Witness of Gor coc-26

by John Norman

  I looked down at the knife.

  “You see the knife?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Consider it,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, puzzled.

  “Do you think you could seize it, lift it, and, before I could resist, or defend myself, plunge it into my heart?”

  “I have no wish to injure my master,” I said.

  “Do you think you could do what I said?”

  “I do not think so, Master,” I said. Surely at first movement he could turn and seize me.

  “Pick it up,” he said.

  “Surely I may not touch it, Master,” I said. “It is a weapon.” In many cities, it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.

  “Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said. I lifted the knife, timidly.

  “Approach,” said he. “Hold it with both hands.”

  I knelt over him then, the hilt of the knife gripped in two hands. That was well, otherwise I think my hand would have shaken miserably, helplessly.

  “Put it to my heart,” he said.

  “Please, no, Master!” I begged.

  He turned his head to regard me, and I, quickly, frightened, put the knife over his heart.

  “Could you now thrust downward before I could resist, or defend myself?” he asked.

  I considered the position of his hands, behind his head, the quickness with which the knife might thrust down, the nature of the blade, its sharpness.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “None know you are here,” he said. “You could find your way out. You could frequent dangerous areas, where you might well be seized as a strayed slave, not to be returned to a master, but to be sold illicitly, in a black market. You might be out of the city in a week.”

  “I do not even have clothing, Master,” I said.

  “Surely you have seen naked slaves in the street,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I had seen them, at least, in Treve. I myself on the other hand, had never been put naked into the streets. It is normally done as a punishment. Normally, too, the slave is locked in the iron belt.

  “You would have to be careful not to be picked up by a guardsman,” he said.

  “I do not understand what master is saying,” I said.

  “Surely you have lied to me,” he said, “suggesting that you might care for me.”

  “No!” I said.

  “The knife is in your grasp,” he said. “You need pretend no longer.”

  “I love you, truly,” I said.

  “You are a barbarian,” he said. “I am a Gorean.”

  “You are a man,” I said, “I am a woman.”

  “Barbarian,” he said.

  “Do not hold my origins against me,” I said. “I am now only a Gorean slave girl, and am as eager, or more eager, to serve you as any girl of your world!”

  “You could not care for me,” he said, “for I would be a stern master.”

  “Be so,” I said.

  “I am not the sort of male which I have heard you women of Earth prefer,” he said.

  “Do not believe all you have heard, Master,” I said.

  “Oh?” he said.

  “Do you think we truly prefer manipulable weaklings who have surrendered their dominance?” I asked. “Do you think such can exact from us the depths of our womanhood? I cannot speak for all the women of Earth, but I can speak for one, for myself. I want a man of strength, of power, one who will relish me, and desire me, with might and passion, one who will put me in my place, and keep me there, as a woman, and will see to it, to his joy and fulfillment, and mine, that I am well mastered. I want a man so strong, so intelligent, so energetic, so powerful, so overwhelming, so uncompromising, so mighty, that I can, before him, be no more than his abject slave.”

  “You are truly a slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Do the women of Earth desire true men?” he asked.

  “Master?” I asked.

  “In the biological sense,” he said, “as opposed to some political sense or another, whatever is current.”

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered. “We cry for them, in the darkness, Master.”

  “My life,” he said, absently, gazing at the ceiling, “is now worth very little.”

  “Master?” I said.

  “I have not complied with the orders set to me,” he said. “I have betrayed my superiors. They are not such, I assure you, as to look lightly upon such omissions. I can no longer return to Telnus. There is little, if anything, left for me now. Presumably I will be hunted down, and slain. If you were with me, you, too, would die.”

  “Then I, too, would die,” I said.

  “Lie no longer,” he said. “You may now kill me.”

  “I do not lie,” I said. “And I would rather plunge the dagger into my own heart.”

  “You may kill me,” he said.

  “Never,” I said.

  He closed his eyes.

  “Strike,” he said.

  The point of the dagger was over his heart. In an instant I might have leaned forward and, with all my weight, slight as it was, moved that thin blade deeply into his body, to the hilt, even though the heart.

  “No,” I said.

  He opened his eyes.

  “No,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

  “Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

  “Repeat it a thousand times,” I said. “I will not do it.”

  “You disobey?” he asked, puzzled.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said. “Yes, Master.”

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I love you,” I said.

  “You are prepared to die, for having been disobedient?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He regarded me.

  It occurred to me that if he slew me, he would, in this way, fulfill his orders. What would it matter to his superiors how it was that I came to be slain?

  “Strike,” he said.

  “No,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

  “There is no other way,” he said.

  “But there is another way, Master,” I said.

  “What?” he asked.

  “This!” I cried, and lifted the knife, it held in both hands, and turned it toward my own breast. I closed my eyes. I plunged the blade toward me.

  But it never reached my heart for his mighty hands, moved like lightning, seized my wrists. I cried out with pain, helpless in that grip. The knife fell to the stones. “Little fool!” he cried. He pulled me to my feet by the wrists, and regarded me, fiercely, and then forced me back down, on my knees, before him.

  “Hear me!” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You may not take your own life,” he said. “I forbid it.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said, frightened.

  He then threw me to the stones, angrily, before him. He reached down and retrieved the dagger, which he replaced in its sheath. He then threw the sheath and belt to the side. He picked up his cloak, and dropped it down, beside me.

  “Keep your head down,” he said.

  I dared then not lift my head.

  “Why did you not kill me?” he asked.

  “Because I love you,” I said.

  “Even though you knew your failure to obey could cost you your own life?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  “I would rather die than injure you,” I said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I am master’s slave,” I said.

  He crouched down beside me nad, with his fingers, lifted my chin, and looked deeply, inquiringly, into my eyes. Then I averted my eyes, for it was hard for me to look into the eyes of my master.

  “What sort of slave are you?” he asked.

  “Master, please!” I begged.

  “Speak,” he said.

  �
��I confess myself master’s love slave,” I whispered.

  “My love slave?” he said.

  “Yes, my master,” I said. “I know that you may not care for me. I know that you may despise me, that you may hate me. But it does not matter. I do not care. As worthless as my love my may be, that of a meaningless slave, know that it is yours, unstintingly, unreservedly, all of it. It is yours, entirely. I am your love slave.”

  He lifted up the cloak, and put it about my shoulders.

  I looked up at him, through tears.

  “I am unworthy to be loved,” he said. “I have betrayed my honor. I have not obeyed my orders.”

  “Is it well that the entire world should fall into the hands of Lurius of Jad?” I asked. “Is he not mad? Is he not a tyrant?”

  “He is my ubar,” he said.

  “Honor,” I said, “has many voices, and many songs.”

  He looked down at me startled. “That is a saying of warriors,” he said. “It is from the codes. It is a long time since I have heard it. I had almost forgotten it. Where did you, a slave, hear it?”

  “A den of thieves!” he said.

  I did not respond. Who knows within what houses may be heard the voices of honor? Who knows within what walls may be heard her songs?

  “I do not think we can leave the city,” he said. “We have no passes.”

  “We must then remain here,” I said.

  “For those of the black caste to come, to kill us?”

  “It would seem so, Master,” I said.

  “He who was Prisoner 41, in the Corridor of Nameless Prisoners, in the pits of Treve, may be in the city,” he said.

  I recalled the peasant. That seemed unlikely. How could any man have survived in the mountains, alone, for most practical purposes unarmed. Too, what difference could it make, really, if he were in the city, a mere peasant?

  “You could recognize him, if you saw him?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “We must try to escape from the city,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “I wonder if I should keep you,” he said.

  I threw off the cloak and flung myself naked to his feet. I held to his ankles. I pressed my lips to his feet. “Please keep me, Master!” I begged.

  “I must guard against weakness,” he said.

  I kissed his feet.

  “You are dangerous,” he said. “It is the soft foes who are most dangerous.”

  “I am not your foe, Master,” I said.

  “I wonder,” said he, musingly.

  “Do not fear me, Master,” I said.

  “You cannot help what you are,” he said.

  I liked and kissed at his feet.

  “Still,” said he, “the problem is not at all insoluble.”

  “Yes, Master,” I murmured.

  “Women such as you prove to be exquisitely pleasing,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered.

  “Subject, of course, to the proper controls, and handling.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Do you think your life with me will be easy?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “You realize that it is likely that I will be sought, and slain, and that you, too, if you are with me, would share that fate?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You may now leave,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  “I give you one last chance,” he said, “to leave this place, to fall into the hands of another.”

  “Keep me,” I begged.

  He looked down at me.

  “It is what you wish, truly?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master!” I said.

  But his eyes seemed now stern.

  Suddenly I was no more than a frightened slave.

  “Master?” I asked.

  “You have had your opportunity to elude my clutches,” he said quietly, evenly. “You did not avail yourself of it.”

  I looked up at him, frightened.

  “It is now too late,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “To all fours,” said he, “and face away!”

  I complied, frightened.

  “Strictly,” he said, “you have not been entirely pleasing this afternoon.”

  “How have I displeased my master?” I asked.

  I heard the whip removed from the table.

  I did not dare look back.

  “You were ordered to strike me, to slay me, and you did not do so.”

  I was silent.

  “That was disobedience,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And you strove to take your own life, which is not acceptable in a slave. She may not do that. She does not own herself. It is, rather, she who is owned.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “To be certain,” he said, “I am not unmindful of extenuating circumstances in both these cases, that in each case it was the welfare of your master which motivated you.”

  “It was, Master!” I said. “I beg forgiveness, if I have been displeasing!”

  “And what is to be done when the slave ahs not been fully pleasing?” he asked.

  “It is up to the master,” I said. “He may take action or not, as he sees fit.”

  I heard the coils of the whip shaken out.

  I tensed.

  “You will receive three blows, only,” he said.

  That I thought was light, indeed. The beating was then, I realized, more symbolic than anything. It was little more than a way in which he chose to inform me that he did not expect me to be disobedient, or even displeasing, in any way, a way in which I would be appraised of the consequences which might attend such failures on my part.

  The whip cracked and I cried out in alarm. But it had not touched me.

  “The first blow,” he said, “will be for disobedience, the second will be for your attempt to take your own life.”

  The sound of the whip’s report still terrified me.

  I realized that, next it would fall upon me. The blow fell upon me, and I thought it light, not that it did not hurt, you understand.

  My back stung.

  Tears came to my eyes.

  But it was not displeasing that I had refused to strike him. I would have refused again. The blow was little more than a formality. Still I had been whipped.

  I cried out in misery, feeling the second blow.

  It was not light.

  He apparently was quite clear about informing me of his displeasure that I had tried to turn the dagger against myself, even if it had been only my intent to relieve him of his dilemma, to resolve, at a stoke, so to speak, the fearful predicament in which he found himself, to protect him, to save his life, by recourse to the obvious, simple expedient of sacrificing mine.

  “Master!” I whimpered, in protest.

  “Be silent!” he said.

  Tears fell to the stones. I did not wish to feel another blow like that. Now I was truly whipped.

  “Prepare for the third blow,” he said.

  “Master,” I cried, “may I speak?”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “For what is the third blow?” I asked.

  “What?” he asked.

  “Why am I to be given a third blow?” I asked. “What is its purpose?”

  “You are to be given a third blow,” he said. “because I chose to give you one, and because you are a slave, and that it may serve to remind you of what you are, my little charmer, that you are a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered.

  I lay then on my stomach, my head to the side, tears bursting from my eyes, my fingers scratching at the stones.

  I tired to understand what I felt.

  I almost lost consciousness.

  My back seemed unbelievably afire.

  The leather had struck like lig
htning on my back. How it had fallen upon me! How it had lashed down!

  I lay there then, a slave who had felt the lash. I sensed that the blow, in its way, had been sparing. But it had been sharp, and it was not one I was likely to soon forget.

  I heard the whip replaced on the table. “We must leave soon,” he said.

  I scarcely heard him.

  How frightened I was, and how miserable, whipped. I realized now that no matter how much he might love me that I was still his slave, and that he would not be lenient with me. How quickly I would kneel, how quickly I would leap to serve, how desperately, how fervently, I would try to please! I loved him, but, too, I knew him now as my genuine master, one who would not hesitate an instant to correct my behavior, to subject me to discipline, if I should fail to be pleasing.

  “Up, my little charmer,” he said. “We must be on our way.” I rose to my knees swiftly, and turned about, looking up at him.

  He smiled, seeing that I would obey with alacrity.

  He had donned his tunic.

  I had not so much as a slave strip.

  “They will be searching for you,” he said. “what was your name in the gardens?”

  “Gail,” I said.

  “They will then be searching, I wager, either for a slave named ‘Janice’, once serving in Treve, or a slave named ‘Gail’, from the gardens of Appanius. What is your name?”

  “Whatever master pleases,” I said.

  “A most judicious response,” he said.

  My back hurt, I wondered what he would name me, or if he would concern himself to name me. I supposed he would name me. It is convenient for a girl to have a name, by which she can be commanded, and summoned, and such. If he named me, that was then who I would be.

  I looked to the two cloaks, the one he had worn, the other which had been put about me after I had been removed from the slave box, and set before him, on my knees, it was his own cloak which he had earlier put about me, almost tenderly, perhaps to shelter me from the dampness of the basement. The other cloak, that which had been put about my shoulders by he who was the first of the two captors, lay to the side.

  “Should I don this cloak, Master?” I asked. I did not think he would march me in the streets naked. Without wishing to sound vain, I thought, genuinely, I might attract attention. Constanzia and I had attracted attention in Treve, even in common tunics. I did not doubt but what the Lady Ilene, who was now quite likely to be a slave, would have as well.

  I had referred to the cloak which lay to the side, the smaller of the two cloaks, that which was not his, that which had earlier been put about me by the first of two captors. It was a woman’s cloak.