Nomads of Gor

by John Norman

  Elizabeth laughed, through her tears. "The ring may be removed," I said. "With instruments it can be opened and then slid free—leaving behind no mark that one would ever see."

  "You are very kind, Tarl Cabot," she said.

  "I do not suppose it would do to tell you," I remarked, "but actually the ring is rather attractive."

  She lifted her head and smiled pertly. "Oh?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said, "quite."

  She leaned back on her heels, drawing the yellow silken sheet more closely about her shoulders, and looked at me, smiling.

  "Am I slave or free?" she asked.

  "Free," I said.

  She laughed. "I do not think you want to free me," she said. "You keep me chained up—like a slave girl!"

  I laughed. "I am sorry!" I cried. To be sure, Elizabeth Cardwell was still in Sirik.

  "Where is the key?" I asked.

  "Above the door," she said, adding, rather pointedly, "just beyond my reach."

  I leaped up to fetch the key.

  "I am happy," she said.

  I picked the key from the small hook.

  "Don't turn around!" she said.

  I did not turn. "Why not?" I asked. I heard a slight movement of chain.

  I heard her voice from behind me, husky. "Do you dare free this girl?" she asked.

  I spun about and to my astonishment saw that Elizabeth Cardwell had arisen and stood proudly, defiantly, angrily before me, as though she might have been a freshly collared slave girl, brought in but an Ahn before, bound over the saddle of a kaiila, the fruit of a slave raid.

  I gasped.

  "Yes," she said, "I will reveal myself, but know that I will fight you to the death."

  Gracefully, insolently, the silken yellow sheet moved about and across her body and fell from her. She stood facing me, in pretended anger, graceful and beautiful. She wore the Sirik and was, of course, clad Kajir, clad in the Curla and Chatka, the red cord and the narrow strip of black leather; in the Kalmak, the brief vest, open and sleeveless, of black leather; and in the Koora, the strip of red cloth that bound back her brown hair. About her throat was the Turian collar with its chain, attached to slave bracelets and ankle rings, one of the latter attached to the chain running to the slave ring. I saw that her left thigh, small and deep, bore the brand of the four bosk horns.

  I could scarcely believe that the proud creature who stood chained before me was she whom Kamchak and I had referred to as the Little Barbarian; whom I had been able to think of only as a timid, simple girl of Earth, a young, pretty little secretary, one of nameless, unimportant thousands of such in the large offices of Earth's major cities; but what I now saw before me did not speak to me of the glass and rectangles and pollutions of Earth, of her pressing crowds and angry, rushing, degraded throngs, slaves running to the whips of their clocks, slaves leaping and yelping and licking for the caress of silver, for their positions and titles and street addresses, for the adulation and envy of frustrated mobs for whose regard a true Gorean would have had but contempt; what I saw before me now spoke rather, in its way, of the bellowing of bosk and the smell of trampled earth; of the sound of the moving wagons and the whistle of wind about them; of the cries of the girls with the bosk stick and the odor of the open cooking fire; of Kamchak on his kaiila as I remembered him from before; as Kutaituchik must once have been; of the throbbing, earthy rhythms of grass and snow, and the herding of beasts; and here before me now there stood a girl, seemingly a captive, who might have been of Turia, or Ar, or Cos, or Thentis; who proudly wore her chains and stood as though defiant in the wagon of her enemy, as if clad for his pleasure, all identity and meaning swept from her save the incontrovertible fact of what she now seemed to be, and that alone, a Tuchuk slave girl.

  "Well," said Miss Cardwell, breaking the spell she had cast, "I thought you were going to unchain me."

  "Yes, yes," I said, and stumbled as I went toward her. Lock by lock, fumbling a bit, I removed her chains, and threw the Sirik and ankle chain to the side of the wagon, under the slave ring.

  "Why did you do that?" I asked.

  "I don't know," she responded lightly, "I must be a Tuchuk slave girl."

  "You are free," I said firmly.

  "I shall try to keep it in mind," she said.

  "Do so," I said.

  "Do I make you nervous?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  She had now picked up the yellow sheet and, with a pin or two, booty from Turia probably, fastened it gracefully about her.

  I considered raping her.

  It would not do, of course.

  "Have you eaten?" she asked.

  "Yes," I said.

  "There is some roast bosk left," she said. "It is cold. It would be a bother to warm it up, so I will not do so. I am not a slave girl, you know."

  I began to regret my decision in freeing her.

  She looked at me, her eyes bright. "It certainly took you a long time to come by the wagon."

  "I was busy," I said.

  "Fighting and such, I suppose," she said.

  "I suppose," I said.

  "Why did you come to the wagon tonight?" she asked. I didn't care precisely for the tone of voice with which she asked the question.

  "For wine," I said.

  "Oh," she said.

  I went to the chest by the side of the wagon and pulled out a small bottle, one of several, of Ka-la-na wine which reposed there.

  "Let us celebrate your freedom," I said, pouring her a small bowl of wine.

  She took the bowl of wine and smiled, waiting for me to fill one for myself.

  When I had done so, I faced her and said, "To a free woman, one who has been strong, one who has been brave, to Elizabeth Cardwell, to a woman who is both beautiful and free."

  We touched the bowls and drank.

  "Thank you, Tarl Cabot," she said.

  I drained my bowl.

  "We shall, of course," Elizabeth was saying, "have to make some different arrangements about the wagon." She was glancing about, her lips pursed. "We shall have to divide it somehow. I do not know if it would be proper to share a wagon with a man who is not my master."

  I was puzzled. "I am sure," I muttered, "we can figure out something." I refilled my wine bowl. Elizabeth did not wish more. I noted she had scarcely sipped what she had been given. I tossed down a swallow of Ka-la-na, thinking perhaps that it was a night for paga after all.

  "A wall of some sort," she was saying.

  "Drink your wine," I said, pushing the bowl in her hands toward her.

  She took a sip, absently. "It is not really bad wine," she said.

  "It is superb," I said.

  "A wall of heavy planks would be best, I think," she mused.

  "You could always wear Robes of Concealment," I ventured, "and carry about your person an unsheathed quiva."

  "That is true," she said.

  Her eyes were looking at me over the rim of her bowl as she drank. "It is said," she remarked, her eyes mischievous, "that any man who frees a slave girl is a fool."

  "It is probably true," I said.

  "You are nice, Tarl Cabot," she said. She seemed to me very beautiful. Again I considered raping her, but now that she was free, no longer a simple slave, I supposed that it would be improper. I did, however, measure the distance between us, an experiment in speculation, and decided I could reach her in one bound and in one motion, with luck, land her on the rug.

  "What are you thinking?" she asked.

  "Nothing that I care to inform you of," I said.

  "Oh," she said, looking down into her bowl of wine, smiling.

  "Drink more wine," I prompted.

  "Really!" she said.

  "It's quite good," I said. "Superb."

  "You are trying to get me drunk," she said.

  "The thought did cross my mind," I admitted.

  She laughed. "After I am drunk," she asked, "what are you going to do with me?"

  "I think I will stuff you in
the dung sack," I said.

  "Unimaginative," she remarked.

  "What do you suggest?" I asked.

  "I am in your wagon," she sniffed. "I am alone, quite defenseless, completely at your mercy."

  "Please," I said.

  "If you wished," she pointed out, "I could in an instant be returned to slave steel—simply be re-enslaved—and would then again be yours to do with precisely as you pleased."

  "That does not sound to me like a bad idea," I said.

  "Can it be," she asked, "that the commander of a Tuchuk Thousand does not know what to do with a girl such as I?"

  I reached toward her, to take her into my arms, but I found the bowl of wine in my way, deftly so.

  "Please, Mr. Cabot," she said.

  I stepped back, angry.

  "By the Priest-Kings," I cried, "you are one woman who is looking for trouble!"

  Elizabeth laughed over the wine. Her eyes sparkled. "I am free," she said.

  "I am well aware of that," I snapped.

  She laughed.

  "You spoke of arrangements," I said. "There are some. Free or not, you are the woman in my wagon. I expect to have food, I expect the wagon to be clean, the axles to be greased, the bosk to be groomed."

  "Do not fear," she said, "when I prepare my meals I will make enough for two."

  "I am pleased to hear it," I muttered.

  "Moreover," she said, "I myself would not wish to stay in a wagon that was not clean, nor one whose axles were not greased, nor one whose bosk were not properly groomed."

  "No," I said, "I suppose not."

  "But it does seem to me," she said, "that you might share in such chores."

  "I am the commander of a Thousand," I said.

  "What difference does that make?" she asked.

  "It makes a great deal of difference!" I shouted.

  "You needn't shout," she said.

  My eye glanced at the slave chains under the slave ring.

  "Of course," said Elizabeth, "we could regard it as a division of labor of sorts."

  "Good," I said.

  "On the other hand," she mused, "you might rent a slave for such work."

  "All right," I said, looking at her. "I will rent a slave."

  "But you can't trust slaves," said Elizabeth.

  With a cry of rage I nearly spilled my wine.

  "You nearly spilled your wine," said Elizabeth.

  The institution of freedom for women, I decided, as many Goreans believed, was a mistake.

  Elizabeth winked at me, conspiratorially. "I will take care of the wagon," she said.

  "Good," I said. "Good!"

  I sat down beside the fire bowl, and stared at the floor. Elizabeth knelt down a few feet from me, and took another sip of the wine.

  "I heard," said the girl, seriously, "from a slave—whose name was Hereena—that tomorrow there will be great fighting."

  I looked up. "Yes," I said. "I think it is true."

  "If there is to be fighting tomorrow," she asked, "will you take part in it?"

  "Yes," I said, "I suppose so."

  "Why did you come to the wagon tonight?" she asked.

  "For wine," I said, "as I told you."

  She looked down.

  Neither of us said anything for a time. Then she spoke. "I am happy," she said, "that this is your wagon."

  I looked at her and smiled, then looked down again, lost in thought.

  I wondered what would become of Miss Cardwell. She was, I forcibly reminded myself, not a Gorean girl, but one of Earth. She was not natively Turian, nor Tuchuk. She could not even read the language. To almost anyone who would come upon her she might seem but a beautiful barbarian, fit presumably by birth and blood only for the collar of a master. She would be vulnerable. She, without a defender, would be helpless. Indeed, even the Gorean woman, outside her city, without a defender, should she escape the dangers of the wild, is not likely long to elude the iron, the chain and collar. Even peasants pick up such women, using them in the fields, until they can be sold to the first passing slaver. Miss Cardwell would need a protector, a defender. And yet on the very morrow it seemed I might die on the walls of Saphrar's compound. What then would be her fate? Moreover, I reminded myself of my work, and that a warrior cannot well encumber himself with a woman, particularly not a free woman. His companion, as it is said, is peril and steel. I was sad. It would have been better, I told myself, if Kamchak had not given me the girl.

  My reflections were interrupted by the girl's voice. "I'm surprised," she said, "that Kamchak did not sell me."

  "Perhaps he should have," I said.

  She smiled. "Perhaps," she admitted. She took another sip of wine. "Tarl Cabot," she said.

  "Yes," I said.

  "Why did Kamchak not sell me?"

  "I do not know," I said.

  "Why did he give me to you?" she asked.

  "I am not truly sure," I said.

  I wondered indeed that Kamchak had given the girl to me. There were many things that seemed to me puzzling, and I thought of Gor, and of Kamchak, and the ways of the Tuchuks, so different from those native to Miss Cardwell and myself.

  I wondered why it was that Kamchak had put the ring on this girl, had had her branded and collared and clad Kajir—was it truly because she had angered him, running from the wagon that one time—or for another reason—and why had he subjected her, cruelly perhaps, in my presence to the Slaver's Caress? I had thought he cared for the girl. And then he had given her to me, when there might have been other commanders. He had said he was fond of her. And I knew him to be my friend. Why had he done this, truly? For me? Or for her, as well? If so, why? For what reason?

  Elizabeth had now finished her wine. She had arisen and rinsed out the bowl and replaced it. She was now kneeling at the back of the wagon and had untied the Koora and shaken her hair loose. She was looking at herself in the mirror, holding her head this way and that. I was amused. She was seeing how the nose ring might be displayed to most advantage. Then she began to comb her long dark hair, kneeling very straight as would a Gorean girl. Kamchak had never permitted her to cut her hair. Now that she was free I supposed she would soon shorten it. I would regret that. I have always found long hair beautiful on a woman.

  I watched her combing her hair. Then she had put the comb aside and had retied the Koora, binding back her hair. Now she was again studying her image in the bronze mirror, moving her head slightly.

  Suddenly I thought I understood Kamchak! He had indeed been fond of the girl!

  "Elizabeth," I said.

  "Yes," she said, putting the mirror down.

  "I think I know why Kamchak gave you to me—aside from the fact that I suppose he thought I could use a pretty wench about the wagon."

  She smiled.

  "I am glad he did," she said.

  "Oh?" I asked.

  She smiled. She looked into the mirror. "Of course," she said, "who else would have been fool enough to free me?"

  "Of course," I admitted.

  I said nothing for a time.

  The girl put down the mirror. "Why do you think he did?" she asked, facing me, curious.

  "On Gor," I said, "the myths have it that only the woman who has been an utter slave can be truly free."

  "I am not sure," she said, "that I understand the meaning of that."

  "It has nothing to do, I think," I said, "with what woman is actually slave or free, has little to do with the simplicity of chains or the collar, or the brand."

  "Then what?" she asked.

  "It means, I think," I said, "that only the woman who has utterly surrendered—and can utterly surrender—losing herself in a man's touch—can be truly a woman, and being what she is, is then free."

  Elizabeth smiled. "I do not accept that theory," she remarked. "I am free now."

  "I am not talking about chains and collars," I said.

  "It is a silly theory," she said.

  I looked down. "I suppose so," I said.

&nbs
p; "I would have little respect for the woman," said Elizabeth Cardwell, "who could utterly surrender to a man."

  "I thought not," I said.

  "Women," said Elizabeth, "are persons—surely as much as men—and their equals."

  "I think we are talking about different things," I said.

  "Perhaps," she said.

  "On our world," I said, "there is much talk of persons—and little of men and women—and the men are taught that they must not be men and the women are taught that they must not be women."

  "Nonsense," said Elizabeth. "That is nonsense!"

  "I do not speak of the words that are used, or how men of Earth would speak of these things," I said, "but of what is not spoken—of what is implicit perhaps in what is said and taught.

  "But what," I asked, "if the laws of nature and of human blood were more basic, more primitive and essential than the conventions and teachings of society—what if these old secrets and truths, if truths they be, had been concealed or forgotten, or subverted to the requirements of a society conceived in terms of interchangeable labor units, each assigned its functional, technical sexless skills?"

  "Really!" said Elizabeth.

  "What do you think would be the result?" I asked.

  "I'm sure I don't know," she said.

  "Our Earth," I suggested.

  "Women," said Miss Cardwell, "do not wish to submit to men, to be dominated, to be brutalized."

  "We are speaking of different things," I said.

  "Perhaps," she admitted.

  "There is no freer nor higher nor more beautiful woman," I said, "than the Gorean Free Companion. Compare her with your average wife of Earth."

  "The Tuchuk women," said Elizabeth, "have a miserable lot."

  "Few of them," I said, "would be regarded in the cities as a Free Companion."

  "I have never known a woman who was a Free Companion," said Elizabeth.

  I was silent, and sad, for I had known one such.

  "You are perhaps right," I said, "but throughout the mammals it seems that there is one whose nature it is to possess and one whose nature it is to be possessed."

  "I am not accustomed to thinking of myself," smiled Elizabeth, "as a mammal."