Swordsmen of Gor cog[oc-29

by John Norman

  The former Miss Margaret Wentworth, now Saru, was a beautiful animal, exquisitely featured and figured. She would look well on a chain, at the foot of a master’s couch. I thought she had the makings of an excellent slave. Even now I thought she could please the senses of a shogun, and, properly trained, might be a suitable gift for one. Too, of course, given her coloring, of skin, hair, and eyes, she would make an unusual gift, perhaps one of great value. I supposed one such as a shogun would suffer no dearth of collar-girls, say, women purchased in one market or another or captured from alien houses, but I supposed she would be rare, if not unique, amongst his female possessions. I speculated that she might be in some danger if she were felt as a threat by the other girls, for the attention, and favor, of the master, but this sort of thing is not unusual in the slave quarters. The slave’s best defense against discrimination and abuse, of course, is to endeavor to be so prized by the master that her sister slaves fear to attack her, steal her food, and such. A mere hint dropped by a preferred slave may bring a rival to the whipping ring, something the rival is not likely to soon forget. The favorite, incidentally, is not likely to be “first girl,” that slave placed in charge of the others in the house, but she may nonetheless exercise considerable power, and candidates for “first girl” are likely to cultivate her favor. Much depends, of course, on her remaining the preferred slave. If a new slave should usurp her place at the master’s slave ring, her life may become a misery, particularly if she is not popular with her sister slaves, is perceived as having abused her power, and so on.

  Saru shook her head, pathetically, frightened.

  I saw she was reluctant to approach Pertinax, which was not surprising, given certain occurrences of the preceding evening, near the stable. She was well aware of the reproach with which he now viewed her. He had done his best to make her feel shamed, inferior, and worthless. And I feared he had succeeded in this endeavor, given the lingering effects of her Earth conditioning, a conditioning in virtue of which she remained poignantly vulnerable to such assaults. How strange it is, I thought, that one should feel ashamed at being what one is, and wants to be, rather than at being what one is not, and does not wish to be. It is interesting, I thought, that there are individuals who wish to impose their values, and even their miseries, insecurities, and fears, on others. As they are constrained, fearful, and unhappy, they would have others share the suffering, bigotry, and poverty on which they congratulate themselves, as though it was some badge of honor to be narrow, intolerant, stunted, and stupid. Pertinax, it seems, had an image, an image of his own, of what Saru should be, what she should believe, how she should feel, and such. He wanted her not to be herself but to conform to some image which, really, in the full analysis, was not so much his own as one which he had been taught should be his own, one formed blindly by happenstance in a society which was, in effect, in many ways, an unfortunate, monstrous, inhumane accident. Interestingly, though he had hurt Saru deeply, one had the sense he was fighting more with himself than a slave. The knives of his hate were turned as much inward as outward. It might be noted, in passing, that it is quite unusual, and almost unknown, for a Gorean master to hurt a slave as Pertinax had injured Saru. A slave is seldom subjected to cruelty so subtle and insidious, a cruelty which would seek to deny her to herself, which would seek to impose falsehood and pretense upon her, punishing her not only for what she cannot help but for that which is most precious in her, what makes her most herself. Let the slave be what she is, in all her beauty, radiance, warmth, devotion, love, and service. Why demand that she lacerate herself on the nails of lies? How merciful, quick, and how easily done with, is a cuffing or the stroke of a switch. How dreadful, comparatively, is the administration of acids and poisons which, seeping and unseen, corrode from within, which would feed mercilessly on the heart itself.

  Interestingly of course, though I was not sure how much aware of this was Pertinax, he was muchly drawn to the slave, and as a slave. He must have had some sense of this, else his hostility, his cruelty, would seem without motivation or explanation. It was almost a madness, almost as though a larl might, in the presence of food, his natural provender, fitted to his appetite by a thousand generations of hunting, seizure, and feeding, torment himself, and refuse himself not only the food he wanted, for which his hunger raged, but without which he could not live.

  I was sure Pertinax wanted Saru, and as a Gorean master wants a woman, wholly, and uncompromisingly.

  I suspected he had often, even on Earth, speculated on what she might look like at his feet, naked and bound, in his power.

  Doubtless he, too, had considered her, even on Earth, in a collar, his collar.

  What man can truly, deeply, desire a woman, wholly, fully, without contemplating her in his collar?

  Too, I recalled the preceding night.

  Pertinax had tasted slave.

  And what man, having tasted slave, will be content with less?

  I viewed Saru.

  As mentioned, she was a bit away, some yards away, amongst the tables. She had her two hands on the vessel of ka-la-na. It is commonly so held.

  Again I indicated Pertinax.

  She, piteously, supplicatingly, shook her head, begging for mercy.

  She would receive none.

  I gestured that she should approach, and serve Pertinax.

  She did so.

  She knelt before the small table, before Pertinax. Her head was down. She did not dare to meet his eyes. “Wine, Master?” she asked.

  “No,” he snarled. “Away!”

  She withdrew gracefully, gratefully, still facing the table, and then turned away. “Wine!” called a fellow. “Yes, Master,” she said, and hurried to him, to kneel and fill his extended goblet.

  Jane and Cecily were elsewhere, in service.

  The tables had been set in the open air, and the area was lit with the glow of torches.

  Four or five hundred men were at the tables.

  The slaves were clothed, most tunicked, or camisked. One wore the Turian camisk, rare in the north, and two were in cleverly contrived ta-teeras, a form of garment which some think of as “slave rags.”

  Whereas some slaves, indeed, say scullery slaves, garbage slaves, or such, may be clothed, if at all, in no more than a tiny rag, in any shred of cloth, perhaps one soiled from the soot and grease of the kitchen, to conceal their nudity, the subtler ta-teera is carefully tied or sewn. It is carefully wrought, artfully designed, to accomplish two objectives, first, to seem to convey the thought that the slave is a low slave, and one of little value, one worthy of no more than brief, demeaning rags, though she may in actuality be a prized, high slave, and, secondly, to well exhibit the charms of the slave, such things accomplished by the brevity and openness of the garment, as by, say, a short, uneven hem, ragged at the edges, a slit hem, showing a flash of thigh, as though inadvertently, and by, say, a rent here, a gap there, and so on. I noted the eyes of several men on the ta-teera-clad slaves, a master’s inspection, a Gorean male’s inspection, of which the slaves pretended to be oblivious. I had little doubt both girls would well be put to use at the feast’s end, probably somewhere in the neighborhood of dawn.

  There was plenty of tabuk and tarsk, and the slaves brought it to the men on steaming platters. Wine was plentiful, and paga, too, and slaves hurried about, with vessels, and botas, to refill goblets. Hot bread with honey was on the table, on wooden trenchers.

  I sat near Lord Nishida, and he had offered me a sip of a different fermented beverage, one I had once tasted on Earth, though not of so fine a quality. It was warm, in its small bowl. “It is sake,” I was informed. I nodded. There are rice fields on Gor, in the vicinity of Bazi, famed for its teas, but rice is not as familiar on Gor as the grain, sa-tarna. And Pani, as far as I knew, were not found in Bazi, or its environs. To be sure I supposed the rice might be Bazi rice, but I was not sure of that, not at all sure of it.

  “Good,” I said.

  Lord Nishida smiled. He had s
aid nothing of the matter of Licinius, but I was sure he was well aware of what had happened, or might have happened. His Ashigaru, of course, had failed to find the body in the forest.

  I doubted that Lord Nishida had given orders that I was to be slain after the feast, for he had shown me something surprising earlier in the day, in a tour of some of the remoter storage sheds, near the training fields.

  It seemed he still had use for me, or might have use for me.

  I did not know.

  “Eggs,” I had said, finally, “hundreds.” I had seen them nestled in their straw-lined boxes.

  Obviously they had been the eggs of tarns.

  “They will not hatch,” I said. “They are without females, they lack incubators.”

  “Incubators?” he asked.

  “Devices, heated,” I said, “to hatch eggs.”

  “Touch one,” he suggested.

  I reached into one of the boxes, and placed my hand on the egg.

  “It is warm,” I said.

  “It is a matter of fluids,” he said. “There are two, one to keep the egg viable, another, later, to induce hatching.”

  “I see,” I said.

  The matter, I gathered, was in effect a chemical incubation. I supposed we owed this development to the Builders or Physicians. I supposed the Builders, some of whom concerned themselves with industrial and agricultural chemistry, might have been paid to inquire into such matters. The Physicians, I thought, would have regarded such research as beneath the dignity of their caste.

  The feast was well underway.

  I caught sight of Cecily, four tables away. She had a vessel of paga, on its strap, over her small shoulder.

  Pertinax’s Jane bore a large wooden plate of roast suls. More than once it had been replenished at the kitchen area, the suls withdrawn from the ashes of several “long fires.” When a great deal of food is involved, particularly in the open, or in large halls, as in Torvaldsland, the fires are almost always narrow, and long, as this increases the amount of food which can be simultaneously prepared, and allows easy access to it, from both sides of the fire. Such a fire, too, it might be noted, given its length, distributes heat over a wide area. This can be important in heating a large structure, such as a hall.

  I watched Saru, across the tables.

  Pertinax, as suggested, had done his best to make her feel ashamed, inferior, and worthless.

  Too, he had, it seemed, succeeded in this matter.

  The last thing a typical slave feels in her bondage is shame. Typically, after a time, she finds she is freer in her bondage than she ever was as a free woman, freer not only in her movements, in the lightness and looseness of her garmenture, but freer emotionally and sexually. She finds herself owned, but liberated, in the collar. She must obey instantly and unquestioningly, but she delights to do so. She is thrilled and fulfilled to be owned. She knows that, in a sense, she is superior to all other women. She has been adjudged worthy of a collar. The collar, in itself, is a badge of her desirability and beauty. Her desirability and beauty are such that men will be contented with nothing less than owning her. Thus, rather than being ashamed of her bondage, the typical slave finds in it a source of reassurance and pride. Too, the slave finds herself fulfilled in her womanhood, responding emotionally and sexually to a dominant male who will have everything of her, and more, and what woman does not wish to have no choice but to yield all to such a man? Who would wish to relate to a lesser male? All women dream of masters. Some find them. Too, it might be noted that the female slave on Gor is a familiar and important part of Gorean society. Their identity and place are clearly defined and established. And who other than jealous, envious free women does not relish the sight of lovely slaves? Would you not like to buy one? Two powerful forces are thus conjoined to assure the perpetuation of female bondage on Gor, the society’s unqualified acceptance and approval of the institution, it is pleased with its female slaves, and will have them, and the effects on the slave. In bondage, she finds her fulfillment, a fulfillment society not only has no interest in denying to her, but supports and favors. It is no wonder so many slaves revel in their collars. They are as they wish to be, at last, and how they wish to be is not only accepted, but approved. Indeed, society not only approves of her bondage but it will marshal all its considerable resources and forces to guarantee that her bondage, whether she wishes it or not, will remain inflexible and inescapable, that the collar, so to speak, will remain securely locked on her lovely neck. In all these matters, she is choiceless, and she knows herself so. The chain is real, and, whether she is pleased or not, it is on her.

  It is an independent question, of course, as to whether or not the slave is inferior, or worthless, and such.

  There is obviously a sense in which the slave is inferior. She is, after all, a slave.

  Chasms separate her from the free woman, and so on.

  On the other hand, as we have suggested, far from feeling inferior, the slave is likely to feel, as a woman, far superior to her free sister. For example, to refer to a free woman as “slave beautiful” is a considerable compliment. It means she is beautiful enough to be a slave, beautiful enough to be of interest to men, beautiful enough to be publicly exhibited and sold, beautiful enough to be collared. Too, apart from considerations of economic or social advancement, and such, clearly men prefer slaves. Who would want a free woman if one could have a naked, vulnerable, defenseless, adoring slave at one’s feet? Few, if any, free women know the crawling, fetching of a whip in the teeth, the licking of confining slave bracelets, the writhing beneath a slave ring, the kisses of the slave, and such.

  Similarly, although slaves are often castigated as being “worthless,” and such, even high slaves, who might sell for gold, it is quite obvious that slaves are not worthless, and not simply because they, as other goods, have a monetary value, nor simply because they are beautiful, as a fine animal is beautiful, nor simply because of the servile labors they will perform, cooking, sewing, cleaning, laundering, polishing boots, and such, but because of the manifold and profound delights which attend their ownership, delights with which masters are pleasantly cognizant. If slaves were truly worthless, they would not be fed, sheltered, guided, guarded, instructed, nurtured, prized, and such, to which attention and care they respond gratefully, as the animals they are. Who would not wish such a lovely beast at one’s slave ring? No, they are not worthless.

  I was sorry that Pertinax had been so cruel to the girl, Saru.

  It was no wonder she wished to avoid him.

  To be sure, I sensed she could not help but soften and oil in his presence. I had little doubt that, even in his hatred of her, she would desire to kneel before him, her head bowed in a slave’s submission.

  She was no longer a free woman.

  Why could he not now accept her as what she was, a slave?

  I regarded her.

  She was a female.

  She had been brought to Gor.

  She had begun to learn Gor.

  She was lovely, collared and tunicked, and serving men.

  I had little doubt she wished to be owned by Pertinax, but she was not owned by him. She belonged to another. I had little doubt she wished the hands of Pertinax on her slave’s body, and not as the timid, reluctant hands of a typical man of Earth, but commandingly, imperiously, and possessively, as the hands of a master on the body of a slave. But she was not his.

  Courses followed courses.

  Men grew more riotous, more drunk.

  At one table, I noted, however, they seemed sober. Five sat there, partaking of food, though meagerly, but waving away slaves, who would ply them with wine or paga. There is some reason, I thought, which might explain such an anomaly.

  Is it not difference which takes one’s attention, amongst snow sleen a darker fur, amongst the odor of penned verr, the suggestion, ever so slight, a whisper in the night, of the larl’s scent?

  I might have called this to the attention of Lord Nishida but he had wit
hdrawn from the tables. I suspected that he found the raucous boisterings of the evening less than agreeable to his refined taste. The typical Gorean male, particularly of what the high castes think of as the lower castes, tends to be direct, open, uninhibited, unrestrained, high-spirited, exuberant, and emotional. He is quick to take umbrage, quick to fight, quick to forgive, quick to forget.

  It is said that in the kingdom of the blind the one-eyed man is king. So, too, it might be said that in the kingdom of the addled and staggering, he is king who is sober, swift, and purposeful.

  I waved aside a slave, who approached me with paga.

  Judging by the moons it was near the twentieth Ahn.

  A slave fled past, to laughter, between the torches, into the night, her ta-teera gone, pursued by two unsteady brutes.

  Another slave was between the tables, gasping, squirming.

  I turned to Pertinax. “Perhaps it is time for your Jane to hasten to the hut,” I said.

  He put down his goblet, looked about, briefly, and nodded.

  His Jane, you see, was a personal slave, one privately owned. She was not a camp slave intended to be generally available, at least under certain conditions at certain times. Fellows are usually respectful of one another’s property rights, this as a matter of simple civility, if nothing else, but sometimes, when they are drunk enough, passion may encourage them to put their principles in the cabinet of tomorrow, so to speak. In any event, they may not stop to make inquiries, read collars, and so on. Indeed, they may be in no condition to read collars. Certainly I did not wish Pertinax to be challenged for her, nor feel he had to pull her from the arms of another, which might be rather like trying to take meat from a feeding sleen.

  Pertinax stood up, not too solidly, and motioned to his Jane, who instantly surrendered her trencher of suls to another girl, and hurried to him, to kneel and put her head down, softly, her forehead to his sandals. I was pleased to note her alacrity and deference. I thought she now understood whose collar was on her neck. This she had well learned the preceding evening. This lesson a girl can learn in a single night, perhaps even within an Ahn or two of her purchase. I saw her draw back a little and kiss his feet, tenderly. Then she kissed them suddenly, more fervently. I smiled. The slave was aroused. I saw her tremble with desire. How far she was now from the Serisii, and the Street of Coins. A world lies between the naive thigh and the marked thigh, between the unencircled neck and the neck in its collar.