Conspirators of Gor cog[oc-31

by John Norman

  I was then alone in the cell. I clutched the sheet about me, tightly. My heart was beating wildly.

  I closed my eyes that I should not see what was occurring outside, beyond the bars, to the left.

  I could, of course, hear the auctioneer.

  A murmur of approval coursed through the small crowd.

  Then, unable to help myself, I opened my eyes. The slave’s sheet had been removed.

  The highest price, so far, had been brought by the former Lady Persinna, who had gone for three and a half silver tarsks, three silver tarsks and fifty copper tarsks. Most of the other girls had sold for one to two silver tarsks.

  Whereas I had recognized that my cellmates were all beautiful, as was common with Gorean female slaves, I had not regarded myself as inferior to any of them. Indeed, I supposed myself the most beautiful. And had I not been saved for last? Is the very best not saved for last? I was pleased that the masters apparently shared my judgment, as to the quality of my beauty. But, then, was the matter not obvious?

  I closed my eyes briefly, and then looked quickly away, to the right, through the bars, that I not see the now-bared slave on the block.

  I did hope that I would not be so exposed to the men. I was different. I was from Earth! But then I recalled the saying, that only a fool buys a woman clothed.

  How was it that one of my beauty was in this market, such a market?

  I wondered how it was that a price, an actual, finite price, could be set on beauty such as mine.

  Surely it was priceless!

  Then I recalled that only the beauty of a free woman was priceless. But it was priceless only as long as she was free. Once it was embonded, it would have a price, whatever men would pay for it.

  I did recall that it had been estimated, on Earth, that I would go from between forty and sixty. Here, of course, I realized they did not deal in dollars, forty to sixty thousand dollars. Here, presumably, one would go for silver or gold. I accordingly had conjectured that I might go from between forty to sixty gold pieces, or, possibly, given my level of training, and such, from between forty and sixty silver tarsks. I was, after all, in their view, a barbarian. Too, although I had begun to sense, to my apprehension and excitement, what might be the whimperings and moanings of an aroused belly, natural to a slave, it seemed reasonably clear to me that I was not yet the helpless victim of what the instructresses had referred to as “slave fires.” As a woman of Earth I did not believe that such things could exist. Surely I, of Earth, could never be so victimized. Too, I was sure, even if such things could exist, in some women, I could resist them. I did not realize, at the time, that men might not permit it. I did not realize at the time what they could do to my body, how they could force it to be, as it might please them, irremediably that of a begging, needful slave. And I did not realize at the time that already such things, such fires, slave fires, had been kindled, subtly, in my belly, but, merely, had not yet leaped into flame.

  I became aware, suddenly, that the auctioneer was no longer taking bids. I returned my attention to the block. A fellow below the block extended his hand, and assisted the slave down the steps. I was struck with the courtesy, the solicitude, the apparent gentlemanliness, of this gesture. It might have been done so, I thought, by a fellow of Earth. Perhaps I would be so fortunate as to have such a master, though I did not think I wanted such a one. A slave wants to know that she is a slave, that she belongs to a man, categorically, absolutely, wholly. I wondered if he was weak. At the foot of the block, the brunette was facing him, looking up at him. Though taller than I, she seemed quite small before him, he in his swathing of robes. The fingers of her left hand still rested in his right hand. Was that not almost tender? She smiled up at him. I saw that she, as I, suspected that that he might be weak. I sensed that she was confident that her bondage, if she were clever, pouted rightly, and such, would prove to be a lax and light one. She had been unpleasant to me, earlier in the cell, and just before her sale. I hated her. He then put his hands on her shoulders, turned her about, rudely, drew her wrists behind her, and braceleted her. She pulled against the bracelets, startled. Our eyes met, she on the street, I back in the cell, behind the bars. You have a master, slave, I thought. Learn it! You will be well collared, and will know yourself well collared, and you understand, do you not, that I know that you will be well-collared, and know, too, that you will know yourself well-collared, and that that pleases me, much pleases me. Indeed, I was much pleased. She straightened her body, and shrugged her shoulders, and, for a moment, glared at me, wildly, angrily, helplessly, but a word must have been spoken, perhaps sharply, for she swiftly turned about and knelt before her master, her wrists braceleted high behind her, and pressed her lips to his sandals. He then turned about, and strode away, and she rose to her feet, and, casting one look back at me, the look of a now-aware, frightened slave, who might now, I thought, welcome some small token of understanding or sympathy, hurried after him. No longer did I hate her. She was now only another braceleted slave. She increased her pace, to close the gap between herself and her master, that she might follow in prescribed heeling position. Failure to do so may, of course, result in punishment.

  I trusted that the sales were over.

  There was, at least, a lacuna in the proceedings.

  Might I not now be returned to the house?

  I had not been offered, so I should not be beaten, having not been sold.

  Some men, I was pleased to note, had now turned away, and were leaving the vicinity of the block. Two others, however, I noted, were crossing the street, approaching.

  Then the slaver’s man had entered the cell, and, taking me by the left wrist, drew me after him, and I was beyond the portal, and in the short passage, and then I was in the sunlight, outside, and I felt the nap of the worn, faded, scarlet rug beneath my bare feet. I blinked against the light, and put down my head. Then I felt the switch of the auctioneer beneath my chin, and I lifted my head, and opened my eyes, looking over the heads of the men.

  Much of what then went on remains a blur. At times I did not even understand the auctioneer. This was doubtless in part a function of my Gorean, which was new, and limited, with its unfamiliar grammar, and my vocabulary consisting at that time of only a few hundred words, but, too, I think, part of it was an unwillingness, or refusal, to understand what was being said, or done. My native tongue is called “English,” and I am not sure that I would have allowed myself to understand the auctioneer even had he been speaking in that tongue. I had, incidentally, interestingly, understood him quite well, almost always, when he was vending others. To be sure, even if I had known not a word of Gorean, but had found myself somehow on that platform, so clad, so regarded, perhaps having been magically transported from my own world, wafted away, somehow, from chatting, strolling, or shopping, it would not have been difficult to understand what was occurring. I was a female being sold.

  The auctioneer was not cruel with me.

  The sale proceeds in three phases, in each of which the girl is turned, and exhibited, first in the brief sheet, then, the sheet removed, in the tunic, and, lastly, neither in the sheet nor tunic. The whole process takes no more than a few Ehn. I understood matters in disjointed patches of intelligibility. I did learn, for the first time, that I had been brought from the House of Tenalion, apparently a slaver of Ar. I was clearly identified as a barbarian, which I sensed was of some interest to the men. To be sure, I have gathered that we are no longer the novelties in the markets that we once were. Strictly, a “barbarian,” I have been given to understand, is one whose native tongue is not Gorean, a language spoken pervasively but not universally on your world. The pervasiveness of Gorean on your world, as I understand it, has something to do with your gods, the Priest-Kings, laired in the Sardar Mountains. These beings, it seems, encourage Gorean, perhaps that they might the more conveniently make known their will on this world. The caste of Initiates, it is said, act as the intermediaries between Priest-Kings and men, appointing fes
tivals, prophesying, uttering oracles, accepting offerings, selling blessings, performing sacrifices, and such. Much remains unclear, however, as I understand it, concerning the actual relationship, if any, between the Initiates and the Priest-Kings. It is clear, however, that the Priest-Kings are not to be taken lightly. Violations of their weapon, transportation, and communication laws are often, when discovered, followed by sanctions of fearsome import, the destructions of cities, the seizures and flingings of tides, the melting of mountains, the geysers and floodings of fiery magma, inexplicable bursts of flame, and such. The standardization of Gorean is accomplished largely in virtue of the meetings of Scribes four times a year on the neutral ground of the great seasonal fairs held in the vicinity of the Sardar itself. This tends to standardize lexicons and prevent phonetic drift. On the other hand, it is also clear that the connotations of the term ‘barbarian’, if not its literal meaning, extend well beyond the matter of what might be one’s native language. As I have learned, “barbarians” are commonly taken to be simple, stupid, ignorant, uncouth, crude, unrefined, untutored, uncivilized, and, in general, worthless, and far inferior to native Goreans. But even your physicians, your men of medicine and health, the members of your green caste, will assure you that we are much the same as you. Had I been born on Gor and you on Earth, would I not, then, be the Gorean and you the barbarian? It is not our fault if we do not know what you know, your caste customs, your legends, your political arrangements, the histories of your cities, your holidays, your famous generals, musicians, poets, and such. How could we? We may be ignorant, but we are not stupid. To you we may seem lacking, to be simple, primitive, and barbarous, and, doubtless, in a way, we are, but these differences, I assure you, have to do with our history and background, not with what we are in ourselves, apart from such things. If we are so obviously inferior to you, it is a cultural inferiority, and only that. Certainly we have certain qualities which you recognize, which have value. You buy us, do you not? Perhaps in some respects we are objectionable. Yet I do not think you mind us in the furs, in our collars. It is generally understood we beg, squirm, and moan well. If you despise us for this I would suggest you put your precious, priceless, exalted, lofty free women at a slave ring and see if they are any different! Please, Master, do not beat me for this observation.

  The sheet was pulled from me.

  I was turned about.

  “Behold this barbarian vulo,” said the auctioneer. “Surely she is of some interest. Might she not be useful as a third or fourth slave in your house, to relieve higher, better slaves of disagreeable tasks? Perhaps she might do as a starter slave, for a son, or a gift for a son or nephew, returning from his studies in Harfax, Venna, Besnit, or Brundisium.”

  It was called to the attention of the men that I was new to bondage and only partly trained, but these defects were somehow transformed into advantages, that a master might then have the exquisite pleasure of teaching a new girl what it was to be in a collar, that one might then train me more specifically to his own tastes, and such.

  “Speculate,” said the auctioneer. “Would she not look well in a camisk, or less?”

  I recalled I had been put in a camisk by Mrs. Rawlinson at the party on Earth, when I had been forced, as a part of my punishment, for having dared to read of your world, to serve the guests half-naked, as though I might be a slave.

  “Less!” called a man. “Let us see!”

  “Part your tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

  “Please, no, Master,” I said.

  Laughter greeted my request.

  “Gracefully,” said the auctioneer.

  I looked over the heads of the men, to the shops across the street. I dared not meet the eyes of any of the men. Tears sprang to my eyes.

  “Posture,” said the auctioneer.

  I straightened my body.

  I felt tears running down my cheeks.

  “Perhaps you suspect,” said the auctioneer, “that this is her first sale.”

  There was laughter.

  I supposed it was obvious.

  “Turn about,” said the auctioneer. “Now face the masters.”

  “A bit slender perhaps,” said the auctioneer, “but not, I think, disagreeably so.”

  Surely I had had one of the best figures in the sorority!

  “Let us see all of her,” said a fellow.

  He did not seem excited. The request seemed very matter-of-fact. Were they unaware of my feelings? Did they not realize what was occurring? I was a female! I was a slave! I was being sold!

  “The tunic, my dear,” said the auctioneer.

  “Master!” I begged!

  “Gracefully,” he said.

  The tunic was handed to the slaver’s man, who stood to the left, behind, on the platform.

  “Consider her,” said the auctioneer. “Barbarian. Slim, lovely. Darkly pelted, glossy hair. Partly trained, recently red-silked.”

  I dared not look into the eyes of any of the men.

  “Turn about, slowly,” said the auctioneer.

  “Surely worth something,” said the auctioneer. “She is a barbarian, a mere barbarian. She has been harvested from the slave world for one purpose, and one purpose only, to serve your pleasure, wholly, in all ways. It is all she is for. She has no Home Stone. She has never had a Home Stone. Do what you will with her, without a second thought, use her variously, however you might wish. Keep her nude for a year, if you wish. Conceive of her, neck-chained, ankle-chained, at your slave ring. Consider her soft lips, and tongue, obedient and moist, on your feet, on your body. Is she not of interest? Consider her crawling to you, begging not to be whipped.”

  I cried out, softly, in misery.

  “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

  “I am now prepared to accept bids,” said the auctioneer.

  None had been forthcoming yet.

  I saw two or three of the men turn about, and leave, chatting.

  “Begin, begin, begin,” said the auctioneer. “Twenty, twenty, twenty.”

  I stood there, weak, almost faltering.

  The auctioneer occasionally held my upper left arm, steadying me. I might otherwise have fallen.

  I knew myself a slave, but, still, the enormity of what was being done to me seemed almost incomprehensible. Where was Earth, my familiar surroundings, the college, the classes, my fellow students, the sorority?

  I stood there, under the eyes of buyers.

  I wondered if some of the young men I had known might have wondered how I, so aloof, so superior, so unapproachable, might have appeared on an auction block, reduced, rightless, stripped, a slave displayed for the perusal of buyers. I was not so lofty, so proud, now. They might have been amused to see me so, frightened, being vended. I wondered if some might have bid upon me. What if one had purchased me? I would then have been his, helplessly.

  “Twenty-five, twenty-five, thirty,” was saying the auctioneer.

  I feared I might fall.

  The auctioneer’s hand steadied me.

  “Thirty, thirty-five,” he was saying.

  I heard coins, being rattled against one another, in the palm of someone’s hand.

  So I stood there, naked, on the platform, only half understanding what was being done.

  Was this being done to someone else?

  Then I realized that it was I, I, who was being sold!

  I recalled Mrs. Rawlinson.

  How, in her mind’s eye, she must have smiled, considering the fate she was arranging for her lovely, vain, shallow, spoiled charges, the markets of Gor!

  In the beginning, we had looked down on her, she merely a house mother, an employee, a servant of sorts, far beneath us, a woman hired to manage the house, to regulate mundane and domestic matters, to look after, even regulate and supervise, to some extent, a number of aristocratic, supercilious, patronizing young women, her social betters. But soon, whether because of the force of her personality, or the uncompromising, confident sternness of her demeanor, we began to
fear the influence she might bring to bear, the power she might exercise. We had soon begun to treat her with respect, even awe. We followed her instructions, and did as we might be told. Even Nora feared her. The board, it seemed clear, for we, in our resentment and annoyance, had sought this information, was behind her. It became clear to us that however she had been emplaced, and however she had been empowered, that the house, and its occupants, were hers to rule. In that tiny world her word would be law. The board would accommodate itself to her recommendations, whatever they might be. A word from her, a charge from her, would initiate a sequence of actions which might culminate in one’s expulsion from the house, with the shame and ruin which might be consequent on such a disgrace. She might disrupt our plans; she might jeopardize our very future. Imagine then my terror, and that of Jane and Eve, when forbidden literature, secret, suspect literature, literature inappropriate for such as we, improper, scandalous literature, was discovered in our rooms! We were then at her mercy!

  I wondered if she thought of us, I and the others, from time to time, now on Gor, owned, doubtless all of us, now the property of masters.

  She had done her work well.

  Perhaps she was now similarly employed, elsewhere.

  That seemed not impossible.

  The slave nets are carefully woven, with stout inescapable cordage, and they are cast with skill.

  One does not escape their coils.

  And so, as I stood naked on a block in the Metellan district, in Ar, the worn carpet beneath my feet, the afternoon sun on my body, warm, shadows across the street, the men about, some people passing by, not noticing me, exposed to buyers, being sold, I thought of Mrs. Rawlinson.

  Yes, I thought, Mrs. Rawlinson, you are Mistress. You are a free woman, and here, on this world, as I had not on Earth, I have begun to sense what that might be, its unchallenged force, and pride, and power, and here I am a slave, only that, and here, naked on an auction block, being sold, I have begun to sense what that might be.

  “Forty, forty,” said the auctioneer. “Forty-two, no more? No more? No more? Done!”