Norman, John - Gor 10 - Tribesmen of Gor.txt
Page 26
she ran me into the desert. “Incredible!” she laughed. Then, laughing, she
kicked the kaiila and I was again hurled from my feet, and wrists manacled
behind me, was dragged, rolling, twisting, behind her. After a quarter of a
pasang she let me regain my feet, then, cantering, I bloody and stumbling, body
shaking, neck burning, vision black at the edges, returned to the head of her
column; I sank to my knees in the dust below her stirrup; “Look up,” said she,
“Slave”; I looked up; “I will make you crawl,” she said; then she said, “On your
feet.” I got up. She seemed startled. She did not think that I could yet stand.
“You are strong,” she said. I felt the tip of her scimitar beneath my chin,
forcing it up. “I enjoy running men at my stirrup,” she said. “You are strong. I
shall enjoy taming you.” Then she turned in the saddle and, with her scimitar,
indicated her distant kasbah. “Onward!” she cried, and the column, with loot and
slaves, made its way toward the high, arched gate of her desert for-tress. To my
interest I noted that this was but one of two kasbahs. Another, even larger, lay
to its cast some two pasangs. I did not know to whom this larger kasbah
belonged.
Soon Tarna, with her men, and loot and slaves, entered the great gate of her
for-tress. She lifted her arms and scimitar, acknowledging the cheering.
“Hurry, Slave,” said the tall, dark-haired girt, bare-armed, in her
ankle-length, flowing white garment. “The mistress will be ready for you soon.”
“Is your mistress pretty?” I asked her. I had not, because of the purple sand
veil worn by Tama, which she had looped loosely about her face, well looked upon
her. What I had seen of her seemed to me not only pretty, but beautiful. I bad
little doubt that she was a proud, striking female. I had not been able, of
course, to well judge, in her mannish garb, and burnoose, the lineaments of her
body. The beauty of a woman can only be judged well when she is naked, as female
slaves are sold.
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,” snapped the dark-haired girl. “Hurry!”
“We have never seen our mistress,” said the other girl, in long garment, who was
in charge of the bath oils.
“Hurry, Slave,” said the first girl, “or we will call the guards, to have you
beaten!” She looked anxiously about. I had little doubt that it might be she who
would be held responsible if I were not ready on time for the pleasure of the
mistress. I saw the other girl laying out a light tunic of red silk, and a
necklace of yellow, rounded beads, which I supposed way for me. “Get out now,”
she said, “and towel yourself!”
I rolled back in the water. I had been well fed. I had slept much since morning.
I felt refreshed, and rested. I had a long kaiila ride before me tonight.
“What,” I asked the girl, “is the fate of the female slaves taken from Red
Rock?”
“Even now,” she said, “under guard, in wagons, they are bound for the markets of
Tor, where they will be sold.”
“Are there, then, few girls kept in the fortress?” I asked.
“Girls are kept, of course, some girls,” she said, “for the men.”
“Where?” I asked.
“On the lower levels of the kasbah,” she said.
“But you are not kept for the men?” I asked.
“Of course not!” she said, angrily.
There were several of Tarna’s males sitting about, in silken tunics, some with
jewelry, curious about Hassan and myself. Some of them were rather sullen. The
mistress had not, this night, chosen one of them for her evening’s pleasure. One
of them, earlier, a fellow in a ruby necklace, had said, “I am more handsome,
surely, than he,” referring to me. I supposed it were true. On the other hand,
Hassan and myself had a certain advantage, I supposed, in freshness and novelty.
I was pleased that I had been selected for the night. I found the kasbah’s
seraglio pleasant, but I did not wish to remain here longer than necessary.
“I do not understand how it is that I, Hassan,” Hassan had said, “was not first
picked for the pleasure of the mistress.”
“Doubtless I am the most fascinating,” I said to him.
“There is no accounting for the taste of women,” he had said.
“That is true,” I said. “I have noted that Alyena much prefers you to me.”
“That is true.” he said.
“She is, of course,” I pointed out, “only slave.”
“It is true that she is only a slave,” he said, “but she, though slave, is an
extremely intelligent young woman.”
“That is true,” I admitted. The slave raiders of the Kurii, the Others,
selected, among other things, for high intelligence in their victims. Their two
major criteria, as neither as I could determine, were femininity and
intelligence. These two traits, hormonal and intellectual, almost always produce
a vulnerable, fragile, alert, sensitive beauty, one almost ready for the collar.
Extremely intelligent, feminine girls, as most Goreans know, make excellent
slaves, Goreans show little interest either in stupid women, though some are
sexually attractive, or in mules. Stupid women are too stupid to be good slaves;
mules are not even women. But the true female, the awakened, helpless prisoner
of her instincts and blood, with a fine mind, a deep, lovely, sensitive mind,
imaginative and inventive, is the one the Goreans want, head down, at their
feet. What man would want his collar on anything less precious? “Yet, Tarna,” I
suggested, “does not seem to be obtuse.”
“No,” he admitted. “That is true.”
“And it is I who have been first chosen,” I pointed out.
“There is no accounting for the taste of women,” be said. “Alyena,” be said,
“who is better, prefers me.”
“I have not seen Tama stripped and tied at the slave ring,” I said. “I do not
know if Alyena is better or not.”
“Let us assume she is,” proposed Hassan.
“Very well,” I said.
“She prefers me,” he said, “There is no accounting for the taste of women,” I
said.
At this point I had been summoned by the two bare-armed, white-garbed girls, for
my bath.
“Do you object, Ali?” asked one of the silken fellows.
“No, I do not,” snapped the girl in the white garment, with towels.
I had not understood, for a moment, to whom he might be speaking. The girl,
however, had answered him. I recalled I had asked her if she were kept for the
men, and that she had responded, angrily, “Of course not!” He had then asked,
“Do you object, Ali?”
I swam to the side of the bath and looked up at her. “What is your name?” I
asked.
She stepped back. “Ali,” said she.
“That is a man’s name,” I said. “Or a boy’s.
“My mistress,” said the girl, “gives me what name she pleases.” She was angry.
The fellow who had spoken before laughed.
“Be silent, Fina!” she snapped, sharply.
His face turned white. He put his head down. “Yes, Mistress,” he said.
“Fina,” I said to her, “is a woman’s name, or a girls.”
“It pleases
the mistress,” said she, “to give us what names she pleases.” She
glanced at the males about, in their silk. “Each,” said she, “all of them have
such names, the names of girls.” She glared at Hassan, and myself. “You two,
too, will be so designated!” Then she cried, “Go! Go to your alcoves, Slaves!
Go!”
The men, some of them frightened, with the exception of Hassan who sat, puzzled,
by the side of the bath, scurried to their tiny alcoves.
The two girls, in white garments, as I had come to understand, were dominant in
the seraglio, rather in the nature of eunuchs, imposing order upon it and
keeping its slaves in harmonious discipline. Their word, imperiously delivered,
with the confidence of unquestioned command, doubtless backed by the whips and
scimitars of male guards outside, served as law to the inmates of Tarna’s
seraglio; when they spoke, men obeyed; when they spoke sharply, men feared; in
the seraglio, backed by the power of Tarna’s guards, these two beautiful women
were dominant over the men; they, particularly the taller, dark-
haired one, obviously despised the silken males in her charge; openly she held
them, to their misery, in contempt.
We heard the outer gate of the seraglio, at the far end of the corridor, being
pounded on.
“Hurry!” cried the girl. “They are coming for you! Get out! Towel yourself!”
I reached out and, from the bath, seized her right ankle. The other girl, she
who laid out the red-silk tunic, the yellow beads, gasped. I looked up at the
tall girl. “You do not wear a collar,” I said.
“No,” she said. Then she said, “Release my ankle, bold sleen!”
“This does not seem the ankle of a male,” I said. I held her fair ankle in my
grip.
“Release me!” she said.
About the ankle there was, welded, an iron ring. “What is this?” I asked her.
“It is thus that Tarna marks her female seraglio slaves!” said the girl.
“Release me!”
The pounding was louder. “Release me!” she cried. “I will have you whipped!”
“But then I may not be ready in time for the mistress,” I said.
“I will have you beaten to the bone tomorrow!” she hissed.
“Then, tonight,” I said, “I will have to explain to the Mistress why I cannot
much please her.”
The girl turned white. “You seduced me,” I explained.
“No! No!” she cried.
“What were you called as a woman?” I asked.
“Lana!” she cried out in agony. She tried to pull away. “Release me!”
We heard the outer gate, by guards, being opened. “They will be here in a
moment!” she cried. “Please!”
I released her ankle, and lifted myself, dripping, from the bath.
She thrust the towels at me, almost in a frenzy. We heard the arriving guards
outside the inner door conversing with those who guarded it.
“Towel yourself!” she said.
I lifted my arms. “Towel me, Lana,” said I.
“Sleen!” she cried.
I looked about at the seraglio. It was lovely. There were high separated,
decorated columns, many arches, much carving, rich hangings, much tile, floors
marbled and mosaiced, too. It was lofty, spacious, beautiful. I regretted I did
not have more time to spend here.
“Sleen!” wept the girl, beginning to rub me with the first of the towels. “Help
me!” she cried to the other girl, who was frightened.
“No,” I said. “Only you, Lana.”
Weeping, furious, Lana applied the towel to my body. “Oh!” she cried. For I then
had her in my arms. I reached behind her body. She put her head back. “No!” she
cried. “Are you mad? I am your seraglio mistress! No!” The garment, hooks
broken, fell to her ankles.
“You do not have the body, either, of a male,” I observed.
“Please,” she wept.
I kissed her on each breast, for they were beautiful,
“I am your seraglio mistress!” she wept.
I kissed her fully on the mouth, holding her helplessly. “No,” I said, “you are
only a beautiful slave girl.”
I released her and she, clumsily, in haste, applied the towels to my body. When
she had finished she was at my feet, drying them. I lifted her to her feet and
put her back against one of the cool, narrow marble columns supporting the
arched roof of the seraglio. I stood close to her, our lips but an inch parted.
With my fingertips, on either side, I caressed the sides of her throat. “This
throat,” I said, “is aristocratic and beautiful. It would look well in a
collar.” Her eyes met mine. “I wish it wore yours.” she said, “--Master.” I
kissed her.
I heard the bolt sliding back on the inner door. The other girl threw me the
red-silk tunic and I slipped it on, dropping the yellow necklace inside the
tunic.
The door opened. Two guards stood there, in purple and yellow burnoose.
“Is the slave ready?” asked one of the guards, looking about. “What is going on
here?” asked the other, surveying the exposed beauty of Lana, the seraglio
mistress. She, frightened, hands before her mouth, pressed back against the
column.
“She is preparing to bathe,” I told them. I went to her and took her by the left
arm, over the elbow, and the right ankle, and upended the beauty, headfirst,
into the pool.
I glanced to Hassan, and to the other girl. “I shall return shortly,” I told
him.
“Very well,” he said, edging toward the other girl.
“The mistress,” said one of the guards, “does not finish with her males
shortly.”
Lana’s head, sputtering, blinking, emerged from the bath.
“She will tonight,” I told him. Then I turned to Hassan. “Be ready,” I told him.
“We have a long kaiila ride this night.”
“Very well,” he said. The guards looked at me as though I might be mad. He was
now standing almost directly behind the other girl, she who had handled the bath
oils.
“Let us hurry,” said I to the guards. “We must not keep the mistress waiting.”
“He is eager,” laughed one of the guards.
“He is a fool,” said the other.
Lana, dripping, head down, crawled from the bath. I saw Hassan measuring the
distance between the two girls.
I led the way, swiftly, through the inner door of the seraglio. “Is your
mistress pretty?” I asked one of the guards, who was hurrying to follow.
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ he growled.
He bolted the door behind him, shutting and locking the seraglio from the
outside. There were two guards, I noted, at the door. Down the corridor, some
fifty yards of tile and hangings, there was the outer door. This was knocked
upon, and, from the outside, opened. There were two guards there, too.
“Come now,” I said, “truly, is your mistress pretty?”
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ said the guard.
“I am Tarna,” said the woman. She reclined on the wide couch, resting on one
elbow, regarding me.
I looked about the room. I went to the window, and looked down, into the
courtyard.
“The drop,” she said, “is some seventy
feet.”
I examined the walls, the door.
“The door,” said she, “by the guards outside, opens only to my signal.”
“Come,” said she, “stand at the foot of my couch.”
“We are alone?” I asked.
“Guards stand outside the door,” she said, puzzled.
“That is acceptable,” I said.
I regarded her. “You are a strange slave,” she said. She reclined, resting, on
one elbow. She wore a soft gown, flowing, yellow, long, of Turian silk; it was
sheer and, with its deep neckline, and about the hips, well betrayed her. Her
hair was black, and long, and rich, and well displayed against the yellow
cushion behind her.
I was pleased to see that she was not as ugly as a sand sleen. I was pleased to
see, contrarywise, that she was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were very dark.
“I own you,” she said.
“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me tonight,” I told her.
“You are a strange slave,” she said.
“There is another kasbah nearby,” I said, “one which lies within two pasangs.
Whose kasbah is it?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “Do you like being a slave?” she asked.
There were red silken sheets on the great couch, on which she reclined. At its
foot there was a slave ring.
“It is my understanding, following merchant law, and Tahari custom,” I said,
“that I am not a slave, for though I am a prisoner, I have been neither branded
nor collared, nor have I performed a gesture of submission.”
“My bold slave,” she said.
I shrugged.
“Do you find me pleasing,” she asked, “out of mannish desert garb?”
I regarded her. “Yes,” I said.
In her hands I saw she held a kaiila crop. “I am mistress,” she said.
“You are quite beautiful,” I said. “You should be a slave girl.”
She put back her head and laughed. “Bold, bold slave.” said she. “I like you!
You seem different from the others. Perhaps I will not, even, give you a girl’s
name.”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted.
“I have wondered, sometimes,” said she, “what it would be like to be a woman.”
“Surely you are a woman,” I said.
“Am I attractive?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know that, with a scimitar,” she asked, “I am quite skilled, more
skilled than any man?”
“No,” I said, “I did not know that.”