Smugglers of Gor

by John Norman

  “It is cruel,” I said.

  “Men enjoy it,” she said. “In it they also hone their capture skills.”

  “We might as well be animals,” I said.

  “We are,” she said.

  I felt foolish. How naive had been my remark. Did I not yet realize what I now was?

  “It is a sport,” she said. “Sometimes they wager on such things. A good runner can be of great value to her master.”

  “Doubtless it could improve her price,” I said, bitterly.

  “Considerably,” she said.

  “You spoke,” I said, “of honing their capture skills.”

  “The ideal prize,” she said, “is the free woman, of an enemy city.”

  “They are loot,” I said.

  “We are women,” she said, “in the collar or out of it. We are all loot, all prizes, goods, something to be acquired, owned, bought, sold, traded.”

  “I was frightened by the archery,” I said, “the birds, the waves, the strikes, the ferocity, the accuracy, the penetration.”

  “Were they not such marksmen,” she said, “they would not be in their saddles; there would be no place for them in the cavalry.”

  “How could one escape such shafts?”

  “Have no fear,” she said. “Men will not fire upon you, no more than on any other domestic animal, a kaiila or verr. We are to be roped, herded together, penned, and shackled, and put to the pleasure of masters. That is for us. We are slaves.”

  I pulled a little at the cords which held my hands behind my back. I could feel the hemp loop knotted about my neck, which held me with the others.

  “What of free women?” I said, uneasily.

  “They are free,” she said. “They are in considerable danger. Why else do you think they submit themselves so readily, and desperately?”

  “I see,” I said.

  “How quickly,” she said, scornfully, “they tear away their veils, and struggle to divest themselves of their robes, that they may kneel and, head deeply down between their lifted, extended arms, wrists crossed for binding, submit themselves!”

  I was silent.

  “How quickly,” she said, “their wrists are lashed together!”

  “You speak,” I whispered, “as though from experience.”

  “Barbarian!” she hissed.

  “Forgive me,” I said.

  “But how thrilled I was,” she said, “to be bound, and led away.”

  “You had been found acceptable,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I was spared. I would live.”

  “You are very lovely,” I said.

  “In Brundisium,” she said, “I went for a silver tarsk.”

  “That is a fine price,” I said.

  “In that market,” she said, “it was quite good. What did you go for?”

  “I have heard,” I said, “forty-eight copper tarsks.”

  “That much?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do not be annoyed,” she said. “Much depends on the market. You might have gone for more, or less.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Do not be upset,” she said. “I have seen the eyes of masters upon you.”

  “Oh?” I said.

  “You are not unattractive,” she said. “In Brundisium, you might have found yourself sold to a tavern.”

  “I see,” I said. I gathered this might be a compliment.

  “Some men,” she said, “might bid heatedly to have you at their feet.”

  “I would hope to be found pleasing,” I said.

  “You had better be, and perfectly, if you know what is good for you.”

  “I understand,” I said.

  “Are you still afraid?” she asked.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Do not be afraid of the archers,” she said. “Your tunic, if you are permitted one, will guarantee your safety. Even free women, in the sacking of a city, often affect tunics, to be taken for slaves. Apprehended, they are often lashed for deceit, a most unpleasant whipping, and then swiftly shackled, collared, and marked.”

  “I hope they will give us tunics,” I said.

  “In Shipcamp,” she said. “I heard a guard speak.”

  “Good,” I said.

  “Do you want a tunic?” she asked.

  “Of course,” I said.

  “You are modest?” she asked.

  “Certainly,” I said.

  “But you are not permitted modesty,” she said.

  “Surely in public,” I said.

  “Perhaps a little,” she said, “if it is permitted by masters.”

  “Yes,” I said, “if it is permitted by masters.”

  “But you are a barbarian,” she said.

  “No matter,” I said.

  “What do you know of modesty?” she said. “You were never a free woman.”

  “I was!” I said.

  “As free as women on your world can be free!” she scoffed.

  “Perhaps,” I said.

  “You do not know what it is to be free,” she said, “for you were never a Gorean free woman. You cannot know the freedom we have, the pride, the nobility, the splendor, the power, the raiment, the veiling, the dignity! Men defer to us. They step aside. They make way for us. They will not sit in our presence without permission. We have Home Stones! Did you have a Home Stone?”

  “No,” I said.

  “I thought not,” she said.

  “Not everyone has a Home Stone,” I said.

  “Beasts, misfits, vagabonds, exiles, repudiated men, scoundrels, outlaws, and such,” she said, and then, lowering her voice, whispered, “and perhaps Priest-Kings.”

  I felt it wise to refrain from speaking, as she had spoken of Priest-Kings.

  “How can you think of modesty on your world,” she said. “It is my understanding that there are places on your world where women bare their faces, even on the streets.”

  “I have heard of some Gorean free women, unveiled, on the wharves,” I said.

  “Of low caste,” she said. “And on work days, not holidays.”

  A Gorean free woman is likely to fear the stripping of her face more than the stripping of her body. Although I found this surprising at first, upon reflection, it seemed reasonable. Bodies, however lovely, are relatively similar, and relatively anonymous, whereas the face is likely to be unique, individual, personal, distinct, and special. Moreover, it is revealing, in its thousand mixtures, and subtleties, of expression. Surely a woman is a thousand times more revealed in her features, these revealing her thousand whims, moods, and secrets, than in her body, however exciting and marvelous it may be. And Gorean men savor and relish, and own, and master, the whole. In the face of the woman men read the slave. It is the whole woman, inside and outside, face, body, mind, thoughts, needs, emotions, which is wanted, which is desired, which is collared. Accordingly, the first thing that is done with a captured free woman, unless she is to be held for ransom, or delivered veiled to another for the pleasure, is to face-strip her. After this, so shamed, many women, of their own volition, kneel to be collared. Many, it seems, have waited their entire life to be collared. How often the happiness and radiance of the slave, caressed and mastered, outrages the free woman.

  ***

  “Please do not touch me,” I begged.

  “You writhe well,” he said.

  I scratched at the coarse fibers of the mat.

  “I cannot help myself,” I protested.

  “You are not permitted to do so,” he informed me.

  “Stop, Master!” I begged.

  “Very well,” he said.

  “No, no, no!” I begged. “Do not stop! Please, please, do not stop!”

  “You beg that I should continue?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” I said.

  “As a slave?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, squirming in shame, in conflict, and need.

  “We will see what we can do here,” he said. />
  “Be merciful,” I begged.

  “You are a new slave, are you not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” I whispered, intensely.

  “Clearly you feel pleasure,” he said, “whether or not you wish to do so.”

  “Forgive me,” I said. How could a man respect a woman who is no more than a helpless, spasmodic toy in his grasp, squirming and begging? Where was refinement, sophistication, self-control, dignity, pride, personhood, and respect? How could a woman respect herself when she reveals herself as no more than a helpless, uncontrollable, pleasure animal, a slave?

  What is she good for then, but love, service, and submission?

  “Your body lubricates nicely,” he said. “It has welcomed me, and clasped me. Too, though it is early, it has rewarded me with a number of spasmodic responses.”

  “‘Early’?” I said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “There is more?” I said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Certainly you are aware that you juice readily, and nicely,” he said.

  “Let me alone,” I begged.

  “I think, in time,” he said, “you will prove to be a hot little urt.”

  “No, no!” I said.

  “Perhaps not so much now,” he said. “But later.”

  “Be merciful,” I begged. “Please, be merciful!”

  “It is easy to see,” he said, “even at this point, why they have chained you in a slave house.”

  “When will you be done with me?” I wept.

  “You are afraid, are you not?” he said.

  “Yes!” I said.

  “Let us try this caress,” he said.

  “Ai!” I wept.

  “Subside,” he said. “Lie still, relax. Let there be a calm before the storm, little vulo.”

  ***

  How mighty was the ship!

  How tiny we were on the dock, bearing our burdens, coming and going, serving the workmen, carrying supplies, and food and water, in the shadow of that curved, towering structure rearing above us.

  “See,” called Relia, pointing.

  “What?” I said.

  “Ice,” she said, “ice in the river.”

  “It was washed down from a tributary,” said Janina, shading her eyes. “At this time of year there is already ice farther north.”

  “It is warm enough here,” I said. We were still tunicked. I supposed it must have been a large piece of ice, broken free, that it would be in the river, here in the Alexandra, this far south.

  “Soon the season will change,” said Janina.

  “Masters hasten,” said Relia. “The Alexandra will freeze, and the ship will be trapped. She might be crushed.”

  “It is still warm,” I said.

  “Now,” said Janina.

  Clearly colder weather was anticipated. We had been issued woolen materials, woven from the fleece of the bounding hurt, with awls and string, from which we were to fashion winter garmenture for ourselves. The nature of this projected garmenture, as might have been anticipated, was clearly specified. A cloth worker measured us and cut the patterns, as we were not permitted scissors. Under his supervision we sewed the garments. The awls were allotted, counted, and returned. Our work must be approved by the cloth worker. I had to remove stitches twice, and resew them. In any event, we, though slaves, would be well bundled. When we were finished we each had trousers and a jacket. The jackets, belted, came to our thighs, and had hoods. We also had a shawl and blanket. Our feet were wrapped in thick cloths, and our legs, over the trousers, boot-like, were similarly swathed.

  “Look at me,” I had laughed, so clad, the cloth worker not about, and had said to Janina, turning about, “I am a free woman!”

  She, too, ascertaining the cloth worker was not about, had laughed. There were no free women in Shipcamp, unless they might be of the Pani.

  Even to joke about being a free woman might garner a slave a lashing. Surely she should know better.

  But today was warm, and we were tunicked.

  Our necks were encircled with light metal collars. We could not remove these, as they were locked on us. They were “dock collars,” which indicated the sphere of our activities and where we would be chained at night.

  I looked across the Alexandra which, at this point, was some one hundred yards in width. The fragment of ice was downstream, turning in the current. I did not know for certain what lay across the Alexandra, but I did know there were two or three buildings there, and something which was palisaded. Occasionally longboats crossed the Alexandra, to and fro. It was said supplies were kept there, across the river, and that, within the palisade, in log kennels, certain special prisoners, or special slaves, were kept. I knew little of this. It did seem clear that they, sooner or later, if there, would be boarded on the ship. One conjecture had it that they were female slaves of such astounding beauty that it would be inappropriate to house them with more common stock. Others said that they were kept separate because they were so beautiful that their presence would cause disruption in the camp, that men would kill one another for them. I found this hard to believe. It was hard to suppose that there would be women there more beautiful than, say, Relia, and some of the others about.

  I looked up, at the mighty ship.

  It must have been long in the making. It was already in the water, moored against the wharf, when I arrived. Some of the other girls had seen the chocks smote away, and witnessed its descent to the water. Much of the building dock within which it had been constructed had been dismantled, but one could note, here and there, several remaining ribs of what had been the supporting framework and some timbers of the slide leading to the river.

  Workmen busied themselves near me. One fellow carried coils of rope on his shoulder.

  I looked up, again, at the ship.

  There was apparently still much to do, matters having to do with interior work, and decking, the hanging of the giant rudder, the fixture of masts.

  “There is water to be fetched,” said Janina.

  “Yes,” I said, and adjusted the strap of the flattened bota on my shoulder.

  Shipcamp was a large enclave. It lay at the eastern end of what was usually called the “Eastern Road,” though, I think, it tends to veer southeast. I do not think it as large as Tarncamp. Certainly not as many men were housed here. Tarncamp housed a small army. Too, it had its nearby training field, where I and others had witnessed the exercise in which waves of tarn riders had flown against an array of targets. Shipcamp, though garrisoned with its mercenaries, was less a training and housing facility than a shipyard. It contained several workshops and open-sided sheds. Carpenters were here, and sawyers, rope weavers, sail makers, fitters, riggers, and smiths. Mariners, too, were about. The camp was mostly on the northern shore of the Alexandra. The larger, northern camp was narrow, some half of a pasang in length, along the river, and probably no more than two hundred yards in width, extending back toward the forest. There was very little on the southern bank of the Alexandra, some two or three buildings, and the mysterious palisaded area.

  I had been here several days.

  The journey from the cold, stony beach of Thassa, brushed by the wind, to Tarncamp had taken the better part of four days, and the similar journey from Tarncamp to Shipcamp had been much the same. One supposes unencumbered men might have made the journey in less time, but women, and wagons, would take longer.

  I know little or nothing of what is being done here. I suppose that is appropriate, and to be expected, as I am kajira. Curiosity, we are informed, is not becoming to us. Yet, it is my distinct impression that many here, even the masters, do not understand what is being done here, its purpose, and its destiny. Doubtless some know; perhaps the ponderous Lord Okimoto, the camp commander, whom I had seen four times; perhaps the strange, lame, twisted little man they call Tersites, who was much about, whom I had often seen. He, I take it, is the master of these works and th
e yard. It seems little escapes him. He speaks with authority, impatiently, often shrilly, petulantly. Men strive to please him. They obey him without question. I suppose him to be a shipwright. One speculates, of course. The ship is very large. It is much larger than a river ship. I am sure there are many points on the Alexandra where it could not be brought about. Too, as nearly as I can determine, it is deeply keeled, and there might well be difficulties in even bringing it to the sea, depths varying, and given many bars, which may shift, and rocks. Too, I would suppose the channel is sometimes narrow, and twisting. Doubtless the masters are well aware of such things, and the route seaward has been sounded and scouted with care. It seems clear the ship is a deep-water ship. It is intended, then, to negotiate Thassa. Perhaps it is intended to trade with Cos and Tyros, or various island ports. But the harbors might be too shallow for it. Would not a variety of galleys be more practical? For what is so large a vessel required? It is much larger, many times larger, I am told, than even the largest of common round ships, or cargo vessels, which, too, are apparently very different from the long, low, knifelike vessels of war. Until Shipcamp, I had known only the two Gorean vessels which had been en route to the north, and the one other, seen during the voyage, when I, with the others, had been permitted on the deck. I had gathered, of course, earlier, that the harbor at Brundisium was large, crowded, and busy, but I, as the others, had been blindfolded when we were boarded.

  I again considered the great ship.

  It was too large to be propelled by oars. It would supposedly have six masts. They were not yet in place. Not even the great rudder was hung. What was the meaning of such a ship? For what work, what voyage, might it be intended? It was not a warship in any common sense; yet, interestingly, it nested six galleys, three to a side, which might be independently launched, and those galleys, I gathered, given their rams and large, crescent-like blades at their bows, suggested aggression and menace.

  One thing seemed clear; when the ship was ready, which should be soon, we were to be joined by the armsmen and work crews from Tarncamp. Indeed, the tarn cavalry, trained toward the west, close to Tarncamp, was also to join us before we embarked. Why would tarns be needed? What purpose might they serve? Too, even though the vessel was large, it would carry hundreds of times the men required to manage it. Better to transport troops, I thought, would be smaller ships, a fleet of such. Who would care to risk an army, perhaps a war, by entrusting it to a single mount, to but one vehicle, to but one vessel? But Thassa, I supposed, vast Thassa, might lift her hand, and smash a fleet as well as a single vessel, and, I suspected, a mighty vessel might brave her wrath where a hundred common barks might perish in the sea. Too, what an enormous store of supplies might be housed in so mighty a vessel, supplies which might last years. Would it not be an island of wood, a world of sorts, sufficient onto itself, indefinitely scorning land, cresting indefinitely the dark turbulence of proud, dreadful, beautiful Thassa?