Prize of Gor (88 page)

Grinning, the man removed his hand. “Six,” said the man.

But in a moment there was a bid of seven from the crowd.

Ellen was dazed.

The thought passed her mind of her lectures in the classroom, her former demeanor, her former prim attire. So faraway, so different! And then the strange image came to her of herself, stripped as she now was, but standing on the cool, flat, smooth surface of the desk in the classroom, being exhibited as a slave. In that image it seemed that, somehow, there were several young men then in the classroom, as there had not been, considering her, having her turn about, and so on. The female students in the room, many of whom she remembered, seemed timid, small, shy, quiet, subdued, fearful, withdrawn, but were regarding her with fascination. And from time to time the young women in the classroom looked about themselves, at the young men. Did they ask themselves what it would be, to belong to one or another of them? As they regarded her, with wide, fearful, attentive, shining eyes, did they expect, or await, or fear, their own turn upon that platform, similarly, blatantly, coarsely, displayed. And then the image was gone, and Ellen was again herself, on the exotic world of perilous, barbaric Gor, illuminated in the light of torches, standing on the concave surface of the block, her ankles in sawdust, the lights of Brundisium in the distance, the men calling out, being offered for sale, being sold.

She scarcely realized that there was now a bid on her of ten silver tarsks. That is too much, she thought, too much! That was a full tenth of a golden tarn disk!

There was then a lull in the bidding.

“More? More?” inquired the auctioneer, though it seemed he did not, really, expect more.

Ellen did not think that many girls sold in this camp would go for so much. Perhaps a hundred, or a hundred and fifty, perhaps high slaves, perhaps exquisitely, lengthily trained pleasure slaves, perhaps skilled dancers, perhaps such, but surely not she! Accordingly, instead of being excited and thrilled, she was apprehensive. There must be some mistake, she thought. I am not worth that much, she thought. To be sure, she told herself, it is men who will decide what you are worth, not you. How much I must have changed, she thought, if men, particularly in a general, improvised camp such as this, are willing to bid so much!

Dare I think such thoughts? Dare I accept myself as being that attractive? Surely I must dismiss such thoughts. They are far too bold for a slave! There must be a mistake, a mistake of some sort!

“Here, kajira,” snapped the auctioneer, behind her.

Quickly Ellen backed to him, that she might not cease to face the men, until she sensed that he was a foot or so behind her, to her right.

She felt his hand in her hair, behind her shoulders, his hand then lifting, looping the hair several times about his fist, until his fist was tightly at the back of her head. She put her head back a little, apprehensively, to ease the pressure. Then she cried out suddenly in pain as his hand twisted tightly, cruelly, in her hair, bending her backward, exhibiting the bow of her beauty to the men. She tried to reach back to her hair, twisting, sobbing.

“Place your wrists behind you, crossed,” said the auctioneer, and Ellen, the slave, complied, bound by the will of the master.

She was then turned about, from side to side, that the men might better see.

I trust, she thought wildly, that neither Mirus nor Selius Arconious are among the buyers. Surely they must not see me so, not exhibited thusly!

Clearly the men were enflamed at the sight of the helpless, displayed slave.

“Eleven!” she heard.

“Twelve!”

“Thirteen!”

“Fourteen!”

“Fifteen!”

There was then again a lull in the bidding.

Ellen sobbed suddenly, again, held, twisted backward.

“Is there more?” called the auctioneer. “More?”

He released Ellen’s hair and took her by the upper left arm, and threw her to her hands and knees in the sawdust before him. Her knees were deep in the sawdust, and her hands were in it, to the wrists. She looked wildly out, through her fallen, dangling, scattered hair, into the crowd. Tears fell into the sawdust.

“More?” inquired the auctioneer. “I have fifteen! Do I hear more? My hand is lifted! I am preparing to close my hand!”

“Twenty,” said a voice.

There was a gasp from the crowd.

Ellen shook her head, trying to clear the hair from before her face. She looked out, into the crowd, trying to see. “No,” she wept. “No!”

Then she lay on her left side in the sawdust, facing away from the crowd, her knees drawn up, her head covered with her hands, at the feet of the auctioneer.

“Did I hear a bid of twenty?” asked the auctioneer.

“Twenty,” repeated the voice.

“This is a barbarian, not fully trained,” said the auctioneer.

“She can be trained!” laughed a voice.

“Twenty,” said again the first voice.

“Kneel, facing the men,” said the auctioneer.

Ellen then knelt, facing the men, but with her head down, her knees closely together, trembling, her arms crossed before her, trying to cover herself as best she could, trying to conceal as much of the slave as possible.

“Position,” said the auctioneer to Ellen.

And then Ellen, tears running down her cheeks, knelt appropriately before the men, as what she was, a Gorean pleasure slave, back on heels, back straight, head up, hands down on thighs, knees widely spread.

“I have twenty,” said the auctioneer. “I am preparing to close my hand!”

Ellen had recognized the voice. In a moment she would again belong to Mirus, he who had first opened her for the uses of men, her first master.

I do not want to belong to him, she thought, suddenly, wildly, no longer, no longer! And the thought, springing into her consciousness, startled her, and amazed her.

But she would belong to whomsoever she was sold, he who would then have all rights to her embonded beauty, and he who would exercise all rights, he whose slave she would then be.

“I will now close my hand!” said the auctioneer.

“No!” called out another voice, from the crowd, firmly, clearly.

Men looked about, to see who had spoken, who might choose to challenge the preceding, remarkable bid.

Mirus turned about, to see as well, he several yards back, in the crowd, to Ellen’s left, as she faced the crowd.

Mirus clearly did not know his competitor.

The garments of Mirus were ample and splendid, robes which might well betoken his wealth and position.

The fellow who had halted the auctioneer was plainly clad, in a simple brown tunic, and was surely of low caste, perhaps of the peasants, or a drayman of sorts.

Mirus smiled.

Although the caste of Mirus might be unclear from the particular nature of his garmenture, Ellen supposed him of the slavers, which would be a subcaste of the Merchants, which caste was doubtless the wealthiest on Gor, and one which was often wont to view itself, perhaps in virtue of its wealth, if not as well in virtue of its influence and power, as a high caste, a tendency which, however, was not widely shared, save perhaps, at least publicly, by its clients and sycophants. Goreans respect wealth but tend to value other attributes more highly, and, indeed, to the credit of the Merchants, it should be noted that they usually do so, as well. One such attribute is fidelity; another is honor. Gor is not Earth.

In any event, aside from any cultural ambiguity which might attend the station or status of the Merchants, Mirus would presumably concede nothing in caste merit to the fellow who had just, it seemed, dared to gainsay him.

Mirus again regarded his apparent competitor, and again smiled.

It did not seem that he need have much to fear with respect to any ensuing competitive engagements.

“The bid was of twenty silver tarsks,” called the auctioneer, “not twenty copper tarsks.”

“Close your hand,” called Mirus.

“Do not do so,” called the other man, several yards farther way than Mirus, but to his left, and Ellen’s right.

“You have a bid?” asked the auctioneer.

“I bid one,” said the man.

“I do not understand,” said the auctioneer.

“One golden tarn disk, of the Ubar’s mint, of Cos,” called the man.

A murmur of surprise, and interest, and disbelief, coursed through the crowd.

Ellen shook her head, wildly, disconcerted, frightened.

“What is your caste?” called Mirus to the man.

“Surely one need not certify caste to bid in open auction,” said the fellow. “I do not recall that being required hitherto, here or elsewhere.”

“A ruling!” called Mirus.

“Certification of caste is not a prerequisite for bidding,” said the auctioneer.

“Let us see the color of his gold!” called Mirus.

“With all due respect, good sir,” said the auctioneer to the fellow back in the crowd on Ellen’s right, “all in all, under the circumstances, I think that a fair request.”

“No other has been required to do so,” called the plainly clad fellow.

There was laughter in the crowd.

“I have a bid of twenty silver tarsks,” called the auctioneer, “and I am preparing to close my hand!”

“Wait!” cried a man, pointing to the plainly clad fellow.

He was now holding up, over his head, a large coin. Aloft, held so, it seemed to speak of weight and power. Its glossy glint in the flickering torchlight carried even to the block.

“See if it is genuine!” cried Mirus.

The auctioneer gestured to the side of the block and one of the assistants there hurried through the tiers. He held the coin, and bit at it. “It is good, it seems good,” he called back to the block.

“Let it be tested and weighed at the business table,” suggested the plainly clad fellow.

“And whose throat did you cut for it?” called Mirus to his adversary.

“None, as yet,” said the plainly clad fellow.

“One, one!” called Mirus. This was a bid of a golden tarn disk, and a silver tarsk.

The crowd was quiet. All eyes turned to the plainly clad fellow.

“Five,” said the plainly clad fellow, “five golden tarn disks, each of full weight, each from the Ubar’s mint, at Jad, on Cos.”

Ellen, in position, trembled. She was in consternation. Where would the plainly clad fellow, one such as he, obtain such riches?

She struggled to keep position. She did not wish to be a whipped slave, surely not before Mirus and the other! She fought blackness, which seemed to close about her. Then she fought her way back to full, alarmed consciousness. She had somehow managed to keep position. She blinked against the light. She was very much aware of the sawdust in which she knelt, “slave knelt.” She was afraid. Surely he must be a sought man, surely guardsmen would enter the tiers at any moment and put hands upon him. Surely he should flee with his gains, howsoever he might have come by them. And how dare he reveal such wealth, here, in this place, he with no retinue, no men at arms to surround and protect him? Surely in a camp such as this, so open, so populous, there might be thieves, brigands, bandits, murderers, who knew what practitioners of diverse arts predatory and unscrupulous.

“I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “I am preparing to close my hand!”

“Wait!” called Mirus. “I cannot at the moment match that bid in ready coin. Indeed, no rational man, without guards, outside of a caravan, would carry about such wealth! I do not have the coins at hand, but I can give you a note, my note, for more!”

There was a roar of laughter from the tiers.

“I am Mirus, of the house of Mirus, of Ar!” called Mirus.

“Ar is bankrupt,” cried a man. “She is occupied, looted. She is a den of cowards, beggars and traitors! She lives at the sufferance of Cos!”

“Long live Cos!” cried more than one man in the crowd. And this cry was soon taken up by others.

“I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “Is there more? Is there more?”

“You will not accept my note?” called Mirus.

“I am sorry, good sir,” said the auctioneer. “We deal with coin in this camp.”

There was more laughter in the tiers.

“Down with Ar!” cried a man.

“Long live Cos!” shouted a man.

Mirus thrust his hand angrily within his robes, toward his left side, but a fellow with him, one Ellen recognized as having been with him in the tent, put his hand warningly on his arm, and Mirus withdrew his hand. He then stormed away, making his way through the tiers, pressing away through the crowd, followed by some four men, he who had placed his hand warningly on his arm and three others, all of these having been seen by Ellen earlier in the tent. For some reason these men frightened her. More than one cast a backwards glance toward the block. Could it be that they had, for some reason, wished Mirus to be successful in his bidding?

“I have a bid of five tarn disks,” called the auctioneer. “Do I hear more?”

There was silence.

“To be sure,” said the auctioneer, “that is a high price to pay for this little piece of slave meat.”

“Is she incognito?” inquired a fellow from the tiers. “Is she a Ubar’s daughter?”

There was laughter in the crowd.

Ellen reddened. There had been no mistaking her for such, not she. Only too obviously did they see her as mere chattel, a simple collar slut.

“No,” said the auctioneer, “she is a barbarian, semi-trained, a relatively common piece of chain goods, nothing particularly out of the ordinary, a fairly typical item of fleshstock. To be sure, she is a vulnerable, nicely curved, cuddly little slut, not unlike many barbarians.”

“I am preparing to close my hand,” called the auctioneer, well pleased.

Suddenly the momentousness of the moment came home to Ellen. She was on the brink of being sold!

“No, no!” she cried, suddenly. “Do not sell me! Not to him! Please, no! No, please! No!”

The auctioneer looked down at her, startled. Ellen had twisted, to see him behind her.

“May I speak?” she begged. “May I speak?”

The auctioneer scrutinized the stripped slave at his feet. His eyes narrowed. He did not respond to her request to speak. Clearly she was beside herself with misery and fear.