by John Norman
“His name is Sakim,” said Thurnock.
The mariner had now stumbled to the table, and I seized his right wrist, to hold it steady, and poured the residue of my goblet into his emptied goblet. “Thank you, Noble Master,” he said. He then, head back, greedily downed the last bit of paga, with a single swallow.
“It was twenty paces abeam,” he said. “Its head parted the water suddenly like a great rock rising from the sea. Its skin was black and slippery. Five men with arms outstretched could not have embraced its width. It had teeth like shearing blades!”
“Enough, enough,” I said. “Your tale is well-known. Tell it another time.”
I then pressed a tarsk-bit into his left hand.
“Thank you, Noble Master,” he said, and, turning about, clutching the coin, staggered toward the paga vat, to the left of the entrance to the tavern, as one would enter.
“You are patient and merciful, Captain,” said Thurnock.
“There are many ways to buy a drink,” I said, “the selling of a song, the promise of an address, the waylaying of an enemy, the telling of a story.”
“The last three nights we have heard the same story, and others, by others, even thrice told,” said Clitus.
“Such stories abound,” said Clitus, “particularly as the Ahn grows late and the blood begins to burn with paga.”
“Where is the dancer?” I asked.
“The czehar player has not yet entered from the serving corridor,” said Thurnock.
“You are out of paga, Captain,” noted Clitus.
I lifted the drained goblet. “Paga! Paga!” I called. “Let us have another round,” I suggested.
This seemed agreeable to Clitus and Thurnock as they drained their goblets.
“This is the fourth tavern in Sybaris we have visited,” said Thurnock, “and we have as yet learned nothing. We hear little now of looted ships and raided villages, not even of wagerings as to when and where the dreaded Bosk of Port Kar will strike next.”
“Given such information,” I said, “I could enlist the aid of the authorities, even of Cos itself.”
“The czehar player has appeared,” said Thurnock. “He has now joined the kalika player, the flautists, and a drummer.”
“It should be soon now,” I said.
“Soon?” said Clitus.
“The dancer,” I said.
We had returned to Sybaris, and, particularly, more than once, to this tavern, for it was here we had first learned of the supposedly consummated attack on Nicosia, several days prior to the actual attack.
“Master?” said a woman’s voice.
I looked.
She was barefoot.
Her ankles were trim. Her calves were nicely curved. There was little mistaking the loveliness of her legs for she wore a brief Gorean slave tunic. Such tunics do little to conceal, and much to enhance, the beauty of a woman. In such a tunic a woman understands, and others understand, that she is being displayed as what she is, a purchasable object. Beneath the tunic I could see the sweet flare of her hips. She would have an exquisite, inviting love cradle. Her waist was narrow, and her breasts, while not large, were sweetly ample. She would take a belly rope, or belly leash, nicely. It could not be slipped. In Earth measurements, she was five foot three or four. Her neck was the sort which seems made for the collar. Her eyes were brown. Her hair was brown, too, a rich, dark brown. Presumably her master would not permit it to be cut. Long hair is often favored in a slave. There is much that can be done with it, in the furs and elsewhere. She can even be bound with it. Her features were delicate, fine, sensitive, and beautifully, vulnerably feminine. She was the sort of woman whom those women who hated men would despise, begrudging her her attractiveness, an attractiveness they themselves generally lacked. On her former world, I expected that men would have vied earnestly, and expensively, for her favor. On her new world, here, she was owned. Here, they might buy her from her Master. Perhaps some of the women who despised men would consider buying her for themselves, if only to keep her, a natural woman, fittingly the slave of men, from men. It is harrowing for such a slave to be owned by a free woman. They are often punished terribly for their attractiveness to men, an attractiveness often not possessed by their mistress. Slavers select with several criteria in mind, for example, high intelligence, vitality, attractiveness, which is not always the same as beauty, and, at least, latent passion. I admired the taste of the slavers who had acquired her. I wondered why she was not kneeling. If she did not know she was a slave now, I suspected it would soon become clear to her.
“Master?” she repeated.
Women differ considerably amongst themselves. Some women know they are a slave long before their first sight of a coiled rope or a length of chain, long before their slender wrists are pinioned helplessly behind them in slave bracelets, for the clasp of which in their heart they have long yearned.
It takes some women longer, to learn the collar, and themselves.
I looked up at her, and then down, to the table. Her eyes followed mine. The first two fingers of my right hand were bent, and pressed to the table. My thumb and third and fourth fingers were closed and behind the first two fingers.
Instantly she knelt.
Her attitude now was less assured.
Would she be beaten?
Or would her indiscretion be overlooked? But such things are seldom overlooked in the case of a slave.
“First obeisance position,” I said.
She put her head to the floor, the palms of her hands down, beside her head. Her hair fell forward, dropping to the sides of her neck. I saw her smaller hair at the back of her neck.
“Why are you permitted to live?” I asked.
“That I may please the free,” she said, “instantly, unquestioningly, and in all ways.”
“Perhaps you are not pleased to serve?” I said.
“I do not wish to be whipped,” she said.
That was understandable. The lesson of the Gorean slave whip is one not likely to be forgotten.
“Perhaps later,” I said, “you will desire to serve, will hope to be pleasing, will strive with every bit of your lovely body to serve, will beg to be pleasing, will beg hopefully to be permitted to serve, will live to serve and please.”
“As a slave,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
She was silent.
“Perhaps you should be sold to a free woman,” I said.
She shuddered, keeping her head to the floor. “Please, please, no, Master,” she whispered.
This show of genuine emotion pleased me. The female slave is commonly a creature of deep feelings, a creature of profound emotionality.
This makes her vulnerable in a thousand ways.
I supposed she feared that I, displeased, might purchase her, and then sell her to a free woman.
“It seems you have had some interactions with a free woman or women,” I said.
“Please do not sell me to one, Master,” she said.
“Why not?” I asked.
“They hate us,” she said, “for our collars, and tunics, for our not being displeasing to look upon, for our being the properties of men.”
“You have not been in your collar long,” I speculated.
“No,” she said, “I have not been in my collar—long.”
“You will grow accustomed to it,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“It looks well on you,” I said, “sturdy, attractive, and close-fitting.”
“It is locked,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I cannot remove it,” she said.
“Slaves are not to slip in and out of collars as they please,” I said.
“I am told I am an animal,” she said.
“You are,” I said, “yo
u are a slave.”
“Thus,” she said, “as I am an animal, a collar is appropriate.”
“Precisely,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What is your brand?” I asked.
“Animals are branded, are they not?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “And, pretty animal, what is your brand?”
“The Kef,” she said, “the common kef.”
“I am not surprised,” I said.
“Perhaps she is lying,” said Thurnock.
“We shall see,” I said. “Brand!” I said, sharply.
Instantly, without thought, almost despite herself, as she had been conditioned, she turned to her right, and, half kneeling, half lying, drew up her tunic, exposing her left thigh to the hip.
“I see you need not be lashed,” I said. “Resume your former position, hands beside your head, head to the floor.”
She complied.
I noted she had failed to say, “Yes, Master.”
The use of the expression ‘Master’ to a free man or ‘Mistress’ to a free woman is expected of a slave. It is appropriate. She is not free. It marks the chasm that separates her from the free. Its frequent use is recommended. It serves to deepen, confirm, and reinforce the slave’s understanding of her status, of what she is. Later, as she thrills to being owned and mastered, and learns the rightfulness of this for her sex, its use is not only gratifying and reassuring, but relished. She now, at last, has a clear, unmistakable identity. She is now something real, at last. As a slave all is clear to her. She now knows how to move, act, and speak, how to be. No longer is she an ambiguity, an uncertainty, a vagueness; no longer is she a nothing. She is now a property, her master’s property.
“Master called for paga, did he not?” she asked.
Obviously I had done so.
I continued to regard her.
How beautiful women look in collars.
How desirable they are, as helpless slaves.
Have not thousands of generations bred them to belong to us?
“Master?” she said.
There was no doubt she was beautiful.
On Earth, if she was of Earth, she would have been thought unusually beautiful. Here, on the other hand, on Gor, her beauty was nothing unusual, at least for a slave. I wondered if this dismayed or chagrined her, to be here, in her way, rather average, at least for a slave. Here, on Gor, beauty is nothing special in a slave. It tends to be taken for granted in a slave. Thus, as her beauty is not enough in itself to please, to garner her ease and riches, to assure her of her having her own way, she is well advised to be the best slave she can. To the extent she is unsuccessful, she must expect the whip.
“May I lift my head?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Were you sold for debt, or taken in war?”
“No,” she said.
“What then?” I asked.
She sobbed.
“Master would not understand,” she said.
“Speak,” I said.
“I am not to speak of it,” she said. “I would be beaten.”
“Speak,” I said.
“I come from far off,” she said, “from another world, one called Earth, brought here like a dog or horse, stripped and sold like a pig in a public, open market. But, forgive me. Master does not know those animals.”
“I understand the sort of thing you are saying,” I said.
“Master is apprised of the Second Knowledge?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Perhaps Master is then of high caste?” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I think the dancer will be soon on the sand,” said Clitus.
“Aktis is diligently employed, is he not?” I asked Thurnock.
“Yes,” said Thurnock.
“Profitably?” I asked.
“I fear not,” said Thurnock. “He has examined several markets, greater and lesser, finding no articles of the sort he seeks.”
“The dancer!” said Clitus.
“You may now lift your head and turn about,” I said to the kneeling slave. “Observe the dancer and discover how beautiful and exciting a woman can be.”
“How shall I kneel?” she asked.
“In the position of the tower slave,” I said.
She brought her knees together.
“It seems Master regards me of small interest,” she said.
“Beat her,” said Thurnock.
“Shall I cross my wrists before my body, as though they might be bound?” she asked.
“Let her be whipped,” said Clitus.
“No,” I said. “Place your wrists behind you, crossed, as though bound, and kneel up, and well.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And suck in your gut,” said Clitus.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Nice,” said Thurnock.
An ideal tie for a woman is the wrists tied behind the back. In this way she is not only helpless but extremely vulnerable, unable to fend caresses away from the soft terrain of her defenseless beauty. Too, this tie, her arms held back, accentuates several attractions of that very beauty.
“Look,” said Thurnock, “Aktis enters the tavern.”
Aktis was now within the portal, and was looking about, scanning the tables.
“I see by his expression he has nothing of interest to report,” said Clitus.
I lifted my arm, and this caught the eye of Aktis, and he began to make his way toward our table.
Almost at the same moment there was a bright skirl of music and the dancer, in her swirling silks and veils, her ankle bells, and bracelets and necklaces, began to perform.
“Excellent,” said Thurnock. “Worthy of Ar or Brundisium.”
“Or Port Kar,” said Clitus.
“It seems that civilization has come to the Farther Islands,” I said.
“I think that dancer is new,” said Thurnock. “We have not seen her before.”
“Tal,” I said to Aktis, who now joined us, cross-legged, at the table.
“What success?” asked Clitus.
“None,” said Aktis, dismally.
“The dancer is now making her way amongst the tables,” said Thurnock, approvingly.
“Perhaps you will have better fortune in a day or two,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Aktis. “But I have searched strenuously and lengthily.”
“Perhaps we should try another town,” said Clitus.
“But it was here, in Sybaris,” I said, “that we heard the report of the destructive raid on Nicosia, days before it actually took place.”
“True,” said Clitus.
The dancer now, under the dangling lamps, animate, seductive, vital, swaying, negotiating the tables, was but yards away. In most paga taverns the dancer or dancers confine themselves to the square or oval dancing area, normally of polished wood or yellow sand, reminiscent of a camp or caravanserai. The typical reason for this, one supposes, is to isolate the dancer in such a way that she can be well seen and is not likely to have her performance interrupted by grasping hands. I noted that this dancer had, and more than once, eluded hands reaching out for her.
“She approaches,” said Thurnock, not in the least displeased.
“Enjoy the dance,” I encouraged Aktis. “I doubt that there was anything like this in Nicosia.”
Aktis’ eyes were dull. He scarcely lifted his eyes from the table.
“She sees the watching, disciplined slave, kneeling at our table, bound by the Master’s will,” said Clitus. “To amuse herself and the crowd she will ridicule and torment her.” There is often a rivalry, implicit or explicit, amongst slaves. A girl who has fai
led to be pleasing is often an object of derision and scorn. She is likely to be regarded by other slaves as a failed slave, as one inadequate and inferior, as one inept and stupid, as one unworthy of the collar.
The slave who cannot please a man is pathetic indeed.
Then, in a flash of silks and veils, to the sparkle of bells, to the jangle of ornaments, the dancer was at the table, her beauty affronting and taunting the kneeling slave.
“Observe,” I said to the kneeling slave, who had stiffened and was trying to draw back, but was careful to keep her wrists, crossed, behind her, lest I have her lashed for “breaking position.” “See what a true woman can be.”
The dancer’s hips rotated; her belly mocked the kneeling slave; her veil fluttered about the kneeling slave sometimes covering her.
There was much laughter amongst the tables.
Clearly the kneeling slave would have wished to brush away the insulting silk but, bound by the Master’s will, could not do so.
The dancer, delighted, and triumphant, prepared to swirl away but Aktis, who had scarcely moved and whom she had scarcely noticed, suddenly cried out “There!” and lunged across the table his left hand clutching the belt, sweetly low on her hips, from which dangled rings, cheap, drilled coins, trinkets, and charms.
The dancer cried out, startled.
“Tear it off!” cried a man.
“Drunk as a long-voyaged oarsman!” laughed another.
“Congratulations!” cried another. “You were quicker than I!”
I pulled loose the hand of Aktis. “My apologies to your Master!” I said. “Continue your dance.”
“Yes,” she said, “handsome Master,” and spun away.
“I am sure of it!” said Aktis.
“You noticed nothing,” I told him.
“Captain?” said Aktis.
“Slave,” I said to the kneeling, humiliated, distraught slave, “you may break position. Rise up, and bring us four pagas.”
She rose up, and began to back away.
“Wait,” I said. “On the tray, about the stem of my goblet, wind a binding lace.”
“Please, no,” she said.
“You will learn what it is to be a paga slave,” I said.
“Choose another,” she begged.