My ankles were held still, my left ankle in the grip of his left hand. A blade of apparently incredible sharpness moved through the bonds, quickly, deftly, on my ankles. They seemed to spring away. I then lay on my belly, facing away from him, my legs freed. The blade was returned to its sheath. I saw his hand pick up, again, the whip.

  He stood up, he turned about, he moved back.

  He was silent.

  I was not unmindful, I assure you, of the command which had been imposed upon me, and had not been rescinded. Too, men such as these, who relate to women in the modality of the master, are not patient.

  I was then on my knees before him.

  “You crawl quickly to the feet of a man,” he sneered.

  I had crawled to him on my knees. My hands were still bound behind my back. I knelt before him, and put my head down, to his feet.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You may beg use,” he said.

  “I beg use,” I said.

  I was very much aware that my ankles were freed.

  “Why do you beg use?” he asked.

  “I fear to be whipped,” I said.

  “And if you were not afraid of being whipped?” he asked.

  “I would still beg use,” I said.

  ‘Without even knowing who I am?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Slut and slave!” said he, in fury.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You are worthless,” he said. “You are unutterably contemptible!”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “I always knew it,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  “From the first!” he said, angrily.

  “Master?”

  “Earth-slut!” he said.

  “Yes, master!” I said.

  I was startled. Had I not heard this voice before? “Look up!” he commanded.

  His eyes, within the mask, were fierce.

  The whip, coiled, was thrust roughly before me. Instantly I licked and kissed it.

  How long it had been since I had knelt before him! How long it had been since I had kissed that whip!

  “I love you, I love you, my master!” I cried.

  “You know me, do no not?” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” I cried. I dared not lie to my master. I knew him now as well as if his fathers had been bared from the beginning. To be sure, I had never known his name, or his city. I had known little more of him than, in my heart, he was my master. It was he whose whip my lips had been first pressed on this world!

  He tore the mask away from his features, casting it aside, looking down at me.

  How fierce were his eyes!

  That he had worn the mask suggested to me that perhaps it had not been intended that I recognize him. I hoped I had not placed my life in jeopardy by my admission that I was cognizant of his identity. But he must know that. Too, I dared not lie to him. He was my master.

  How terrible seemed his anger!

  “I love you!” I said.

  “Liar!” said he, in rage.

  “No, Master!” I protested.

  He glared at me.

  “You are my master!” I cried. “You have always been my master!”

  “Liar! Liar!”

  “No, Master!” I wept.

  “But one thing you say is true,” he said.

  “Master?’ I asked.

  “That I am now your master.”

  In his voice there seemed terrible menace.

  “The slave rejoices!” I said. “She begs to serve!”

  “How clever you are,” he said.

  “I do not ask that you like me, even a little,” I said. “I only beg, unilaterally, with no hope of the least reciprocity, that you will permit me to be your helpless love slave!”

  “It is little wonder, with your cleverness,” he said, “that you learned the language so quickly, that you so quickly and well learned the lessons of the pens.”

  “I am well advised,” I said, “to learn the language of my masters as quickly as possible. It is not pleasant to be beaten. And surely I am not to be blamed if the slave in me was a little closer to the surface, a little more eager, a little less repressed than that in some others.”

  “You belong in the collar,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “How well you look on your knees, bound.”

  “Thank you, Master.”

  “It is where you belong.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  He looked at me. It was difficult to read his eyes, his visage. He loosened the coils of the whip, but then, to my relief, slowly, wound them back together again.

  “Am I to be whipped?” I asked.

  He did not respond.

  “I did not expect to see master again,” I said.

  “Nor I you,” he said,
“slave.”

  “Is it but coincidence,” I said, “That she who has come into your power is I?”

  “Not at all,” he said. “It is only to find you that I have come to this part of the world.”

  I looked at him, suddenly, in wonder, and joy.

  “Master has sought me?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  He must then, I thought, share something of my feelings for him. Not lightly did one undertake lengthy journeys on this dangerous world.

  “You have come far to acquire me,” I said, shyly.

  He regarded me, not speaking.

  “I thought that master did not care for me,” I said. I recalled the neglect, the contempt, the cruelty with which he had treated me in the pens. Of all the guards it seemed it was he alone who despised me, who held me in such disdain.

  “You are a worthless slut,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, contentedly.

  “Do you know my accent?” he asked. “It is not unlike your own.”

  “I can recognize it, of course,” I said.

  “It is an accent of Cos,” he said. “Your accent, too, despite the barbarian influences, and others, substantially a Cosian accent, for it is there you learned your Gorean. You were trained in pens in the capital city of Cos, Telnus.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. This was the first time I had heard the location of the pens which I had been trained. They were in a city named Telnus, on Cos, which I did know was an island.

  “There has been a great war,” said he, “between Cos, and her allies, and Ar, and her allies. The victory has come to Cos, but for various reasons, having to do primarily with the volatility of mercenary forces, it is thought that the permanence of this victory is not assured. You know in what city you are?”

  “In Ar,” I said. I knew that. I knew too, something of the occupation, and of the hardships in the city, though we had been much sheltered from the consequences of such in the gardens.

  “What you perhaps do not know,” he said, “is that Ar was betrayed in this war, by traitors in high places.”

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “Without such treachery it is unlikely that Cos could have secured her success.”

  I was silent.

  “In particular, it was needful to deprive Ar of competent leadership.”

  He was then silent.

  “Master?” I asked. But it seemed he felt he had spoken more than he wished.

  “It was not easy to find you,” he said. “There were attempts made to conceal your whereabouts. Interestingly, the clue to your location, came, so to speak, from the other side, from the side of those favoring Ar, or perhaps one might say, better, from the side of the same who are suspected of favoring Ar, whose activities, unknown to themselves, are closely monitored.”

  I understood very little of what he was saying.

  “Must we speak of such things, Master?” I asked.

  “You do not know your role in these things, do you?”

  “No, Master,” I said, “nor is it important.”

  “Sometimes,” said he, “the slightest movement of a leaf, stirring in the wind, is important. Sometimes the particular position of a grain of sand may be of the utmost consequence.”

  “Love me,” I said.

  “Love you?” he asked.

  “Please,” I said.

  “I do not understand,” he said.

  “Have you not come from far away, perhaps from halfway across a world, to find me?”

  He looked at me.

  “You have now found me,” I said. “I am yours.”

  “I know that you are mine,” he said.

  “To do with as you please.”

  “I know that,” he said.

  “I beg to be done with then as master pleases,” I said.

  “Oh?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He smiled, bitterly.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “Liar!” he cried.

  I looked down. I felt helpless. I did not know how to make him believe me. How could I convince him of the authenticity of my feelings? How could I prove to him that I was his, wholly, and in the most complete and perfect way a woman can give herself to a man and his love slave?

  Unbidden then I lay before him, on my back, my bound wrists under me, nested in the small of my back, my left knee lifted. It was one of the ways in which I had been taught to lie before a man.

  “You are a bold slave,” he said.

  “Beat me,” I said, “if you are not pleased.” This, too, this saying, I had learned in the pens.

  “I have dreamed,” said he, “of you before me, so.”

  “Oh, Master,” I said, “I do love you!”

  He regarded me, skeptically.

  “If you do not believe me, Master,” I said, “do not concern yourself with the matter. I am before you, as a slave. Simply put me to your purposes, that I may serve the imperious will of my master.”

  I felt overwhelming desire fro him. My entire body seemed aflame. I was hot. I lifted my body to him. I was juicing, as a slave.

  “I am not a man of your world,” he said to me.

  I lay before him, eager and ready for my subjugation. I wanted to be overwhelmed, to be carried away, to be loved with need and desire onto ecstatic madness. “Do you think I want the trepid caresses of tamed men?” I asked. “Do you not know, truly, what I want and need, that I want, and need a master!”

  “I have not been sent here for the purpose of acquiring a slave for my personal delectation,” he said.

  “You have been sent here?” I asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Oh, I have come of my own will, as well,” he said.

  I recalled that he hated me.

  “Master?” I asked.

  “Do not think that I did not want to come,” he said. “No. It was others, who could also recognize you, who did not wish to come. It was I who was eager to come.”

  “Who could recognize me?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Surely you must understand why I have been sent here,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Do you not know, truly, why I have been sent here?” he asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “To kill you,” he said.

  46

  I lay there, suddenly numbed and cold.

  He had turned away from me.

  “You know why you were sold to Treve, of course,” he said.

  “No,” I said.

  “Anyone with similar properties would have done,” he said, “but it was you whom they purchased.”

  I lay on the stones, looking at the ceiling above me.

  “They wanted one to attend upon a prisoner, one who would be utterly ignorant of the affairs of our world, one who could be depended upon to innocently and naively discharge the duties of a keeper, relieving free men of that responsibility, thus, too, enabling the contacts with the prisoner to be the better limited, particularly those of free persons, one who would be unlikely to have any relationship, either before the collar or after it, with the parties in question, one who, a slave, would be completely within the power of the authorities, one who could not, rationally, be expected to participate in any way in the affairs in question, for example, in bargaining, in tendering or accepting bribes, and such.”

  He cast down the whip, into the straw. This frightened me. I would rather he had held to it.

  “We have our sorces of information,” he said. “It has come to our attention that the prisoner has escaped. This was a long time ago. It seems almost certain he would seek to return to Ar. His presence in the city could significantly alter matters. Furthermore, there is some reason to believe that he may now be in the city.”

  I understood almost nothing of this.

  “Strangely enough,” he said, “it seems he is una
ware of his own identity, the result, I take it, of some trauma or injury. Further, perhaps, in part due to the consequences of the aforesaid trauma or injury, he may no longer be easily recognizable. In short, at present, it seems he knows neither himself nor is he known by others.”

  He turned to face me.

  “You, of course,” he said, “could recognize him instantly, for you know him as he is now, from Treve.”

  I lay on the stones, frightened, bound.

  “It is he who was Prisoner 41, in corridor of nameless prisoners, in the pits of Treve. We have all this from the administration in Treve. Indeed, you are apparently one of the very few people who could recognize him, and the only one whose location we know.”

  He approached me, a stop or two.

  I rose to my knees, frightened. I pulled at the cords on my wrists.

  “You might suggest, of course,” he said, “that your life be spared, that you might identify this fellow for us, the party of Cos, that we might then repair the oversight of Treve, by removing him from the picture, but we have considered, and rejected, that possibility. As you are a slave, and he is a free man, you cannot be trusted to identify him. You would surely suspect that you would be marking him out for death. You would then, presumably, pretend not to recognize him, even if you did. Too, you would be clever enough to know that your life might then be worthless, that either we, or those of Ar, learning of what you have done, and, in particular, as you are a slave, might deal with you summarily, and those of Ar rather unpleasantly. As a slave, too, you would know the penalties for bringing harm, either directly or indirectly, to a free person.”

  I shuddered.

  “I see you do,” he said.

  “The danger then,” he said, “is that you might identify him for others, for those favorable to the cause of Ar. The underground in Ar, you see, the resistance to the occupation, in particular, a band of brigands, the Delka Brigade, mostly veterans of the campaign in the delta of the Vosk, must not locate him. He could be used, you see, even in his state, as a rallying point for resistance.”

  I recalled the man in the garden, and his questions, which had frightened me so. I doubted that he was in league with the Cosians.