by John Norman
Although, as I have suggested, she was not unattractive, it must be understood that this was in an Earth sort of way, the way in which many Earth females may be accounted attractive, attractive more in the sense of what they might become, how perhaps they might be, rather than in the sense of what they currently are. By this I mean, despite certain suitabilities of face and figure, she had something of the tightness, the apparent inhibitions, the uncertainties, and confusions, masked with the compensatory arrogance, nastiness, and insolence, of many Earth females, afflicted with the customary ambivalences toward their sex, comprehensible enough, one supposes, given their backgrounds, educations, and conditionings, their subjection to an environment seemingly engineered to produce, depending on a variety of circumstances, and the person, symptoms or tortures ranging from anxiety and neurosis to ill temper, misery, nastiness, pettiness, boredom, and depression.
“The soup is hot,” said Constantina. “Surely you can tell that, stupid slave. Hurry, wrap the tabuk strips on their skewers, and put them to the fire. Are the suls and turpah ready?”
“If my eyes do not deceive me,” said Cecily, testily, “my neck is not the only neck which is encircled with a slave band.”
Constantina drew back her hand, as though to strike Cecily, but she stopped, suddenly, angrily, as Cecily, eyes flashing, was clearly prepared to return the blow, or worse. Fights amongst slave girls can be very disagreeable, with rolling about, clawing, biting, scratching, and such. One is reminded somewhat of the altercations that sometimes take place between sleen, in territorial disputes, mate competition, the contesting of a kill, and so on. In such frays, in the tangling, snarling, twisting, and swirling about, it is sometimes difficult to tell where one beast leaves off and the other begins. It can be worth an arm to try to separate fighting sleen.
“Why not have her serve naked,” said Constantina. “Is that not commonly done with collared sluts?”
“Why not have them both serve naked?” I suggested.
Constantina turned white. Had she never served so, humbly, hoping to please, fearing the switch if she did not?
“No, no,” said Pertinax, soothingly.
Constantina’s color returned. She seemed shaken. I found this of interest. Did she not know that, as a slave, she was a domestic animal, as much as a verr or tarsk, and was not permitted modesty?
Cecily seemed pleased at this slight turn of events.
Constantina’s hair was blonde and her eyes were blue. Cecily was a dark-eyed brunette. Constantina’s hair was longer than Cecily’s hair, and Constantina was a bit taller than Cecily, and a bit thinner than Cecily. Both would look well at the end of a man’s chain. I supposed Constantina’s hair must be a natural blonde, as Goreans tend to be very strict about such things. Few slavers will try to pass off a girl as being, say, blonde or auburn-haired, if that is not the natural hair color of the slave. In some cases their stock has been confiscated by the city and their establishment burned to the ground. If a girl with dyed hair is brought to Gor her head is normally shaved in the pens, that it may grow back in its natural color. Most slaves, like Cecily, are brunette, except in the north, where blondes are more common. I wondered if Constantina had been purchased in the light of someone’s notion of what might constitute an attractive slave. If this were the case, I was surprised an auburn-haired girl had not been chosen, as auburn hair tends to be prized in most markets. I wondered if Constantina’s buyer had been aware of that. To be sure, he might have found such women appealing, blondes, personally, for some reason. There is a supposition amongst some buyers that blonde slaves tend to be more sexually inert, and less pathetically needful in the furs, than dark-haired slaves, but this supposition is mistaken. Whatever the case may be initially, once the slave fires have been lit in a woman’s belly, whatever her coloring, and such, you have a slave at your feet. The blonde can whimper, beg, and crawl as needfully as any other slave.
It is pleasant to have women so, at one’s feet.
To be sure, a woman whose slave fires have not been ignited may have little understanding of this sort of thing, little understanding of the needs, sensations, miseries, and torments to which their embonded sisters are subject.
It is little wonder then that free women commonly hold female slaves in contempt, despising them for their needs.
How weak they are, they think.
But how alive they actually are!
And how the free woman, fearing to explore the edges of her consciousness, uneasily, perhaps angrily, perhaps inconsolably, senses how much she is missing, herself, to be found only in the arms of a dominant male, a master!
I glanced about the hut. I saw no slave whip on its convenient peg. This seemed an odd omission in a Gorean dwelling, at least one in which there was a slave, or slaves. It is not that the whip is often used. Indeed, normally, it is seldom, if ever, used, for there is no call for it. The girl knows it will be used if she is in the least bit displeasing, and so there is seldom a call for it. That it is there, and it will be used, if the master sees fit, is usually all that is necessary to keep it securely on its peg.
I had the sense that his slave, Constantina, was surly. It was almost as though she were distempered, to be expected to attend to her duties. I wondered if she attended to the hut, the firewood, and such, at all. Did Pertinax himself, our supposed forester, attend to such things? Were there other slaves about?
“I suppose,” I said to Pertinax, “you obtain little news here, so far from Port Kar.”
“One hears things occasionally,” he said. “Transients, like yourself, a coastal peddler, the arrival twice yearly of an inspector and scribe, to review the trees, to inventory the reserves.”
“You suggested earlier,” I said, “that things might have changed in Ar?”
“Did I?” he asked.
“I think so,” I said.
“A surmise,” he said, “based on the appearance of many intruders.”
“Surely harvesters, loggers, and such, come occasionally to cull the forests.”
“Of course,” he said, uneasily I thought.
“When will they be due?” I asked.
“One does not know,” he said. “It is intermittent, depending on the needs of the arsenal, of the fleet.”
“The fellows who disembarked from the ship,” I said, “did not seem harvesters, loggers, or such.”
“No,” he said. “Not they.”
“Who are they?” I asked. “What is their business?”
“I do not know,” he said.
“The logs must be taken to the coast, for shipment,” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“I saw no track amidst the trees, no road,” I said.
“It is elsewhere,” he said.
“I saw no stables for draft tharlarion,” I said.
“They are elsewhere,” he said.
“I am surprised there are no crews here, sawyers and carpenters, to dress and shape the wood, to cut planks and joints, such things.”
“It is not the season,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
I had then more evidence that our friend, Pertinax, and perhaps his slave, Constantina, were not what they pretended to be. For one who did not know the ways of Port Kar, it would be a natural assumption, one I pretended to make, that dressing crews would shape and plank a great deal of the wood before shipping it to the south. Indeed, I had often thought that that would be a sensible practice. On the other hand, the artisans of the arsenal, under the command of the master shipwrights, attended to these matters in the arsenal itself. The rationale for this, as it had been explained to me, was that each mast, each strake, each plank, each article of the ship, was to be shaped and customized under the supervision of the arsenal’s naval architects. Accordingly, it would be rare, if it was allowed at all, given the practices of Port Kar, and perhaps the vanity and arrogance of her craftsmen, intending to control to the greatest extent possible every detail of their work, to allow th
is carpentry to take place in a remote venue in which they had no direct supervision.
I would learn later, however, something earlier suspected, that something along these lines was taking place within the forest itself, outside the reserves, some pasangs to the south.
It had to do with the intruders, and the river, the Alexandra.
And it had little to do, I conjectured, even then, with the reserves of Port Kar and the needs of her arsenal.
“Foresters,” I said, “normally cluster their huts, in small palisaded enclaves, but I saw no other huts here, nor a palisade.”
Constantina cast a swift glance at me, and Pertinax looked down.
“The village is elsewhere,” he said. “This is an outpost hut, near the coast, where we may watch for round ships.”
“I see,” I said.
The “round ships” are cargo ships.
The Gorean “round ship” is not round, of course, though the Gorean would translate as I have it. It is merely that the ratio of keel to beam is greater in the long ship, or ship of war, more length of keel to width of beam, than in the “round ship.”
The round ship is designed for the carrying of cargo. The long ship is designed for speed and maneuverability. It is like a knife in the water.
“You are of the warriors, I take it,” said Pertinax.
“Why should you think so?” I asked.
“You carry yourself as a warrior,” said Pertinax. “Also, your weapon seems such as theirs.”
It was the Gorean short sword, or gladius, light, easily unsheathed, convenient, designed for wickedly close work, to move behind the guard of longer, heavier weapons, to slip about buffeted shields or bucklers. It was pointed for thrusting, double-edged for slashing. Lifted and shaken it could part silk.
“I have fought,” I said.
“You could be a mercenary,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But I think you are of the warriors,” he said.
“Perhaps of the assassins,” I said.
“You do not have the eyes of an assassin,” he said.
“What sort of eyes are those?” I asked.
“Those of a fee killer, an assassin,” he said.
“I see,” I said.
“You are a tarnsman, are you not?” asked Pertinax.
“I have not said so,” I said.
“But you are, are you not?”
“I have ridden,” I said.
“Those who know the tarn are not as other men,” he said.
“They are as other men,” I said. “It is merely that they have learned the tarn.”
“Then they are different afterwards,” he said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“If they have survived,” he said.
“Yes,” I said.
Many have died learning the tarn. The tarn is a dangerous bird, aggressive, carnivorous, often treacherous. The wingspan of many tarns is in the neighborhood of forty feet. Humans are small beside them. Many human beings will not approach them. It, like many wild beasts, can sense fear, and that stimulates its aggression. In facing a tarn a human being has little but will to place between himself and the beak and talons. To be sure many tarns are domesticated, so to speak, raised from the egg in the vicinity of humans, taught to expect their food from them, accustomed to harnessing from the age of the chick, and so on. In the past domestic tarns were sometimes freed, to hunt in the wild, and later to return to their cots, sometimes to the blasts of the tarn whistle. That is seldom done now. A hungry tarn is quite dangerous, you see, and the reed of its domesticity is fragile. There is no assurance that its strike will be directed on a tabuk or wild tarsk, or verr. Too, it is not unknown for such tarns to revert, so to speak. I think no tarn is that far from the wild. In their blood, it is said, are the wind and the sky.
I thought of a tarn once known, a sable monster, whose challenge scream could be heard for pasangs, Ubar of the Skies.
There had been a woman, Elizabeth Cardwell, whom I, for her own good, had hoped to rescue from the perils of Gor, and return to Earth, but she had fled with the tarn, to escape that fate. When the tarn returned I drove him away in a foolish rage. I had encountered the tarn again, years later, in the Barrens, and we had again been one, but at the end of local wars I had freed him again, that he might again take his place as the master of a mighty flock, that he might be again awing in broad, lonely skies, be again a prince amongst clouds, a lord amongst winds, that he might be again regent and king ruling over the vast grasslands he surveyed.
The woman, predictably, had fallen slave.
Encountering her I had left her slave.
I had encountered her again, later, in the Tahari.
Once, I would have given her the gift of Earth, returning her to the liberties, such as they are, of her native world, but she had fled. She had chosen Gor. It had been her choice.
Where was she now?
She was now in a collar, where she belonged.
I supposed I should sell her, perhaps to the mercy of Cosians, or into the beaded leather collars of the Barrens, or perhaps south to Schendi. Those of the Barrens and Schendi know well what to do with white female slaves.
She had made her choice.
She had wagered. She had lost.
She looked well, as other women, in her collar.
“But you are a tarnsman, are you not?” persisted Pertinax.
“I have ridden,” I said. I was not clear why this might be important to him.
“I think the tabuk strips, the suls and turpah, the soup, all, must be ready,” said Pertinax. “Let us have supper.”
The hut was now redolent with the odors of which, for a forester, at least, must have seemed a feast.
“There is paga,” said Pertinax.
“Of the brewery of Temus of Ar?” I asked.
“Yes,” said Pertinax.
“It must be rare in the forests,” I said.
“Yes,” said Pertinax.
“It is my favorite,” I said.
“I am glad to hear it,” said Pertinax.
“Serve the men, slave,” said Constantina.
Cecily looked at her, startled.
“Surely you will both serve,” I said.
“He is right,” said Pertinax, cautiously. It seemed he might be afraid to incur the displeasure of the slave.
Angrily, Constantina went to the side to fetch trenchers and utensils, to assist Cecily, who was already, ladle in hand, at the kettle, apportioning servings into two bowls, forward. Two other bowls were in the background, which might do for the slaves, later, were they given permission to eat. The first food or drink is always taken by the master, but, commonly, following this, the slave receives permission to share in the meal.
Cecily, kneeling, head down, placed one of the bowls before Pertinax, which was proper, as he was the host. I was then similarly served.
Constantina, irritably, was placing food on the trenchers, flinging it onto the simple, wooden surfaces. I noted that she was sharing out, already, four trenchers. How did she know she would be given permission to eat? I noticed she put very little on one of the trenchers. I supposed that was the one for Cecily. This irritated me. Cecily after all, was the slave of a guest. I don’t think Cecily noticed, at the time. She did later.
“You have a Home Stone here somewhere?” I said to Pertinax. Usually the Home Stone is displayed in a place of honor. I did not, however, detect its presence. In his own hut, if it has a Home Stone, it is said that even a beggar is a Ubar.
“This is an outpost hut,” said Pertinax, “a temporary place, a mere domicile of convenience. I have no Home Stone here.”
“But elsewhere?”
“My Home Stone,” he said, “is the Home Stone of Port Kar.”
“Of course,” I said.
I noted Constantina take a bit of meat from one of the trenchers, presumably her own. Cecily had carefully, earlier, removed the tabuk strips from their skewers and had laid them on a plate
to the side. From that location Constantina had selected hers, and later, those for others. The suls and turpah, too, had been put to the side, for servicing onto the trenchers.
Constantina must have noticed my eyes on her. She put down her trencher, on a small stand to the side, and, bending down, handed a trencher to Pertinax.
“Thank you,” he said.
That was interesting, I thought. He had thanked one who was merely a slave.
She then fetched another trencher, mine, it seems, and brought it to my place, and, bending down, put it toward me, for me to take it. I did not, however, take it.
She looked at me, puzzled, irritated.
“On your knees,” I said to her, unpleasantly.
She cast me a look of fury.
“Kneel,” I said to her.
She looked at Pertinax, angrily, but he merely smiled.
“Now,” I said.
Angrily she knelt beside me, clutching the trencher. Her knuckles were white.
I had repeated a command. It should not be necessary to do that. Such is cause for discipline. Cecily looked frightened. Slaves, of course, are to obey immediately, and unquestioningly. Exceptions to this practice should occur only if the slave has not heard the command or does not understand it. If the masters should ask, “Must a command be repeated?” the slave knows that she is in jeopardy; at the least, the master is thinking, “Whip.” At such a point, the slave will doubtless do her best to make it clear to the master, honestly, that she did not hear the command or does not understand it. “Please be merciful, Master,” she might plead. “I did not hear Master.” Or, say, “Your girl desires to please, but she does not understand what she is to do. Please tell her, Master.” The girl might, of course, honestly suspect that the master did not say himself as he intended. An inquiry in such a case, is simple, and should clarify matters. She might, of course, beg permission to speak, and attempt to discuss or review the command, perhaps if she fears the command might have been ill considered, perhaps contrary to the master’s own best interests. For example, it would not be regarded, or, perhaps better, should not be regarded, as a breach of discipline if the slave were to remonstrate against, or at least question, the advisability of a master’s putting his own life or welfare in jeopardy. Few slaves will happily bring a master his cloak if he is in no condition to walk the high bridges, or, more dangerously, enter for some reason unarmed amongst enemies. In the end, of course, the master’s will is definitive. It is for the slave to hear and obey. In all such matters, ideally, however, common sense and judgment should hold sway.