Rebels of Gor (59 page)

“I do not think so,” I said. “I think Lord Akio has little to fear from slaves. I think the matter would have more to do with emulation, satisfaction, and vanity. As I see it, Lord Akio is the most prominent daimyo of Lord Yamada. Certainly he was much at the palace, and, now, is the camp lord of Lord Yamada’s march. In the event of Lord Yamada’s demise I suspect that Lord Akio would be the presumptive shogun. I think that most of the lesser daimyos would accept him as, and even acclaim him to be, the successor to Lord Yamada. To be sure there might be a civil war about the matter. It is hard to know. Add in now, in addition to Lord Akio’s presumed uncontested ascent to the shogunate, his likely jealousy, envy, and hatred of Lord Yamada, and his long-thwarted ambition to ascend to the dais of the shogun, his possible interest in the shogun’s daughter, now a vulnerable, available slave. Would it not be a triumph for him, a delightful vengeance on Lord Yamada, and a lovely sop to his vanity, to organize similar suppers, even feasts, for his daimyos, officers, and retainers, feasts served by lovely but lowly barbarian slaves, indeed the very same who served the supper of Lord Yamada, that at which the critical and haughty Sumomo was present, only now feasts in which she herself, the former Sumomo, serves as only another slave, to the gratification and amusement of her master, amidst the very slaves she so regaled and despised?”

“Only now,” said Pertinax, “a supper, or suppers, or feasts, that need not be so decorous, as no free women would be present.”

“Certainly,” I said, “if no free women are present, why should the slaves be clothed?”

“I will not leave without Nezumi,” said Tajima.

“You have the key,” I said. “Take her off the chain.”

In a moment Tajima had freed Nezumi of the chain, and she knelt beside him, her cheek pressed tenderly against his thigh.

“Did you hear our conversation?” he asked her.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You shall not serve Lord Akio in the manner suggested by Tarl Cabot, tarnsman, if I can help it,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Unless,” he said, “I choose that you shall do so.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“But, I suspect,” he said, “you will frequently so serve me.”

“I am a slave,” she said. “I am to be as Master wishes me to be, and to be done with as Master pleases.”

“Give me the key,” said Pertinax. “I will fetch myself a slave.”

“Hurry, Gregory, hurry!” said Saru.

“Keep on your belly,” I said, “and keep your hands at your sides, the palms up.”

She shook the chain a bit on her ankle, as though vexed, but obeyed.

The palms of a woman’s hands are excruciatingly sensitive, particularly if touched lightly, as with the tracing of a fingernail. Exposing her palms to a male, even over a distance, can be arousing to a woman. It is almost like unsheathing, or offering, herself. I had little doubt that if I were to touch the exposed palms of almost any of the slaves, they would have shaken with need. I did not doubt but what in almost any of these slaves the slave fires had been lit. How helpless they are then. How much that makes them ours! How wonderful it is to have a slave!

“Oh, Master,” sobbed Jane, softly. “Yes, yes!”

“Gregory?” said Saru.

Freed of the chain, Jane instantly knelt before Pertinax.

In the position of the pleasure slave the woman kneels as an obvious pleasure slave. There is no doubt as to what she is for. Masters may, of course, instruct their slave as to how to kneel before them. Most commonly she kneels back on her heels, her head up, her back straight, and the palms of her hands down on her thighs. In the position of the common slave, or the tower slave, on the continent, the knees are held closely together; in the position of the pleasure slave, they are separated, spread vulnerably. This accentuates the softness of her thighs. As mentioned, there is to be no doubt as to what she is for. Whereas most commonly the head is raised, that the master may observe the beauty of her features and read her tiniest expression, and note how beautifully her throat is encircled with his collar, some masters prefer the slave’s head to be lowered, submissively. Indeed, some masters do not permit a slave to look into their eyes, unless commanded to do so. Some masters, too, prefer for the hands to be held behind the back, as though bound, the head either up, or lowered, submissively. I considered Jane, before Pertinax. The palms of her hands, I noted, were not down on her thighs, as is usually prescribed, but the backs of her hands were on her thighs, and the palms were exposed to Pertinax, almost pleadingly. Another way a slave may supplicate the master’s attention is to place the bondage knot in her hair. Sometimes, of course, the master has other things to do, perhaps finishing a kaissa game, and the slave must wait to be caressed. This is acceptable, as she is only a slave. Sometimes the master allows her to simmer, or heat, perhaps helplessly bound. Let her cope as she can with her slave fires; she is a slave; let her be tormented almost to madness in her need; she is a slave. How ready she is then! How then she leaps to the touch of a hand, of lips, or tongue!

I took the key from Pertinax.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cecily, freed from the chain. She went gratefully, unbidden, to first obeisance position, kneeling, head to the ground, palms of her hands beside her head.

The former English beauty, Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, had well learned on Gor, to her joy, that she was a slave.

“Gregory!” said Saru. “Gregory?”

“Tajima has his Nezumi,” said Pertinax. “I have my Jane and you your Cecily. Let us leave.”

“We cannot remain here,” I said. “And it will be hazardous to be about in the camp, and hazardous to leave the camp.”

“Gregory!” called Saru, insistently.

I was pleased she had the sense to remain on her belly, with her arms at her sides, the palms of her hands facing upward.

“We will need three tunics,” I said. “I expect they may be found on the other side of the partition.”

The tent was a sales tent, though obviously it had been closed for sales, presumably to better conceal the shogun’s daughter. Being a sales tent it seemed likely it would be equipped with certain devices and goods. In some markets, the seller will provide a tunic for the purchased slave, and a whip for the buyer. More often, such items may be purchased. In either case, they are likely to be available. I had seen some chests, and bundles, in the main area of the tent, to the side, which observation I regarded as promising in this regard. Certainly I would not look forward to conducting three naked slaves through the camp, an action unlikely to pass unnoticed.

“You will attempt to evade the perimeter guards,” said Pertinax.

“I think not,” I said. “Given the escape, the number of fugitives, and such, I would expect the perimeter to be infested with Ashigaru.”

“I do not think we can long remain in the camp,” said Pertinax.

“You and Ichiro,” I said, “must have arranged some means of returning to the holding of Temmu or the encampment of tarns, surely not on foot.”

“Certainly,” said Pertinax, “a point of tarn rendezvous to be scouted from tarnback each day at the tenth Ahn, but that point is pasangs from the camp, and we had not anticipated any great difficulty in leaving the camp.”

“Which anticipation must now seem miserably naive,” I said.

“Unfortunately,” said Pertinax.

As I had suggested earlier, the camp had been, possibly by intent, or carelessness, or arrogance, relatively open, but that situation, I was sure, no longer obtained.

“What do you suggest, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman?” said Tajima.

“We must leave,” I said, “from the point from which our departure would be least expected.”

“The Merchant Portal?” said Ichiro.

“Yes,” I said.

This was the authorized entrance and departure point in the camp, utilized by a variegated traffic of peasant venders, itinerant craftsmen, peddlers, merchants, recruits, deserters from the forces of Lord Temmu, and others.

“It will now be heavily scrutinized,” said Haruki.

“We will need a wagon or cart,” I said.

“There are many near the point,” said Pertinax. “Near the market, where vegetables and fruits are sold.”

“Good,” I said.

“Let us be on our way,” said Pertinax.

“No!” cried Saru. “No, no, Gregory! Do not leave me!”

“Do not break position,” I warned her.

“Gregory, Gregory White!” she exclaimed, over her shoulder. “You cannot leave me behind! I am Margaret, Margaret Wentworth! We are both of Earth! Remember New York! Remember the office! We came to Gor together! You want me! You love me! You will do whatever I want! Free me! I am chained! Free me! Take me with you!”

“Fetch three tunics,” I said to Pertinax.

“And a whip,” said Tajima.

“Oh, yes, Master, yes!” said Nezumi, pressing her lips to Tajima’s thigh. Slaves fear the whip, but it thrills them to know that they are subject to it, are truly subject to it. Few things bring a woman’s slavery home to her better than the sight of the whip which may be used upon them, if they should fail to be pleasing, fully pleasing.

“Do not break position,” I warned Saru.

“Please, please, oh, Master!” she wept. “Permit me to break position!”

“Very well,” I said.

“Thank you, Master!” she wept, and scrambled about, rising to her feet and dragging against the chain fastened to her left ankle.

“The rest of you remain as you are, precisely,” I said.

A shudder of linkage coursed down the chain. Then the slaves were as before. Most, I am sure, given their positioning, were not clear on what was transpiring.

“Gregory!” cried Saru, looking about.

“He is gone,” I told her.

“No,” she cried, “no!”

“He will be back, shortly,” I said. “I think you had best welcome him on your knees.”

“But I know him, from Earth!” she said.

“You knew Gregory White,” I said. “I am not sure you know Pertinax.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Gregory White was a timid, retiring, easily abashed, enamored, manipulable weakling, an employee, a subordinate, whom you enjoyed ordering about, humiliating, tormenting, and demeaning,” I said. “Pertinax is strong, supple, agile, skilled and trained, a warrior and tarnsman, the possessor of a code.”

“But Earth!” she protested.

“This is not Earth,” I said. “And you are not on Earth. This is Gor. Here your Gregory White is Pertinax, a warrior and tarnsman, and you are a stripped, chained, collared slave.”

“I need only have a moment alone with him,” she said. “I need only smile, shed a tear, let my lips quiver, my body tremble, my voice shake, and all will be as it was before. I shall recall him to his better nature, his true nature.”

“He has now found his better nature,” I said, “and here, on Gor, his true nature. Do you think he will betray the blood which is his, the heart which he has at last found, severe and hardy, in his own breast?”

“I can make him weak!” she said.

“Perhaps once,” I said. “And that may be why he avoided you for months in Tarncamp. But I do not think you can do so now.”

“I am strong,” she said. “I am powerful. I can trample and destroy him!”

“How so?” I asked.

“He loves me!” she said.

“You are not a free woman,” I said. “You are a slave, a beast. Perhaps you might hope at best, if you are fortunate, that he might find your flanks of interest.”

“No!” she cried.

“Why is this slave standing?” asked Pertinax, returned from the other side of the partition.

“Get on your knees,” I snapped, and, instantly, the former Miss Margaret Wentworth, the slave, Saru, went to her knees.

Pertinax cast a tunic to the ground before Jane, before Cecily, and Nezumi. Each gratefully clutched the tiny garment.

Pertinax handed a slave whip to Tajima, who briefly held it to the lips of Nezumi, who kissed it, joyfully.

The slaves looked to me.

“You may clothe yourselves,” I said.

The three slaves stood, and slipped into the bits of cloth allotted to them.

How pleasant it is to be the masters of women.

“Where is my tunic, Gregory?” said Saru.

Pertinax turned his back on her. “I have some bracelets, as well,” he said, “and, here, a coil of rope.”

“Good,” I said. “Back-bracelet them and put them in neck coffle.”

“Gregory, I am here, Margaret!” said Saru.

The three slaves then stood before us, gracefully, as slaves, their hands braceleted behind their backs, in a rope coffle, neck-fastened.

“Gregory!” said Saru.

Pertinax turned to face her, and she shrank back.

“Who are you?” he asked.

“Margaret,” she said, “Margaret Wentworth.”

Pertinax turned to me. “Do you see a Margaret Wentworth here?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I see a slave, who might be given what name masters might please.”