Plunder of Gor

by Norman, John;

  The courses of the meal proceeded apace.

  There were only the two soups, four vegetables, and two meats, roast Vosk gull and seasoned, boiled verr, followed by fruit and nuts.

  The supper was pleasant and genteel, suitable for a quiet evening with friends. Nothing was boisterous or rowdy. The ka-la-nas were sparkling and mild, not the sort of coarse ka-la-nas commonly diluted in the wine crater, to a proportion agreed upon by guests, which only wild young men would be likely to drink unmixed, hailing one another with frightful jokes and bawdy songs, awaiting the arrival of the dancers and musicians, the drummers, the flute and kalika girls.

  We served the ka-la-nas standing, not as I had been instructed in the house of training.

  Toward the nineteenth Ahn, an Ahn before midnight, the free women withdrew to their waiting palanquins. The dinner companion of Lysander was reluctant to depart so soon, but was, eventually, gently, conducted to her palanquin by Faisal, Lysander’s house manager, he who had fetched me this afternoon, for some reason, from the kitchen. Before she disappeared through the portal of the dining chamber, the second of three such chambers, of varying sizes, one of which was smaller, and the other of which was quite large, and might house two hundred guests, at least, she cast us a dark look. I did not understand this. I was pleased she carried no switch. One fears free women.

  “You are a barbarian, are you not?” asked Selena.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said.

  “And stupid,” she said.

  “I do not think so, Mistress,” I said.

  “It is time for paga,” she said.

  “Mistress?” I said.

  “Get your gown off,” she snapped.

  “But then I will be naked,” I protested.

  “It is paga time,” she said, slipping from her own gown.

  “Yes, Mistress,” I said.

  I gathered that men enjoyed being served by naked slaves. I supposed the men of Earth might merely dream of such things, but, I would learn, if free women were not present, it was commonplace on Gor. What man does not wish to be served by a naked slave? Men, fully clothed, found it pleasant to be served by naked women. Along these lines, when a city falls, the women of the enemy, before their embonding, stripped, often serve at the victory feast of the conquerors, even to the extent of being put rudely to the pleasure of the victors late in the feast. Indeed, whereas a slave would think nothing of this, and expect it, and look forward to its pleasures, it does represent an extraordinary humiliation and disgrace for a Gorean free woman. Afterwards they often beg for the collar for after such usage, irremediably reduced, what are they good for, but to be slaves?

  I looked to the side.

  On the table, waiting, near the side of the room, were five paga goblets. Also in evidence was the metal paga vessel, with two handles, from which the goblets might be filled. Paga, unlike ka-la-na, is usually not poured at a table. In paga taverns it is dipped from a vat, the goblet itself sometimes used as the dipper, and brought to the table by a paga girl. The girl, if one wishes, commonly comes with the price of the drink. Sometimes a patron will receive paga from three or four girls, before selecting one, if he is so inclined, for thonging and ordering to an alcove, where she, thonged, will await his pleasure. Sometimes, if the patron wishes, one of the proprietor’s men will take the girl to the alcove and chain her in place.

  “The men will now discuss serious matters,” said our first girl, Selena, “the affairs of the day, trade, crops, jurisprudence, markets, ambitions, intrigues, politics, subjects empty-headed free women would find boring. What do they care for but robes, veils, entertainments, perfumes, and gossip?”

  “But they would speak so openly before us?” I said.

  “Surely,” she said. “We are slaves. Might they not speak as frankly before verr and kaiila?”

  “My dear Phyllis,” said Lysander, Administrator of Market of Semris.

  I froze in terror, and went immediately to my knees, my head to the floor. I had been addressed by the high master himself.

  “‘Yes, Master’,” prompted Selena to me, in a whisper.

  “Yes, Master,” I responded.

  “Stand up, my dear,” said Lysander, kindly, “there, between the tables, in the center.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “I think this is the one,” he said to the fellow in the golden robe, with the many rings on his fingers.

  “Quite possibly,” said he in the golden robe.

  “She is only a work slave,” said Lysander.

  “I gather that,” said the fellow with rings, regarding me.

  “But she is rather pretty for a work slave,” said Lysander.

  I was at that moment very conscious of the collar on my neck, and what it meant.

  “I have seen some pleasure slaves,” said he in the golden robe, “who were not as attractive.”

  “Surely you jest,” said Lysander.

  “Not at all,” said he in the golden robe. “Consider her throat, the softness of her shoulders, her forearms, her ankles.”

  “Her ankles are too slim,” said Lysander.

  “Many men like them so,” said he in the golden robe.

  “And you?” said Lysander, smiling.

  “I do not object,” he said.

  “Phyllis,” said Lysander, “serve Tullius Quintus, our guest, our associate and dear friend, welcome in our midst, though we share no Home Stone.”

  Trembling, fearing I might fall, I made my way to the small paga table. My hands shook.

  “I will pour,” said Selena, apprehensively.

  She then poured golden paga from the metal vessel into one of the goblets. I lifted that goblet, holding it in both hands, as one does. I turned about. Selena was filling the other goblets, which would be borne to the tables.

  I noted, gratefully, she had not filled my goblet to the brim. I was then less likely to lose any of the golden fluid. It would not do, I perhaps faltering, to have any slip over the rim.

  I must be extremely careful.

  I would be extremely careful.

  I had the sense that I was being watched.

  In a moment, from within the rectangle of low, narrow tables, set before the couches, I knelt before Tullius Quintus, he reclining, eyeing me, the table between us.

  “Are you frightened?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Do not be frightened,” he said.

  “No, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.”

  “Serve me,” he said.

  I, head down, pressed the metal goblet into my lower abdomen, feeling it there. I then, not meeting his eyes, touched it to my left breast, and then to my right breast. I then lifted my head and looked at him, over the rim of the goblet. Then, my eyes on him, I kissed the goblet, submissively, as a slave, hoping to please, and then I lowered my head, between my extended arms, and held the goblet to him.

  He took the goblet, sipped the beverage, and placed the goblet on the small table. I knelt before him, my head down.

  I was relieved.

  I had spilled nothing, not a drop.

  To be sure, one is careful, and it is very rarely that anything is spilled, or dropped, or broken.

  As I have indicated, it does not do for a slave to be clumsy.

  I did not think I would be so afraid in the future.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  I did so. He was handsome, and I a slave.

  He lifted his hand, his eyes on me.

  “Master?” I said.

  I watched his hand, uneasily.

  Suddenly it swept to his left, and the goblet slid, and fell, and rolled, and clattered, and paga ran on the table, and fell to the floor.

  I watched this with horror and dismay.

  Selena cried out in misery.
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br />   “See what you have done,” he said.

  “Master!” I said in protest.

  “She is not a serving slave!” said Selena. “She is not one of us! She is not trained! She is not skilled! Please, Masters, do not beat the rest of us, for her fault!”

  “Be quiet,” said Lysander.

  “Did you have something to say?” asked Tullius Quintus of me. “Did you wish to object?”

  “No, Master,” I said.

  “You were clumsy, were you not?” he said.

  “I did not touch the goblet!” I said.

  “Are you accusing a free person of lying?” he asked.

  “No, Master!” I said.

  “You were clumsy, were you not?” he asked.

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

  “Surely you know the penalty for lying,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  “You saw me strike aside the goblet, did you not?” he said.

  “Please be kind to me,” I said. “Tell me what to do, or be. I am trying to be pleasing.”

  “Do you think me cruel?”

  “No, Master!” I said.

  “You are mistaken,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  “Lean more closely,” he said.

  I did so.

  He then struck me across the face, sharply, on the left cheek. It stung. Tears sprang from my eyes.

  “Lean more closely again,” he said.

  I did so, fearing to be again struck.

  “You may now lick and kiss the hand that struck you,” he said.

  I did so, for several moments. I was afraid. I had seldom been so mastered, so dominated. How aware I was then that I was a slave. And I knew, too, I would yield to such a man as the slave I was. I was not a free woman. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to take me in his arms and put me to his pleasure, forcefully, as the frightened, eager, meaningless beast I was.

  “Kneel back,” he said. “Keep your head up.”

  I knelt back on my heels, my head lifted. My back was straight. The palms of my hands were down, on my thighs. My knees were closely together.

  I dared not meet his eyes.

  “Look at me,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You are Phyllis,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “When you were free,” he said, “your name was Phyllis Rodgers.”

  I was startled.

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered. How would he know that? He must have, or have had, access to the records of the masters by whom I was first acquired. What could this mean?

  “But now,” he said, “you are a slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “And simply Phyllis,” he said.

  “If Master pleases,” I said. “I have been named variously, but often ‘Phyllis’. The name is now, of course, a slave name, put on me by the will of masters.”

  “You were acquainted,” he said, “with an extraordinarily intelligent and beautiful young woman on Earth, your former world, whose name was Paula Prentiss?”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “She is now in a collar,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  We both, now, had our collars.

  “You are far inferior to her,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I felt tears in my eyes.

  “This work slave, Phyllis, one of my kitchen slaves, is the one?” asked Lysander.

  “Clearly,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “She is sought?” said Lysander.

  “Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “You know who seeks her?” said Lysander.

  “Of course,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “He of whom you spoke?” asked Lysander.

  “Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “Then,” said Lysander, “I do not think it wise to keep her in my house.”

  “I fear it could be dangerous,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “They do not buy with copper; they do not buy with silver; they do not buy with gold; they buy with steel,” said Lysander.

  “I have heard so,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “And you do not fear to acquire her?” asked Lysander.

  “No,” said Tullius Quintus. “Her trail will vanish here. Who knows whence the wind blows? The leaf is lifted, flutters, and is gone. Footprints are not left on clouds. No sleen can follow the tarn road.”

  “I would be afraid,” said Lysander.

  “I have calculated matters with care,” he said. “I have planned well. She will be nowhere, until I wish it.”

  “She is yours,” said Lysander. “She has never been in my house.”

  Chapter Fifteen

  It was something like the second Ahn, well before dawn.

  After the dinner at which I had served, I was not returned to the kitchen, to my housing chain in the pantry, with the other kitchen slaves. Rather I was conducted to the large, velvet-draped, barred-­windowed guest chamber allotted to Tullius Quintus, in the southern wing of the house of Lysander, Administrator of Market of Semris. I was put to the foot of the couch, and chained there, by the neck, to a slave ring. I must wait, to discover what would be done with me. It is only favored slaves who are permitted on the surface of a couch, and, even then, they will commonly be fastened to a slave ring, usually by the left ankle, the “chaining ankle.” There are few things that better convince a woman of her bondage than being chained. I lay there, waiting, for an Ahn, or better, on the furs, my hands on the chain, close to my neck, run from the collar ring to the slave ring.

  The portal opened, and Tullius Quintus, bearing a shallow tharlarion­­oil lamp, entered, followed by two of Lysander’s men.

  I went to the first obeisance position, kneeling, my head down to the furs, my hands, palms down, at the sides of my head.

  “Position,” said Tullius Quintus.

  As I was not a pleasure slave, I knelt with my knees closely together. I kept my head down, humbly.

  “Head up,” he said.

  I lifted my head, but did not dare to meet his eyes.

  The chain dangled between my breasts. I felt its weight on my collar ring and its links on my body.

  “Bara,” said Tullius Quintus.

  I went to bara.

  I was then bound, hand and foot, my wrists crossed and bound behind me, and my ankles crossed and bound, as well.

  This may be conveniently done, as earlier noted, when one is in bara.

  I was then relieved of the neck chain. And then one of Lysander’s men, in the light of the lamp, above the collar I wore, snapped a new collar about my neck. My former collar, then, that of Lysander of Market of Semris, was removed. There was no moment then when I had not been collared. Both collars were common collars, light, close-­fitting, locked in the back. Nothing about either collar would be likely to be noticed, save that their occupant wore them.

  “I am Tullius Quintus,” said Tullius Quintus. “I am your master.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “Whose slave are you?” he asked.

  “I am the slave of Tullius Quintus,” I said.

  “Of Ar,” he said.

  “Of Ar,” I said. I knew nothing of Ar, save that it was a large city. I did not even know its direction from Market of Semris. I knew very little of Gorean geography. I had no clear idea of the world, or, really, in a sense, where I was, save for some names and vague notions, and few, it seemed, cared to enlighten me.

  “Under whose rod of discipline are you?” he asked.

  “I am under the rod of discipline of Tullius Quintus, of Ar, my master,” I said.

  I was aware of some large leather object being unfol
ded, and shaken out, to the side.

  “May I speak?” I asked.

  “Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

  “Who am I?” I asked.

  “The name ‘Lita’ will do, for the time,” he said.

  “That is a very common slave name,” I said. I had known at least eleven girls in my various slaveries, in the last months, who had borne that name. It is pronounced “Leeta.”

  “Yes,” he said.

  “And it is a Gorean name,” I said, “not a barbarian name.”

  “True,” he said.

  “Then my name will not mark me as a barbarian,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “I cannot read,” I said. “May I know what is on my collar?”

  “Of course,” he said. “It says, ‘I am the slave of Tullius Quintus, of Ar’.”

  “Then my name will not appear on my collar,” I said, “not even the name ‘Lita’?”

  “No,” he said.

  “Master,” I said.

  “You have spoken enough,” he said.

  “Master?” I said.

  A heavy wadding was thrust into my mouth, and fastened in place by four broad leather loops wound tightly about my face, and then tied behind the back of my neck.

  I knew I could utter only the tiniest of sounds, or whimpers, and dared not even do so.

  “Turn her on her back,” said Tullius Quintus.

  I then lay at the feet of masters, naked, bound hand and foot, gagged.

  “She is pretty,” said one of Lysander’s men.

  “She is only a work slave,” said Tullius Quintus.