by John Norman
“Are you ready to kill?” I asked Pertinax.
“I think so,” he said.
“It would be better to be sure of it,” I said.
“— I am ready,” he said.
“Let us enter,” I said.
There was a musty odor in the stable, and the strong smell of tharlarion dung. The light was acceptable.
“Bucklers,” I cautioned Tajima and Pertinax.
We crouched down, bucklers forward, to cover as much of our bodies as was practical, and surely the chest and throat. Helmeted, we looked over the edge of the bucklers.
I had positioned myself on the right. There was no particular need for this in the situation, but it was a natural thing to do, almost without thinking. In the Gorean phalanx the field commander leads the right wing, which tends to drift to the right, this resulting from the natural tendency of each man to take advantage of the protection of the shield of the man on his right, as well as his own shield. Accordingly, the right wing of the phalanx tends to outflank the left wing of its foe, while the foe’s right wing tends to outflank his left. In this way the phalanxes tend to turn in the field, rather like a wheel of war. Some commanders, well aware of this dynamic, increase the depth of their left wings, a tactic which often leads to victory. The typical Gorean commander, perhaps unwisely, does not “lead” from a position of safety, from interior lines, so to speak, but leads from the front. He himself will be where steel meets steel. In this sense, I suppose he is less a general, and more a warrior. Wisely or not, this seems to be the typical Gorean way. Men, of course, are then ready to die for him, for he is with them, and one of them.
There was a sudden flash, almost invisible, and a shriek of gouged metal and a brightness of sparks and Pertinax, who was in the center, was spun half about, and almost lost the buckler, but then again had it in place.
“Ai!” he said.
“A quarrel,” I said.
Taken frontally the quarrel strikes like an iron fist. It might have gone more than half way through the layering of a leather shield. It could not penetrate the buckler, which was of metal.
Pertinax, clearly, had not anticipated the force of the missile.
“There!” he cried. “I see him! He will have to reload. I can have him before he can set the quarrel.”
“No,” I said. “Stop!”
He looked at me, wildly. The opportunity seemed golden to him. It was not.
“There will be others, to the side,” I said.
Had Pertinax rushed forward he would have been exposed to side fire, and, if he entered far enough into the stable, might have been hit in the back.
Trained crossbowmen, in such a situation, do not volley their fire. They will keep one or more bows ready, waiting.
We heard a woman scream.
“Margaret!” cried Pertinax.
There was then the sound of a blow, and we heard her whimpering.
“Tarsk!” screamed Pertinax.
“Draw back,” I said. I had ascertained what I had intended. There were five foes in the stable, two to each side, a bit back, and one at the center and rear. Three had bows, one on each side, and the one toward the back. I supposed them short of quarrels but could make no determination on this point.
The fellow toward the back of the stable, who had fired the quarrel, was Licinius Lysias, he of Turmus.
This pleased me.
“She is alive!” said Pertinax.
“You put her at great risk,” I said to Pertinax. “You showed concern. Thus they will see her as important. Thus they will see her as a possible hostage, a tool with which to bargain.”
“What does it matter,” said Tajima. “She is only a slave.”
“It matters to Pertinax,” I said.
“He is a weakling, and fool,” said Tajima, angrily.
“Suppose it had been Sumomo,” I said.
“I would have evinced no sign of concern,” said Tajima, “and thus she would have been safer than otherwise.”
“Pertinax,” I said, “does not yet have your resourcefulness, and cunning.”
“Perhaps one day,” said Tajima.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Yes,” said Pertinax. “I am a fool.”
“No,” I said. “One who makes mistakes is not a fool. Only one who fails to learn from his mistakes.”
“But the beast struck her,” he said.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said. “She is only a slave.”
“Perhaps — in a sense,” he said.
“In every sense,” I said, “categorically, and absolutely.” I gathered that Pertinax had no sense of what it was to be a Gorean slave, the absoluteness and wholeness of it, which the former Miss Wentworth now was, and had no inkling of the transformations which had taken place in her, the unfoldings, the revelations, the self-discoveries, the new understandings, the admissions, the confessions in the light of which she could no longer be what she had been. I supposed he would choose to project upon her an image of what he thought she should be, and, indeed, perhaps she, too, would struggle to deny her newly discovered deepest self, and conceal it behind a facade prescribed by an ugly and unnatural culture. Perhaps she would think it in her best interests to do so. Perhaps she would pretend to be what she thought he wanted her to be, to please him, to the grief of both. Perhaps, even more foolishly, she would attempt to conceal from him what she was, and use his sympathy or compassion to manipulate him, to bend him to her will. That is an extremely dangerous thing for a slave girl to do. Perhaps, in order to more successfully exploit him, she would attempt to enlist the social engineering to which he had been subjected on Earth, attempting to instill guilt in him, attempting to make him feel ashamed of the pleasure with which he, as a man, might now regard her, as a slave. Surely such might seem an attractive female stratagem to a naive, conniving slave, particularly to one of Earth origin, to whom such a device might seem plausible. But what if he should only look upon her with perception, and scorn, and laugh? What if he would feel no guilt, no shame, but would see her in triumph as she should be, a female at his feet, in her place in nature, in a collar?
Cultures seldom conform to the needs and desires of human beings, but will have the needs and desires of human beings conform to them. They are, in a sense, as the bed of Procrustes, to which the human being is to be fitted, at whatever cost to his life or limbs, to his health or happiness.
“You must learn to strike her yourself,” I said.
“How could I do that?” asked Pertinax.
“It is easy,” I assured him. “Treat her as what she is, and only is, a slave.”
“Shall we now enter in force?” asked Tajima.
“No,” I said. “Be to the side.”
I then went to the side of the threshold, taking cover near the threshold. “Licinius,” I called, “Licinius Lysias, spy and traitor, he of Turmus!”
“I am no traitor,” I heard. “I am loyal to my fee!”
“I would have with you a conversation of steel,” I called.
“I know you,” he called. “I am not mad!”
“Come forth, disarmed,” I called, “and I will let you depart in peace.”
“A clever ruse,” smiled Tajima, “worthy of Lord Nishida himself.”
“You think me mad!” laughed Licinius, from within. The voice had a ring, from the walls of the stable.
“Warriors within,” I called, “other than Licinius Lysias, he of Turmus. Seize him, he of Turmus, and bring him forth, bound, and you may depart in peace.”
“He is lying! It is a trick!” screamed Licinius.
“Do not move,” I said to Tajima and Pertinax. Both had their blades drawn, were ready to spring within.
“Back! Back!” cried Licinius.
As I had hoped, his cohorts, mercenaries, as well, would be more willing to act on my offer than Licinius himself. What had they to lose, in their situation, and they might have much to gain.
There was a sudden vibration of a bow
cable within and I heard a man scream with pain.
“Back, away, away, sleen!” screamed Licinius. There was then the clash of blades, briefly, fiercely, and I entered the stable, rushing within, followed closely by Tajima and Pertinax.
It took only a moment to see that Licinius Lysias was well worth his fee, which had doubtless been considerable.
I wondered from what purse it had been drawn.
I, and Pertinax and Tajima, halted our advance, abruptly.
A body lay to our left, a quarrel’s fins protruding from its chest, and, toward the back of the stable, three other bodies lay, one still squirming. Licinius Lysias, like a wild beast, was half crouched down, regarding us, balefully. His sword was in his right hand and his left hand was tight on the right arm of a blond slave, now yanked to her knees. Hitherto she had been lying on her belly in the straw, her head turned to the side, in bara, her wrists crossed behind her, with her ankles crossed, as well. It is a common holding, and helplessness, position for a slave. In it, of course, she is positioned perfectly for a swift and secure binding.
Licinius drew the girl rudely before him, and his blade was at her throat.
Pertinax cried out in protest.
Licinius smiled. “Approach no more closely,” he said.
I looked at the four fellows about, one struck by the quarrel, and three in the straw, the one now no longer moving.
“You are skilled,” I said. “I do not see that you needed have feared a discourse with steel.”
“Another step forward,” said Licinius, “and she dies.”
The girl whimpered, piteously, held well, helplessly, in place.
“She is only a slave,” I pointed out.
“Apparently she is a punished high slave,” said Licinius. “In any market she might bring two silver tarsks.”
“She is not trained,” I said.
“She has value,” said Licinius.
“Certainly,” I said, “perhaps as much as a silver tarsk.”
“I think more,” said Licinius.
It was true, of course, that she had some value to Lord Nishida, so much that he was even considering her as a possible gift for a shogun. Beyond this, of course, I knew that she was of some interest to Pertinax, at least as an attractive collar slut. Too, to any man, she would have some value as a property, as would any beautiful slave.
“Release her,” I said, “and I will let you depart in peace.”
“I do not believe you,” he said.
“If you draw your blade across her throat,” I pointed out, “you are a dead man.”
“Put down your blades,” said he, “or she is a dead slave.”
“Very well,” I said. I thrust my blade down, into the floor. Pertinax did so, as well, angrily. Tajima then did so, as well. In this fashion the hilts were within grasping distance.
“Step back,” said Licinius.
We did so.
“She is pretty, is she not?” asked Licinius.
“Some might find her of interest,” I said.
“I will need a tarn,” he said, “a swift tarn, and none are to follow. And I will need binding fiber for the slave.”
“You will take her with you?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. “If I am followed, or intercepted, she dies.”
“What will you then do with her?” I asked.
“What does one do with a slave?” he laughed.
Pertinax cried out, in anger.
“Of course,” I said.
“Then I may sell her to the first merchant I meet,” he said.
“You will not keep her?” I asked.
“Her coloring, and hair,” he said, “suggests that she is cold.”
This differs, of course, from woman to woman. Whereas there is a general conjecture that brunettes are the hottest and most helpless of gasping, moaning, begging slaves in a master’s arms, I suspect this is because most slaves, simply, like most women, are brunettes. Blondes, on the other hand, suitably collared and properly mastered, I had discovered were as helpless, and as pathetically, defenselessly needful, and as whimperingly, uncontrollably, supplicatingly passionate, as their darker-haired sisters.
Women, their natures discovered, their natures revealed, are the properties of men.
Licinius pressed the razor’s edge of his blade against the girl’s throat. “Are you cold, my dear?” he inquired.
“No,” she whimpered. “No!”
“No?” he said.
She cast a wild glance at Pertinax, and trembled.
“No,” she said, “— Master!”
“Slave!” cried Pertinax, in fury.
“The tarn,” said Licinius. “Quickly!”
“Very well,” I said. “Remain here. I will see to the arrangements.”
“You cannot, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima. “Lord Nishida would never permit it.”
I then turned about, and left the stable, followed by Pertinax and Tajima.
Chapter Twenty-One
LICINIUS LYSIAS TAKES HIS DEPARTURE FROM TARNCAMP
“On your back, slave,” said Licinius, “over the saddle, wrists and ankles crossed.”
From the commanded distance, one of several yards, we watched Licinius fasten the slave over the forward capture leather of the saddle, tethering her crossed wrists to the saddle ring to his left, and then her crossed ankles to the saddle ring to his right.
Shortly she was secured in place.
I gathered that she was not the first capture he had helplessed in such a manner.
Pertinax was distraught.
Yet, too, his eyes glistened.
Perhaps he sensed what it might be to have a woman so before him, a tethered prize, supine, across his saddle. How far then seemed the former Miss Wentworth from the corridors of power, from the cabs of Manhattan, from the large, wood-paneled offices of the investment firm. Perhaps he wondered what it might be, were she his, and the binding fiber his own.
But I feared he did not understand that she was now a slave.
“I wish you well!” called Licinius, and drew on the one-strap.
“Lord Nishida will not be pleased,” said Tajima, gloomily.
We watched the tarn ascend, and streak away, to the southeast.
“He escapes,” said Pertinax, angrily.
“No,” I said.
“No?” asked Pertinax.
“No,” I said. “The tarn will return.”
“I do not understand,” said Tajima.
“You will see,” I said.
Chapter Twenty-Two
LICINIUS LYSIAS HAS RETURNED TO TARNCAMP;
I CHOOSE TO DEAL WITH LICINIUS LYSIAS IN A CERTAIN MANNER;
SARU IS TO BE TAKEN FROM THE STABLE;
I RETURN TO MY HUT, FOLLOWED LATER BY PERTINAX
Growling, enraged, struggling, now awakened, Licinius Lysias, he of Turmus, fought the straps which held him, hand and foot, at our feet.
The slave, lying to the side, had not yet awakened.
“Licinius,” I said, “had not eaten nor drunk in several Ahn. There was no food, no water, in the stable. He would be hungry. Worse, he would languish in thirst. Frightened, in his haste to put many pasangs between himself and the camp, he would hesitate to bring the tarn down. Too, he would suspect himself pursued. He would remain in the saddle at least until darkness.”
“The bota at the saddle,” said Tajima.
“Fresh, cool water,” I said.
“And Tassa powder,” said Tajima. “I have heard of it.”
Tassa powder is a harmless, tasteless, swift-acting drug. It is commonly used in the taking of women. It might be introduced into the parties of maidens, into the private, candle-lit suppers of high-born beauties, into the beverages of inns or vendors. Commonly the women are innocent, guilty only of their unusual attractiveness, which will bring them to the slave block. To be sure, a woman might be less innocent, and might partake of, say, wine, with a stranger, one on whom she hopes to employ her wiles
to her profit, one from whom she might hope to win some favor or advantage; perhaps she regales him with some contrived tale of hardship or woe, designed to elicit coins; perhaps she merely delights in tormenting a fellow, teasing and taunting him, leading him on to dazzling expectations and hopes which she has no intention of satisfying. She exercises her presumed beauty, seductive and mysterious within her robes and veils, to gratify her vanity, or even her dislike of males, such oafish, vile brutes. There are many ways, obviously, in which a woman can torture a male. In any event, it is not altogether unknown for such a woman to awaken later, helpless, gagged and bound, hand and foot, in a slave sack, being transported from her city. One interesting case involved a woman’s intention to arrange for the capture and enslavement of a hated rival, but it was she instead who found herself stripped and chained, and was delivered to the rival as her serving slave. From a cage, naked, branded, her throat enclosed in her rival’s collar, she was permitted to watch the ceremony of her rival’s companionship with the male she had sought. Present, too, at the celebration, was he whom she had sought to enlist on her behalf, a friend unbeknownst to her from the childhood of the male companion. Drawn from the cage, she served her rival’s feast, and, later, knelt before her, nostrils pinched shut, and head held back, was forced to imbibe not the festival wine, but bitter “slave wine,” that she might, before her rival, be readied for slave usage, before being sent to the kitchen.
Similar reflections, one supposes, obtain in the cases of many women of Earth, luscious slave fruit harvested by Gorean slavers. It is not their fault that their intelligence is high, their features sensitive and exquisite, their figures shapely. Too, I suspect that the choices of slavers are not always clear to those lacking their training and skills. One supposes more is involved in such things than the turn of a hip, the rounding of a calf, or forearm, the slimness of an ankle, the slenderness of a throat, such things. Is it a way of speaking, an expression, a hesitation, a gesture, a turning of the head, a shyness, a glance, a subtle, revealing, furtive unwillingness to make eye contact when a certain word is spoken, what? There are a hundred subtle cues, readable by the experienced and skilled. Some can read the needful slave in a woman when the woman herself fears to recognize it, and, in any event, dares not reveal it. In any event, much diversity occurs in the markets, and a multitude of choices are available to buyers. Perhaps, on the whole, the women have little more in common than the fact that they are lovely, and will be sold.