Rebels of Gor

by John Norman

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Miss Margaret Wentworth,” I said, “petty, shallow, greedy for money, accepted a commission on Gor, into which, as it was expected to pay well, she did not care to inquire too closely.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “Widen your knees, slave,” I said. “Enough. And to abet your endeavors you brought with you a weak, confused, hesitant, foolishly enamored Earth male, one commonly belittled and disparaged, disdained and derided, whose name was Gregory White.”

  “That is so,” she said.

  “You enjoyed humiliating and dominating him,” I said.

  “He is a weakling,” she said.

  “This Gregory White, in Tarncamp,” I said, “did much heavy manual labor, grew lean and powerful, became different, learned weapons, learned the sword and the saddle of the tarn. He has fought. He is an officer in the tarn cavalry in the forces of Lord Temmu, respected, trusted, and relied upon.”

  “He is an Earth male,” she said. “I despise him.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Outside the tharlarion stable, in Tarncamp,” she said, “before I was delivered by Ashigaru to the quarters of Lord Nishida, his weakness and pusillanimity, his reluctance to be true to, and satisfy, his masculinity, were sufficiently evident.”

  “I do not remember the incident in precisely the same fashion,” I said.

  “He is not Gorean,” she said. “I scorn him.”

  “You were hoping to be his slave,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “no!”

  “He found you disgusting, and worthless, and he left you,” I said.

  “Surely not!” she cried.

  “He found you lacking, even as a slave,” I said. “You were repudiated, put aside.”

  “He loved me, he wanted me, he would have done anything for me!” she cried.

  “Perhaps Gregory White,” I said, “perhaps once. He is now Pertinax, a warrior. Are you worthy to be the slave of a warrior?”

  “He is weak,” she said. “I can rule him. Even as a slave, I could rule him. I know this. It is true. With a smile, a pout, a glance, a trembling lip, a quavering word, a tear, I could return him to the feeble ineptitude of an Earth male. He is trapped in the toils of convention, a prisoner of the plans of others; he is not his own man but a creation of cultural conditioning, a conditioning founded on alienating a male from manhood. He is too weak to break even the paper fetters of propriety. There is more manhood in a shuddering urt.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “May I speak?” she asked.

  “Does Saru wish to speak?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said, “Saru wishes to speak.”

  “Saru may speak,” I said.

  “How is it,” she asked, “that Master is in the palace of General Yamada?”

  “It seems,” I said, “at the request of the general.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “That is acceptable,” I said. “Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.”

  “Please,” she said.

  The less a slave girl knows the less she can betray, deliberately or inadvertently.

  I had been very impressed with General Yamada, much as one might be impressed when one has entered a cave and, turning about, finds that one is now under the scrutiny of a charming, watchful larl crouched at the entrance. Lord Yamada was clearly a great leader, a superb tactician, and an astute strategist. It was not surprising to me that victory was no stranger to his warriors and Ashigaru. Had it not been for the intervention of Priest-Kings or Kurii, or both, I think the remnants of Lord Temmu’s land forces would have perished on a beach long ago, rather than appearing, seemingly unaccountably, in the vicinity of Brundisium on continental Gor. Had Lord Temmu not had the mighty, nigh-impregnable holding of the house of Temmu at his disposal I suspected that this war would have been concluded long ago, and not to his advantage. Lord Yamada was a pleasant man but he could also nail enemies to the decks of ships and mount heads on posts for pasangs along a road. He was a persistent and efficient fellow, and one of enterprise and calculation. He was also one of singular will, of unswerving resolve, and vaulting ambition. He understood not only the business of marches and sieges, but the politics of logistics and supply. He also maintained, apparently, a network of informers and spies. It had often been suspected that he was as well apprised of the appointments, plans, and secrets of the house of Temmu as those of his own. Personally he was attentive, courteous, and genial. Physically he was large, but bore himself with the poise and grace I had come to expect in Pani of position and family. His features were strong, his eyes keen. It was said he sometimes attended to his own executions.

  “Please,” she said, again.

  “You are kajira,” I reminded her.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  The plot of Lord Yamada had now become reasonably clear. Lord Temmu, as many in the islands, particularly in times of doubt and uncertainty, would consult the supposed deliverances of severally scattered bones and shells. This form of inquiry was taken seriously by many. Certainly it was culturally sanctioned and familiar. For the successful pursuit of this matter, of course, one required the services of a skilled reader. Thus, somehow Daichi, presumably a reader of some reputation, and a secret creature of Lord Yamada, had been placed in the house of Temmu. Once ensconced, it would be a simple matter for his readings, thanks to forewarnings, collusions, and arrangements issuing from the house of Yamada, to appear alarmingly accurate. With advanced intelligence it would not be difficult to pave the road to impressive prophecy. Thus, given the legerdemain of ambiguity and obscurity, abetted by occasional, reassuring nuggets of augured gold, it would be possible to convince a gullible patron to pursue courses of action which were less to his advantage than to that of another, in this case, Lord Yamada. I was confident that Daichi, like similar practitioners of kindred arts, might, with the usual amalgam of pretentious pronouncements, awesome gravity, and ponderous theatricality, influence the thinking and action of any client so luckless as to have fallen under his spell. Those who permit strings to be attached to their limbs must expect to be moved by the puppeteer. One would need, of course, some sort of communication between the two houses, which would be easily enough supplied before the siege in virtue of strangers, wanderers, peddlers, merchants, and such, and, during the siege, by envoys, negotiators, messengers, and such, for example, Tyrtaios. And Sumomo’s role, I anticipated, was largely that of communicating Daichi’s information, available from Lord Temmu, to the enemy, by so simple a contrivance as casting missives over the parapet, to be retrieved below. Similarly, as a contract woman whose contract was held by so high-ranking an official as a daimyo, in this case Lord Nishida, she would have, for most practical purposes, most of the time, a complete liberty of movement within the holding. Certainly she would have no difficulty in receiving information from Daichi, nor, generally, any difficulty in communicating independently with the enemy below.

  “Why has Master sent for me?” she asked.

  “That seems an unusual question for a female slave,” I said.

  “Forgive me,” she said.

  “To be sure,” I said, “as I understand it, you went for only a fukuro of rice.”

  “Did any go for more?” she asked.

  “I gather, some,” I said.

  “Oh?” she said.

  “But few,” I said.

  “The men of the holding were starving,” she said. “In another week we might have been bartered for a handful of rice.”

  “Some went for two fukuros,” I said.

  “I regret that I am so displeasing a slave,” she said.

  “Most went for one fukuro,” I said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “I would suppose that Jane went for but one fukuro,” I said.

  “Who is Jane?” she asked, warily.

  “It is not important,” I said.

  “Please,” she said. />
  “She was the slave of a warrior, Pertinax,” I said.

  “Surely not!” she said.

  “Surely so,” I said.

  “He has a slave?” she said.

  “Had,” I said.

  “How is that?” she said.

  “I bought her for him,” I said.

  “Master is generous,” she said, angrily.

  “You are angry?” I asked.

  “Of course not,” she said, in fury, tears springing to her eyes.

  “Good,” I said.

  “He is a fool of Earth,” she said. “He would not know what to do with a slave.”

  “His Jane,” I said, “after some instruction, and not much, was left in little doubt that she was in a collar.”

  “It is a barbarian name,” she said.

  “As ‘Margaret’, or such,” I said.

  “I hate her,” she said, pulling at her bound wrists.

  “You are in the presence of a free man,” I said. “Remain on your knees.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I thought you might,” I said.

  “Of course it is nothing to me,” she said, quickly.

  “I understand,” I said.

  “She is of Earth, of course,” she said.

  “It is not unusual for the women of Earth to be in bondage,” I said, “historically, currently, publicly, privately.”

  “And for those brought to Gor,” she said.

  “Most, I would suppose,” I said, “immediately, or eventually.”

  “‘Eventually’?” she said.

  “Certainly,” I said, “once her business is done, her specific task completed, it is natural to suppose that she should remain of some value.”

  “Block value,” she said.

  “Precisely,” I said.

  “As in my case,” she said.

  “As slavers see it,” I said, “you were a slave from the moment your name was entered on an acquisition list.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Branding and collaring,” I said, “would then be rather in the nature of accompanying details, confirming the matter.”

  “I see,” she said.

  “Such things, identifications in their way, are in accord with Merchant Law,” I said.

  “Tell me more of this ‘Jane’,” she said.

  “There is little to tell of a slave,” I said, “other than that she is a slave.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “Are you jealous?” I said.

  “Certainly not!” she said.

  “Then it does not matter,” I said.

  “Please, Master,” she said, “please!”

  “There is little to tell,” I said, “other than the fact that she is a lovely slave, an intelligent, shapely brunette, nicely curved, the sort a man likes to sleep at his feet.”

  “I take it that she is, as am I, a barbarian.”

  “Not at all,” I said. “She is Gorean, once the Lady Portia Lia Serisia, of Sun Gate Towers, a scion of the Serisii, a banking family once of considerable repute and power in Ar.”

  “‘Once’?” she said.

  “It no longer exists,” I said. “It put gold before the Home Stone.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “There was a war, an invasion, an occupation,” I said. “Collaboration took place. Assets and skills were turned to profiteering. Then came the restoration of Marlenus, Ubar of Ubars. Law returned, in the form of the red sword. Proscription lists were posted. Impaling poles were weighted. Buildings were burned. Even blackened bricks were carted away and cast into the great swamp. Goreans have long memories.”

  “Why is she named ‘Jane’?” she asked.

  “Perhaps,” I said, “that she may now know herself as no more than a barbarian, no more than another worthless slave.”

  “Such as I?” she said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “And Gregory—.”

  “Pertinax,” I said.

  “—owns her?” she said.

  “Like a tarsk,” I said.

  “I suppose that is acceptable,” she said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “She is Gorean,” she said.

  I laughed. “I think it is clear,” I said, “that you understand little of these things. You know nothing of Gorean free women. You have never trembled before one. You have never prostrated yourself before one, hoping not to be lashed. You are less valued than the dust beneath the sandals of such a one. She is a thousand times above you, you, a mere slave. Indeed, you are different forms of being, which may not even be compared. You would learn to beg, even to be permitted to kiss the hem of her robe on your belly. The Gorean free woman is exalted, proud, noble, and powerful. She possesses a Home Stone.”

  “They are not the only free women!” she said.

  “Oh?” I said.

  “I was a free woman!” she said.

  “You had no Home Stone,” I said.

  “I was free!” she said.

  “At best a yet-uncollared slave,” I said.

  “Is this so different from other women of my former world?” she asked.

  “Not really,” I said.

  “The men of Gor,” she said, “think of us as slaves.”

  “Not just the men of Gor,” I said.

  “The women, as well,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “As slave stock,” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Suitably enslaved,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “Consider your shamelessly bared features, your unconcealed ankles, your small wrists and slender hands, exposed to public view, the nature of your skirts, sometimes high enough to reveal a calf, or even more, the silken undergarments, the clothing fashionably designed to be provocative, clothing in which you might vend yourself for your own profit. You put yourselves on your own block.”

  “Please do not speak so,” she said.

  “Such things, of course, are convenient,” I said. “They facilitate the inspection and assessment of the slaver.”

  “Doubtless!” she said.

  “But here,” I said, “on this world, the profit on you will be taken by another.”

  “I do not see that we are so different from other women,” she said.

  “I do not think you are,” I said.

  Surely much could be done with the robes of concealment, with their layerings and drapings, their bright colors, so ingeniously arranged, with veils slack or disarranged, even diaphanous, the street veil brazenly neglected, with loose, casual hoods from which strands of hair might escape, as though inadvertently, with gloves, with a sleeve too loose, with embroidered slippers, with a hem lifted to ascend a step or curb, such things.

  “I hate this ‘Jane’,” she said.

  “Of course,” I said. “It was she who was chained at the feet of Pertinax. It was she who wore the chains you wish were yours.”

  “No!” she said. “I hold Gregory in contempt! I revile him! He is a weakling!”

  “You brought him to Gor with you,” I said.

  “A servant, a tool,” she said. “He amused me. I enjoyed manipulating him, as other men. We have power, you know. I needed a male, and what better excuse for a male than Gregory? He was so simple, so hopeful, so eager to please. He could pretend to be master, as I instructed him, he obedient to my tutelage, while it was I who was mistress. I well ensnared him on Earth, with a word, a gesture, a smile, and then, when he was hopelessly mine, devoted, complaisant, and managed, he would accompany me in my work.”

  “You hated him?” I said.

  “Despised him, rather,” she said.

  “As I understand it,” I said, “you had considerable resources at your disposal. Why then did you not enlist another servitor, one stronger, one more independent, one more formidable, more redoubtable?”

  “To accompany me to Gor?” she said. “What if I should find myself
at his feet?”

  “You wanted a typical Earth male,” I said.

  “Of course,” she said.

  “There are deep rivers in human beings,” I said. “I do not think you were aware of these waters, and their currents.”

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “Perhaps you were dimly aware of them in yourself,” I said, “or your body was, and perhaps you, or your body, were dimly aware of them in Gregory White.”

  “Absurd,” she said.

  “When you were serving in the stable at Tarncamp,” I said, “you hoped he would visit you, and succor you.”

  “Perhaps to be kind to me, perhaps to comfort me, perhaps to save me, to free me, to rescue me,” she said, angrily.

  “Perhaps to steal you and flee with you?” I said.

  “Steal me?” she said.

  “Of course. You are a property.”

  “Of course,” she said.

  “And flee with you,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said.

  “You would have been destroyed by guard larls within a pasang of the wands,” I said.

  “Perhaps,” she said, angrily.

  “I do not think that that was all,” I said.

  “What else?” she asked.

  “It was my surmise that you, in your bondage, now well taught you were a slave, hoped to be his slave.”

  “Absurd,” she said. “Never!”

  “Perhaps, on some level,” I said, “even on Earth, you wanted to be his slave.”

  “That is absurd,” she said. “Never! Never!”

  “Then put that aside,” I said. “But perhaps, once you were on Gor, and embonded, you had such hopes.”

  “Of course!” she said.

  “I thought so,” I said.

  “But for what reason?” she asked.

  “Tell me,” I said.

  “I knew him from before,” she said. “We were both from Earth. I could speak to him. We even worked for the same company, though his position was clerical and menial, mine significant and instrumental. We had been brought to Gor together. I knew him well. If he could manage to acquire me, to buy me, or such, then things would be much the same as before. I could rule him, and, though in a collar, be mistress!”

  “You would not have been for sale,” I said. “Lord Nishida would not have sold you. Aside from your mission to encounter me and see that I was conducted to Tarncamp, you were destined, even from Earth, to be a gift for the shogun, Lord Temmu.”