Conspirators of Gor cog[oc-31

by John Norman

  Astrinax, the Lady Bina, and Master Desmond, he in whose keeping I was, were conversing on the other side of the wagon.

  I rubbed oil carefully into the harness, a bit at a time. Softening the harness makes it more supple, and prolongs harness life. It also tends to protect the leather from long exposure to sunlight, particularly at high altitudes. Similarly, if the harness is wet, as from rain, it may dry stiffly. Under both conditions it is more likely to weaken and crack from the strain of haulage.

  Last night words had escaped me, inadvertently, unaccountably. Allison, a slave, had confessed her love for Desmond of Harfax, a free man. What presumption, what insolence! Did she think she was a free woman, whose love was of inestimable value, a priceless gift, a love worth having? She was a slave. A slave is less than the dirt beneath the sandals of a free person. What could her love be but a foolishness, a joke, a source of merriment, an absurdity, an insult, an embarrassment? How fortunate she was that she had not been beaten. Had he been her master, as he was not, she might have been sold the next morning. Is the slave not to keep her thoughts to herself? Is she not to conceal her love for her master? And yet I knew, from a hundred slaves, in the house of Tenalion, and in Ar, from the streets and markets, and from the camps, and elsewhere, that it was common, almost universal, for a girl to love the man at whose feet she knelt, he in whose collar she was fastened. This has to do, doubtless, with a great many things, but, one supposes, it has to do, given its pervasiveness, with nature, nature given the institutional enhancements of civilization. One owns and one is owned; one is master and one is slave.

  A woman wishes to be reassured of her value, and on the block she is in no doubt as to the matter, as men bid on her. Of course, she is of value, for men have seen fit to buy and sell her, as goods. A woman wishes to be attractive, and she knows that she is attractive, for she has been marked and put in a collar. A woman wants to be wanted, and she finds she is wanted, as men most want a woman, as what is theirs, as a property. The woman longs to belong, and in bondage she finds herself a belonging, a rightless belonging. It is hard to wear a man’s collar and chains, his thongs and bracelets, and not be his, helplessly so, and in so many ways. It is hard to sustain the despotic depredations lengthily imposed on her, the exploitations which she must frequently and helplessly endure, without crying herself subdued, conquered, and submitted, as she longs to be, and begging for yet more, another intimacy, another caress, another ecstasy.

  How innocently and hopefully we crawl to the feet of our masters!

  The well-owned slave is the most content, and happiest, of women, the most sexual, and utterly female of women.

  How tragic then that so frequently she dares not confess her love for her master, but must conceal it, to her misery, in the depths of her heart.

  We long for our love master; might he not then, in some sense, long for his love slave?

  To be sure, he must not then be weak with us!

  Let him treat us as more of a slave than ever. It is what we want to be, his slave, for we are females.

  Before he had joined Astrinax and the Lady Bina by the wagon box, he in whose care I was, Desmond of Harfax, had passed me.

  “Tal, Master,” I had said to him, my head down, not looking up from my work.

  “Tal, kajira,” had he said to me, not pausing.

  He had not ignored me, so hurting me, as he had when I was under the sentence of the mute slave, but, too, he had given me no more attention than he would have given Jane, or Eve. A tear coursed down my cheek. Surely I should not have let those fateful words slip out. “I love you, Master.” But it seemed that I had not said them, so much as that they had said themselves. I knew, of course, that a slave’s love was worthless. Who did not know that? It had been fortunate that my boldness, my lapse, had not been rewarded with a whipping!

  I rubbed the oil, in small, firm circular motions, into the broad harness.

  It is not as though I myself, upon reflection, had said those words, I thought. I am not really responsible for them. They had spoken themselves. They were meaningless, in that sense. It is as though they had not been spoken, though, it was true, they had been uttered. Thus, I thought, I do not really love him. It could not be! It is a misunderstanding. How could I love him, truly? Had he not, on many occasions, treated me as what I was, a slave? Had he not been abrupt, cruel, not caring? Had he not cuffed me? Had he not, for no adequate reason, inflicted upon me the dreadful modality of the mute slave? Had he not, on many occasions, treated me with contempt? Had I not many reasons to despise him? I should hate him, I thought. I should loathe him, I thought. Too, had he not scorned me last night? Had he not left me bound? How embarrassing that was when Jane and Eve, shackled to the bar, awakened, and found me similarly shackled, but, too, with my wrists bound behind me. “What did you do?” asked Jane. “Nothing,” I told them. “Why, then, did he bind you?” asked Eve. “It pleased him to do so,” I said. “Ah!” said Eve, happily. “He well reminded you that you are a slave.” “Yes,” I said, “he well reminded me that I am a slave. Now untie me.” “You must be very proud,” said Eve. “Proud?” I said. “To bind a woman,” said Eve, “is surely to show that she has been found of slave interest, and, is it not, in its way, a way of putting a claim on her?” “Untie me,” I said. “That is for Master Desmond to do,” said Jane. “Then you would let him find me as I am, still bound?” I asked, my wrists angrily, futilely, fighting the cording, my ankles, as I was sitting, jerking back, again and again, in frustration, rattling the shackle chain looped about the central bar. “Yes,” said Jane. “Let me see the knots,” said Eve. I turned about, holding out my wrists. “Look,” said Jane. “Yes,” said Eve. “I do not think we could undo the knots,” said Jane. “In any event,” said Eve, “it is not for us to do. Master Desmond will soon be here, to unshackle us. Then, he may attend to the matter.” “Or, if he wishes,” said Jane, “he may have you feed, as you are, kneeling, from a pan.” Desmond of Harfax had untied me, but, too, he had tied me! I had no doubt that he found me of slave interest, but then, so, too, did many men, certainly the drivers of the caravan of Pausanias. But I did not see that his binding of me had any particular significance of making a claim. It was not as though I was a free woman, amongst others captured in a city being sacked, and a captor had tied my wrists behind me with his own colored cords, different from those of his fellows, that I might be sorted out appropriately in the temporary slave pens outside the city. If there was any significance to his binding, I think it was merely to teach me better, as though I needed the lesson, that I was a slave. Certainly he had no claim on me, as I belonged to another, the Lady Bina. To be sure, I did not doubt but what it pleased him to bind me. Goreans seem to enjoy making a woman helpless.

  What brutes they are!

  How they own and master us!

  How helpless we are in their hands, those of our masters!

  How unfortunate had been those foolish words, “I love you, Master.” They could not be mine. They had slipped out. Surely I could not have meant them! Still, I often dreamed of myself at the foot of his couch, naked, fastened to a slave ring.

  What an inexplicable dream!

  I wondered if I were capable of loving.

  Could I love?

  I recalled myself from Earth. It seemed to me unlikely that that Allison Ashton-Baker could have loved. She had been too selfish, too egotistical, too self-centered. She had been too ambitious, too opportunistic, too calculating, too rational. Her relationships with men and boys, when not addressed to her amusement, had been invariably shrewd, prudential, and exploitative.

  Much had changed since then.

  Now she was on Gor, a marked, collared slave girl.

  She was softer now, more helpless, more vulnerable, more dependent, now without status, now scarcely clothed.

  Much had changed.

  I sensed that the former Allison Ashton-Baker, now in a collar, might now love. I had the sense that when one is locked in a collar,
it is easy to love. One hopes for love, one wants love, one needs love.

  But how frightful that one might not dare to express this, lest one be beaten or sold!

  Desmond of Harfax, I was sure, thought me incapable of love. He thought me too vain, too petty, too shallow.

  He was perhaps right.

  But, of course, he found me at least of slave interest. He enjoyed, for example, tying my hands behind my back.

  He had reservations, too, I knew, pertaining to some further aspects of my character. But why should anyone be expected to sacrifice themselves, or act against their own best interests? Was that not foolish, stupid, irrational?

  What had that to do with character?

  Surely a girl has a right to look out for herself.

  What is wrong with, say, the theft of a candy, if one may manage it with perfect impunity?

  One would not wish to be caught, of course. That might mean the switch or lash, close chains, an unpleasant roping, short rations, a slave box, such things.

  She is not a free woman.

  Strange, I thought, how a better character is expected of a slave than a free woman.

  The masters attend to our character, and are concerned with it, in their training, rather, I suppose, as they would attend to, and be concerned with, the character of any animal, a sleen, a kaiila, or such.

  Soon we wish to improve ourselves.

  We wish to reflect credit on our masters.

  We wish to be worthy of our masters.

  I suddenly stopped working the oil into the harness leather, as something on the other side of the wagon had caught my attention, without my really being aware of it.

  “How long do you think it might be, before we receive our guide?” asked Desmond of Harfax.

  I knew curiosity was not becoming in a kajira, but I crawled a little closer, and listened intently.

  “We have received him,” said Astrinax.

  I remembered that Astrinax commonly held the late watch.

  “Where is he?” asked Desmond.

  “He has gone,” said Astrinax.

  “How then can he guide us?” asked Desmond.

  “Easily,” said Astrinax.

  I heard the Lady Bina laugh.

  “I do not understand,” said Desmond.

  “Our guide,” said Astrinax, “is Pausanias, who recently left with his caravan.”

  “Pausanias?” said Desmond of Harfax.

  “He does not know it, of course,” said Astrinax. “He is an unwitting guide.”

  “And how,” asked Master Desmond, “does Pausanias know his way?”

  “It was conveyed to him by Kleomenes, of the hunters,” said Astrinax.

  “Then,” said Master Desmond, “Kleomenes, at least, knows the way.”

  “No,” said Astrinax, “he does not. He merely conveyed the way.”

  “I do not understand,” said Desmond of Harfax.

  “Pausanias, of the caravan,” said Astrinax, “had the key, without the lock, so to speak, whereas Kleomenes had the lock, so to speak, but lacked the key.”

  “Can you not speak more clearly?” said Desmond of Harfax.

  “I think you suspect more than you pretend,” said Astrinax.

  “It has to do,” said Master Desmond, “with a deck of cards?”

  “Precisely,” said Astrinax.

  “And how do you come by these things?” asked Desmond of Harfax.

  “I am told,” said Astrinax.

  “Oh?” said Desmond. “By whom?”

  “By one who sees much but knows little,” said Astrinax.

  “And who might be his informant?”

  “One who sees little, but knows much,” said Astrinax.

  This must be, I thought, Lord Grendel and his fellow, the blind Kur he had brought safe from Ar to the Voltai.

  “They have not been with us for days,” said Desmond.

  He must know then of the two beasts. He might not know that one was blind.

  “They have been about,” said Astrinax.

  “You are contacted during the night watch?” said Desmond.

  “During some night watches,” said Astrinax.

  “I think I will keep the night watch tonight,” said Desmond.

  “I would not do so,” said Astrinax.

  “Why not?” asked Desmond.

  “You might be killed,” said Astrinax. “These are dangerous times, and this is a dangerous place. Serious matters are afoot.”

  “As you will,” said Desmond.

  “I will tell you something else of interest which has been conveyed to me,” said Astrinax. “Trachinos and his fellow, Akesinos, are outlaws, and lately in contact with their band, recently come from Venna. The rendezvous was to be held, it seems, in the vicinity of the six hundredth pasang stone.”

  I recalled the flickering light. Master Desmond had been aware of it, too.

  “An ambush is planned,” said Astrinax.

  “How many in the band?” asked Desmond.

  “Nine, not counting Trachinos and Akesinos,” said Astrinax.

  “Your information is detailed,” said Desmond.

  “It is apparently easily gathered by an informant with excellent night vision and unusual hearing,” said Astrinax. “Too, apparently the outlaws cooked and kept an animal fire.”

  “We cannot well defend ourselves against eleven men,” said Desmond.

  “I do not think it will be necessary to do so,” said Astrinax.

  “I do not understand,” said Desmond.

  “The outlaws will live as long as they pose no threat,” said Astrinax. “It will be in their best interest to abandon their plan. Once they prepare to attack, I fear it will be too late for them.”

  “Why have they delayed this long?” asked Desmond.

  “Trachinos is waiting,” said Astrinax. “He suspects we are projecting a rendezvous, perhaps with others as rich as we, or that we may lead them to a cache of concealed wealth. The purpose of our venture, as you well know, seems mysterious, even to you and me. Why would one venture so into the Voltai if riches, perhaps a buried horde, or a secret mine, were not somehow involved?”

  “I see,” said Desmond.

  “They will bide their time,” said Astrinax.

  “It is like an ax, which may fall at any time,” said Desmond.

  “The ax,” said Astrinax, “may be in greater danger than we.”

  “How is that?” asked Desmond.

  “We are not the only ones in the Voltai,” said Astrinax.

  “I wonder if we are watched?” said Desmond.

  “Possibly,” said Astrinax.

  “What of the caravan of Pausanias?” said Desmond.

  “I have little doubt that it is watched more carefully than we,” said Astrinax.

  “How so?” said Desmond.

  “It is apparently far more important than we,” said Astrinax.

  “Why?” asked Desmond.

  “I do not know,” said Astrinax. “But I gather it is of great importance to someone.”

  “Or something,” said Desmond.

  “I do not understand?” said Astrinax.

  “It is nothing,” said Desmond, dismissively.

  “I,” said the Lady Bina, who had been present, I gathered on her cushion on the wagon bench, but muchly quiet, “have something of interest to convey as well, but I must ask you to hold the matter in confidence for a time.”

  “Lady?” asked Astrinax.

  “I am to be the Ubara of a hundred cities, and then, later, when the planet is properly unified and organized, the Ubara of all Gor.”

  I heard no response from the men.

  “That is what I have been given to understand,” she said.

  “From whom, Lady?” asked Astrinax. I feared he and Master Desmond might think the Lady Bina joking, or mad. More frighteningly, I did not think she was either.

  I sensed, as naive or unrealistic as she might be, there might somehow be a world at stake.

&nb
sp; “Oh,” she said, “someone, but someone of importance.”

  I was sure this illusion, or fantasy, had been implanted by the blind Kur who had guested with us in the house of Epicrates.

  What was involved here, I was sure, had less to do with the Lady Bina than with one with whom it was thought she might exercise great influence.

  “When I am suitably emplaced,” she said, “I will not forget my friends.”

  “We hope to be numbered amongst them,” said Astrinax.

  Poor Astrinax, I thought. He thinks she is insane.

  “We are to follow the caravan of Pausanias,” said Master Desmond.

  “Yes,” said Astrinax, “but, obviously, not that closely.”

  “It should be easy enough to do,” said Desmond, “ten wagons, heavily laden, even should there be torrential rains.”

  “I think so,” said Astrinax.

  I hoped that we might return to Ar, quickly and safely, once the blind Kur had been reunited with his fellows. On the other hand, it seemed clear that this practical expediency, as sensible as it might seem, might not be congenial to either the Lady Bina or to he in whose charge I was. They might have subtler, deeper interests in this wilderness.

  “The caravan of Pausanias left the Aqueduct Road,” said Desmond.

  “There are hundreds of trails in the Voltai,” said Astrinax.

  “And thousands of places where there are no trails,” said Desmond.

  “Call Lykos, Trachinos, Akesinos,” said Astrinax. “We must harness the tharlarion and be on our way.”

  It would take some time to do this, and turn the wagons, to follow the tracks of the departed caravan. I did not care to leave the road. I stood up, by the mat and harness, and jar of oil, and the rags, and looked about myself.

  The Voltai Mountains are called the Red Mountains. Their color, dull and reddish, is doubtless a consequence of some property of the soil. They are, I think, the most extensive of Gor’s mountain ranges. They may also be the highest and most rugged. There are villages here and there in the Voltai, usually of herders of domestic verr. These are generally, though not always, in the foothills. I know of only one city in the Voltai, like a remote tarn’s aerie, and that is the bandit city of Treve.