“She probably does not yet have a private master,” I said. How frightful, I thought, to be on a common chain, uncared for, uncaressed.
“She is probably stupid,” said Kurik. “It takes a stupid girl longer to learn her collar, as they are slower to learn anything.”
“I do not think she is stupid,” I said. I suspected it took longer for some women, particularly Gorean free women, with their pompous, exaggerated self-image, their ponderous, inculcated sense of self-importance, to realize that there was now a collar on their neck. The whip, of course, makes such lessons much easier.
“A woman may maintain for weeks the delusion that she is somehow free,” said Kurik. “Then one night she goes to sleep, thinking she is somehow free, and, in the morning, awakens, knowing that she is truly a slave.”
“If they would only listen to their blood, their heart,” I said.
“There are layers of lies,” said Kurik. “Much must, in some cases, be broken through, gross husks to be peeled away, one after another, until the true woman, soft, vulnerable, open, needful, ready, hoping, is revealed.”
“I am grateful for my warm, flavored gruel,” I said. “I am grateful to have been permitted a spoon. I am pleased that my master has brought me here, that he has let me kneel so close to him.”
Indeed, he could have reached out and touched me.
“Keep your knees spread a bit,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
Perhaps this was a subtle thing, but it helped to remind me that I was not only a slave, but a particular sort of slave, a pleasure slave. What girl does not wish to be her master’s pleasure slave? How this position reassures a girl of her master’s interest; and how she must tremble when he allows her a laxity in such matters. Must he not then be thinking of ridding himself of her? Must he not then be thinking of giving her to someone, or taking her to a girl exchange or market?
“Would you like a honey cake, and a small vessel of ruby ka-la-na?” he asked.
“It will be as Master pleases,” I said.
There was a snap of a whip from the kitchen, and a cry of pain.
“Master?” I said.
“I suspect a waitress has been encouraged to be more attentive to guests,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
A moment later our waitress reappeared, tears on her cheeks, her hair half obscuring her countenance, and knelt at our table, inquiring if we might desire aught else.
“You are learning deference,” said Kurik.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He then specified some items, with which we might conclude our pleasant, but modest repast.
“Such waitresses,” said Kurik, “other than those to whom you were accustomed on your former world, do not expect tips. They hope, rather, not to be beaten.”
I was silent.
Later, we left the restaurant, and were walking back, to our rental. It was about the eighteenth Ahn. I was not leashed.
“Would you like to walk beside me?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. “It is the place of a slave to heel her master, or, if he wishes to display her, as on a promenade, to precede him, leashed.”
“Would you like to be so displayed?” he asked.
“I am not a display slave,” I said. I thought of Paula, of course. She had been purchased in the Curulean, to be a display slave. Only on Gor had I come to realize how beautiful Paula was, with her high intelligence, her passion, her profound slave needs. “I am better behind you,” I said, “in heeling position.”
“You are not a bad looking slave,” he said.
I could still relish the taste of the tiny honey cake, and the sips of ka-la-na I had been allowed. When one is a slave, small things can be important, and precious, to one. I suspected that a slave might value such things, small things, a pastry, a candy, a bit of honey cake, more than a well-to-do free woman, particularly of a high caste, might the expensive delicacies and sumptuous fare that were at her disposal, and to which she might be accustomed.
“Master has seen to my figure, and my posture and carriage,” I said.
Indeed, a slave is expected to appear as, and walk as, a slave. It is no wonder free women so hate us. They do not dare present themselves as a slave must, or be punished, a way in which we soon revel, as women. We learn grace, and deference, and our diction is to be soft, clear, and modest, suitable for slaves.
It had been a cheap ka-la-na, as ka-la-nas go, but even so the taste and bouquet had been exquisite, surely as good, or better, than any wine I had known on my former world, at least before my acquisition. I had had a similar experience, startling me, in the holding of the slavers, before I had been shipped as stock, as cargo, to Gor.
A slave, apparently bent on an errand, hurried past, but turned, to look after my master. “Keep your eyes to yourself!” I hissed at her. “That will be enough of that,” said my master, and then I cried out in pain, for my master had put his hand in my hair, and I was bent back, helplessly, in the position of the slave bow, which position well accentuates a slave’s figure. It is often used in auction houses and on slave shelves. The slave laughed merrily, and spun about, hurrying on.
“Excellent,” said a passing fellow, regarding me, helpless, in the slave bow. “I will give you a quarter of a tarsk-bit for her.”
Kurik laughed and put me in leading position, his hand in my hair, my head held closely at his hip. One is not only helpless in this position, but it is awkward, and humiliating. In it, one is well reminded one is a slave. “She looked at you, she looked at you!” I said.
“And so men look at you,” he said.
“I am a slave,” I said. “I am collared. I am meant to be looked at, assessed, and appraised!”
“I am pleased that men look at you,” he said, “and envy me a hot, squirming, helpless, begging, little beast at my slave ring.”
“But she looked at you,” I said, my head at his hip, “you, my master!”
“I do not mind,” said Kurik. “A fellow is flattered. Why should he not be? Just as a man may look at a woman and wonder what she might look like at his slave ring, so, too, a woman may look at a man, and wonder what it would be, to be at his slave ring.”
“May I be released?” I asked.
“Will it be necessary to leash you?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Very well,” he said.
He then released me, and we continued on, toward our rental, I heeling him.
“Surely I am worth more than a quarter of a tarsk-bit,” I said.
In fact, as far as I knew, there was no such coin. To be sure, there is a welter of currencies on Gor. Much depends on the city. I would later learn that the phrase most often functions as a figure of speech. In many markets, scales are used, particularly if gold or silver figures in the transaction. Coins can be debased, shaved, or such. Scales are particularly important if, say, a silver buckle, or a scrap cut from a gold vessel, should be in question.
“Possibly,” he said.
“Master!” I exclaimed.
“That was a joke, a joke,” he said, not looking back.
“A master’s joke,” I said.
“Surely,” he said.
“I did not find it amusing,” I said.
“I thought it clever,” he said.
We continued on for some Ehn.
Many lamps were in doorways. We were once passed by a palanquin, preceded by a torch bearer.
“Master,” I said, “that dangling cage!”
It had not been there when we had approached the restaurant, earlier in the evening.
It was a small slave cage that hung on a chain from a projecting beam. This beam extended, fixed in braces, from a window in the third story of the insula we were passing. The window had two lamps. These were fixed in the outer wall, one
on each side. The wall was a pale yellow, in the twin pools of lamp light. In daylight it would have been a bright yellow. It is common for Goreans to enhance their surroundings with color, the exteriors of buildings, the interiors of rooms. In the cage was a camisked female slave. In many cities, camisks are not allowed on the streets during the daylight Ahn, as a concession to the sensibilities of free women. Some regard the camisk as more provocative than nudity. To be sure, such things, given rulings in councils, shifts in mores, and such, change from time to time. I refer, of course, in these remarks, to the common camisk, not the Turian camisk, which, however revealing, is generally considered less objectionable, more restrained, or refined.
The camisked girl in the cage, kneeling, holding to the bars, looked down at us, and called down to us. “Handsome Master,” she called. “This is the exchange house of —. I bid you enter!”
“Let us hurry on,” I suggested.
“Are you on the Exchange Wheel?” called my master.
“I can be placed on it,” she called down. “Inquire within.”
“It is late, Master,” I said. “Perhaps we should best continue on.”
He turned about, laughed, and shook my head, roughly, his large hand in my hair. “Very well,” said he, to my relief.
An “Exchange House” is much what the name suggests. In it slaves may be exchanged. I suppose it is a market of sorts as, in it, one may use one slave to, so to speak, buy another. Slaves are the primary currency, rather than coins. Sometimes, however, an exchange is not an even exchange, slave for slave, or two slaves for one slave, or such, but a certain amount of money may also be involved. For example, a slave, say, A, might be exchanged for a slave B, but only if, say, A’s owner or B’s owner adds in, say, a number of copper tarsks. One slave might go then for, say, another slave, and twenty copper tarsks. The owner of the establishment often involves himself, to his profit, in some speculative trading, but, for the most part, he earns his living by, first, charging for access to the premises, and, second, receiving a small honorarium for every slave placed on the wheel.
We prepared to proceed when the door to the exchange house swung open, and two fellows emerged. During the moment the door was ajar, I saw lamps within, and some men milling about. Two held goblets, probably of paga. There was also a screen. I heard some music, a czehar, tabor, and flute. I could not see the musicians. They and, I supposed, the wheel, were behind the screen.
We paused, viewed. I tried to stand well, my head down.
“Are you taking her inside?” asked one of the fellows of my master.
“Not tonight,” he said.
“I do not blame you,” said the second fellow, who had accompanied the first from the house. “You would do better with her in an auction house.”
“What do you think she would bring?” asked my master.
“Two silver tarsks,” said the first fellow.
I was somewhat annoyed that there seemed to be general agreement, or nearly general agreement, amongst masters as to what I might bring off the block. Doubtless subjectivities were involved, but the relative uniformity of these subjectivities was annoying, extremely annoying. Could a master simply look at me, and see me as a “two-tarsk” girl? Is that what I was, a “two-tarsk” girl? To be sure, many girls did not go for as much as two tarsks. Two tarsks was not a bad price, I had been given to understand, for a girl.
“I would say,” said the other, “four silver tarsks.”
I trembled. I almost lifted my head. “That is more like it,” I thought to myself. “Let Kurik of Victoria hear that!”
“I wish you well,” said Kurik of Victoria.
“And we, you,” said the first fellow, and then they took their leave, moving in the direction from which we had come.
As we continued on, toward our rental, I, though I had a standing permission to speak, explicitly requested this permission. I thought that that would add some point to what I had to say.
“No,” said Kurik.
“Master!” I protested.
“Very well,” he said, affably enough.
“—Four silver tarsks,” I said. “Four silver tarsks.”
“Possibly,” he said.
“Master!” I said, startled.
“Yes,” he said.
“Would you pay so much?” I asked.
“I would be a fool to do so,” he said.
“But would you do so?” I asked.
“Are you asking me if I am a fool?” he asked.
“My master is not a fool,” I said. Of that I was sure.
“I might,” he said.
I went instantly to my knees, and pressed my head, gratefully, against his thigh.
“If you are worth four,” he said, “I might be able to get five for you.”
“Oh,” I said, removing my head from his thigh.
At that point we heard two men approaching, moving rapidly, a sound of bootlike sandals, a jangle of accoutrements, of weapons and chains.
“Up,” said my master, looking back, toward the sound.
I rose, standing rather behind him.
The men stopped, some yards off. One held a lamp. I saw they were guardsmen. “Hold,” called one of them, he with the lamp.
We remained where we were.
I knelt.
Then they were with us.
“May I see your slave?” said one of the guardsmen.
“Surely,” said Kurik. “Stand, Phyllis, lift your head, hold your right wrist behind you, with your left hand.”
I closed my eyes, against the glow of the lamp.
“What does this collar read?” asked the guardsman with the lamp.
“‘I am the property of Tenrik of Siba’,” said my master. We had not changed the collar.
“Forgive me,” said the guardsman.
I gathered that I might now kneel, and so did so. A slave seldom remains standing in the presence of free persons. I looked up at the guardsmen, subtly, furtively, that I might the better comprehend their intent and attitude. It well behooves a slave to be aware of such things, moods, temperament, dispositions, and such, in free persons. That can be important when one is a slave. When one of the guardsmen glanced down at me, I lowered my head, quickly, humbly. It can be dangerous to meet the eyes of a free person. Some free persons regard that as an audacity or insolence. It can bring a lashing.
“I gather that a slave is missing,” said Kurik.
“From the restaurant of —,” said the guardsman, “a brunette.”
That was the very restaurant at which we had just dined.
The guardsmen then proceeded on their way.
I was very much afraid.
“You may rise, Phyllis,” said my master.
I regained my feet.
“To run, what a fool,” said my master.
“Be kind, Master,” I said. “She was probably frightened. Perhaps she could not help herself. Perhaps she thought it possible to escape.”
“You have never run, have you?” asked Kurik.
“No, Master,” I said. “I know that I am a slave, and that escape is impossible for me. Too, I do not want to run.”
“Why not?” he asked.
“I do not wish to be hamstrung,” I said. “I do not want my feet to be cut off. I do not want to be fed to sleen. I do not want to be thrown naked to eels, or leech plants.”
“Is there no other reason?” he asked.
“Please do not make a helpless girl speak,” I said.
“Speak,” he said.
“I am not only a slave, but I want to be a slave,” I said. “I want to be in a collar and chains. I want to have no choice but to submit and obey, to love and serve my master.”
We were later passing the entrance to an alley, one of several off the street, when we heard a small sound
, to our left, coming from the alley.
Kurik turned to the alley, abruptly.
“Come out,” he called, “with your hands clasped behind the back of your head, and kneel before me.”
We waited.
“There is no one there,” I said, “or it is an urt, fishing in a garbage can.”
“I have no doubt that it is an urt, fishing in a garbage can, doubtless half starved,” said Kurik, “but it is a foolish urt who will make a sound within the hearing of a free person.”
The alley was quiet.
“You are discovered,” called Kurik. “There is no escape for you. Come out.”
Again there was only silence, and darkness.
“Where will you go in the light of day?” called Kurik.
I thought I heard a sob from the darkness.
“Guardsmen are about,” called Kurik. “Would you prefer to fall into the hands of guardsmen?”
Then, emerging from the darkness, there came a small figure, approaching us, its hands clasped behind the back of its head. It knelt before Kurik, keeping its hands clasped behind its head.
“Master,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
It was the waitress from the restaurant of —.
Kurik then took her by the hair and put her to her belly, and then, with binding fiber from his wallet, he bound her wrists behind her back, and then he crossed her ankles, and lashed them together, as well. Then he turned her to her side, before us.
“There she is, the fool,” he said. “Now you may have your vengeance on her.”
“I do not want vengeance on her,” I said.
“She was once a free woman,” said Kurik.
“So, too, legally, was I,” I said.
“She scorned you,” he said.
“What will be done with her?” I asked.
“As she is not a privately owned slave,” he said, “and she means little or nothing to anyone, I would suppose an example would be made of her, perhaps casting her to sleen.”
The slave sobbed, and squirmed, helpless at our feet, tied by a Gorean male.
“Surely not,” I said.
“I will cut her tunic away,” he said, preparing to reach down and grasp the tiny garment.
Plunder of Gor Page 79