by John Norman
Had I been a free woman it would have been easy enough to call myself to their attention. Might not the hem of a robe brush a foot? One might even loosen a sandal strap, and request its adjustment, that one need not bend down or go to one’s knee in public, unthinkable for a free woman. One might even, in seeming to stumble, kick dirt upon one in passing, an accident pertaining to which a free woman might legitimately express regret, or even, less pleasantly, trip against them, and then execrate them for being in one’s way, or such. Doubtless there are thousands of ways in which a woman may call herself to the attention of a man, even if one is an exalted free woman. After all, beneath all their veils and robes, they, too, are women. To be sure, few of these subtle stratagems, so to speak, would be at my disposal. For example, the hem of my tunic was high on my thighs, and I was barefoot. Too, I did not think it wise to initiate a physical contact with a free person. Too, it might be noted, realistically or not, that accidents are seldom accepted on the part of a slave. For example, if a slave should spill a beverage, or drop a utensil, while serving, let alone break a plate or a bowl, she may expect a whipping.
His hand whipped out and seized my ankle. I froze in place, frightened. “Master?” I whispered.
I could not even kneel, as I was held.
“Girl,” he said, “go to my pack, at hand, that with two black straps. Open it, fetch forth a flask, bring it here, and then approach those two fellows playing stones, and invite them to be our guests.”
I could not even say, “Yes, Master,” so startled I was, so commanded, but, when released, I hurried to do his bidding. We had not made eye contact. He had not even looked at me. Any passing bared ankle, it seemed, would have served as well. A moment later I had brought him the flask, which he accepted, without looking at me. He then rose up, to sit cross-legged, like his friend. Gorean males commonly sit cross-legged, whereas Gorean women commonly kneel. “Masters,” I said, kneeling, to the two fellows I had learned were Aeson and Genak, “those masters,” and I indicated the sleen master and his fellow, “invite your presence.” They looked to the side, and the sleen master’s fellow lifted the flask, invitingly. “Good,” said Aeson. They scooped the stones into a small bag, and rose up. “Paga?” called Genak. “Yes,” said the sleen master. “We have paga, too,” said Genak. “Bring it!” called the sleen master. Genak went to a case at the side of the camp, from which he drew forth four metal cups, and a large bottle which, in its net and sling, was half full, with some amber fluid. I rose up, and turned away, but was arrested by a sharp voice, which called, “Kajira!” Instantly I turned about, and knelt, waiting to be commanded, as the slave I was. “Stupid kajira,” said the voice, “do you expect us to serve ourselves?” It was Genak. “No, Master!” I said. “She is a barbarian,” called the sleen master. “Oh,” said Genak.
Shortly thereafter the four fellows were sitting together, drinking and talking. The strangers were from the basin of the Laurius. I also learned that there was a town there, on the Laurius, called Laura, which interested me, for it is a name I was familiar with from my former world, and, indeed, it had been given to me in Tarncamp. I was now Laura, if it pleased masters. In this camp, however, I was called Vulo. I knelt back from the men, as was fitting. I was to be unobtrusive, and yet at hand, to serve. The flask was finished in one round, but I replenished the small metal cups more than once, pouring from the bottle, it suspended in its carrying net, slung on its strap about my shoulder. It is easy to tip the bottle in such a net, which supports it, and the sling allows it to be carried about, from place to place. I was also interested to learn that the sleen master and his fellow presented themselves as from a small village near the mouth of the Alexandra, which I knew to be false. I was accounted for as having fled from a beached ship on the coast. There were secrets, indeed, I gathered, pertaining to Shipcamp. It apparently did not occur to the free persons, happily, to look into these matters by interrogating me. I would have tried to lie well, but had little doubt that two or three judicious questions might elicit responses from me in virtue of which the entire fabrication I was trying to construct would collapse. I would not know the names of ships, or captains, or types of ships, or what they carried, or what I might be doing on such a voyage, and so on. I did know my collar was a plain one. Normally a collar is engraved in such a way that the slave may be identified. A typical collar might read something like “I belong to Achiates of Jad.” Sometimes the slave’s name also appears on the collar, as in something like “I am Gail. I am the property of Publius Major of Brundisium.” In any event, my collar was unmarked. I did know that some of the slaves in Shipcamp, who were private slaves, had collars which did identify their masters. Most slaves hope one day to be the single slave of a private master. Few desire to be one of a hundred or more in a rich man’s pleasure garden, or to be a city slave, or a slave owned by a business, such as a mill or great farm.
As the conversation continued to wend its way about through a miscellany of apparently random topics, certain things began to become clear to me. One was that there seemed to be no relationship between the fellows who had captured the Panther Women and the sleen master and his fellow. They were not part of the attacking force, or somehow in league with it. Indeed, I suspected they might be only too willing to leave the camp, but that that option might not really be theirs. If they were guests, it seemed they were not the sort which might come and go as they pleased. Further, whereas the conversation seemed casual and pleasant, on the part of the sleen master and his fellow, I began to sense it might not be as idle as it might seem on the surface. Why should they, out here in the forest, be discussing tunes, czehars, flutes, kalikas, and such? Aeson and Genak, I think, drank more than the sleen master, and his fellow. The sleen master, as it was hot, opened his shirt, and it was then noted that about his neck, on a slender strap, hung a whistle. “That,” said Aeson, thickly, pointing to the whistle, “is how you control the sleen. It conveys the signals.”
“No,” said the sleen master.
“No?” said Aeson.
“No,” said the sleen master, who had identified himself as Axel of Argentum. “Tiomines, like most sleen, responds to verbal commands.”
“Which are secret, and pertinent, to the given animal?” said Aeson.
“Surely,” said Axel of Argentum.
“What is the whistle about then?” asked Genak.
“It is a tune whistle,” said Axel. “See the tiny holes. It is a pleasure to occasionally while away the time with it in a camp.”
“Play us a tune,” said Aeson.
“See how it is bent,” said Axel. “It is defective. I would have it repaired.”
“Try it,” said Aeson.
“Even when new,” said Axel, “not everyone could sound it, and it is now broken.”
“It requires strength to sound it?” asked Aeson.
“Yes,” said Axel.
“Nonsense,” said Genak. “Even a slave could sound so little a thing.”
Axel laughed and slipped the whistle, on its strap, over his head. “Let us see,” he said, motioning me to him. I approached him, and knelt, the large bottle supported in its net, the sling running from my left shoulder to my right hip. As I am right-handed, I would guide the neck of the bottle with the left hand, and lift and tip it with the right hand. Axel handed me the whistle. It was bent. It did have tiny holes in its barrel. It was not large. It was about two horts in length, perhaps a little longer.
“Blow it,” said Aeson.
I did not think it would be difficult to sound it. I was uneasy about calling attention to myself, when its blast was heard. To be sure, I had been commanded. Master Axel, nor the others, seemed concerned that its blast might be heard outside the camp. We were deep in a lonely, and unsettled, wilderness. And certainly the area about the camp had been routinely scouted, and guards posted.
I blew very softly on the whistle, hoping that whatever sound it might make would be scarcely noticed. Surely it would be enough for
them to hear even a tiny note. If they wanted some great blast let it be sounded by some free person, not one whose body was subject to the lash. But no sound came from the device.
“See?” said Axel.
“Blow harder,” said Aeson.
I then tried, again and again, to sound the whistle, but I heard nothing.
“Even when new,” said Axel, “it required strength to sound it, and it is now broken.”
As he extended his hand, I gratefully returned the whistle to him, and rose up, backed away a pace or two, and again knelt, where I had positioned myself for the masters’ convenience. The bottle in its net was now light, as the liquid was mostly gone.
“I doubt I could sound it myself,” said Axel.
Then he put the whistle to his lips, and, as far as I could tell, exerted great force on the tiny device.
“Let me try,” said his fellow, whom I had resolved to hate with all my might.
It pleased me considerably that even he, so large a man, was unable to bring any sound from that recalcitrant, small object.
The whistle was then handed about to Aeson and Genak, but each, to their surprise, and chagrin, fared no better.
I glanced to the side, and noted that Tiomines, the hunting sleen, had awakened. His head was up, and those two large, pointed ears were erected. He growled, a noise more puzzled than anything else.
“The sleen is restless,” said Aeson.
“Steady, friend,” said Axel soothingly to the beast, which then, again, put its head down on its paws, and closed its eyes.
Axel slipped the whistle, on its strap, again, about his neck.
“The instrument is worthless,” said Aeson. “Throw it away.”
“Better to repair it,” said Axel.
“Buy another,” said Genak.
“I like it, I am fond of it,” said Axel.
“Paga!” said Aeson, looking to me.
I rose up, to serve him. There was little left. No more than a quarter of a cup for each was practical.
I made it a point to stand quite close to the sleen master’s fellow, he who had accompanied him on his hunt, the hunt in which I had been the prey, which had ended with my capture.
How I hated him!
But might he not have sought me?
Was it only as a fled slave that he had sought me? I did not know. Did his neglect of me in the camp seem too studied? Why was he here? How was it that he, who had first looked upon me, on a far world, and had looked upon me as a man looks upon a slave, the first time to my knowledge that I had been so looked upon, so obviously, and had doubtless figured in my selection for Gorean bondage, had been in Brundisium, and in Shipcamp, and was now here in the forest? Surely he must remember me, I thought. Am I so little, so meaningless to him, that I am only another item of cargo, another naked woman dragged to a sales block? Is this all a coincidence? Does he truly not remember me, me, in whose dreams he has so often appeared, with his insolence and arrogance, and authority, with his whip and chain?
I recalled the dock in Shipcamp.
Had he truly not recognized me, kneeling at his feet, he who had brought me to a collar, yet a collar I coveted?
So he despises me, I thought; so he scorns me, I thought. So then let him find himself where he is, within inches of me, no longer a free woman of Earth, but now, thanks to him, no more than a collared, barefoot, tunic-clad Gorean kajira, a beast who may be bought and sold, one which now, thanks to him, exists only for the service and pleasure of men. Let him feel my collared presence and, should he heat, and squirm, and sweat, let him keep well in mind that he does not own me!
I stepped back, with a swirl of the tiny tunic.
Aeson rose up, took the empty bottle, in its net, from me, wished the sleen master and his fellow well, and wandered away. Genak lay down where he was, and was soon asleep.
“Tal,” said the leader of the attackers, who now stood over the sleen master and his fellow.
“Tal, noble Genserich,” said Axel.
“I trust you enjoy the hospitality of the camp,” said Genserich.
“We have just been drinking with two of your fellows,” said Axel.
“I know,” said the leader.
“We must be leaving presently,” said Axel.
“You realize,” said the leader, “that you will spend the night on a chain.”
“Why?” asked Axel.
“To protect you,” said the leader. “There are dangers in the forest.” He then turned away.
I, too, expected to spend the night on a chain, or roped helplessly, as I had been on the trek to Tarncamp from the coast. But I was a slave. Such things are not unusual where a slave is concerned. Some believe that a slave is chained at night, or caged, or kenneled, that she not escape, but others believe it is largely to prevent her theft. I think the explanation is even simpler; it is to remind her that she is a slave.
I stood a few feet away.
“I must see to Tiomines,” said Axel. He then rose up, and went to the sleen.
I looked to his fellow, who was sitting, cross-legged, regarding me. I boldly returned his regard.
What had I to fear? He did not own me.
He indicated, with a slight movement of his right hand, that I should approach. I did so. But I remained standing. Let him consider that.
“Why did you stand so close to me?” he asked.
“Surely Master does not mind the proximity of a slave,” I said.
“Do I know you?” he asked.
“Do you?” I asked.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Surely you know,” I said.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“Margaret Alyssa Cameron,” I said. “Perhaps you recognize the name?”
“No,” he said.
“Perhaps you remember me from a large store, in a great city, on a far world, when you first laid eyes upon me?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Or from an exposition cage in Brundisium?”
“No,” he said.
“Or, say, from a wharf, a dock?” I said.
“That is it!” he said.
Could he really not remember that it was he who had brought me to the collar?
Had it not been for him I would not now be on this world, half naked, with a marked thigh and an encircled neck, at the mercy of masters.
“What did you say your name was?” he asked.
“Margaret Alyssa Cameron,” I said.
“That was your free name,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then it is no longer your name,” he said.
I was silent.
“Is it?” he said.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Surely you are aware,” he said, “that as a slave you have no name, any more than any other beast, save as masters might choose to name you.”
I remained silent.
“That is true, is it not?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“What are you called?” he asked.
“Here I am called ‘Vulo’,” I said.
“Amusing,” he said.
“I have been named ‘Laura’,” I said.
“I know,” he said. Of course he would know. That was the name under which I would have been hunted.
“Master has captured me,” I said.
“You have an accent,” he said.
“I am a barbarian,” I said.
“Your accent may improve later, and, in time, might even be lost,” he said, “unless a master would prefer for you to retain at least a trace of it, as a charming feature.”
I was very angry, standing before him.
“Those of your sex,” he said, “commonly have an excellent aptitude for the acquisition of languages.”
“May I withdraw?” I asked.
“No,” he said. “That is because, over countless generations, you have been traded about, exchanged, captured, carried off, and so on, with
the result that you must learn, and quickly, the language of your possessors, your captors, masters, and such. Those with the highest skills in such matters would be the most likely to survive, to please, to be used for the purposes of reproduction, and such.”
“How is it,” I asked, “that Master accompanied Master Axel of Argentum in his hunt?”
“I was bored,” he said. “I thought the pursuit of a foolish slave might provide something in the nature of a diversion.”
“Only that?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said. “What else?”
“It made no difference that it was I?” I asked.
“Of course not,” he said. “Why should it?”
“You would have followed any,” I asked, “as easily, as willingly, as diligently?”
“Of course,” he said.
I turned out my hip, and straightened my shoulders, as I had been taught in my training. A girl has powers.
“I think, rather,” I said, “Master finds this slave of interest.”
“Does your body mark well under the attentions of a slave whip?” he asked.
“Master does not own me,” I said.
“What a vain little piece of collar meat you are,” he said. “How are you different from hundreds of others, similar, and better? You are scouted, observed, researched, inquired about, filmed and photographed in various lights, at various times of day, in various locations, against various backgrounds, engaged in various activities, in various garmentures. These pictures and reports are assessed. Points are assigned. You are even examined while asleep in your own bed. You are stripped and photographed, variously. Your measurements are taken, in detail, your bosom, waist, thighs, wrists, ankles. In this way, in your sleep, as you are gently sedated, you are measured variously, for example, your neck for the collar, your wrists and ankles for wrist and ankle rings, and so on. Then you are reclothed, and in the morning, you awaken, refreshed, and know nothing of all this. If you are found satisfactory, your name is entered on an acquisition list. You are then, unbeknownst to yourself, a Gorean slave girl. It only remains then that you be harvested, perhaps months later. Thus, small, vain kajira, you see there is nothing of particular interest or nothing special about you.”