Swordsmen of Gor cog[oc-29

by John Norman

  But the girls on the mats, of course, were not even accorded a slave strip. They were mat slaves, and bared suitably.

  Was her body not enough?

  In a sense, one supposed, surely, but, so far beyond that, so far indeed, were the fluidities and graces, the appetitions, the performances, the subtleties, the movements, the needs, the readinesses, the petitions, of the female slave!

  “In one sense,” I said, “your body is enough, and more than enough, but, in another sense, and one more important than that of brief, mindless couplings, that body is no more than a beginning, something needed, but something not enough in itself, something far from enough in itself.”

  “But, why, Master?” she asked.

  “Because you are no longer a free woman,” I said. “Because you are now a slave.”

  “I do not understand,” she whispered.

  “Because you are now a thousand times more female than before,” I said.

  “Master?” she said.

  “Because you are now a slave,” I said.

  “Have pity on me!” she wept.

  “Display yourself,” I said, “girl.”

  “I do not know how!” she said.

  “It is instinctual in you,” I said. “It is in your blood. You are a female.”

  “Do not so humiliate me!” she begged.

  “Begin,” said I, “slave.”

  “Yes,” she wept, “I am a slave!”

  “Now,” I said.

  “Yes, Master,” she wept.

  “Ah,” I said, “I see you have thought of these things before, perhaps in your dreams, perhaps in the secrecy of your boudoir, perhaps in your imaginings, perhaps in putting the loop of a strap about your left wrist, and, suddenly, dramatically, drawing it tight.”

  She sobbed.

  “Excellent,” I said. “It is a shapely limb, is it not? Would it not look well in an ankle shackle?”

  “Have mercy!” she begged.

  “You are well aware, are you not, of the weight of the chain on your collar, of the sound of its links, and how you are fastened to the floor ring, naked, before a male?”

  “Master!” she protested.

  “Continue,” I said.

  “Must I?” she said.

  “Now,” I said.

  “I was free,” she said. “You are making me behave as a slave!”

  “And how are you behaving?” I asked.

  “As a slave!” she said. “I am behaving as a slave!”

  “Is it not appropriate?” I asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Why?” I asked.

  “Because I am a slave!” she said.

  She collapsed to the mat, sobbing.

  “Kneel up,” I said to her, kindly. “You did well.”

  She then knelt before me.

  “Keep your knees together,” I advised her. I was, after all, only human. I then put the switch before her, and she leaned forward and, timidly, licked and kissed the supple leather implement.

  She looked up. “Have me,” she whispered. “Please.”

  There was a small stand, near the mat, in which a taper might be held.

  “As a free woman?” I asked.

  “No, Master,” she said, “as what I am, a slave.”

  I gathered she had often thought of what it might be, to be a slave in the arms of a master.

  “You are,” I said, “the former Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers.”

  She regarded me, terrified.

  “Do not deny it,” I said. “I know it is true.”

  “Do not kill me!” she begged.

  “That is not my intention,” I said.

  “You are of Ar?” she asked.

  “No,” I said.

  “You want me, for a bounty,” she said.

  I supposed there were bounties on certain citizens of Ar, who had managed to escape the wrath of vengeful crowds, the pursuits of licensed and unlicensed capture squads.

  “No,” I said. “And, as far as I know, there is no bounty on you.”

  “I saw my name on a proscription list, posted on the public boards,” she said.

  “I do not doubt it,” I said.

  “They want me, to kill me,” she said.

  “Perhaps in the heat of the moment,” I said. “But I would suppose, after a time, that their sense of vengeance would be more than satisfied if they found you wore a collar in the north. Indeed, I have learned from others that various women of your sort were merely publicly flogged and collared, some then to become state slaves, most to be sold out of the city, to be distributed with contempt amongst inferior markets.”

  “Does the proscription list not mean death?” she asked.

  “Strictly,” I said, “it means apprehension, but it is true, that it is commonly a warrant for death, certainly for males, and often for women, free women.”

  “They wanted our blood,” she said.

  “At the time, in the rage of the crowd, I do not doubt it,” I said. “But, now, you might rather be brought before a praetor, for the iron and the collar.”

  “Is that true?” she said.

  “I do not know,” I said. “We could always take you there, and see.”

  “No,” she said. “No!”

  I smiled.

  “I am not what I was,” she said. “The Kef has been fixed in my thigh, the steel is on my neck.”

  “It is true,” I said. “You are not what you were.”

  “I was not high amongst the Serisii,” she said. “I did not enter into their business. I was a lowly daughter, pampered and spoiled, given to a life of luxury and indolence! I had no control over the affairs of the house!”

  “But you bore the name,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I bore the name.”

  “But no longer,” I said.

  “No,” she said, “no longer.” This was true. There was no longer a Lady Portia Lia Serisia of Sun Gate Towers. She was gone. There was now, not even really in her place, only an animal, a lovely animal. As far as I knew Torgus had not even, as yet, seen fit to give her a name. She then regarded me, frightened. “You know me,” she said, “or who I was. What do you want of me? If you do not want my blood, or to bind me, and trade me for a bounty, what do you want? Why have you sought me out?”

  “No woman in a collar,” I said, “should be curious as to why a man might seek her out.”

  “No, no,” she said. “You want more.”

  “Perhaps I wish to buy you for a friend,” I suggested. I had, indeed, toyed with the idea of buying her for Pertinax. She was quite attractive. Might she not look well chained to his cot in the barracks? A strong man needs a slave, and is never content with less. Pertinax could certainly do worse than having his collar on one such as this.

  She looked at me, frightened. I think it had not really occurred to her, other than as an abstract possibility, that she might be simply purchased and given to someone.

  “Buy me?” she said, weakly.

  “Yes, like a kaiila or tarsk,” I said.

  “And then I would belong to another?”

  “Of course,” I said.

  “No,” she said. “There is something else, and I am frightened.” She looked up, blinking against the light of the taper. “What is it?” she asked.

  “I want to speak to you,” I said. “I will question you. I want information.”

  “I know nothing,” she said. “I am naked. I am on a chain. I am a slave.”

  “The Serisii were high in Ar,” I said, “close to the throne. You, and others, sought escape from the city. Plans must have been laid against such eventualities as the rising. You must have heard one thing or another.”

  “Master?” she said.

  “What of Seremides?” I asked. “He was powerful in Ar, a deputy, so to speak, of Myron, the polemarkos.”

  “Surely he was apprehended and impaled,” she said.

  “I have not heard so,” I said. A capture and impalement
of such consequence would surely have been noted, and broadcast, I thought, throughout a dozen cities and a hundred camps.

  The slave was silent.

  “You have heard nothing?” I said.

  “Nothing,” she said.

  Too, I thought his capture would be a coup of considerable dimension, and one whose fame would be soon registered on the public boards of a dozen cities, whispered about a thousand campfires, even as far north as the forests, but, here, too, I had, as yet, heard nothing.

  “Were you,” I asked, “as a scion of the Serisii, a confidante of the Ubara?”

  “Surely not, Master,” she said. “But, as of the Serisii, whose fortunes were closely intertwined with those of Cos and Tyros, I, and others, were often entertained in the Central Cylinder.”

  “What was the nature of these entertainments?” I inquired.

  “They were not unusual,” she said, “for the occupation. There were exquisite feasts from the largesse of Ar. While some in the streets hunted urts to live, we enjoyed the most delicate of a hundred viands, the richness of a hundred rare wines. The foremost poets of the city sang their works for us. The preeminent musicians, of those who remained within the walls, played for us. Theatricals were staged. Acrobats and jugglers were engaged. Former free women of Ar, collared, but decorously attired, served the tables. Sometimes slaves were brought in, to dance for us, though probably, in particular, for the men, officers of Tyros and Cos, mercenary captains, bankers, such as the Serisii, high merchants, well-known traders, and such. One slave, a very beautiful slave, who had been given to Myron, the polemarkos, was brought forth several times, and forced to dance before the men, bejeweled, bangled and necklaced, but otherwise naked, under whips. Her name was Claudia.”

  “Once Claudia Tentia Hinrabia,” I said, “the last of the Hinrabians.” Claudius Tentius Hinrabius had been an administrator of Ar, later deposed. He who acceded to the rule of Ar had been Cernus, in effect, a usurper.”

  “Yes,” said the slave.

  Talena had held Claudia as a rival to her own considerable beauty, which was alleged to be unsurpassed on all Gor. These sorts of claims, of course, were absurd, as there was no dearth of beauty on Gor. The markets were filled with it. Who is to say that this very beautiful woman is more or less beautiful than this other? To be sure, both Talena and Claudia, in their different ways, were very beautiful women. I suspected the hostility of Talena toward Claudia was as much motivated by considerations of politics as of vanity. Claudia had been the daughter of a former administrator of Ar; and Talena was merely the disowned daughter of the great Ubar, Marlenus, whose whereabouts had then been unknown. Her position had been bestowed upon her by foreign enemies, who had found it expedient to have a puppet on the throne of Ar. Indeed, Claudia’s claim to stand high in Ar was far sounder than that of Talena herself, who had been disgraced, and sequestered shamefully, in effect imprisoned, in the Central Cylinder, while Marlenus carried on the business of the state, prior to his hunting trip to the Voltai, in which it had been feared he had perished.

  “Once,” said the slave, “Claudia, at the conclusion of her dance, seized up a goblet of wine and dashed it upon the Ubara. We feared the slave would be instantly slain, and she was flung to the floor, under a dozen blades, and it was only the hand of her master, Myron, the polemarkos, interposed, which saved her. The Ubara was outraged and screamed and screamed and struck and kicked the slave repeatedly, and pressed and stamped upon her with her tiny jeweled slippers. And finally the slave, sobbing, and groveling, trembling and shuddering, bruised, miserable, her pride broken, her spirit vanquished, well informed now that whatever she might once have been, she was now no more than a slave, wholly submitted, and helpless, crawled to the feet of the Ubara, kissing them, as a slave, begging mercy, and forgiveness. She was spared, I think to please the polemarkos. It was said that after that Claudia became a true slave to her master. She was never again, of course, permitted by the polemarkos to dance at the entertainments in the Central Cylinder. She was used, often, however, it was said, to dance in the headquarters and garrison camp outside the walls, for Myron and his high officers. He was, it was said, much envied for his slave.”

  “Speak to me of the Ubara,” I said.

  “She was very beautiful,” said the slave, “as I am sure she well knew, and as we might easily discern, for in privacy we might all dine unveiled, it not being unseemly.”

  “Of course,” I said.

  Veiling was common amongst free women in public. In private. veiling would be an encumbrance. Few women would veil themselves in their own household, unless in the presence of strangers. In public dining the woman might feed herself discreetly, delicately, beneath the veil. Some lower-caste women, on the street, will literally drink through the veil.

  “Speak further,” I said.

  “It is interesting,” said the slave. “For a long time the Ubara was as a Ubara, informal or stately as the occasion demanded, a ruler, or a host, witty and charming, or cold and demanding. At one moment she would warm one with a smile and in the next moment chill one with a frown. Within limits, Ar was hers. She was an exceedingly proud woman, and was confident, sure of her place and of herself. It was well to struggle to please her. A word from her could demote an officer of Ar, a phrase exile a councilor, or break or banish a merchant, and another could reduce another woman, even one of high station, to the collar. She was charming, vain, secure, and arrogant. Muchly did she relish her power, such as it was. Limited as it might be in great things, it was formidable in that which did not concern the occupation. Men and women strove to please her. She was muchly feared. But then, strangely, a change came over the Ubara. An entertainment had been planned, but it was canceled, presumably because the Ubara was indisposed. But, after that, she was different. Entertainments became fewer, and then ceased. The Ubara seemed distracted, even fearful. She would not leave the Central Cylinder. We understood, even in her private chambers, which were locked and guarded, she would keep candles ablaze during the hours of darkness. She became frightened of food and drink, lest, perhaps, it might be drugged, or poisoned. Frightened slave girls, former free women of Ar, were used as tasters. It was as though she were hunted. It was as though she feared somehow, as absurd as it might seem, she being so secure, and being Ubara, that she might feel the capture rope upon her any instant, like a common or private woman, and be carried away into what fate she knew not, perhaps even one as frightful as the collar itself. Imagine she, a Ubara, in a collar! What state would be powerful enough, clever enough, bold enough, to seize a Ubara? What Ubar mighty enough to have her naked, in chains, at the foot of his throne! It was strange, incomprehensible, the change that had come over her. Then, later, of course, the rising took place.”

  “What then,” I asked, “was the fate of the Ubara?”

  “I do not know,” said the slave. “The rising came suddenly, and there was terror in the streets for many. I and some others were taken in hand by mercenaries and, stripped, and self-pronounced as slaves, and neck-roped, were used by them as a ruse to approach the walls, they pretending to be citizens of Ar conducting us to impaling stakes. At the wall they managed to fight their way free to the outer country, and join Cosians in retreat. Our hair was shortened, that we not appear free women to flighted tarnsmen, and we were soon chained by the neck, and conducted from camp to camp, until we reached the vicinity of Brundisium, from which port, subsequently, we, cargoed, were shipped by sea to the north, where we made landfall.”

  “Do you recognize me?” I asked.

  “It is dark, Master,” she said. “The light is tiny, and poor. There are shadows. Do I know you?”

  “Not really,” I said. “But we have met. I met your party on the beach.”

  “You are he?” she said.

  “Yes,” I said.

  “I thought perhaps,” she said. “But I dared not speak.”

  “You impressed me,” I said, “as a slut well collared.”

  “
Master!” she protested.

  “Just now,” I said, “you displayed yourself well.”

  She put down her head. “Yes,” she said, “I am a slut well collared.”

  “Talena,” said I, “must somehow have escaped.”

  “Perhaps,” she said, “but it seems impossible. The Central Cylinder was surrounded even before the bars sounded the rising.”

  “I have heard no word,” I said, “of the capture, the torture, or impalement of the Ubara.”

  “No,” agreed the slave.

  I was sure the Central Cylinder would have been examined with care, each chamber, even to measurements of the thickness of walls, and such, being considered.

  “She must have escaped,” I said.

  “Perhaps the crowds found her, tore her to pieces, and fed the scraps to sleen,” she said.

  “By tarnflight, from the Central Cylinder,” I suggested.

  “Perhaps, Master,” she said.

  To be sure, this was highly unlikely, for a careful watch would have been kept. As this would be a most obvious possibility, a most likely route for escape, it would have been guarded against with zealous care.

  “If she escaped, Master,” said the slave, “I think it unlikely she will long remain at large.”

  I nodded. Her conjecture seemed to me plausible.

  “I heard the masters speaking,” she said, “in the camps. A price of ten thousand tarn disks, of double weight, has been placed on the Ubara’s head.”

  I nodded, again. I had heard that, too, from Torgus, on the beach. Every bounty hunter on Gor, professional or amateur, would seek the Ubara. Too, it was unlikely that she would be long shielded from discovery, given the price on her head, and the hostility with which she was so generally regarded. Her vanity, her arrogance, the insolence with which she had abused power, her betrayal of her Home Stone, and such, militated against her concealment. Perhaps, as Torgus had suggested, she had already been captured, and her captors were negotiating for an even higher remuneration.

  “You have been helpful,” I told the slave.

  “You are not going to take me back to Ar?”

  “No,” I said. “Such things are behind you.”

  I turned to go.