Norman, John - Gor 25 - Magicians of Gor.txt

by Magicians of Gor [lit]

  “To their temple, I suppose,” he said.

  “What for?” I asked.

  “For their evening services, I presume,” he said, somewhat irritably.

  “I, too, would conjecture that,” I said.

  “The sun gate!” he cried. “We must be there before dark!”

  “Yes,” I agreed.

  “Is there time?” he asked.

  “I think so,” I said.

  “Come!” he said. “Come quickly!”

  He then, leading the way, hurried up the street. I followed him, and Phoebe

  raced behind us.

  2 The Tent

  “You may turn about,” said Marcus, standing up.

  Phoebe, kneeling, gasping, unclasped her hands from behind her neck, and lifted

  her head from the dirt, in our small tent, outside the walls of Ar, one of

  hundreds such tents, mainly for vagabonds, itinerants and refugees.

  “Thank you, Master,” said Phoebe. “I am yours. I love you. I love you.”

  “Stand and face me,” he said. “Keep you arms at your sides.

  Marcus took a long cord, some five feet or so in length, from his pouch, and

  tossed it over his shoulder.

  “Am I to be bound now?” she asked.

  “The air seems cleaner and fresher outside the walls,” I said.

  We could hear the sounds of the camp about us.

  (Pg. 21) “It is only that we do not have the stink of incense here,” smiled

  Marcus.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked, Phoebe. He held in his hand, drawn forth

  from his pouch, a bit of cloth.

  “I am not certain,” she said, timidly, hopefully, “Master.” Her eyes lit up.

  I smiled.

  “It is a tunic!” she cried, delightedly.

  “A slave tunic,” he said, sternly.

  “Of course, Master,” she said, delightedly, “for I am a slave!”

  It was a sleeveless, pullover tunic of brown rep cloth. It was generously

  notched on both sides at the hem, which touch guarantees an additional baring of

  its occupant’s flanks.

  I saw that Phoebe wanted to reach out and seize the small garment but that she,

  under discipline, kept her hands, as she had been directed, at her sides.

  The cord over Marcus’ shoulder, of course, was the slave girdle, which is used

  to adjust the garment on the slave. Such girdles may be tied in various ways,

  usually in such ways as to enhance the occupant’s figure. Such girdles, too,

  like the binding fiber with which a camisk is usually secured on a girl, may be

  used to bind her.

  “It is to be mine, is it not?” asked Phoebe, eagerly, expectantly, hopefully.

  She would not be fully certain of this, of course. Once before, in the

  neighborhood of Brundisium, far to the north and west, when she had though she

  was to receive a similar garment, one which had previously been worn by another

  slave, Marcus refused to permit it to her. He had burned it. She was from Cos.

  “I own it,” said Marcus, “as I own you, but it is true that it was with you in

  mind that I purchased it, that you might wear it when permitted, or directed.”

  “May I touch it, Master?” she asked, delightedly.

  “Yes,” he said.

  I watched her take the tiny garment in her hands, gratefully, joyfully.

  It is interesting, I thought, how much such a small thing can mean to a girl. It

  was a mere slave tunic, a cheap, tiny thing, little more than a ta-teera or

  camisk, and yet it delighted her, boundlessly. It was the sort of garment which

  free women profess to despise, to find unspeakably shocking, unutterably

  scandalous, the sort of garment which they profess to regard with horror, the

  sort of garment which they seem almost ready to faint at the sight of, and yet

  to Phoebe, and to others like (pg. 22) her, in bondage, it was precious, meaning

  more her doubtless than the richest garments in the wardrobes of the free women.

  To be sure, I suspect that free women are not always completely candid in what

  they tell us about their feelings toward such garments. The same free woman,

  captured, who is cast such a garment, and regarding it cries out with rage and

  frustration, and dismay, and hastens to don it only when she sees the hand of

  her captor tighten on his whip, is likely, in a matter of moments, to be wearing

  it quite well, and with talent, moving gracefully, excitingly and provocatively

  within it. Such garments, and their meaning, tend to excite women, inordinately.

  Too, they are often not such strangers to such garments as they might have you

  believe. Such garments, and such things, are often found among the belongings of

  women in captured cities. It is presumed that many women wear them privately,

  and pose in them, before mirrors, and such. Sometimes it is in the course of

  such activities that they first feel the slaver’s noose upon them, they

  surprised, and taken, in the privacy of their own compartments. On Gor it is

  said that free women are slaves who have not been collared. In Phoebe’s case, of

  course, the garment represented not only such things, confirmation of her

  bondage, her subjection to a master, and such, but more importantly, at the

  moment, the considerable difference between being clothed and unclothed. She, a

  slave, and not entitled to clothing, any more than other animals, was, by the

  generosity of her master, to be permitted a garment.

  “Thank you, Master! Thank you, Master!” wept Phoebe, clutching the garment.

  Marcus had, of his own thinking in the matter, purchased the garment. It was, in

  my opinion, high time he had done so. Not only would Phoebe be incredibly

  fetching in a slave garment, garments permitting a female in many ways to call

  attention to, accentuate, display and enhance her beauty, but it would make her,

  and us, less conspicuous on the streets of Ar. Also, of course, she would then

  be no more susceptible than other similarly clad slaves to the pinches, and

  other attentions, of passers-by in the streets.

  “May I put it on?” she asked, holding the garment out.

  “Yes,” said Marcus. He was beaming. I think he had forgotten that he hated the

  wench, and such.

  “Why have you come to Ar?” I asked Marcus.

  “Surely you know,” he said.

  “But that is madness,” I said.

  During the siege of Ar’s Station its Home Stone had been smuggled out of the

  city and secretly transported to Ar for (pg. 23) safekeeping. This was done in a

  wagon owned by a fellow named Septimus Entrates. We had learned, however, after

  the fall of Ar’s Station, that the official rumor circulated in the south was to

  the effect that Ar’s Station had opened its gates to the Cosian expeditionary

  force, this in consideration of substantial gifts of gold. Accordingly, those of

  Ar’s Station were now accounted renegades in the south. This supposed treachery

  of Ar’s Station was then used, naturally, to explain the failure of Ar’s might

  in the north to raise the siege, it was supposed that Ar’s dilemma in the north

  was then ei
ther to attack their former colony or deal with the retreating

  expeditionary force. On the supposition that the latter action took priority the

  might of Ar in the north entered the delta in pursuit of the Cosians, in which

  shifting, trackless morass column after column was lost or decimated. The

  devastation of Ar’s might in the delta was perhaps the greatest military

  disaster in the planet’s history. Of over fifty thousand men who had entered the

  delta it was doubted that there were more than four or five thousand survivors.

  Some of these, of course, had managed to find their way back to Ar. As far as

  these men knew, of course, at least on the whole, the circulating rumors were

  correct, namely, that Ar’s Station had betrayed Ar, that it was still intact and

  that it was now a Cosian outpost. Such things they had been told in their winter

  camp, near Holmesk, south of the Vosk.

  Phoebe slipped the garment over her head.

  Marcus observed, intently.

  Understandably enough, given these official accounts of doings in the north,

  Ar’s Station and those of Ar’s Station were much despised and hated in Ar.

  Happily Marcus’ accent, like most of Ar’s Station, was close enough to that of

  Ar herself that he seldom attracted much attention. Too, of course, these days

  in the vicinity of Ar, given the movements of Cos on the continent, and the

  consequent displacements and flights of people, there were medleys of accents in

  and about Ar. Not even my own accent, which was unusual on Gor, attracted much

  attention.

  Phoebe drew down the tunic about her thighs, and turned before Marcus, happily.

  “Aii!” said Marcus.

  “Does the slave please you?” inquired Phoebe, delighted. The question was

  clearly rhetorical.

  “It is too brief,” said Marcus.

  “Nonsense,” I said.

  “It is altogether too brief,” said Marcus.

  “The better that my master may look upon my flanks,” said (pg. 24) Phoebe. They

  were well exposed, particularly with the notching on the sides.

  “And so, too, many other men,” he said, angrily.

  “Of course, Master,” she said, “for I am a slave!”

  “She is extraordinarily beautiful,” I said. “Let her be so displayed and

  exposed. Let other seethe with envy upon consideration of your property.”

  “She is just a slut of Cos!” said Marcus, angrily.

  “Now only your slave,” I reminded him.

  “You are a pretty slave, slut of Cos,” said Marcus to the girl, grudgingly.

  “A girl is pleased, if she is found pleasing by her master,” said Phoebe.

  “Surely, by now,” I said to Marcus, “you have thought the better of your mad

  project.”

  “No,” said Marcus, absently, rather lost in the rapturous consideration of his

  lovely slave.

  The Home Stone of Ar’s Station, as I have suggested, was in Ar. It was primarily

  in connection with this face that Marcus had come to Ar.

  “She is marvelously beautiful,” said Marcus.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “For a Cosian,” he said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  Given the anger in Ar at Ar’s Station, and the fact that the Home Stone of Ar’s

  Station had been sent to Ar, supposedly, according to the rumors, not for

  safekeeping, given the imminent danger in the city, but in a gesture of defiance

  and repudiation, attendant upon the supposed acceptance of a new Home Stone, one

  bestowed upon them by the Cosians, the stone was, during certain hours, publicly

  displayed. This was done in the vicinity of the Central Cylinder, on the Avenue

  of the Central Cylinder. The purpose of this display was to permit the people of

  Ar, and elsewhere, if they wished, to vent their displeasure upon the stone,

  insulting it, spitting upon it, and such.

  “The stone,” I said, “is well guarded.”

  We had ascertained that this morning. We had then gone to the Alley of the Slave

  Brothels f Ludmilla, on which street lies the insula of Achiates. I did not

  enter the insula itself, but made an inquiry or two in its vicinity. Those whom

  I had sought there were apparently no longer in residence. I did not make my

  inquiries of obvious loungers in its vicinity. I went back., with Marcus and

  Phoebe, later in the afternoon. The loungers were still in evidence. I had

  assumed then they had been posted. There was a street peddler nearby, too,

  sitting behind a (pg. 25) blanket on which trinkets were spread. I did not know

  if he had been posted there or not. It did not much matter. Normally in such

  arrangements there are at least two individuals. In this way one can report to

  superiors while the other keeps his vigil. As far as I knew, no one knew that I

  was in the vicinity of Ar. I did know I could be recognized by certain

  individuals. The last time I had come to Ar, before this time, I had come with

  dispatches to Gnieus Lelius, the regent, from Dietrich of Tarnburg, from

  Torcadino. I had later carried a spurious message which had nearly cost me my

  life to Ar’s Station, to be delivered to its commanding officer at the time,

  Aemilianus, of the same city. I had little doubt that I had inadvertently become

  identified as a danger to, and an enemy of, the party of treason in Ar. I did

  not know if the regent, Gnieus Lelius, were of this party or not. I rather

  suspected not. I was certain, however, from information I had obtained at

  Holmesk, at the winter camp of Ar, that the high general in the city, Seremides,

  of Tyros, was involved. Also, secret documents earlier obtained in Brundisium,

  and deciphered, gave at least one other name, that of a female, one called

  Talena, formerly the daughter, until disowned, of Marlenus of Ar. Her fortunes

  were said to be on the rise in the city.

  “I am well aware,” said Marcus, “that the stone is well guarded.”

  “Then abandon your mad project,” I said to him.

  “No,” said he.

  “You can never obtain the stone,” I said.

  “Have you come to Ar for a reason less likely of fruition?” he asked.

  I was silent.

  The girl did not understand our conversation as we had not spoken before her of

  these things. She was a mere slave and thus appropriately kept in ignorance. Let

  them please and serve. That is enough for them.

  “Well?” smiled Marcus.

  I did not respond to him. I thought of a woman, one now high in Ar, one for whom

  I had once mistakenly cared, a vain, proud woman who had once, thinking me

  helpless and crippled, mocked and scorned me. I though of her, and chains. It

  would be impossible to obtain her, of course. Yet, if somehow, in spite of all,

  I should obtain her it was not even my intention to keep her but rather, as a

  gesture, merely dispose of her, giving her away or selling her off as the least

  of slaves.

  “I see,” said Marcus.

  “Master?” asked Phoebe, turning before Marcus.

  “Yes,” he said, “you are very pretty.â�
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  “Thank you, Master,” she said, “for giving me a garment.”

  (pg. 26) “For permitting you to wear one,” Marcus corrected her.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “For at least a moment or two,” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she laughed.

  “You have an exquisitely beautiful slave, Marcus,” I said.

  Phoebe looked at me, gratefully, flushed.

  Marcus made an angry noise, and clenched his fists. I saw that he feared he

  might come to care for her.

  He whipped the cord, some five feet in length, from his shoulder.

  Phoebe approached him and held her wrists, crossed, before her. “Am I to be

  bound, Master?” she asked. In extending their limbs so readily, so delicately,

  for binding, slaves express and demonstrate, their submission.

  “Do you like the garment?” he asked.

  “Whose use I may have, if only for a moment,” she smiled. “Yes, Master. Oh yes,

  my Master!”

  “Are you grateful?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “A slave is grateful, so very grateful.”

  “It is not much,” he said.

  “It is a treasure,” she said. I smiled. To her, I supposed, a slave, such a tiny

  thing, little more than a brief rag, would indeed be a treasure.

  “You understand, of course,” he said, “that its use may be as easily taken from

  you as given to you.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you wish to retain its use?” he asked.

  “Of course, Master,” she said.

  “You now have an additional motivation for striving to please,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she smiled. The control of a girl’s clothing, and many other

  things, such as her diet, chaining, name, whether or not her head is to be

  shaved, and so on, are all within the purview of the master. His power over the

  slave is unqualified and absolute. Phoebe, of course, was muchly in love with

  Marcus, and he, in spite of himself, with her. On the other hand, even if she

  had been, as he sometimes seemed to want her, the hating slave of a hating

  master, she would still have had to strive with all her power to please him, and

  in all things, and with perfection. It is such to be a Gorean slave girl.

  “Do you think me weak?” he asked.