Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt

by Tribesmen of Gor [lit]

  make maps of it. They know their own country, or their districts within it; they

  are not eager that others know it as well. Without a guide, who knew the

  locations of water, to enter the Tahari would be suicidal. I had offered good

  prices for guides. But none had volunteered. They protested fear of the imminent

  war, the dangers of being on the desert at such a time. I suspected, however,

  that they had been told not to offer me their services. One fellow had agreed,

  but, the next morning, without explanation, he had informed me that his mind was

  changed. It would be too dangerous, in such times, to venture into the desert.

  Sometimes I had seen Hamid, the lieutenant of Shakar, captain of the Aretai,

  following me about. He still suspected, I supposed, that I was a Kavar spy but

  when Ibn Saran had arrived at the oasis, Suleiman had invited me to his

  presence. I wondered if he had been waiting for Ibn Saran. Ibn Saran, it seemed

  to me, exercised more influence at the oasis of Nine Wells than one might have

  expected of a mere merchant of salt. I had seen men withdrawing from the path of

  his kaiila, standing aside, lifting their hands to him.

  Alyena, in dancing, sensed the power of Ibn Saran. It is not difficult for a

  female dancer, lightly clad, displaying her beauty, to detect where among those

  who watch her lies power. I am not sure precisely how this is done. Doubtless,

  to some extent, it has to do with richness of raiment. But even more, I suspect,

  it has to do with the way in which they hold their bodies, their assurance,

  their eyes, as they, as though owning her, observe her. A woman finds herself

  looked upon very differently by a man who has power and one who does not.

  Instinctively, of course, to be looked upon by a man with power thrills a woman.

  They desire, desperately, to please him. This is particularly true of a slave

  girl, whose femaleness is most shamelessly and brazenly bared. Ibn Saran,

  languid, observed the dancer. His face betrayed no emotion. He sipped his hot

  black wine.

  Alyena threw herself to the floor before him, moving to the music. I supposed

  she saw in him her “rich man,” who would guarantee her a life in which she might

  be protected from the labors of the free woman of the Tahari, the pounding of

  grain with the heavy pestle, the weaving of cloth, the churning of milk in skin

  bags, the carrying of water, the herding of animals with sticks in the

  blistering heat. I saw her turn, and twist, and writhe, and move, and, on her

  belly, hold out her hand to him.

  Her lessons, which had been intensive, once we had arrived at the Oasis of Nine

  Wells, had cost little, and had, in my opinion, much increased her value,

  doubling or tripling it. The modest cost of the lessons had been, in my opinion,

  an excellent investment. My property had now increased, considerably, in value.

  But most credit, surely, had to go to the girl herself. With fantastic diligence

  had she applied herself to her lessons, and practices. Even so small a thing as

  the motion of the wrist she had practiced for hours.

  Her teacher was a cafe slave girl, Seleenya, rented from her master; her

  musicians were a flutist, hired early, and, later, a kaska player, to accompany

  him.

  Once I saw her, naked, covered with sweat and bangles, in the sand.

  “Have you had to beat her often?” I asked Seleenya.

  “No,” said the slave girl. “I have never seen a girl so eager,” she said.

  “Play,” said I to the musicians.

  They played, until I, by lifting a finger, silenced them. At the same time, too,

  Alyena froze in the sand, her right hand high, left hand low, at her hip, her

  head bent to the left, eyes intent on the fingers of her left hand, as though

  curious to see if they would dare to touch her thigh; then she broke the pose,

  and threw back her head, breathing deeply. There was sand on her ankles and

  feet; perspiration ran down her body. “Does your girl please you?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said. “And doubtless, too,” I said, “a young nomad would be pleased.”

  She tossed her head, and sniffed. “I have no longer an interest in such as he,”

  said she. She looked down, and bit her lip. “I know, Master,” she said. “You

  will do with me exactly what you please, but I would bring a higher price,

  surely, if I were sold to a rich man.” She knelt in the sand before me, in her

  sweat and bangles; she looked up, blue-eyed. “Please, Master,” she said, “sell

  me to a rich man.”

  I motioned her to her feet. I signaled the musicians. She danced.

  I observed her. I thought it not unlikely this slave might stir the interest of

  a man of means.

  “Perhaps,” I said. I was thinking I might sell her to Suleiman.

  I watched her move.

  “I have never seen a girl take so readily, so swiftly, so naturally to the

  dances of a slave,” said Seleenya.

  “She is a natural slave,” I told Seleenya.

  “In your arms,” said Seleenya, looking up at me, “might not any woman find

  herself a natural slave?”

  “Go to the alcove,” I told her. I was renting her.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered, gathering her silk about her and hurrying to the

  alcove.

  “Continue your practices.” I told Alyena.

  “The fact that I can dance as a slave,” said Alyena, moving before me, “does not

  mean that I am a slave.”

  I smiled, and tumid away from her, going to the alcove.

  “I am not tamed,” cried Alyena. “No man can tame me!”

  I turned. “Kneel,” said I. “Say ‘I am tamed.’ “

  Immediately she knelt. “I am tamed,” she said. She smiled.

  It was the rebellion of compliance.

  “Resume your practices,” I told her.

  The musicians began again, and again the girl danced. It was superb. And it was

  incredible. She did not yet know she was a true slave. What a little fool she

  was.

  I watched her move.

  She smiled at me, disdainfully. I considered her blond hair, now wild about her

  head as, suddenly, she entered into a series of spins. Her gaze focused to the

  last moment on a spot across the room from her, and then, suddenly, on each

  spin, her head snapped about, and she again found the focus. Then she finished

  the spins, and froze, hands over her head, body held high, stomach in, right leg

  flexed and extended, toes only touching the floor. Then she was again in basic

  position. Her white skin, in itself, in the Tahari, would bring a good price.

  Blond hair and blue eyes, too, in this region, made her a rare specimen. But

  beyond these trivialities, though of considerable commercial import, was the

  fact that she was beautiful, both in face and figure. Her figure, though not

  full, was completely female, beautifully proportioned, and sweetly slung.

  She was, in Earth measurements, I would guess, some five feet four inches in

  height. Her face was incredibly delicate, and her lips. Her face was extremely

  sensitive, and feminine. It was a face on which emotion could be easily read.

  Her lip was swift to tremble, her eyes swift to moisten, filling with bright

  tears. Her feelings were easily hurt, a valuable property in a slave girl. Too,

 
she could not control her feelings, another excellent property in a slave girl.

  Her feelings, vulnerable, deep, exploitable, in her expressions and on her face,

  betrayed her, exposing her to men, and their amusement, as helplessly as her

  stripped beauty. They made her more easily controlled, more a slave. I had once

  seen her handwriting. It, too, was extremely feminine. I watched her dance. Too,

  in her belly, perhaps most important of all, burned slave fire. She would do

  quite well. She would bring a high price. Only a rich man, I speculated, would

  be able to afford her.

  It had been a stroke of brilliance, or of fortune, I surmised, to have brought

  the wench south. I had little doubt she would prove valuable.

  “Master!” called Seleenya, the cafe slave girl, the rented girl, softly, from

  the alcove. She stood behind the beaded curtain. She had slipped off her silk.

  “Please, Master!” she wept. I saw through the strings of hanging beads the

  collar on her throat.

  I went to her.

  Behind me, as I thrust apart the beads, I heard the pounding of the drum, the

  kaska, the silence, then the sound, as the flutist, his hands on her body, to

  the sound of the drum, instructed the girl in the line-length and intensity of

  one of the varieties of pre-abandonment pelvic thrusts.

  “Less,” he said. “Less. There must be more control, more precision. You are

  being forced to do this, but you are holding back. You are angry. This must show

  in your face.”

  “Please do not touch me so, Master,” she said.

  “Be silent,” he said to her. “You are slave.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Try again,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. I again heard the drum.

  Seleenya lifted her arms to me, and parted her lips. I touched her.

  “Is it the intention of Master to use me slowly?” she said. “Yes,” I said.

  “Seleenya loves Master,” she said.

  At a languid gesture from Ibn Saran, Alyena lifted herself from the scarlet

  tiles, gracefully turning from her side to her knees, and then, head back, hair

  to the floor, slowly, inch by melodic protesting inch, arms before her body,

  lifted herself to a kneeling position, erect, the last bit of her to rise being

  her head, with a swirl of her blond, loose hair. Then, looking to Ibn Saran,

  suddenly she bent forward, as though impulsively, as though she could not help

  herself, and, hands on the tiles, head down, kissed the tiles at his feet,

  before his slippers. She looked up at him. I gathered she wanted to be bought by

  him. He was her “rich man.” He lifted his finger for her to rise. Her right leg

  thrust forth, brazenly, and then, from her kneeling position, slowly, hands

  above her head, moving, high, she rose swaying to her feet.

  “May I strip your slave?” inquired Ibn Saran.

  “Of course,” I said.

  He nodded to the girl. To the music she unhooked her slave halter of yellow silk

  and, as though contemptuously, discarded it. I saw she was excited to see his

  interest in her. Only too obviously was she interested in him making a purchase

  of her. The churning of milk and the pounding of grain were not for lovely

  Alyena. That was for ugly girls and free women. She was too desirable, too,

  beautiful, to be set to such labors.

  I decided I might care to taste the steaming, black wine. I lifted my finger.

  The girl in whose charge was the silver vessel, filled with black wine, knelt

  beside a tiny brazier, on which it sat, retaining its warmth. Seeing my signal,

  she stiffened; she hesitated. She was white, dark-haired. She wore a high, tight

  vest of red silk, with four hooks; her midriff was bare; she wore the sashed

  chalwar, a sashed, diaphanous trousered garment, full but gathered in, closely,

  at the ankles; she was barefoot; her wrists and ankles were bangled; she was

  veiled; she was collared. She rose swiftly to her feet. She knelt, head down,

  before me. She poured, carefully, the hot, black beverage into the tiny red cup.

  I dismissed her. Beneath her veil I had not been able to read the lettering on

  her collar, which would tell who owned her. I supposed it was Suleiman, since

  she was serving in the palace. The other girl, the white-skinned, red-haired

  girl, also in vest, chalwar and veil, and bangles and collar, lifted her tray of

  spoons and sugars. But I turned away. She was not summoned. The girls,

  white-skinned, were a matched set of slaves, one for the black wine, one for its

  sugars.

  Alyena, now, slowly, disengaged the dancing silk from her hips, yet held it,

  moving it on and about her body, by her hands, taunting the reclining, languid,

  heavy-lidded Ibn Saran, to whom she knew, at his slightest gesture, she must

  bare herself.

  He regarded her veil work; she was skillful; he was a connoisseur of slave

  girls.

  I, too, in my way, though doubtless less skillful than the noble Ibn Saran, was

  a connoisseur of slave girls. For example, the dark-haired slave, she who was

  one of the matched set, she who was charged with the careful pouring of black

  wine, was a piece of delicious woman meat, a luscious, if inadequately

  disciplined piece of female flesh. To see her was to want her.

  I had once had a chance to buy her, but, like a fool, I had not done so,

  carrying her in chains to my ship, to be taken to my house.

  I had later sent Tab, one of my captains, a trusted man, to Lydius to buy her,

  but already had she been sold.

  Her whereabouts had been unknown.

  She had once disobeyed me, a male. For this she must be punished. I had not

  bought her in Lydius. Then I had been seeking Talena, to free her in the

  northern forests, and return her safe to Port Kar, where we might, as I had then

  thought, renew the companionship. Surely would it have seemed inappropriate to

  have returned in triumph with Talena, with that dark-haired wench, such a

  fantastic beauty, nude, wearing my chains, in the hold of my ship. Would Talena

  not have cut her throat, under the metal collar? And had I freed her would she

  not, soon, have fallen again to a man’s collar? Her flight from the Sardar had

  not won her freedom. She, a girl of Earth, had been swiftly caught by Panther

  Girls, and displayed, tied, roped, to a pole, on the banks of the Laurius, hands

  over head, ankles, throat and belly bound to it, a beautiful, taken slave.

  Sarpedon, a tavern keeper from Lydius, had bought her from Panther Girls. It was

  in his chains that I had found her, a lowly paga slave in his establishment. She

  had, in fleeing the Sardar, taken my tarn. Yet, when 1 found her in Lydius, I

  had not slain her for this act. I had only used her, and left her slave. The

  tarn had later returned; in fury I had driven it away. She had cost me the tarn;

  it was worth ten times the cost of her body on a public block. None but its

  master should it have permitted its saddle! Of what value is a tarn of war who

  permits a stranger, even a girl, a mere wench, to ascend to its saddle? I had

  driven it away. When I thought of the tarn I sometimes wanted to lash her beauty

  to the bone. Yet I recalled that once had she labored, as I, before her flight,

  her disobedience, for Priest-King
s. I, in my courtly simplicities, my romantic

  delusions of those times, had wished to return her safe to Earth. She had

  declined, fleeing the Sardar. It had been a brave act. But it had been not

  without its consequences. She had gambled. She had lost. I left her slave.

  At a signal from Ibn Saran, Alyena drew the veil about her body, and around it,

  and, with one small hand, threw it aside. She stood boldly before him, arms

  lifted, head to the side, right leg flexed. The veil, floating, wafted away, a

  dozen feet from her, and gently, ever so gently, settled to the tiles. Then, to

  the new melodic line, she danced.

  Did the girl, in Lydius, truly think I would have freed her, yielding to her

  pleadings, I, in whose veins flowed Gorean blood, whose tarn she had cost him? I

  had not slain her. What a pretty little fool she was! I recalled her pleading

  that I buy her. Only a slave would so plead. I had not realized until then that

  she was truly a slave. I recalled, to my chagrin, that once, long ago, we had

  thought we had cared for one another. I recalled that once, in delirium, in

  weakness, when poison had burned in my body, I had cried out for her to love me.

  But when, long later, after I had learned the lessons of Torvaldsland, I ridded

  myself of the poison in the cleansing delirium of the antidote, I had not cried

  out, in weakness, for her love, begging it, but rather, in strength, laughing,

  had collared her, putting her to my feet and making her my slave. Proud women,

  their pride stripped from them, belong at the feet of prouder men. She had

  begged to be freed. She was a slave. And I, once, had been fool enough to care

  for her.

  Once, it was true, she had served Priest-Kings, but then, so, too, had I, and

  that was long ago. And then we did not know, and she did not know, that she was

  a true slave, as was revealed in a tavern in Lydius. We had thought her a free

  woman, pretending to be slave. Then, in a tavern in Lydius, we had learned her

  slave. It was now out of the question that she, a slave, might serve

  Priest-Kings. The collar, by Gorean law, cancelled the past. When Sarpedon had

  locked his collar on her throat her past as a free woman had vanished, her

  current history as a slave had begun. “She fled the Sardar,” had said Samos to

  me. “She disobeyed. She is untrustworthy. And she knows too much.” He had wished