by John Norman
“Of course,” said the leader.
“I do not want to go to the praetor station,” said one of the girls.
“We have done nothing,” said the leader. “We have nothing to fear.”
‘There are men there,” said one of the girls.
“We have men to fear,” said another.
“We are going,” said the leader, determinedly.
I picked up the Earth-girl slave, and threw her over my shoulder. She squirmed helplessly, crying. I picked up my sea bag then, and, the girl on my shoulder, the sea bag in my left hand, made my way toward the pier of the Red Urt.
“Are her thighs marked?” asked the praetor.
“No,” said a guardsman. He had already made this determination.
The girl stood, her hands bound behind her, in the brief rag of the she-urt, before the tribunal of the praetor. The neck strap of a guardsman was on her throat.
“Is this your slave?” asked the praetor of Ulafi of Schendi.
“Yes,” said he.
“How do I know she is a slave?” asked the praetor. “Her body, her movements, do not suggest that she is a slave. She seems too tight, too cold, too rigid, to be a slave.”
“She was free, captured by Bejar, in his seizure of the Blossoms of Telnus,” said Ulafi. “She is new to her condition.”
“Is Bejar present?’ asked the praetor.
“No,” said a man. Bejar had left the port yesterday, to again try his luck upon gleaming Thassa, the sea.
“Her measurements, exactly, fit those of the slave,” said a guardsman. He lifted the tape measure, marked in horts, which had been applied, but moments before, to the girl’s body.
The praetor nodded. This was excellent evidence. The girl’s height, ankles, wrists, throat, hips, waist and bust had been measured. She had even been thrown on a grain scale and weighed.
The praetor looked down at the girl. He pointed to her. “Kajira?” he asked. “Kajira?”
She shook her head vigorously. That much Gorean she at least understood. She denied being a slave girl.
The praetor made a small sign to one of the guardsmen.
“Leash!” said the fellow, suddenly, harshly, behind the girl, in Gorean.
She jumped, startled, and cried out, frightened, but she did not, as a reflex, lift her head, turning it to the left, nor did the muscles in her upper arms suddenly move as though thrusting her wrists behind her, to await the two snaps of the slave bracelets.
“Nadu!” snapped the guard. But the girl had not, involuntarily, begun to kneel.
“I have her slave papers here,” said Ulafi, “delivered with her this morning by Vart’s man.”
He handed them to the praetor.
“She does not respond as a slave because she has not yet learned her slavery,” said Ulafi. “She has not yet learned the collar and the whip.
The praetor examined the papers. In Ar slaves are often fingerprinted. The prints are contained in the papers.
“Does anyone know if this is Ulafi’s slave?” asked the praetor.
I did not wish to speak, for I would, then, have revealed myself as having been at the sale. I preferred for this to be unknown.
The four she-urts, with which the blond-haired barbarian had fished for garbage in the canal, stood about.
“She should have been marked,” said the praetor. “She should have been collared.”
“I have a collar here,” said Ulafi, lifting a steel slave collar. It was a shipping collar. It had five palms on it, and the sign of Schendi, the shackle and scimitar. The girl who wore it would be clearly identified as a portion of Ulafi’s cargo.
“I wish to sail with the tide,” said Ulafi. “In less than half an Ahn it will be full.”
“I am sorry,” said the praetor.
“Has not Vart been sent for,” asked Ulafi, “to confirm my words?”
“He has been sent for,” said the praetor.
From some eighty or so yards away, from the tiny shop of a metal worker, I heard a girl scream. I knew the sound. A girl had been marked. She who had been the Lady Sasi, the little she-urt who had been the accomplice of Turgus of Port Kar, had been branded.
“I am afraid we must release this woman,” said the praetor, looking down at the girl. “it is unfortunate, as she is attractive.”
“Test her for slave heat,” suggested a man.
“That is not appropriate,” said the praetor, “if she is free.”
“Make her squirm,” said the man. “See if she is slave hot.”
“No,” said the praetor.
The praetor looked at the girl. He looked at Ulafi.
“I am afraid I must order her release,” he said.
“No!” said Ulafi.
“Wait,” said a man. “It is Vart!”
The girl shrank back, miserably, her hands tied behind her back, the neck strap on her throat, before Vart, who had pushed through the crowd.
“Do you know this girl?” asked the praetor of Vart.
“Of course,” said Vart. “She is a slave, sold last night to this captain.” He indicated Ulafi of Schendi. “I got a silver tarsk for her.”
The praetor nodded to a guardsman. He thrust the girl down to her knees. She was in the presence of free men. With the neck strap he pulled her head down and tied it down, fastening it to her ankles by means of the neck strap; the leather between her neck and ankles, which were now crossed and bound, was short and taut. Her rag, the brown, torn tunic of the she-urt, stolen from she who had been Sasi, was then cut from her. She knelt bound then, and naked, in one of several Gorean submission positions.
“The slave is awarded to Ulafi of Schendi,” ruled the praetor.
There were cheers from the men present, and Gorean applause, the striking of the left shoulder with the right hand.
“My thanks, Praetor,” said Ulafi, receiving back the slave papers from the magistrate.
“Slave! Slave!” screamed the leader of the she-urts to the bound girl. “Slave! Slave!” they cried.
“To think we let you fish garbage with us, when you were only a slave!” cried the leader.
Then the she-urts who had accompanied me to the station of the praetor, kicking and striking with their ropes, fell upon the bound slave.
She wept, kicked and struck. “Slave! Slave!” they cried.
“Get back!” called the praetor, angrily, to them. “Get back, or we will collar you all!”
The girls, swiftly, shrank back, fearfully. But they continued to look with hatred on the slave.
The blond girl tried to make herself even smaller and more submissive, that she be not more abused. She sobbed. She had had a taste of the feelings of free women towards a slave, which she was.
“Captain Ulafi,” said the praetor.
“Yes, Praetor,” said Ulafi.
“Have her marked before you leave port,” he said.
“Yes, Praetor,” said Ulafi. He turned to his first officer. “Make ready to leave port,” he said. “We have twenty Ahn.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the man.
“Bring an ankle rack,” said Ulafi to one of the guardsmen. One was brought.
“Put her in it,” said Ulafi. The guardsman removed his neck strap from her throat, freeing, too, her ankles. He untied her hands. Lifting her under the stomach he held her ankles near the rack; another guardsman placed her ankles in the semicircular openings in the bottom block and then swung shut the top block, with its matching semicircular openings, over them. He secured the top block, hinged at the left, to the bottom block, with a metal bolt on a chain, thrust through the staple on the lower block, over the hasp, swung down from the upper block.
The guardsman who had held the girl then ceased to support her. She made a little cry. The weight of her upper body was then on the palms of her hands, her arms stiff. Her ankles were locked in the rack. This helped to support her weight. Her ankles protruded behind the rack. Her feet were small and pretty. She looked about, helplessly.<
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“Bring the scimitar of discipline,” said Ulafi. This was brought by a guardsman. Ulafi showed the heavy, curved blade to the girl. She looked at it with horror.
“You should not have run away, little white slave,” he said.
“No, no!” she said, in English.
He went behind her and, gently, that be not cut her, laid the blade upon her ankles.
“No, no!” she cried. “Please, don’t! Please, don’t! I will be good! I will be good!”
She tried to turn her head, to look behind her. “I will not run away again!” she cried. “Please, please,” she whimpered, “do not cut off my feet.”
Ulafi handed the scimitar to one of the guardsmen. He then went to the girl’s head, taking the dagger from his sash.
She was trembling in misery.
Ulafi pointed to the high desk of the praetor. Then he looked at her. “Kajira?” he asked.
The girl had lied before the desk of the praetor. She had denied being a Kajira, a slave girl.
She twisted her head upward, toward the praetor’s desk. “Forgive me! Forgive me!” she begged.
“Kajira?” asked Ulafi.
“Yes, yes,” she sobbed. Then she cried out, “La Kajira! La Kajira!” This was a bit of Gorean known to her. ‘I am a slave girl.’
Ulafi, with his dagger, but not cutting her, put it first to her right ear, and then to the side of her small nose, and then to the left ear.
“Don’t hurt me,” she begged. “I’m sorry I lied! Forgive me, forgive me! La Kajira! La Kajira!”
Ulafi stood up, replacing the dagger in his sash. The girl had now learned that her feet might be cut off for running away, that her ears and nose might be cut from her for lying. She was still an ignorant girl, of course, but she now knew a little more of what it might be to be a slave on Gor.
“Release her from the rack,” said Ulafi. The rack was opened and the girl collapsed, shuddering, on the wharf.
“Tie her hands and fasten her at a dock ring,” said Ulafi, to his second officer, and two seamen, one of whom was the fellow who had passed me on the walkway of the Rim canal, on the way to the pier of the Red Urt. “Then whip her,” said Ulafi. “Then bring her to the shop of the metal worker. I shall await you there. Bring, too, a pole and cage to the shop.”
“Yes, Captain,” said the second officer.
“Come with me, if you would,” said Ulafi to me.
I followed him to the shop of the metal worker. Outside the shop, stripped, weeping, chained by the neck to a ring, freshly branded, was the girl who had been the Lady Sasi, of Port Kar. A guardsman stood near her. If she was not soon sold for the cost of her branding she would be taken and put on the public shelves, large, flat steps; leading down to the water, near where the Central canal meets Thassa, the sea. She was a cheap slave, but she was pretty. I did not think she should have attempted to inconvenience honest citizens. When she saw me she tried to cover herself and crouch small. I smiled. Did she not know she was branded?
“Heat an iron,” said Ulafi to the metal worker, a brawny fellow in a leather apron.
“Tal,” said the man to me.
“Tal,” said I to him.
“We always keep an iron hot,” said the metal worker. But he did turn to his assistant, a lad of some twelve years. “Heat the coals,” said he to him. The lad took a bellows and, opening and closing it, forced air into the conical forge. The handles of some six irons, their heads and a portion of their shafts buried in the coals, could be seen.
I looked out the door of the shop. I could see the girl, about one hundred and fifty yards away, her wrists crossed and bound before her, tied by the wrists to a heavy ring at the side of the pier. She knelt. Then the first stroke of the whip hit her. She screamed. Then she could scream no more but was twisting, gasping, on her stomach, and side and back, under the blows of the whip. I think she had not understood before what it might mean, truly, to he whipped. Men passed her, going about their business. The disciplining of a slave girl on Gor is not that unusual a sight.
“I have five brands,” said the metal worker, “the common Kajira brand, the Dina, the Palm, the mark of Treve, the mark of Port Kar.”
“We have a common girl to brand,” said Ulafi. “Let it be the common Kajira brand.”
I could see that the girl had now been unbound from the ring. She could apparently not walk. One of the seamen had thrown her over his shoulder and was bringing her toward the shop. She was in shock. I think she had not realized what the whip could do to her.
Yet the beating had been merciful and brief. I doubt that she was struck more than ten or fifteen times.
I think the purpose of the whipping had been little more than to teach her what the whip could feel like. A girl who knows what the whip can feel like strives to be pleasing to the master.
I could see the lateen sails on Ulafi’s ship loosened on their yards.
Men stood by the mooring ropes.
Two sailors, behind the second officer, carried a slave cage. It was supported on a pole, the ends of which rested on their shoulders.
The, girl was brought into the shop and stood in the branding rack, which was then locked on her, holding her upright. The metal worker placed her wrists behind her in the wrist clamps, adjustable, each on their vertical, flat metal bar. He screwed shut the clamps. She winced. He then shackled her feet on the rotating metal platform.
“Left thigh or right thigh?’ he asked.
“Left thigh,” said Ulafi. Slave girls are commonly branded on the left thigh. Sometimes they are branded on the right thigh, or lower left abdomen.
The metal worker turned the apparatus, spinning the shaft, with its attached, circular metal platform. The girl’s left thigh now faced us. It was an excellent thigh. It would take the mark well. The metal worker then, with a wheel, tightening it, locked the device in place, so that it could not turn.
I looked at the girl’s eyes. She hardly knew what was being done to her.
The metal worker drew out an iron and looked at it. “Soon,” he said, putting it back.
I looked at the girl. She had tried to run away. She had lied at the praetor’s desk. Yet her feet had not been removed. Her nose and ears had not been cut from her. She had been shown incredible mercy. She had only been whipped. Her transgressions, of course, had been first offenses, and she was only an ignorant barbarian. I think now, however, she clearly understood that Gorean men are not permissive, and that her second offenses in such matters would not be likely to be regarded with such lenience.
“She is in shock, or half in shock,” I said.
“Yes,” said the metal worker. “She should be able to feel the mark.”
He took the girl by her hair and, by it, cruelly, shook her head; then he slapped her, sharply, twice. She whimpered.
“May I?” I asked. I pointed to a bucket of water nearby. used in tempering.
“Surely,” said the metal worker.
I threw the cold water over the girl who, shuddering and sputtering, pulled back in the branding rack.
She looked at me, frightened. But her eyes were now clear. She twisted, wincing. She could now feel the pain of the whipping which she had endured. She sobbed. But she was no longer numb, or in shock. She was now a fully conscious slave, ready for her branding.
“The iron is ready,” said the metal worker. It was a beautiful iron, and white hot.
Ulafi threw the metal worker a copper tarsk. “My friend here,” said Ulafi, indicating me, “will use the iron.”
I looked at him. He smiled. “You are of the metal workers, are you not?” he asked.
“Perhaps,” I smiled. He had told me earlier that I was not of the metal workers.
“We are ready to sail,” said Ulafi’s first officer, who had come to report.
“Good,” said Ulafi.
I donned leather gloves and took the iron from the metal worker, who cheerfully surrendered it. He assumed I was, because of my garb, of his caste.
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Ulafi watched me, to see what I would do.
I held the iron before the girl, that she might see it. She shrank back. “No, no,” she whimpered. “Please don’t touch me with it.”
The girl is commonly shown the iron, that she may understand its might, its heat and meaning.
“Please, no!” she cried.
I looked upon her. I did not then think of her as an agent of Kurii. I saw her only as a beautiful woman, fit for the brand.
She tried, unsuccessfully, to struggle. She could move her wrists, her upper body and feet somewhat, but she could not move her thighs, at all. They were, because of the construction of the branding rack, held perfectly immobile. They would await the kiss of the iron.
“Please, no,” she whimpered.
Then I branded her.
“An excellent mark,” said Ulafi.
While she still sobbed and screamed the metal worker freed her wrists of the clamps. Ulafi put her immediately in slave bracelets, braceleting her hands behind her, that she not tear at the brand. The metal worker then freed her thighs of the rack, and she sank, sobbing, to her knees. He freed her ankles of the shackles which had held them at the circular, metal platform. Ulafi then, pushing her head down, fastened the sturdy, steel shipping collar on her throat, snapping it shut behind the back of her neck. It had five palms on it, and the sign of Schendi, the shackle and scimitar.
“Put her in the cage and load her,” said Ulafi.
The girl was then taken, braceleted, and thrust into the tiny slave cage, which was then locked shut. She knelt, sobbing, in the cage. The two sailors then lifted the cage on its poles, and, kneeling, she was lifted within it. I looked at her. I saw in her eyes that she had begun to suspect what it might mean to be a slave girl.
She was carried to the ship.
I did not think she would now escape. I thought now she could be used easily to help locate Shaba, the geographer of Anango, the equatorial explorer. In my sea bag were the notes for him, made out to bankers of Schendi. In my sea bag, too, was the false ring, which the girl had carried.
“I am grateful to you for having apprehended the slave,” said Ulafi to me.
“It was nothing,” I said.
“You also marked her superbly,” he said. “Doubtless, in time, she will grow quite proud of that brand.”