by John Norman
"Yes, I shall tell," said the silk slave.
One of the girls was looking at me. She was small, slender-legged and exquisite. She was collared. The short, loose silk she wore was hitched high, at her left hip. She was chained by the neck, in one of two eleven-girl coffles, between two other girls, each coffle chained separately to a bar at the back of the palanquin. Her hands, like those of the other girls, were fastened behind her back.
I shook with emotion. I had never realized she could be so beautiful.
She was looking at me.
Slowly, trembling, heart pounding, I moved toward her.
"Come back," called the silk slave. "Stay at the wall! I will tell! I will tell!"
I approached the girl. The masters did not notice, for they were in converse. Some servants, too, were speaking together, near the palanquins. Neither did they notice.
Then I stood before her. Her eyes were regarding me with horror. She stepped back, in the chain.
"I did not think I would ever see you again," I said.
She did not speak.
I looked at her fair, white throat; it was lovely and delicate; it wore, snugly, locked on it, the circlet of bondage.
"That girl," she said. "You raped her."
I stepped back from the girl, to look upon her. I could scarcely believe my eyes.
"Please," she said.
Objectively, I suppose, she was no more beautiful than thousands of other girls, but to me she was the most exciting woman I had ever seen.
"Please," she said.
I examined, with wonder and pleasure, the girl who stood before me, her small feet, bare, and trim ankles, her calves and thighs, the delicious curves of her body in the loose, scant silk, the loveliness of her slender throat, locked in its collar, the delicacy and beauty of her features, the loveliness of her eyes, sensitive and vulnerable, and the marvels of her dark hair, grown longer now, tied back with a silk ribbon.
"Please," she said, "do not look at me like that."
"Are you branded?" I asked.
She turned her left side from me. She pulled at the bracelets which fastened her hands behind her back.
"Oh, how beautiful it is," I said, having stepped to her left. There, her tunic had been hitched up to her hip, presumably the better to expose her beauty and the mark which identified it as merely that of an item of merchandise.
"You raped that girl," she said.
It was hard for me to take my eyes off the beauty. Her thigh, I had noted, bore the common Kajira mark of Gor. She, I understood, in spite of her beauty to me, was only a common Kajira.
"Are you not pleased to see me?" I asked. It seemed to me incredible that she should not be pleased to see me.
"You raped that girl," she said, angrily.
"Not really," I said. "She was paying for a drink of water which I had brought to her."
"Beast," she said.
I said nothing for a moment.
I looked at her. She was in the nearest coffle of eleven girls, one of two coffles fastened to the bar at the back of the palanquin. She was the tenth girl in her coffle. The coffle chain had its own collars, rounded and rather loose, which lay below the common collars of the girls; they could not, of course, be slipped. They were similar to what I have learned are called Turian collars.
"You are very beautiful," I said. I stood more closely to her.
She tossed her head. "Doubtless did you have me at a similar disadvantage," she said, "I would have been subjected to the same treatment."
I put my hands on her tunic. It had parted somewhat, apparently, in her walking, following the palanquin. Her hands fastened as they were, behind her, she could not draw the garment closed. Briefly I wanted to rip it down from her shoulders. She was woman enough to understand this. She shuddered. Then I drew it together more closely, that the loveliness of her small breasts might be the better concealed.
"You would strip and rape me on the street, if you could, wouldn't you?" she asked.
I wanted to take her in my arms. But I did not know, truly, she fastened as she was, how to do this. Secured as she was she could be taken in one's arms only as a captive or slave girl. That, of course, scarcely seemed proper in the context.
"Wouldn't you?" she asked.
"No," I said, "of course not."
"Oh," she said.
"You are not a Gorean girl," I said.
"That is true," she said.
I looked down at her. "You are looking quite well," I said. It was true. I had never seen her before looking so relaxed and beautiful. And yet she stood before me, helpless in chains. Slavery, of course, reduces tensions in a woman.
"You are looking well yourself," she said.
"I see that you are a display item," I said.
"Yes," she smiled.
"If I owned you, I would show you off, too," I said.
"Beast," she smiled.
"You are wearing a white ribbon," I said.
"So are you," she said.
"I am not white silk," I smiled.
"The ribbon is only to match my tunic," she said. "I am not truly white silk."
"Do you wish to speak in English?" I asked. "Would it be easier?"
She looked about, uneasily. The other girls were not paying us attention. "No," she said, continuing in Gorean. We had both spoken, naturally, in the language of our masters. Masters do not care to hear slaves speak in tongues they do not understand. The slave learns the language of the owner, and learns it well. Her Gorean was quite good. Mine, I thought, was better. Surprisingly, perhaps, we had spoken together in Gorean without really considering the matter. I do not think this was simply because we feared to irritate or offend passing Goreans, who tend to view languages other than their own as barbarous, or because slaves are expected to use a speech intelligible to their masters, but because, for most practical purposes, Gorean had become our language. I am sure, however, we could have conversed readily in English, had we so chosen. After a brief period of readjustment we would have become again at ease in it.
"I was white silk on Earth," she said.
"I did not know that," I said.
"It is scarcely the sort of thing a girl publicly discusses on Earth," she said.
"I suppose not," I said. Such information, of course, would be publicly brandished to buyers in a slave market. "Who first took you?" I asked.
"I do not know," she said. "I was hooded and thrown naked to keepers. I was raped and handed about, passed from brute to brute. They did with me what they pleased."
"I understand," I said. Her ravishing would have been thorough, accomplished by Gorean men. I looked at her. She was beautiful. I envied the brutes who had enjoyed her.
"I was then," she said, "though a girl of Earth, ready to be trained as a slave."
"Of course," I said. I did not press her on the nature of her training.
"I was trained in the House of Andronicus," she said, "and sold in Vonda."
"I, too, was in the House of Andronicus," I said. "I was later purchased by Tima, a slaver, mistress of the House of Tima. I was sold from the market of Tima. That is also in Vonda." I looked at her. "Were you naked, and auctioned?" I asked.
"Yes," she said. "And you?"
"I, too," I said.
She shrugged. "We are only slaves," she said. I looked at her. I realized she had been trained to give pleasure to men. She was beautiful. She would do it well. This pleased me. I envied the lazy brute in the palanquin who owned her. I wished that I owned her. But, of course, I reminded myself, she was not a Gorean girl. She was of Earth.
"You there!" I heard. "What are you doing there?"
I backed quickly away from the, girl. I turned. I saw one of the servants, near the side of the palanquin, with a whip, gesture me angrily away. Then he turned again to talk with his fellows.
"Who is your master?" I called to the girl.
She looked at me, frightened, and now stood very straight, facing the back of the palanquin.
&nbs
p; "Fearful slave," I said, angrily. She was afraid to speak.
"To whom do you belong?" asked a blond girl, she who was last in the coffle line.
"My Mistress is the Lady Florence of Vonda," I said.
"You belong to a woman?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I do not believe it," she said.
"It is true," I said.
"You are a silk slave?" she asked.
"Yes," I said.
"I was once free," she said. She shrugged her shoulders, moving her wrists in the bracelets.
"Now you serve men well," I said.
"Of course," she said.
"Who owns you?" I asked.
"Beware," she said. "Strabar is coming!"
"Stand where you are!" I heard.
I turned about. The servant, with his whip, approached me. He stopped some dozen feet or so from me. "Do not move," he said.
I stood still.
He turned to the girls. "Which of you wenches dared to speak to this slave?" he asked.
The girls were silent.
"It was this one, wasn't it?" he grinned, touching the small, exquisite, dark-haired girl with whom I had been engaged in converse with his whip. She shuddered.
"It was she whom I accosted," I said. "If there is blame here, it is mine, not hers."
"Bold slave," he smiled.
"We are of the world called Earth," I said to him. "We knew one another there."
"It is not permitted for you to speak to her," he said.
"I did not know," I said. "I am sorry, Master."
He regarded me. Then he looked again at the girl. "She is a pretty one, isn't she?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Remain where you are," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said. I was puzzled that he had, originally, ordered me to stand, rather than kneel. The day was hot, of course. Perhaps he did not feel like beating me. Too, he did not seem too bad a fellow. I noted that I had now come to the attention of the two men in the palanquins. This made me somewhat uneasy. Then I saw the draft slaves turning about and both of the palanquins were borne near to me. Then, at a gesture from the masters, the palanquins were lowered to the ground. The draft slaves, who were not chained, then stood free. I found myself, thus, in the center of several individuals, the men in the palanquins, various servants, the slave girls, and the draft slaves. Too, some passers-by stopped to see what would occur.
"Who owns you?" asked one of the men in the palanquins, that behind which, with other girls, was chained the girl with whom I had been in converse.
I knelt. He was clearly a master. "The Lady Florence of Vonda is my mistress, Master," I said.
He gestured that I should rise. He took from a tiny box attached to the interior of the palanquin a circular glass mounted on a pearled wand. He then looked back at the girls chained behind his palanquin. He examined the girl with the glass, she to whom I had been talking. "Did you know that girl on your own world?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Was she free there?" he asked.
"Yes, Master," I said.
"Look upon her now," he said.
I did so.
"She is now a slave," he said.
"Yes, Master," I said.
The girl shrank back, suddenly, in her chains, and gasped. She looked at me in fear. I licked my lips. Then I shook my head, to clear it of the way in which I had suddenly, for an instant, seen her. I had seen her, in that instant, not in wonder and pleasure, as I had before, but from the point of view of uncompromising manhood, in triumph and pleasure, as the most suitable and fit object possible for the exercise of masculine power and desire, as what she now was, and only was, a beautiful female slave.
The masters, and the servants, laughed. Even some of the draft slaves laughed. The girl was sobbing. Again I shook my head, to clear away the violent and exciting memory, that recollection of the instant in which I had seen the girl as what she now was, and only was, a slave. It struck me with incredible force that not only could she be owned, but that she was owned, literally. When I had looked at the girl several of the other girls had quickly sucked in their breath. The breasts of some were rising and falling with excitement. The bodies of others, in their brief tunics, had blushed crimson. I saw more than one girl looking at me. Doubtless they, too, from time to time, here and there, had been looked upon honestly, as slave females.
"Did you see that?" asked one of the men in the palanquins, he whom I took to be the girl's owner, to his friend.
"Yes," said the other.
I blushed in shame, that I had, though only for an instant, looked upon the girl as a slave. How shamed, and offended, she must have been! But, of course, she now was a slave, only a slave.
"Granus, Turus," said the man in the palanquin, that to which the girls' coffle was chained.
I looked to the girl, but she would not meet my gaze. How sorry I was then that I had looked upon her as might have a Gorean male. She was not a Gorean girl. She was of Earth. Did I not know that? Yet she was surely beautiful, and a legally imbonded slave.
I heard a grunt near me. I spun about. A fist struck me in the side of the head. Then I was kicked, and punched in the side. I gasped, stumbling back. Two of the draft slaves were upon me, pounding and kicking. I rolled under one of them, and leaped to my feet, bloody.
"Granus struck him a goodly blow," said someone.
"I saw," said another.
"And he is again on his feet," observed another.
"Interesting," said someone.
"He is a strong fellow," said another.
I wiped blood from the side of my head. I stood, unsteadily.
The man in the palanquin gestured toward me with his glass, that on the pearled wand.
The first of the two draft slaves again approached me, his great fists balled into hammer-like weapons. "When I strike you again," he said, "do not get up. It will be enough for the masters."
I gasped for breath.
Then he lunged toward me. I tried to defend myself. His left fist struck into my stomach, doubling me over, and then his right fist struck me against the left side of the face. I sprawled sideways, losing my footing, slipping to the stones. I was half kneeling, half lying, on the stones.
The draft slave turned away from me.
"Look," called someone. "He is on his feet again!"
I stood, unsteadily.
The draft slave, he whom I took to be Granus, turned again, surprised, to face me. He and his fellow looked at one another.
"Run," said the servant, the fellow with the whip, who stood near to me. "Run."
I saw that none blocked my alley of retreat. "No," I said.
"It is a fight!" called someone, excitedly.
Again the fellow in the palanquin indicated me, bemused, with the glass on the pearled wand.
Again the large draft slave lunged toward me. Twice more, brutally, he struck me, as I stumbled backward, and then I had seized him, holding him, trying to clear my head, trying not to let him gain again the leverage to strike such telling blows. I heard him grunt. My arms were tightening on him. I began to bend him backwards. There was blood on his body then, mine, and on my tunic. "No," he grunted. Suddenly I saw he was frightened. Further I pressed him backward. Then, suddenly, terrified, I realized what I might do to him.
"Stop!" called the man with the whip.
I let the draft slave fall. His back had not been broken. I knew nothing of fighting, but I had discovered, it frightening me, that there was in me, somehow, strength which I had not understood. I recalled lifting the bench in the cell in the House of Andronicus. The exercises and the physical trainings to which I had been subjected there I had, not really thinking about it, kept up.
"Are you a fighting slave?" asked someone.
"No," I said.
The man with the whip looked to the man in the palanquin. "Interesting," said the man in the palanquin.
"Is it enough?" asked the man with th
e whip.
"Yes," said the man in the palanquin. I suddenly realized that he did not wish to risk a slave.
The man in the palanquin lifted the glass on the pearled wand and, again, the draft slaves took their places. The man with the whip joined other servants beside the palanquin. In a moment the two palanquins, with their respective retinues, were taking their respective departures. I stood, bloody, unsteadily, in the street.
The crowd dissipated.
Suddenly, angrily, I ran after the departing palanquin, that behind which the exquisite, dark-haired girl, she to whom I had been earlier speaking, was one of the chained, displayed beauties. I slipped, unnoticed by the man in the palanquin and his servants, behind the blond-haired girl, she who had told me she had once been free, who was the last in the right-hand coffle, that lovely string of chained women.
My hand closed on the back of the blond girl's neck.
She gasped, startled.
"Who is your master?" I asked.
"We are not permitted to speak in coffle," she said. "Oh!" she said. My hand had tightened on her neck.
"Who is your master?" I asked, walking behind her.
"Oneander of Ar," she said, "of the merchants. He does business in Vonda."
I did not release her neck.
"You are not a silk slave," she said, in pain, held.
"Oneander of Ar?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"Yes, what?" I asked. My grip tightened.
"Yes--Master!" she said. I released her, and she stumbled ahead, following in her place. She looked back, frightened. Then she again set her eyes ahead. She was not an Earth girl, of course. She was only a Gorean girl, and a slave, a woman fit to be done with as men please.
I walked to the side of the street, looking after the palanquin, with its attached coffles.
I knew I should return to the shop of Philebus. If my mistress emerged from the shop and I was not there, she would not be pleased. But, on an impulse. I followed, for a time, behind it and on its left, the double coffle.
Doubtless I attracted some attention, for I was bleeding and, as I discovered, the silk tunic I wore had been soiled from the street and torn at the left sleeve; too, it was stained with my blood; but no one said anything to me. Perhaps they were wary of one who looked as though he might be distraught, or dangerous.