“Full slave?” I asked.
“Full slave,” he said.
“Fitting,” I said.
“She is a slave,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“What, in particular,” I asked, “did you learn from the Earth slave girl, the former Miss Cardwell?”
“Many things,” said he, “but, doubtless of most importance, the weakness of the Nest.”
“You will now attack?” I asked.
“It will not be necessary,” he said.
“An alternate plan?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said.
“What she told you, of course,” said I, “may not be true.”
“It tallies with the reports of other humans, who, once, long ago, fled the Sardar.”
These would have been the Nest’s humans who, following the Nest War, had elected to return to the surface of Gor.
“But are these reports true,” I asked, “or only, sincerely, believed to be true?”
“They could, of course, be implanted memories,” admitted Ibn Saran. “It could be a trick to lure an attack into a trap.”
I was silent.
“We are not unaware of such possibilities,” he said. “We have typically proceeded with caution.”
“But now it may matter less?” I asked.
“Now,” said he, “it may matter not at all. No longer need we listen with such care to the blabberings of slave girls.”
“You have a new strategy?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” he said, smiling.
“Perhaps you would share it with one bound for the brine pits of Klima?” I asked.
He laughed. “And you might speak it to guards, or others!”
“My tongue could be cut out,” I said.
“And your hands cut off?” he laughed. “And then what good would you be in the pits?”
“How did you learn that the slave, purchased only for her beauty in Lydius, was the former Elizabeth Cardwell?” I asked.
“Fingerprints,” he said. “Her accent, certain mannerisms, suggested Earth origin. We took her prints, curious. On our records they matched those of Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, of New York City, Earth, who had been brought to Gor to wear the message collar to the Tuchuks.”
I recalled the collar. When first I had seen her, her yellow nylon stockings in shreds, her brief, yellow, with narrow orange stripes, Oxford-cloth shift, dusty and stained, her neck bound to a capture lance, her wrists bound behind her, on the plains of the Wagon Peoples, a captive of Tuchuks, she had worn it. She had understood so little then, been so innocent of the affairs of worlds.
Now the girl was less innocent.
“The message collar,” said Ibn Saran, “failed to bring about your death, the termination of your quest for the last egg of Priest-Kings.” He smiled. “Indeed, the girl even became your slave.”
“I freed her,” I said.
“Courtly fool,” he said. “Investigating her further, understanding she accompanied you to the Sardar, with the last egg of Priest-Kings, we looked for further connections. Soon it became clear that she had been your confederate, spying for you, in contriving the downfall of the house of Cernus, one of our ablest operatives.”
“How could you know this?” I asked.
“One who knew the house of Cernus, freed from slavery, was brought to my palace. To her terror, he immediately identified her. We then stripped her and put her in shackles in the dungeon, with the urts. In an Ahn she begged to tell us all, and did.”
“She betrayed Priest-Kings?” I asked.
“Completely,” said Ibn Saran.
“She serves Kurii now?” I asked.
“She serves us well,” he said. “And her body is exquisite, and delicious.”
“You are fortunate,” said I, “to possess such a slave.”
Ibn Saran nodded.
“I was interested to note, as well,” said I, “that she testified that I had struck Suleiman Pasha.”
“So, too, did Zaya,” said Ibn Saran.
“That is true,” I said.
“Neither needed urging,” said Ibn Saran. “Both are slaves.”
“Vella,” said I, “is a highly intelligent, complex woman.”
“Such make the best slaves,” said Ibn Saran.
“True,” I said. Indeed, who would want to collar any other sort of woman? To take the most brilliant, the most imaginative, the most beautiful women, and put them at your feet, impassioned, helpless slaves, is victory.
“She hates you,” said Ibn Saran.
“I see,” I said.
“It has to do with Lydius, it seems,” said he.
I smiled.
“It was with much pleasure that the vicious little slave falsely testified that it had been your blade which had struck Suleiman Pasha. It is with much pleasure that she sends you to the brine pits.”
“I see,” I said.
“A woman’s vengeance is not a light thing,” said Ibn Saran.
“Doubtless,” said I.
“But one thing troubled her,” said Ibn Saran, “a matter in which, fearing for herself, she was apprehensive.”
“What was that?” I asked.
“The security of Klima,” he said. “She feared you might escape.”
“Oh?” I said.
“But I assured her that there was no escape from the pits of Klima, and, thus encouraged, it was with enthusiasm that she rehearsed her testimony.”
“Pretty Vella,” I said.
He smiled.
“It is no accident,” I said, “that she was, her identity discovered, brought to the Tahari.”
“Of course not,” said Ibn Saran. “She was brought here, collared, to serve me.”
“She has served you well,” I said.
“She has much aided, as we had anticipated, in your reception. She, permitted once, secretly, to look upon you in the streets of Nine Wells, through the tiny veil of a haik, she nude beneath, in the keeping of one of my men, later confirmed, stripped on her knees before me, her lips to my feet, your identity—as Tarl Cabot, agent of Priest-Kings. And what she did not accomplish with the message collar in the land of the Wagon Peoples, she has well accomplished here on the rack in the chamber of justice.”
“She has served you well,” I said.
“She is an excellent little slave,” said Ibn Saran, “and most pleasing on the cushions.”
“Pretty Vella,” I said.
“Was she pleasing as a free woman?” asked Ibn Saran.
“Yes,” I said.
“You should try her now, as a slave,” he said.
“I put her to slave use in Lydius,” I said. I supposed that that had been part of my punishment of her, for having disobeyed me, for having cost me the tarn. She was a slave, let her be used as a slave. She had gambled, she had lost. She had become a slave, so she was a slave; let her then learn what it was to be a slave; let her then learn what it was to be used as a slave; let her remain in her collar.
“So, too, did we,” he said, “but I assure you, she is much better now. A touch and she moans. She is now, frequently, helplessly, piteously ablaze in her collar.”
“Good,” I said.
“That helps to control her,” he said.
“Of course,” I said. To be sure, there was no dearth of controls, in any case, on the behavior of a slave girl.
“When you knew her, I suspect she still thought of herself as a free woman in bondage.”
“I think so,” I said.
“But now,” he said, “she has come to understand that before she was not truly a free woman, but only a slave who had not yet been placed in bondage.”
“That is a valuable insight on the part of a woman,” I granted.
“How do you suppose those who bring such women to Gor make their selections?”
“How would you make them?” I asked.
“I think I would look for women like lovely Vella,” he said.
“I, too,” I said
. “Such women.”
“But a variety of types, surely,” he said.
“Certainly,” I said. “That enriches the market.”
“Perhaps there are want lists,” he said.
“I expect so,” I said. I could conceive of a fellow with very specific criteria in mind, for a slave. If he were appropriately placed, he might then requisition such a woman, who could then be picked up and delivered to him, perhaps a woman of such and such a figure, of such and such a height and weight, of such and such a hair color, and eye color, and complexion, of such and such a background, education, intelligence, interests, and such. And she could then be delivered to him as a slave. If he were of Earth, he might want a girl who could speak his native language. Too, if he were of Earth, he might want some woman whom, on Earth, he had found irritating or troublesome. She could then be obtained and put to his feet naked, for her collaring.
“But perhaps different types at different times,” he said.
“Doubtless,” I said. I supposed there might be fashions in such matters. Auburn hair, for example, tended to be prized in the markets. Too, the area could make a difference. As I have indicated, blond-haired, blue-eyed, white-skinned slaves tended to be popular in the Tahari.
“I would suppose,” he said, “criteria are diverse, doubtless, too, such things as intelligence, beauty, vitality, such things.”
“Doubtless,” I said. “Such things are of enormous importance.” It might be noted, in passing, that high intelligence in a female, as nearly as I can determine, is almost always of great importance to Gorean slavers. I suspect they will favor a plainer, but more intelligent, girl over one who is less intelligent but less plain. I do not think they lose much by this policy, as many women become more beautiful in the collar, perhaps because so much of beauty begins in the emotions and mind and is then manifested outwardly in expressions, postures, carriages, attitudes, and such. A happy woman, a fulfilled woman, a woman relished and appreciated as a woman, for herself, is almost always an attractive woman, even a lovely woman. Such things as grace, and a smile, and a desire to love and serve, a desire to please another, can make a woman beautiful. Too, important is her finding herself in her natural biological relationship to the male, owned and his. And I suppose, too, not unimportant is the acceptance of, the celebration of, and the liberation of her female sexuality, in all its profound dimensions. On Gor she finds herself enormously important as a property, as a prize. She is praised, desired, and bid upon, and must serve with perfection. As a conquered slave, she has no choice but to pleasure her master as he sees fit and to endure, on her part, willing or not, though soon she is more than willing, and is soon to the point of piteously begging, whatever frequent and lengthy ecstasies he may choose to inflict upon her. The Gorean slave girl is commonly radiant in her collar, fulfilled deeply as what she is, a woman, in her mind, her heart and belly.
“Do you think,” asked Ibn Saran, “that they can look at a woman and tell which are rightful, natural slaves?”
“Some may wear their need for slavery more obviously than others,” I said. “But it is my speculation that the scouts, assessors, harvesters and handlers need not base their judgments on such matters.”
“I see,” said Ibn Saran. “It is their understanding, I take it, that all women are natural slaves?”
“I think so,” I said.
“I wonder if that is true,” he said.
“I do not know,” I said.
“But obviously,” he said, “some women are rightful slaves, natural slaves, and cannot find their fulfillment except in the collar, except in submission, except in yielding to the mastery.”
“Yes,” I said, “and such women belong on the block, and are rightfully on their knees, stripped and chained before masters.”
“Are you pleased with the women of Earth?” asked Ibn Saran.
“On the whole, no,” I said. “Most seem unhappy, lonely, frustrated, miserable, confused, petty, shallow, cold, inert, anesthetic.”
“Interesting,” said he. “I have not found the scantily clad beauties of your world like that here,” he said.
“Here they must please men,” I said.
“It is interesting to note how vital and hot Earth women are, once collared,” said Ibn Saran. “It is no wonder they are popular in the markets.”
“Many have no sense of their sex until they are brought to Gor,” I said.
“It is as if they are starved,” he said.
“In a way,” I said, “I suppose they are.”
“In any event,” said Ibn Saran, “I think you would find your little Vella is now much changed. She now understands what she is, as perhaps she did not before. I think Vella, today, would surprise you.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Did you once care for her?” he asked.
“Once, perhaps,” I said.
“It might amuse you then to see her as a naked slave, in her collar, crawling to my feet, weeping, begging for my touch.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“She is no longer of political use to us,” he said, “but her slave meat is not without interest.”
“I would not begrudge you the use of a slave,” I said.
“I suspect,” he said, “you never had the full slave of her. Doubtless you, a man of your world, never had the strength, the amused audacity, to get the full slave of her.”
“I suspect not,” I said.
“What a pity,” he said. “What a waste! And how insulting, how disappointing, to poor Vella, not to take the full slave from her.”
What Ibn Saran had said was doubtless true. What a waste, what a shame, not to take the full slave from a slave.
“I often summon her to the slave ring at the foot of my divan,” he said, “and it would doubtless amuse you mightily, given your earlier acquaintance with her, your recollections of her, to note how eagerly she hurries to me, and kneels naked before me, on the mat of submission, and begs to please me, in any way I may wish.”
“That sort of thing is not uncommon for slaves,” I said.
“True,” he said.
“I am pleased,” I said, “that she has begun to learn her collar.”
“And so, too, are we,” laughed Ibn Saran.
I looked away.
“How well lovely Vella has served us,” he said, “in how many ways, as in betraying Priest-Kings, in locating and identifying you, in collaborating in the arrangements of the hall of Suleiman. Many things, in many ways. And how pleased she was to give her testimony in the court, confirming that you would be sent slave to the pits of Klima. Oh, how she hates you, and how she relished that triumph!”
“She is only a woman, and a slave,” I said.
“Perhaps she thinks herself more,” he smiled.
“How,” I asked.
“As a player, now on the winning side, in the game of worlds,” he said.
“Oh,” I said.
“But she is now only slave meat for us, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Think of her,” he said, “and her slave curves, and what it would be to own her.”
“I have,” I said, bitterly.
“Whereas you knew her as a free woman, with all her pretensions, petulances, and vanities,” he said, “I have much the better of it, for I know her as my slave. Do you not envy me my slave?”
“Of course,” I said.
“But,” said he, “you will never own her. You will never again hold her in your arms.”
I was silent.
“She is incredibly beautiful, is she not?”
“Yes,” I said, angrily, “she is.”
“Think of her writhing and crying out in my arms, she my slave, perhaps permitted that pleasure, responding obediently, helplessly, to me, her master, Ibn Saran, your victorious enemy.”
“She is a slave,” I said. “Enjoy her as such.”
“Are you bitter?” he asked.
“Of course not,” I said.
“She is only a slave,” I said.
“You owe her much,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“And in part,” he said, “the very chains which confine you.”
“Doubtless,” I said.
“Think of her beauty, her nudity,” he said. “Think of her, stripped, in her collar, think of her in slave bracelets, in chains, in thongs. Remember the sound of her voice, remember the look of her bared slave curves, in a thousand lights, in a thousand attitudes.”
I was silent.
“Think often of her,” said Ibn Saran. “Think often of she who, though a mere slave, collaborated in your defeat, she who eagerly did her part to send you to the pits of Klima. Think of her smile, her pleasure, at your fate, which she helped to contrive. How pleased she was! Think of how she, a mere slave, has been instrumental in your fate, how she, a mere slave, has helped to bring low the fearsome Tarl Cabot, she who helped to bring him to his present plight, he helpless in the chains of an outwitted fool.”
I then, in fury, jerked against the chains.
I was helpless, held with perfection.
Ibn Saran smiled.
“And I am sure,” said he, “she will often think of you, laboring at Klima. Indeed, doubtless we will jest of it, together, while she, kneeling, nude and collared, serves me wines and candies.”
Inadvertently, I cried out with rage.
“Yes,” said he, “think often of her, think often of beautiful Vella. Think often of her while you stagger chained and burdened in the salt crusts of Klima, Tarl Cabot, Salt Slave.”
He turned, cloak swirling, and left the chamber, followed by his men, the last bearing the tharlarion-oil lamp.
Outside the three moons were full.
* * * *
I did not think, truly, I would be sent to the brine pits of Klima.
I was thus not surprised when, an Ahn later, that same moonlight night, before I was to be taken to Klima in the morning, two men, hooded, cloaked, furtive, appeared in the hall outside the cell door.
There would be danger in conducting or transporting a slave to Klima in these times of unrest between the Kavars and the Aretai and their vassal tribes.
Tribesmen of Gor Page 17