“Run!” said Hassan, smacking her smartly with the flat of his blade.
“Oh!” she cried and fled, the others following, into the darkness.
We laughed.
“They are pretty,” said Hassan. “Perhaps we should have kept them.”
“Perhaps,” I admitted. One, a wide-hipped little brunet, I thought, would have looked well at my feet.
“Yet,” said Hassan, “this seems scarcely a time propitious for the braceleting of wenches.”
“You are right,” I observed.
“Besides,” said Hassan, “they were young. In two years or so they would be more ripe for the picking.”
“Others may have them then,” I said.
He shrugged. “There are always young, beautiful wenches to make slaves,” he said.
“True,” I said.
He looked at our fallen foes. We saw in the light of the moons, and in the light of a torch, fixed in a wall behind us and to our right.
“Here,” said Hassan, kneeling beside one of the fallen men. I joined him. Hassan thrust up the left sleeve.
“He is Kavar,” I said. I saw on the man’s left forearm the blue scimitar.
“No,” said Hassan. “Look. The point of the scimitar curves inward, toward the body.”
“So?” I asked.
“The Kavar scimitar,” he said, “points away from the body, to the outside, toward the foe.”
I looked at him.
Hassan smiled. He thrust up his left sleeve. Startled, I saw the mark on his left forearm.
“This,” said Hassan, smiling, “is the Kavar scimitar.”
I saw the point, as he had said, was curved away from the body, to the outside, as he had said, toward foes.
“You are Kavar,” I said.
“Of course,” said Hassan.
We spun about. We heard the tiny noise. We looked up. We stood within a ring of mounted warriors, with purple and yellow burnooses, others behind them in more common desert garb. Lances threatened us, pinning us at the wall. Arrows, fitted to bows, were trained upon our hearts.
“There they are,” said the man whom we had skirmished with earlier in the alley.
“Shall we kill them?” asked one of the men in the purple and yellow burnoose.
“Discard your weapons,” said Tarna.
We did so.
“Stand,” she said.
We did so.
“Shall we kill them?” asked the man.
“Lift your heads,” said the girl.
We did as she had commanded.
“Tarna?” he asked.
“No,” she said. “They are handsome and strong. They are not without interest to me. Take them as slaves.”
“Yes, Tarna,” said the man.
“This one,” said the girl, looking down at me, calmly, “strip him, and chain him to my stirrup.”
12
What Occurred in Tarna’s Kasbah;
Hassan and I Decide to Take Our Leave From that Place
I rolled about, on my back, splashing in the water.
It was quite pleasant. The temperature of the water, perhaps, was a bit warm. Also, it was perfumed. Yet I did not mind. It had been weeks since I had had a bath. I was appreciative of this hospitality in the male seraglio of the kasbah of Tarna, bandit chieftain of the Tahari.
“Hurry, Slave,” said the tall, dark-haired girl, bare-armed, in an ankle-length, flowing white garment. “The mistress will be ready for you soon.” She held four large, heavy snowy towels, each of a different absorbency. To one side another girl, clad similarly, was replacing bath oils in a rack, with which I had been rubbed prior to entering the second sunken bath. I had now rinsed them from my body, but I was not eager to leave the water. I reveled in it.
Hassan, in a brief, white-silk garment, sat cross-legged nearby. “You do not appear too dismal,” said he to me.
“Is your mistress, Tarna, pretty?” I asked the tall dark-haired girl.
“Emerge and towel yourself,” said the girl.
“I can well use the bath,” I said to her, grinning.
“That is true,” she conceded. “Hurry!”
Four days ago, at dawn, Tarna, at the head of her men, left the Oasis of the Battle of Red Rock in flames. Only its citadel, its kasbah, had been impregnable. Its palm groves had been cut down, its gardens destroyed, four of its five public wells caved in and filled. The other well, by too many men, had been defended with too much vigor. There had been some four or five hundred raiders. When they left Red Rock their kaiila had been heavy with loot. Some forty female slaves, coffled, braceleted, had been taken. Two males, too, had been taken, myself and Hassan. As Tarna had left Red Rock, not looking back, straight in the saddle, burnoose swelling in the morning wind over the sand, I had marched beside her, stripped, wrists manacled behind my back, chained by the neck to her stirrup. Hassan, similarly secured, trudged at the stirrup of one of her lieutenants. Before the sun was high and the sands burning we reached her loot wagons, kept in the desert. There Hassan and I, locked in slave hoods, and chained, were thrown into one of the wagons, with other loot. Even the female slaves, when fastened in their wagons, were hooded. The location of the kasbah of Tarna, bandit chieftain of the Tahari, her lair, was secret. We had reached its vicinity this morning, shortly after dawn. We, and the other prisoners, had been unhooded. Then, again, Hassan and I had been chained at stirrups. I at Tarna’s own, by her boot. “Where are we?” I had asked Hassan. The kaiila crop of a guard had struck me across the mouth. “I do not know,” had said Hassan. He, too, was struck. The female prisoners were ranged, in coffle, between two riders, one at the head and one at the foot of the chain. A chain from the neck of the first, some ten feet in length, ascended to the pommel of the lead guard; a chain from the neck of the last, some ten feet in length, ascended to the pommel of the guard bringing up the rear. They were marched this way that the residents and the garrison of the kasbah, in the great yard, behind the gate, regardless of the side on which they stood, might, with unimpeded vision, see the flesh loot well displayed. The canvas covers of the wagons, too, were thrown back, that the goods taken at Red Rock could be seen in their abundance and richness.
As the raiders returned, from their column, by mirror, a signal was flashed to the kasbah. On receipt of this signal a pennon, a victory pennon, was raised on the gate tower. We saw the gate swinging open.
Suddenly Tarna kicked her kaiila in the flanks and bolted from the column. The chain tore at the back of my neck and I was thrown from my feet and dragged through the brush and dust, twisting. She rode for a hundred yards and reined in the kaiila. “Have you stamina? Can you run?” she asked. I looked at her, coughing, covered with dust, cut by brush. “On your feet!” she said, her eyes bright over the purple veil. “I will teach you to crawl,” she said. I struggled to my feet. She walked the kaiila, then, widely circling, increased its pace, gradually, smoothly. “Excellent!” she cried. I was of the warriors. She increased the pace. “Excellent,” she cried, “excellent!” Even among warriors I had been agile, swift. My heart pounded; I fought for breath. More than a pasang 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 slave
s, made its way toward the high, arched gate of her desert fortress. To my interest I noted that this was but one of two kasbahs. Another, even larger, lay to its east 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 fortress. She lifted her arms and scimitar, acknowledging the cheering.
* * * *
“Hurry, Slave,” said the tall, dark-haired girl, 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 Tarna, 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 had 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, also in a long, white garment, matching, sleeveless, 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 was 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, as nearly as I could determine, selected, among other things, for high intelligence in their victims. Their two major criteria, as nearly 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,” he said. “Alyena,” he said, “who is better, prefers me.”
“I have not seen Tarna 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 girl’s.”
“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 had 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.”
Tribesmen of Gor Page 25