Smugglers of Gor

by John Norman

  “The Kasra hold is on a lower deck,” he said. “The better slaves are housed on the next deck, the Venna deck, in the Venna hold. Asperiche, were she a public slave, would have been housed in the Venna hold, and you in the Kasra hold.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “Does it make no difference to you,” he asked, “what you have made me, what you have done to me?”

  “Naturally I am concerned,” I said. “You hold the whip.”

  “What power,” he said, angrily, “lies in that small, soft, curved body of yours, in an ankle, a shoulder, the movement of a hand, a lifting of the head, a glance, the soft, brightness of eyes, the tremor of a lip.”

  “A slave cannot help what she is,” I said.

  “Is it nothing to you,” he asked, “that you have wrenched my heart, that you have tormented my nights and distressed my days, that you have half torn me out of myself with desire?”

  “A slave does not object to being wanted,” I said.

  “What power you have!” he cried, angrily.

  “I have no power,” I said. “I am before you, on my knees.”

  He howled with rage, and seized up his pack, and from it, to my alarm, drew forth a whip. He hurled it from him, perhaps fifty or more feet. “Fetch it,” he said, “as a whip is fetched!”

  I crawled to the whip on all fours, and put down my head, and took the long handle, it is made to be held in two hands, just behind the blades, in my teeth, turned about, and returned to him, on all fours, and lifted my head to him, the whip between my teeth.

  When he had taken the whip from me, I knelt, in position, back on heels, back straight, belly in, shoulders back, head up, hands down, palms down, on my thighs, my knees spread, as befitted the sort of slave I had learned I was.

  “I think,” I said, lifting my head to him, “Master cares for a slave.”

  He lifted the whip, and I feared he would strike me. His hand wavered, with anger, and then he lowered it. His scowl was fierce. I had not meant to anger him. I had not meant to insult, or demean, him. Was it so unthinkable that a free man might care for a slave? Was he to be ridiculed by his peers, and scorned by free women? If a man might care for a sleen or kaiila, why not for a female slave? But no, I thought, the female slave is different. She is to be despised, scorned, and held in contempt, for she is a female slave.

  He thrust the whip roughly to my lips.

  I was frightened.

  Surely that was not the action of one who might care for a slave. How foolish had been my remark. Did I not know I was a female slave?

  “Have you not been trained?” he asked.

  I began to attend to the whip, kissing and licking it. I did this softly, slowly, tenderly, carefully, humbly, deferentially, and, I fear, seductively.

  When he drew back the whip, I leaned back, and waited, in position.

  If a girl does not do this well, she must expect to be whipped.

  To my relief, he replaced the tool of discipline, unopened and unapplied, back in his pack.

  The ritual of kissing the whip can be a lovely ritual. In it, one acknowledges one’s submission, one’s subjection to the mastery. It can be very beautiful. The whip itself, of course, is a symbol of the mastery. As the whip, however, had been so rudely put to my lips I had no difficulty in gathering that my supposition that a master might care for a slave had borne little resemblance to reality. Indeed, that action had been more an expression of annoyance, or contempt, an indication that a master might disapprove of, and fail to tolerate, an unwarranted presumptuousness on the part of a property, a mere beast.

  I should have known better.

  “Do you think a slave is to be cared for?” he asked.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “A slave,” he said, “is to be dominated, mastered, used, worked, and put to one’s pleasure, until she weeps and screams with need.”

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  “You should be whipped,” he said.

  “Lash me then,” I said, “that I may the better know myself yours.”

  “I have said things I did not wish to say, but had to say,” he said. “I have spoken truths which have alarmed and shamed me. I have acknowledged a mighty wanting of you, fierce as the tides of Thassa, and as irresistible and inalterable, that I have fought to free myself from this inexplicable, terrible wanting, and have failed to do so. My intentions vanished like smoke, my resolve collapsed. I must have you. I would not rest until you were mine. I must own you. And you, stupid Earth slut, dare to speak of caring? Rather, tremble, and speak of owning, mastering, and possessing, yes, possessing, as any object, article, or animal may be possessed. For that is what you are, and only that, an object, article, and animal, and that is what you will be, that, and only that, in my collar! Yes, you are desired, you are wanted, but you are desired, and wanted, as what you are, a slave, a worthless, meaningless slave!”

  “Yes, Master,” I said. I saw that he would be my master. But what slave would want it otherwise?

  “Do you wish to be a free woman?” he asked.

  “No, Master,” I said. “I am a slave. It is what I want to be.”

  “That is unfortunate,” he said. “If you wished to be a free woman, it would be pleasant to keep you as the most abject of slaves.”

  “I think, Master,” I said, “that such a woman would soon beg to be kept as your slave, and fear only that you might sell her.”

  “It is interesting,” he said, “the effect of a collar on a woman.”

  “We belong in it,” I said.

  “I hate you,” he said.

  “I will try to please you,” I said.

  “I will own you as few slaves have been owned,” he said.

  “And it is thus that I would be owned,” I said.

  “I have waited long,” he said, “that you would be mine.”

  “And I,” I said, “that I would be yours.”

  “We shall trek,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said.

  He turned about, and suddenly stiffened. His head was up. I looked, too. He shaded his eyes. I did not see it immediately. Then I saw it. It was a dot in the sky, in the distance. “Into the brush,” he said, curtly. I rose to my feet, and hurried into the brush to the side, from which, earlier, Master Axel had emerged. My master seized up his pack, and, in a moment, had joined me. We crouched down.

  “He is probably back scouting,” he said, “looking for stragglers, deserters.”

  “Perhaps only to see if the ship is followed?” I said.

  “Remain motionless,” he said.

  I regretted that my tunic was white. How much better would have been the skins of Panther Women which would have blended with the background, the branches, the shadows, and foliage.

  He removed his dagger from its sheath, and held it, lightly, by the tip of the blade.

  “Do not move,” he said.

  I had seen men playing near the dock, hurling knives into an upright plank or post. A tiny circle is drawn on the target, and the winner is he whose blade comes closest to the center of that circle.

  Some Ihn later we saw the shadow of the giant saddlebird pass.

  “He is gone,” I said.

  “No,” he said.

  “Where is he?” I asked.

  “Upriver, circling Shipcamp, the ruins of the dock, of the stockade, who knows.”

  “Would it not be best for us to be on our way?” I said.

  “Not yet,” he said.

  “He is on tarnback,” I said. “He could not follow us in the forest.”

  “If he detects us,” he said. “He could report our existence, our approximate location.”

  “Do you think he will land?” I asked.

  “I do not think so,” he said. “Stragglers, deserters, fugitives would be dangerous men.”

  “He may land,” I said.

  “It would be for the best if he does not,” he said.

  “You would kill him?” I said.
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  “Or he us,” he said.

  “I am afraid,” I said.

  “Let him be afraid,” he said.

  “Where is he?” I asked, again.

  “I do not know,” he said.

  Four Ehn or so passed.

  I looked up, frightened.

  “Do not move!” he said.

  There was a blast of wind which shook the brush about us. The great bird had descended, not yards from us, on the beach.

  I had never been this close to a tarn before, not even on the training field east of Tarncamp, en route to Shipcamp. How small the man appeared next to this terrible, winged monster, its broad wings restless, its head, with its fearful beak, high above the beach, moving alertly about, the large, wicked, round, shining, black eyes.

  The rider descended the mounting ladder, and looked about himself, warily.

  I saw my master half rise, and his hand drawn back, the knife held lightly by its tip. The usual cast with such a knife is overhand, with a powerful snap of the wrist. But the distance, I feared, was much too far for either accuracy or a suitable penetration. The men near the dock, who played the knife game, sometimes gambling on its outcome, threw not even half the distance.

  “He does not wear the gray of the Pani’s cavalry,” I said.

  “He would be of the cavalry, but not on the cavalry’s business,” said my master.

  “On whose business then?” I asked.

  “On that of the Shipcamp conspirators,” said my master. “Better then that the uniform not be worn.”

  “What is he doing?” I asked.

  “I fear,” said my master, “searching for me. It is I who carry the live ost in my hand.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  The tarnsman made his way to the two small boats tied up on the beach. He examined them, but, one supposes, found them of little interest, two boats left there, apparently abandoned on the beach. He did lift and cast aside the tarpaulin which had been in the boat brought by Axel, which had covered the unconscious form of Asperiche. He then threw three oars out into the river, and, with the remaining oar, punched an opening in the bottom of each boat, following which he thrust them out into the current, and then hurled the last oar after them. He then turned about, and, again, regarded the beach, east and west, and then, again, he looked out, into the brush, to the south.

  I muchly feared he would see us.

  “We should have freed the boats,” said my master.

  “They would seem abandoned,” I said. “They lack goods, and supplies; they give no indication of preparation for flight.”

  “Let us hope he judges the matter so,” he said.

  “Do you recognize him?” I asked.

  “No,” said my master, “but I fear it is a man of Tyrtaios.”

  I shuddered. “I have heard him spoken of,” I said. Men usually spoke of him in whispers.

  “My absence on the great ship may have been noted,” he said.

  “Surely not so soon,” I said.

  The tarnsman then climbed the mounting ladder, and drew it up, fastening it in its place.

  He gave one last, long, sweeping glance about him.

  “What a fool I am,” whispered my master.

  “My master is no fool,” I said. I had long sensed he was a man not only of formidable size and strength, and virility, and desire, but of formidable intellect, as well. I would have been frightened to lie to him, not simply because I was a slave but because I had the sense I would be helplessly transparent to him, that he could simply look through me and immediately discern in me the least particle of deceit or dissimulation. Also, he might, without a second thought, put the liar’s brand in my thigh, marking me as a mendacious kajira.

  The tarnsman drew on one of the straps, threaded through its ring, and the huge bird screamed, and smote the air with those great wings, scattering sand and pebbles about, and was into the air, low, several feet over the river.

  “No,” said my master, “a fool! Did you not see he carried, slung at the saddle, a crossbow, and quarrels?”

  “I did not notice,” I said.

  “If our tarnsmen had been about,” he said, “that fellow could not have come within fifty pasangs of Shipcamp. He would have been slain over the forest or the river.”

  “I do not understand,” I said.

  “Our tarnsmen,” he said, “are differently armed. They carry the short, horn-reinforced saddle bow. It is a powerful bow, capable of rapid fire, like any string bow, and is designed for use from a saddle, which it may easily clear, from any side, or front and back.”

  “I did notice,” I said, “the broad leather pad before the saddle, and the rings at the saddle’s side.”

  “What do you think they are for, pretty barbarian?” he asked.

  “I do not know, Master,” I said.

  “The pad,” he said, “is useful for stretching a stripped captive over, on her back, belly up, her wrists crossed and tied to a ring on one side of the saddle, and her ankles crossed and tied to a ring on the other side.”

  “I see,” I said, uneasily.

  “She may then, in the leisure of flight, if the tarnsman wishes, be caressed into submission.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “At the conclusion of the flight,” he said, “she is ready for the iron.”

  “Doubtless,” I said.

  “And the rings on the side of the saddle,” he said, “and they are on both sides, are useful for tying stripped women.”

  “I see,” I said.

  “It is not unusual for tarnsmen to raid for females,” he said.

  “To be made slaves?” I said.

  “Certainly,” he said, “is that not what females are for?”

  “Some, at least,” I said, “surely.”

  “Such as you,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” I said, “such as I.” Even as a young girl, I had longed for a master, and the chains of a slave.

  “I am pleased,” I said, “that the tarnsman withdrew.”

  “And I, as well,” he said.

  “You were too far away to strike him,” I said. “You would have had to rush upon him, sword drawn, and hope he had no time to react.”

  “I had the knife,” he said, puzzled.

  “I have seen the men play by the dock,” I said. “He was too far away, and the penetration, at the distance, would be insufficient, even if the blade reached him.”

  “I had no idea,” he said, “that you understood so much of these things.”

  “I watched,” I said.

  “And now,” he said, “you will watch again.”

  “Master?” I said.

  “Stand before that tree,” he said, “face me, and do not move.”

  “This tree?” I said, uneasily.

  “That will do,” he said.

  “Should I not face the tree,” I asked, “and my arms be bound about it, that I may be conveniently whipped?”

  “You are not to be whipped, kajira,” he said, “at least not at the moment, however richly your smooth skin invites the lash.”

  “What is Master going to do?” I asked.

  He strode away from me.

  “Am I as far now,” he called, “as was the tarnsman on the beach?”

  “Farther,” I called back. “What is Master going to do?”

  He slipped his dagger from the sheath.

  “Do not, Master!” I cried.

  “Do not fear,” he said. “How could the blade even reach you from this far, and, if it could, how could it produce an efficient wound?”

  I saw his hand draw back.

  “Do not!” I cried.

  “Remain in place,” he said. “Do not move. You are in no danger, unless you move.”

  “Please, no, Master!” I called.

  “The blade,” he said, “will enter the wood three to five horts from your throat, on the left. If it is easier, close your eyes.”

  I closed my eyes, trembling. It seemed I ha
d them closed for a long time, though I would suppose the interval was actually quite short. I had just decided that he, mercifully, had decided not to cast the knife after all, when there was, close, to my left, at the level of my throat, a sudden, firm, unmistakable sound, like the slap of metal driven into wood, followed by the tremor of a briefly quivering blade.

  I opened my eyes just long enough to catch sight of the handle still vibrating, a hand’s breadth from my throat, and then, I fear, I slumped into unconsciousness at the foot of the tree.

  Chapter Fifty-Three

  “It is my hope,” I said, “that Master’s slave has pleased him.”

  “In two days,” he said, “we should reach the Laurius. We will avoid Laura, for I fear partisans may linger there. We will cross the Laurius by ferry, inconspicuously with others, at one point or other, and continue south, eventually to reach the Vosk, following which we will seek Victoria.”

  I was on my master’s blanket. My left ankle was shackled, and a light chain ran from the shackle ring to a small tree, about which it was locked. I was naked, as my master commonly kept me.

  “Is Victoria not a market town,” I said, “a major market for slaves, wholesale and retail? Are not many slaves disposed of there? Do not buyers come there, even from far beyond the Vosk basin?”

  “It is the major slave market on the Vosk,” he said.

  “A slave is uneasy,” I said.

  “As well she might be,” he said.

  “I have tried to be pleasing to my master,” I said.

  “Of course,” he said, “you are a slave.”

  “I gather,” I said, “you are in need of funds, and have little to sell.”

  “I have you, of course,” he said.

  “A slave is well aware of that,” I said.

  “Do you know what this is?” he asked.

  He had drawn a yellow disk from his wallet, which was as large as his palm.

  “It is like a coin,” I said, “but it is too large.”

  He held it toward me.

  “May I touch it?” I asked, warily.

  “Take it,” he said.

  “It is heavy,” I said.

  “It is a coin,” he said. “It is gold, a double tarn, from the mint of the state of Ar.”

  He held out his hand, and I hastily, with relief, returned the coin. “It must be valuable,” I said.