Mariners of Gor (57 page)

In passing, one might mention the blond, barbarian slave, Saru. It may be recalled she was not a ship slave, but the personal slave of Lord Nishida. On the other hand, as far as I know, supposedly because of certain reservations pertaining to the nature and quality of her character, he had never deigned to honor her with slave use. It seems he regarded her as unworthy to be his slave.

In any event, she was stripped and danced before Lord Temmu, after which Lord Nishida, as was apparently his original intention, gave her to him. Lord Okimoto, then, perhaps not to be outdone, gave ten slaves to the
shogun
. Of our original store, or cargo, of slaves then, we retained something like one hundred and forty.

“It was you, in Ar, who threw me the rag of a slave!” hissed Adraste.

“It fitted you well!” said Alcinoë.

“I was naked, save for it!” said Adraste.

“I would not have given you so much,” said Alcinoë, “despicable traitress!”

“I am Ubara!” said Adraste.

“Go back to Ar and claim your throne!” said Alcinoë.

“I am Ubara!” wept Adraste.

“You are a collared slave!” said Alcinoë.

Adraste clutched the collar on her neck, and shook it, as though it might be removed.

“See?” said Alcinoë.

“You, too, you slut,” said Adraste, “are collared. You, too, are a slave!”

It may be recalled that I had taken Alcinoë by the hair, bent her over, and thrust her into same small kennel with Adraste, and had then swung shut the gate, it locking with its closure. In this way, the two former highest, richest women in Ar, both traitresses, both muchly involved in the Great Treason, both wanted in Ar, both now slaves, were forced to confront one another, in their current humiliation, shame, and degradation. I had thought this would be of interest, even amusing, to put the slaves together.

“Slave! Slave!” said Alcinoë.

“Slave, slave!” cried Adraste.

* * * *

I had earlier sought out Adraste’s kennel, and stood before it. I had not spoken. Adraste, within, kneeling, in the rather generous tunic, given to the slaves by the Pani, looked out, through the bars. “Master?” she said, uncertainly.

“Do you know me?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

I thought it likely she had not recognized me in the private area of the Venna keeping area, some nights ago, for the light of the lantern had fallen full on her face, perhaps half blinding her, not on mine, and not on that of Alcinoë, who stood back, rather out of the light. Too, soon in position, she had scarcely dared to do more than stare ahead. Some masters do not permit the eyes of the slave to meet theirs, unless commanded to do so, or given permission. To me, that seemed absurd. Surely one of the pleasures of the mastery is to look directly into the eyes of the slave. Are their eyes not often beautiful, brown, blue, hazel, green, so delicate, so soft, so moist? Why should one not in all ways enjoy one’s property? And is it not pleasant to hold her face in your hands, and look deeply upon it? Does her lip tremble? Has she committed a fault of which you might be unaware? Is she afraid of your switch? Or are her eyes pleading for the chains and fur?

“Look closely upon me,” I said. I stepped more into the light.

Suddenly she shook with fear.

“You recognize me,” I said.

“No, no!” she said.

“I recognize you,” I said.

“I think not, Master,” she said.

“Oh?”

“I am only a slave,” she said, “only a humble slave. My name is Adraste! I am Adraste, Adraste!”

“If it pleases Master?”

“Yes, of course,” she said, “if it pleases Master.”

“It pleases me, muchly,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“You speak truly,” I said.

“Master?”

“You are the slave, Adraste.”

“Yes, Master!”

“And,” I said, “once Talena, of Ar.”

“No!” she said. “No!”

“You are no longer a free woman,” I said. “You may now be punished for lying.”

“Please, no, Master,” she said.

“Have you ever felt the lash?” I asked.

“I?” she asked, disbelievingly.

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“Some time with it would doubtless do you good,” I said. Thousands, I supposed, would be pleased to think of the once-proud Talena, of Ar, now a slave, bound, and writhing under the lash, the slave lash, now appropriately to be applied to her. I had little doubt that the imperious and demanding Talena had put her own slaves under it, often enough. Now she, too, as they, a mere slave, was subject to it.

“I beg mercy,” she said.

I did not deign to respond. Let her consider what might be done to her.

“Please do not punish a poor slave,” she said.

“Have you not lied?” I asked.

“Forgive me, Master!” she said.

“The whip,” I said, “is an excellent device for encouraging dutifulness in a slave, and a desire to please, a zealous desire to please. Surely you noted that in your own slaves.”

“Please do not whip me, Master,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“I do not want to be whipped,” she said.

“What is that to me?” I asked.

Tears suddenly sprang into her eyes, and her small, lovely hands clutched the bars, through which, pathetically, she peered up at me.

“You would have me whipped, would you not?” she said.

“More likely I would bind you, and do it myself,” I said.

“Surely not!” she said.

“Know yourself recognized, slut,” I said, “once Talena of Ar.”

“No!” she wept. “No!”

“You are in need of correction, girl,” I said. “I go now, to fetch the slave lash.”

“Please, no, Master!” she said.

I turned back.

“Slave,” I said.

“—Yes, Master.”

“Who am I?” I asked.

“Callias,” she whispered, “Callias of Jad, Cosian, spearman, first of nine, guardsman, the occupation, the Central Cylinder.”

“Better,” I said.

In her terror, and misery, she tried to rise up, but could not do so, as the kennel does not allow that. Then again she was on her knees. Tears now ran down her cheeks. She grasped the bars, tightly, desperately. She pressed her face, as she could, against the bars.

“And who are you?” I asked.

“You know!” she said.

“Speak it,” I said.

“Once Talena, of Ar,” she whispered.

“Yes,” I said.

“Dear Callias,” she said. “Please do not tell anyone!”

“‘Master’,” I said.

“Please, Master,” she said. “Do not tell anyone!”

“You know the bounty on you?” I said.

“Yes,” she whispered, frightened.

“Here is my hand,” I said, extending it to the close-set, narrow, but sturdy bars, adequate to hold a female. “Kiss it, and lick it, first the palm, and then the back, reverently.”

She put her face, as she could, through the bars, and carefully, with her small tongue, kissed it and licked it, first the palm, and then the back, reverently, and then drew back in the kennel, looking at me, but continued to grasp the bars. “Please do not tell anyone who I am,” she said.

“Were I to do so,” I said, “I would doubtless be killed, and others would fight over you, and there would be much bloodshed.”

“We are far from Ar,” she said.

“That, too,” I said.

“As long as I am only Adraste,” she said, “we are both more safe.”

“How came you into the keeping of the Pani?” I asked.

“You, of Cos, well know of the insurrection,” she said, “and its success.”

“Indeed,” I said, ruefully.

“I was betrayed in Ar,” she said, “by the traitor, Seremides, by the hateful Flavia of Ar, traitress whom I had befriended, and others, who would turn me over to the forces of revolt, to bargain for their own amnesty or escape.”

I knew something of this from Alcinoë.

“But on the roof of the Central Cylinder,” she said, “there was sudden confusion, and darkness, and I was seized, and rendered unconscious. When I regained consciousness I found myself stripped and chained, with others, in a wooden stockade, somewhere in the northern forests, in the power of these strange, inexplicable men, Pani. I was collared, and enslaved, no different from the others, as though I might be no more than they.”

“There is much in this that I do not understand,” I said.

“Nor I,” she said.

“I gather from keepers,” I said, “that you bear in your left thigh, high, under the hip, not the common
kef
, but the mark of Treve.”

She reddened.

“This is not the first time you have been a slave,” I said.

“I was captured by Rask of Treve,” she said, “a warrior amongst warriors, a man amongst men. I must wear a Trevan collar. I was tented with his women. Well did he humble me, and teach me how spasmodically helpless might be a slave in the arms of her master. I bathed him. He made me dance for him. I wore his silk, what he would give me of it.”

“It is my understanding that women do not escape the chains of Rask of Treve,” I said.

“He thought little of me,” she said, “as I suppose is appropriate for a slave. And his interest in me, I gather, was primarily that I was the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, his mortal enemy, and the mortal enemy of Treve. It was doubtless primarily for that reason that he captured me, bound me naked before him, supine, over the saddle of his tarn, caressed me into need, and took me to his camp. It amused him, doubtless, to have the daughter of his worst enemy in his collar, an obedient, silked slave in his tent.”

“You escaped?” I said.

“No, Master,” she said. “As you noted, women do not escape the chains of Rask of Treve. I was given away, and, to show his scorn, to a woman, Verna, a Panther Girl of the northern forests.”

“You would seem to be a prize,” I said. “How is it that he would let you go so cheaply?”

“To humiliate me, of course,” she said. “I, the daughter of a Ubar, given away like a pot girl!”

“Still,” I said, “it seems surprising.”

“There was another woman,” she said.

“Of course,” I said.

“It was a young, blond barbarian,” she said, “blue-eyed, and shapely, who could not even speak Gorean properly, a meaningless slut, one named El-in-or.”

“That is, I think,” I said, “a barbarian name.”

“I think so,” she said. “Certainly she was a barbarian.”

“She must have been very beautiful,” I said.

“You can buy ten of them off any chain in a market,” she said.

“You were then, it seems, deemed inferior to a girl, ten of whom might be bought off any chain in a market.”

Her hands turned white on the bars.

How furious she was.

“She is now doubtless his companion,” she said.

“Rask of Treve,” I said, “does not free women. She is probably being kept as the most perfect of slaves.”

Men desire slaves, women desire masters.

“I was taken to the northern forests,” she said, “the slave of Panther Girls. Later I was sold, and eventually returned to Ar.”

“It is my understanding,” I said, “that you begged to be purchased.”

“Of course,” she said, angrily.

“You had compromised the honor of Marlenus,” I said. “Accordingly you were disowned, made no longer his daughter. An embarrassment to the city, you were sequestered in the Central Cylinder. It is easy to understand your outrage, your bitterness, at such a reduction. Then something happened to Marlenus. He was long from the city. In his absence, with which you or others may have had something to do, you plotted with dissident factions and the island ubarates; you laid your plans carefully, and put them into patient and subtle execution; and then, eventually, by means of enemies without and treachery within, your schemes bore their ugly, dark fruit. You received the medallion. You were declared Ubara. The rest is well-known.”

She was silent.

“So,” I said, “you were adjudged inferior to a barbarian named El-in-or.”

“By Rask of Treve!” she said.

“To be sure,” I said.

“What does he know?” she said.

“What, indeed?” I said.

“He is only one man!”

“True,” I said.

“I am the most beautiful woman on all Gor!” she said.

“Perhaps your slaves, and courtiers, told you that,” I said.

“Certainly,” she said.

“And you believed it?”

“Am I not the most beautiful woman you have ever seen?” she said.

“No,” I said, “but you are quite beautiful. In a normal market, you might bring three, perhaps four, silver tarsks.”