Slave bracelets have a profound meaning for the Gorean woman. She understands them quite well. When a free woman wears them she feels herself a slave, and begins to have slave feelings. Accordingly they are often used on captive free women, that in their clasp they may begin to ponder their impending fate, and sense in their lovely bellies its meaning, perhaps while the iron is heating. A slave, of course, expects to be placed in them, and submits to them with the acquiescent docility with which she must accept any bond. They, too, of course, can exert their spell upon a property girl, and they tend, as do many other forms of bonds, to prod and kindle the ever-smoldering embers of her slave fires into open flame. Sometimes a slave will crawl to a master on her belly, her hands braceleted behind her, begging to be caressed. Earth-girl slaves, too, quickly learn the meaning of such bracelets, which, like the collar and brand, may come to symbolize the possession, the domination, and the raptures, to which they find themselves subject on this world. More than once I have surprised an Earth-girl slave, front-braceleted, kissing the bracelets which confine her. Shocked at being discovered, in consternation, in confusion and shame, they may pretend inadvertence or innocence, but one then has them kneel, and openly continue such ministrations. This is good for them and helps them to become more open, more honest, about their needs and desires, and about what they most want to be, and how they most want to live, a condition and a way of life which were no more than a lovely, wayward dream on Earth, but became for them, astonishingly, with all its perils, severities, and ecstasies, a reality on Gor.
If a woman desires a master, why should she not admit this? To deny it is to deny herself.
If she wishes to kneel, why should she not kneel?
If she wishes to be caressed, why should she not petition this attention, her lips to his feet?
If a woman wishes to be a humbled, conquered, loving slave, why should she not admit this?
What a woman wants to be is what in her heart she is. To deny it is to deny her heart.
Is the morality and truth of these matters to be found in external proclamations, in alien agendas, scratched by self-promoting, dictatorial vandals on cold sidewalks, scribbled on labyrinths of confining fences by the ignorant and violent, inscribed on the billboards of intolerant, manipulative, self-seeking bigots, or is it to be found rather in the codes of solitary heart?
Let her be herself; what could she better be?
She turned and looked wildly at me.
She jerked at the bracelets.
They were on her well.
“You do not even know my name!” she cried.
My right hand, reflexively, flew up, striking her across the mouth, lashing her head back.
Tenalion’s man, angrily, threw her again to her knees, before me.
She looked up at me, startled, frightened, blood about her mouth.
“You do not have a name,” I told her.
“Yes, Master,” she gasped.
I regarded her, idly. She was attractive, naked, and on her knees, her hands fastened behind her, in slave bracelets.
“Do you not wish to know who I was?” she asked.
“Who were you?” I asked.
“I was the Lady Lydia, she of the High Merchants, she whose wealth was in gems and land, she of the Tabidian Towers!” she said.
“An excellent catch,” smiled Tenalion. “I shall enjoy having her in my pens for a time, the lovely Lady Lydia, before her sale.”
“Lydia,” she said, “of the Tabidian Towers!”
“Does it matter?” I asked.
“No,” she said, crushed. “It does not matter.”
“You are now only a nameless slave,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, head down.
“Take her away,” said Tenalion.
The slave was pulled to her feet. She was roughly turned about. The hand of Tenalion’s man was then in her hair, fastening itself deeply therein. It was like the closed talon of a bird of prey. She, back-braceleted, hair-held, was helpless. She cried out softly, so held, startled, in pain. Then, bent over, her wrists confined behind her in the snug, closely linked slave bracelets, so shortly before put upon her by Tenalion’s man, her head at his hip, stumbling, weeping, she was conducted swiftly from our presence.
“She will be branded shortly,” said Tenalion. “If you wish, a little later, in the afternoon, you might visit her in her pen.”
“You are a kind fellow,” I said.
He shrugged. “It is a weakness of mine,” he said.
28
Tenalion Accords Me the First Slave Taking of a Blonde
“Girl,” I said.
She moved in pain, in the straw. She lifted herself to a half sitting, half kneeling position. There was a sound of chain. “It is you!” she said, softly. The heavy chain was on her neck. “They branded me,” she said. “I am branded.”
“Thigh,” I said.
She, wincing, turned toward me, in the straw. “An excellent brand,” I said. It was the common kajira mark, as I had expected, small, delicate, and beautiful, the cursive Kef, the staff and fronds, lyrically feminine, but unmistakable, a brand marking property, worn by most Gorean female slaves.
She looked at me. How helpless and soft she was, so perfect, now that she was enslaved.
“It is beautiful,” I said, reassuring her.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
“What is your name?” I asked.
“I have not been given a name,” she smiled.
I, too, smiled.
“Do you think I would so soon forget my cuffing?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “I did not think so.”
“The other girl had a name, or thought she did,” she said, “the false girl, that assumed identity, she who the disguised, hiding slave was pretending to be, but that name was taken from her, stripped away like her clothing, leaving behind only the real girl, the depth woman, the basic animal, the slave, she who is deeper than all pretenses, shams, and names. Now that depth woman, that basic animal, the slave, may be named, and will be named, as men please, as they wish, which is wholly fitting, and, it in its way, enforcing their will upon her and calling to her attention her complete subjection to it, whatever it may be, and whether it is capricious or not, is far deeper and more meaningful than what went on with her former name, which was the result of a mere legal convention.”
“I see,” I said.
“So I shall answer promptly to the name given me,” she smiled.
“That would be my recommendation,” I said.
“I hope I am given a good name,” she said.
“You are pretty,” I said. “You will probably be given a pretty name.”
“I hope so,” she said.
“But if you are not pleasing,” I said, “it may be removed from you.”
“I know,” she said.
“Some masters force a girl to serve superbly for months, before being given any name, let alone a lovely one.”
“That is cruel,” she protested.
“You are at the mercy, totally, of anyone who buys you,” I said.
“I know,” she shuddered. The chain on her neck made a small noise. Chains look well on the necks of women.
“Have you received your first taking, after your branding?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
I nodded.
“I am naked, and the straw is soft and warm, Master,” she said.
“You are very beautiful,” I said. So beautiful are slaves!
“My Master, Tenalion, of Ar, has permitted you here,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, looking down at her.
“He has doubtless planned this,” she whispered.
“Are you resistant?” I asked.
“No,” she laughed. “I am not resistant! I am a slave! I shall do my best to be responsive, and pleasing. I wish to be pleasing to my masters.”
“Perhaps you do not wish to be beaten, either,” I said.
�
��True,” she laughed. “I do not wish to be beaten, either.”
I smiled.
“I think Tenalion is kind,” she whispered.
“Do you think he would be slow with the whip, if you were not pleasing?” I asked.
“No,” she smiled. “I do not think he would be slow with the whip.”
“Does your brand hurt?” I asked.
“A little,” she said.
“Prepare to be taken,” I said. I removed my tunic. I looked down at her. She was lovely in the straw, at my feet. “How do you wish to be taken?”
“I am new to my chains,” she said. “Gently, lovingly, please.”
“Very well,” I said, “this first time.”
29
Soldiers
“Hist!” whispered the fellow in the doorway.
“Ho?” I asked.
I saw then that it was small Achiates, he who was the landlord of the insula in which I lodged, which shabby structure now lay only a stone’s throw away, down the Alley of the Slave Brothels of Ludmilla.
I approached him. It was now well past the fourteenth Ahn, late in the afternoon. I had intended to be back somewhat earlier, indeed, rather in the neighborhood of dawn, but I had dallied for a time in the house of Tenalion, or, more specifically, in one of the pens, off one of the labyrinthine corridors, beneath his house. I remembered the heat and softness of her lips and beauty, her readiness and eagerness, and the chain on her. I thought she would make an excellent slave.
“Surely the rent is not due so soon?” I inquired.
“Here, come out of the light,” he said.
I stepped into the doorway with him. He looked about. He then drew back his head.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
“What have you done?” he asked.
“Nothing,” I said. I think it is generally a good rule to protest one’s innocence with vigor.
“Come now!” he said.
“I do not know,” I said. “I have done quite a few things. Have you anything particular in mind? Has the room been damaged?” I feared Hurtha might have been practicing with his ax. Another alarming possibility was that he might have decapitated, either as an honest mistake, or intentionally, another tenant, perhaps one who had been so bold as to object to the declamation of poetry in the halls. Hurtha had the habit of composing orally. Still that would be something he had done, not that I had done.
“No,” said Achiates, nervously.
“See,” I said.
“They are waiting for you,” he said.
I watched a free woman hobble by, carrying a sack of suls on her back.
“Hurtha and Feiqa, the slave?” I asked. I blinked. Perhaps I had not had enough sleep the night before. That was possible, I thought, as I had not had any sleep.
“No!” he said.
“You are thinking of raising the rent?” I asked.
“No!” he said. But I had noted his eyes had glinted for an instant. I should not have said that. It had been the lack of sleep, I gathered. One must be careful how one speaks to landlords. One must be careful not to put ideas into their heads. It is generally better to complain loudly and frequently, keeping the fellow on the defensive, so that the very thought of having the rent raised under such conditions would seem an unthinkable, outrageous affront.
“Who, then?” I asked. I noted a slave passing by in the street, the lower portion of her body in shadows, the upper portion bright in the late afternoon sun. She was shading her eyes. Her collar was close-fitting. Her dark hair fell about it. She was probably on an errand. A coin sack was tied about her neck. Some slaves are not allowed to touch money. Many, on the other hand, on errands, carry coins in their mouth. This, however, is not unusual on Gor, even for free folks. Gorean garments generally lack pockets. She was barefoot. She moved well. In time, I supposed, the former Lady Lydia, whom I had left behind me in one of Tenalion’s pens, one of his newer acquisitions, would be put on the block and sold, and would then, eventually, in one city or other, probably not Ar, find herself only such a girl. Such slaves are not allowed outside the city gates, unless accompanied by a free person. I recalled how the former Lady Lydia had showed me her brand. It had been an excellent one, a lovely one. How pleased she had been that that was the case. I smiled. Slave girls are so vain about their brands.
“Soldiers,” he said.
“What?” I said. I felt suddenly alert. This seemed, suddenly, a serious business.
“Soldiers,” he repeated, looking about himself.
“City guardsmen?” I asked.
“No,” he said, “soldiers.”
“Taurentians?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “Soldiers.”
“What do they want with me?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“Did you ask?” I asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“What did they say?” I asked.
“Nothing,” he said. “They only wanted to know when you would return.”
“What did you tell them?” I asked.
“I told them I did not know,” he said.
“How long have they been there?” I asked.
“Only a little while,” he said. I found that of interest. Planned arrests are normally made at dawn.
“Why are you informing me of this?” I asked.
“You are a tenant,” he said. “Too, you have paid your rent. Too, I do not want any arrests made in my insula. That might be bad for its reputation.”
“Thank you,” I said. I pressed a coin into his hand.
“That is not necessary,” he said, but took it. He was, after all, a businessman.
“You are Tarl of Port Kar?” asked a man.
“Aiii!” moaned Achiates.
“Yes,” I said, “Captain.”
“May I have your sword, please?” he inquired. There were now some fifteen or twenty fellows behind him. There was not much room in the doorway to draw, let alone to wield the weapon. Yet I was not covered by crossbows. Too, none of the men had lowered their spears or drawn their weapons.
“On what grounds?” I asked.
“You are under arrest,” he said.
Achiates moaned.
“You may leave, Citizen,” the fellow informed Achiates. Achiates then, like an urt, spotting an opening between sleen, darted away, hurrying toward the insula.
“Your sword, please,” said the captain. Surely he realized men do not lightly surrender their weapons. Too, clearly he must realize I could force myself from the doorway, and, in an instant, be in the open, the blade free. I wondered if it were his intent to encourage such a movement on my part, in order that this might provide a plausible, legitimizing circumstance for the employment of their own weapons. But I really did not think so. They could always attack, surely now that Achiates was gone, and we were alone, as they wished, and fill out their reports, if necessary, in any way they saw fit. In that way they would have risked very little, if anything. Too, they had permitted Achiates to slip away, in spite of the fact that he must have been engaged in the business of warning me. I did not think he was in league with them. If he were he could simply have let me walk into their midst as I entered the vestibule of the insula. Interestingly enough, I did not think the officer was engaged in making a standard arrest. His generous treatment of Achiates suggested this. Interestingly enough, I did not think he anticipated any resistance.
“Please,” he said.
I handed my blade, in its sheath, the straps wrapped about it, to him.
“Thank you,” he said.
“I do not wish to be bound,” I said.
“That will not be necessary,” he said.
“What is going on here?” asked Hurtha, coming up to us.
“Do not interfere,” I said to Hurtha.
“It appears,” said Hurtha, unshouldering his ax, “that a battle to the death is in order.”
“Who is this?” asked the captain.
“My friend,” I sa
id.
“Greetings,” said the captain to him.
“Greetings,” said Hurtha. Hurtha was a friendly Alar. He was not one of the suspicious, remote, aloof ones. He enjoyed being on good terms with fellows he was preparing to fight to the death.
“Where are we going?” I asked the captain.
“To an arranged place,” he said, “one of secrecy.”
“There?” said Hurtha.
“Yes,” said the captain.
Hurtha, too, I suspected, had not had a great deal of sleep last night.
“And what is to occur there,” I asked, “in this place of secrecy?”
“One awaits you there,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
“An august personage,” he said.
“Who?” I asked.
“His excellency, Gnieus Lelius, regent of Ar,” he said.
“I am coming with you,” said Hurtha.
“He is to come alone,” said the captain.
“Look after Feiqa,” I said to Hurtha.
“Do not think you can rid yourself of a tenacious comrade so easily,” said Hurtha. “I am an Alar.”
“Please,” I said, “do not make things harder for me.”
“I refuse to be left behind,” he said.
“Please,” I said. “This is hard enough. You must try to understand.”
“Consider all we have been through,” he said.
“Hurtha,” I pleaded. I did not wish to weep. I put the two silver tarsks I had received for the blonde in his hand.
“Where did you get these?” he asked.
“I sold something,” I said.
“Was it pretty?” asked Hurtha.
“Yes,” I said, “very pretty.”
“Not Feiqa?” he asked.
“No,” I said.
“But another candidate for the collar, one you came across, somewhere, one for whom the collar is as fitting, perhaps, as for Feiqa?” he asked.
“Yes,” I said. “That is true.”
“Well, farewell,” said Hurtha.
“Farewell?” I said.
“Yes,” said Hurtha.
“Shall we go?” asked the captain.
“Yes,” I said, somewhat irritated.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 53