Renegades of Gor

by Norman, John;

  “I am angry,” said the young man, perhaps more to himself than to me.

  “Why is that?” I asked.

  “There are many things I do not understand,” he said.

  “There are many things which none of us understand,” I said.

  “I am bitter,” he said.

  “Because war is not all nodding plumes and the sun flashing from silvered shields?” I asked, recalling the words of Aemilianus.

  “Perhaps,” he said.

  I looked to the pier. There were still some slave girls there. I now saw three. Two were bare-breasted.

  “Put dark thoughts from you,” I said. “You have come safe to Port Cos. Rejoice. See the city. Come, if you like, and sup with me. Let us see what Port Cos has to offer in the way of enslaved females. She is noted, like Victoria, and certain other towns, for excellent wares in that respect.”

  “I thank you,” said he. “But go on without me.”

  “You are a hero, and a warrior,” I said. “Surely you do not mind squeezing luscious female flesh, branded and collared, in your arms.”

  “Outrage at treachery and blood, and confusion, and hatred, are now in my thoughts,” he said, “not the belled, perfumed bodies of female slaves.”

  “Yes,” said I, “such are pleasant, crawling and licking about your feet and legs, looking up at you, begging to please. Make use of them. Use them for recreation. They are your due.”

  “No,” said he.

  “It is hard to suppose that you would not be pleased to see them dancing before you, in the beads and chains of slaves.”

  “It is on less pleasant things that my thoughts now dwell,” he said.

  “For some,” I said, “you might give your purse, and even draw your sword, to take them from the auction block.”

  “I do not have such feelings now,” he said.

  “Some,” I said, “the curvy little sluts, in their collars, can make you scream with pleasure.”

  He was silent, looking to the east.

  “It is hard to lose ideals,” I said. “But sometimes one can purchase them back, by deeds, in a new form.” I recalled the delta of the Vosk. I recalled Torvaldsland.

  He was silent.

  “I wish you well,” I said.

  “I wish you well,” he said.

  I then went back, amidships, and gathered up a sea bag and a few articles, a shaving knife, and such, which I had purchased on the ship from one or another of the good fellows of Port Cos. Then, my blade over my shoulder, I lifted my hand to the deck officer and took leave of the Tais.

  I had scarcely set foot on the pier when the three girls came quickly forward, and knelt down.

  “Come to the Dina!” said the first. “All our girls are dinas!” She turned her left thigh to me and drew up her tunic, showing me the dina brand. The dina is a small, roselike flower. It is popularly called the “slave flower.” The dina brand, or slave-flower brand, is a common one on Gor.

  “Come to the Veminium!” said the second. The veminium is a delicate, five-petaled blue flower common in both the northern and southern hemispheres of Gor. “We are not so expensive!” The use of the veminium, as a name for the tavern, given the widely spread range of the flower was perhaps supposed to suggest affordable beauty. The second and the third girls were the ones who were bare-breasted.

  “My master’s tavern is the Larma!” said the third.

  I smiled. The larma is luscious. It has a rather hard shell but the shell is brittle and easily broken. Within, the fleshy endocarp, the fruit, is delicious, and very juicy. Sometimes, when a woman is referred to as a “larma,” it is suggested that her hard or frigid exterior conceals a rather different sort of interior, one likely to be quite delicious. Once the shell has been broken through or removed, irrevocably, there is, you see, exposed, soft, vulnerable, juicy and helpless, the interior, in the fruit, the fleshy endocarp, in the woman, the slave.

  “Are all the paga taverns in Port Cos named for flowers or fruits?” I asked.

  “No!” laughed the first.

  “Surely there is a connection,” I said, “through ownership, or tradition?”

  “Many towns have a tavern of dinas, Master,” said the first.

  “That is true,” I granted her.

  “‘Veminium’ is a pretty name,” said the second.

  “True,” I said. “Incidentally, what is the point of the name? Is it to suggest that the girls there, like the veminia, are cheap and pretty?”

  The second girl, she from the Veminium, gasped, suddenly, laughing, putting her hand before her mouth. “I do not know!” she said, looking at the others, scandalized, laughing. “I never thought of it! Perhaps, Master!”

  “And are all the girls there cheap and pretty?” I asked.

  “I think we are pretty,” she laughed. “I do not know if we are so cheap.”

  I smiled. I had wondered if perhaps the name had not been chosen more to lure fellows inward, than to supply an objective assessment of the commercial competitiveness of the contained services and merchandise.

  “There are many paga taverns in Port Cos, Master,” said the first. “Not all are named for flowers or fruits. There is the Cage, the Jewels of Telnus, Artemidorus’ Cargo, the Secret Basement, the Hold, the Scarlet Whip, the Tavern of the Collar of the Two Chains, and many others.”

  “I am pleased to hear it,” I said. “I take it that you are all friends.”

  “Yes, Master,” said the first.

  “The Veminium and the Larma are owned by brothers,” said the first.

  “They are near one another,” said the second.

  I was pleased to hear these things. The girls were friends, which suggested they might be from similar style and level institutions. Certainly girls from high taverns and from low taverns seldom consort with one another. And two of the places were owned by brothers and were near one another. These were connections, at least of some sort.

  “And what of the girls at the Larma?” I asked. “Are they expensive?”

  “We, like those at the Dina and Veminium, are affordable,” she said. “Our uses go much for the standard prices.”

  “Were the girls at the Larma all once ‘larmas’?” I asked.

  “I suppose some, Master,” laughed the third girl.

  “Were you a ‘larma’?” I asked her.

  “No, Master,” she laughed. “I have known that I was a slave since puberty, and I never pretended to be otherwise, perhaps because I feared someone might see through me and beat me.”

  “Of what caste were you?” I asked.

  “Of the Peasants,” she said. “We had too many daughters, too few sons. Two of my older sisters had already been sold into slavery before I was fifteen. One autumn my father’s fields again failed. We were starving. I begged him to sell me. He then beat me, and bound me, and sold me.”

  “You are happy as a slave?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “It is what I am, and want to be. I hope only that someday I may have a private master, a love master, to whom I may be his devoted and obedient love slave.”

  “You long,” I asked, “for a master who is strong, and love?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  She was a pretty young thing. She had very dark hair and very light skin, and, for a girl who had once been of the Peasants, was surprisingly slim. She reminded me a little of Phoebe, from Telnus, whom I had left on the coffle with the remainder of the debtor sluts I had redeemed, and obtained, at the Crooked Tarn, Temione, Amina, Rimice and Liomache.

  “Master!” she said.

  I had put down the sea bag and, crouching before her, lifted back the beads about her body.

  “Are you typical of the girls at the Larma?” I asked her.

  “I think so, Master,” she said.

  “You are, of course, soliciting for your master’s tavern,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “But are you, yourself, rentable?” I asked.
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br />   “Of course, Master,” she said.

  “And what of you others?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” said the dina.

  “Of course, Master,” said the girl from the Veminium.

  “Ho, Warrior,” I said, getting up, addressing the young fellow, Marcus, who had only now descended the gangplank and was going to make his way up the pier, toward the warehouses, the shops, the town.

  He turned to regard us, and I beckoned that he should join us.

  “Line up,” I said to the kneeling slaves. “Straighten your backs, get your knees wider.”

  Then they were indeed presented as an excellent display of slaves.

  The young warrior looked upon them.

  “What do you think of them?” I asked. I thought they would make a nice set.

  “They are appealing,” he said.

  His interest encouraged me. He needed a woman, and the best of such are slaves.

  “Who are you?” I asked the slaves.

  “Roxanne, of the Dina, slave of Simonides, taverner of Port Cos,” said the first.

  “Korinne, of the Veminium, slave of Agathocles, taverner of Port Cos,” said the second.

  “Yakube, of the Larma, slave of Panicrates, taverner of Port Cos,” said the third.

  “That is a Tahari name,” said Marcus, looking at her closely. Indeed, of the three women it was she, the young slave from the Larma, to whom he seemed most drawn, in whom he seemed most interested. She was, I gathered, as I presumed they did not know one another, a type of woman whom he found extremely and excitingly attractive, a sort toward whom he seemed powerfully, perhaps almost irresistibly drawn. I was pleased to see his interest in her, as I hoped that she, or she and another, or she and the others, might distract him from his moody reflections. Slaves are excellent at relaxing a man, and giving him happiness. But something in his tone of voice had been menacing, and chilling.

  “Yes, Master,” said the girl, hesitantly. She was clearly aware of the implicit menace in his tone. Slave girls are extremely sensitive to such things. I could see that she was frightened.

  “But you are not of the Tahari, are you?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said. Her coloring, of course, did not suggest that of a woman native to the Tahari region. Many males of the Tahari, of course, are fond of fair-skinned slaves, and such, shipped south and east, bring excellent prices in their markets. Thereafter they learn to serve their dark masters well, within the recesses of the cool, white buildings of the oases and cities, and out on the desert, in the tents. In such places they learn the wearing of the garments of the Tahari, and, if the master pleases, the stride-measuring ankle chains of the area, worn even by many free women. It is expected, too, that they will quickly become adept in the manifold labors of the Tahari woman, and, in particular, in their cases, those of the Tahari slave woman. In the latter respect, swiftly are the many meanings of the submission mat taught to them, where their slavery in their master’s house or tent begins, but is not likely to end. To it they may be from time to time returned.

  “Why do you have a Tahari name?” he asked.

  “It was given to me, Master,” she said.

  This sort of thing is not all that unusual. For example, last fall, after accepting her as a slave, I had named the former Lady Charlotte of Samnium “Feiqa,” which is a Tahari name. The name, which I had soon determined, had done wonders for her new understanding of herself, and for her sexuality. To be sure, much depends on the woman. Certain names on Gor tend to be used almost exclusively as slave names, such as Dina, Lita, Lana, Tafa, Tela, Tula, and so on. Perhaps because of the commonness and simplicity of such names, as well as their exciting beauty, many girls respond quite well to them. Interestingly, as I have occasionally mentioned, Earth-girl names are usually regarded on Gor as being slave names. If an Earth girl could speak Gorean and find herself on Gor she might be well advised not to tell anyone that her name was, say, “Jane” or “Susan.” She might be stripped and bound within the Ehn. Aemilianus’ lovely blond slave, who was Gorean, was named “Shirley.” Some masters enjoy taking the name which a girl wore as a free name and putting it on her, by their will, as a slave name. That she now wears it as a slave name can be instructive to the girl. That it is the same name, in a sense, too, might, from her point of view, and perhaps that of the master, tie her in with the former free woman, that, say, the former Jane So-and-so is now merely “Jane,” the slave of so-and-so. In general, though, whereas, as I have suggested, much depends on the woman, I think it is usually better to change the woman’s name, that she may now understand that she is in a new reality. This is not unusual. Many masters, in acquiring a slave, will change her name that she may understand that she is now, in effect, beginning her life anew. Indeed, some masters, even with the same girl, and not simply as a matter of discipline or reward, may change her name, to startle her, to impress their will upon her, and, perhaps, to freshen their relationship, she understanding, in effect, that she must now begin anew.

  “It is not to disguise another name?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  He regarded her.

  I did not understand his seeming anger, his seeming suspicion.

  “I have worn many names, Master,” she said. “I am a slave. Men name me, as is fitting for me, as they please.”

  “Are you a bred slave?” he asked.

  “Not in the legal sense of the term, Master,” she said.

  “Speak clearly,” he said.

  “Though I am a natural slave,” she said, “there was a time when I was not a legal slave. I was once, in the eyes of the law, a free woman.”

  “What was your name, when you were free?” he asked.

  She squirmed beneath his gaze, which was like edged steel. I was sure she wished that she might reach up and bring the strands of beads, which I had lifted and thrown back, about her collar, that they might dangle behind her, obscuring the less my vision of her loveliness, back again before her, as though such tiny, colorful objects might protect her to some extent from that imperious scrutiny. But she did not dare to lift her hands from her thighs where, in one of the common positions of the pleasure slave, they now reposed. I had little doubt but what their palms were sweating. She moved her knees a little further apart, presumably in an effort to make clear her desire to be pleasing. How lovely her throat looked in its closely fitting steel collar.

  “‘Prokne’,” she said.

  His eyes blazed.

  She trembled. She knew, of course, from his insignia, that he had come from Ar’s Station.

  His hands went to his belt, and she shrank back. I thought that perhaps he was considering removing it, to lash her.

  “Are you from Cos?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” she said. “The fields of my father were north of White Water!” White Water is called such because of rapids in its vicinity. It is a town on the northern bank of the Vosk. It is a member of the Vosk League. It is the first major town west of Lara, which is located at the confluence of the Vosk and Olni. Lara is the westernmost city in the Salerian Confederation. White Water is east of Ar’s Station. There are three major towns between Ar’s Station and White Water. They are Forest Port, Iskander and Tancred’s Landing, which three towns, like White Water, are members of the Vosk League. Most of the major towns on the Vosk are on the northern bank. This is undoubtedly because of a one-time policy of Ar to maintain a margin of desolation to the north, one stretching to the river, across which it would be difficult for an invader to bring an army. The major route south was then, as it is now, the Viktel Aria, which by means of its camps and posts, Ar then controlled. Thus, supposedly, Ar could move north with ease, but it would be difficult for other forces to move south, unless challenging Ar for the Viktel Aria. The margin of desolation, however, has not been maintained for years. Its military significance declined with the development of large-scale tarn transport, capable of supplying troops in the field. Too, as Ar’s po
pulation increased she began to move northward. Indeed, her interests in the Vosk Basin are well known. In the past few years, particularly under the governance of Marlenus of Ar, the policies of Ar have tended to be expansionistic. Accordingly, it seems clear that in time the strategists of Ar came to view the margin of desolation less as a rampart than a barrier.

  “Such names,” he said, “are not so common east on the river.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “You are a long way from White Water,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  I saw his hands tighten on the belt, near its buckle. This was not lost on the slave, either.

  “You came from the vicinity of White Water?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “With a name like ‘Prokne’?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I wonder if you are lying,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said. “I am not lying! The slave, Yakube, does not lie to a free man! She would not dare to do so!”

  “Perhaps you are indeed from far away,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He looked at her.

  “Men take me where they wish, they do with me as they please,” she said.

  Slave girls, of course, as goods, as exchangeable properties, and so on, are likely to see a great deal more of their world than the average free woman. Many free persons on Gor seldom travel more than a few pasangs from their village or the walls of their city. An important exception to this, as suggested earlier, is the pilgrimage to the Sardar, which every Gorean, male and female, is expected to undertake at least once in his life. The journey, of course, from many points on Gor to the Sardar is, at least in certain parts, dangerous. It is not unknown for a young woman who sets out in the pilgrim’s decorous white to arrive naked, as a chained slave, who will be sold at one of the fairs. Her glimpse of the Sardar is likely to be obtained from the height of a sales platform.