Vagabonds of Gor (20 page)

"It must be difficult for you," I said, "to be in the delta without serving slaves."

"It is terrible," she admitted. "I must even comb my own hair."

"A significant hardship," I acknowledged.

"And an embarrassing one," she said.

"Without doubt," I said.

"You speak ironically," she said.

"Not at all," I said. "For a woman such as you, such inconveniences must be all but intolerable."

"They are," she said.

"Is Saphronicus your lover?" I asked.

"No," she said.

I nodded. A man such as Saphronicus could have his pick of slaves, of course. With such an abundance of riches at his disposal he would not be likely to concern himself with a free female.

To be sure, they are sometimes of economic, political or social interest to ambitious men, men interested in using them to improve their fortunes, further their careers, and so on. To satisfy their deeper needs, those of pleasure and the mastery, for example, slaves may be kept on the side. The slave, of course, like the sleen or verr, a mere domestic animal, like them, is seldom in a position to improve, say, a fellow's social connections.

An occasional exception is the secret slave whom most believe to be still free, her true relationship being concealed, at least for a time, by her master's will, from the public. This deception is difficult to maintain, of course, for as the woman grows in her slavery, it becomes more and more evident in her, in her behavior, her movements, her voice, and such. Also she soon longs for the openness of bondage, that her inward truth may now be publicly proclaimed, that she may now appear before the world, and be shown before the world, as what she is, a slave. Sometimes this is done in a plaza, or other public place, with a public stripping by her master.

It is dangerous, sometimes, to be a secret slave, then revealed, for Goreans do not like to be duped. Sometimes they vent their anger on the slave, with blows and lashings, though it seems to me the blame, if any, in such cases, is perhaps less with the slave than the master. To be sure, she probably suggested her secret enslavement to begin with, perhaps even begging it. In any event, she is normally joyful to at last, publicly, be permitted to kneel before her master. By the time it is done, of course, many, from behavioral cues, will have already detected, or suspected, the truth. Such inferences, of course, can be mistaken, for many free women, in effect, exhibit similar behaviors, and such. That is because they, though legally free, within the strict technicalities of the law, are yet slaves. It is only that they have not yet been put in the collar. And the sooner it is done to them the better for them, and the community as a whole.

But then I thought that the Lady Ina, perhaps, would not have high enough standing to be of interest in, say, political modalities to a man such as Saphronicus. To be sure, she might be of interest in some other fashion.

"Saphronicus does not interest me," she said.

"Perhaps he has you in mind for a collar," I said.

"Sleen," she laughed.

"Then you would have to attempt desperately to interest him," I said.

She drew her robes up a little, to reveal her ankles. She was a vain wench. This she did I think not only to show herself off, for it seemed to me that she was muchly pleased with herself, but also to torture me. She knew that so little a thing, even the glimpse of an ankle, may be torture to a sex-starved man.

"My ankles," she said.

"Lady Ina is cruel," I observed. She laughed.

"They are a bit thick, are they not?" I asked. She thrust down her robes, angrily.

"But they would look well in shackles," I said. "I will have you whipped," she said.

"Do you not think they would look well in shackles?" I asked.

"I do not know," she said, hesitantly. She stepped back.

"Surely you would be curious to know," I said.

"No!" she said.

"Surely all women are curious to know if their ankles would look well in shackles," I said.

"No!" she said. As I have mentioned, Lady Ina was short, and her figure, though muchly concealed beneath the robes, suggested cuddliness, that it would fit very nicely, even deliciously, within the arms of a master. Similarly I did not, in actuality, regard her ankles as too thick. I thought that they were splendid, and, indeed, would take shackles very nicely.

"And surely," I said, "they are interested in knowing what they would bring on the auction block."

"No! No!" she said.

"What do you think you would bring?" I inquired.

"Sleen!" she said.

"Perhaps not much," I said.

"Do you not clearly understand," she asked, "that it is you, not I, who are the prisoner?"

"I think," I said, "you would sell for an average amount of copper tarsks."

"It will be ten lashes for you!" she said.

"Strange," I said, "that it is I who have labored on behalf of Ar who kneel here in the sand, shackled, said to be a spy for Cos, and that it is you who are precisely such an agent who should stand here, above me, thought to be a partisan of Ar."

"I am a free woman!" she said. "I am priceless!"

"Until you are stripped and sold," I said.

"I would bring a high price!" she said.

"I doubt it," I said.

"I am beautiful!" she said.

"Perhaps," I said. "It is hard to tell."

"Beware," she said, "lest I be truly cruel to you, lest I truly torment you, lest I lower my veil and permit you to glimpse, ever so briefly, my beauty, a beauty which you will never possess, which you will never kiss or touch, a brief glimpse which you must then carry with you, recalled in frustration and agony, through the marsh!"

"Could you not part your robes, as well," I asked, "that I might be even more tormented?"

She stiffened again in anger, in fury.

"Your figure, at least," I said, "from what I surmise, would be likely to look quite well on a slave block."

She made an angry noise.

I saw that she wanted to lower her veil.

"Am I not to be permitted," I asked, "to look upon the face of my enemy?"

I was silent.

"Doubtless we will never see one another again," she said.

"Doubtless," I said.

"Look then," she said, reaching to the pin at the left of her veil, "on the face of your enemy!"

Like all women she was vain. She wished an assessment of her beauty.

Slowly, gracefully, was the veil lowered. I looked upon her.

"Yes," she said, eagerly. "I am your enemy! Am I not beautiful?" she challenged.

"I shall now know you," I said, "if ever we meet again."

"You tricked me," she said.

I shrugged. I had wanted, too, to see her, of course. Too, I was sure she had wanted me, a male, to look upon her. One of the things which many free women resent about female slaves is that they are commonly denied the veil, that men may look openly, as they please, upon them.

"I do not think we shall meet again," she said.

"Probably not," I said.

"Am I not beautiful?" she asked.

"I do not know if you are beautiful," I said. "You are pretty."

"Beautiful!" she demanded.

"Your face is too hard, too tense, too cold, to be beautiful," I said.

"Beautiful!" she insisted.

"If you were in a collar for a few weeks," I said, "your face would soften, and become more sensitive, more delicate and feminine. Too, as you learned service, obedience and love, and the categoricality of your condition, and your inalterable helplessness within it, many changes would take place in you, in your body, your face, your psychology, your dispositions, and such. Your entire self would become more loving, more sexual, more sensitive, more delicate and feminine. You would find yourself, too, more relaxed, yet, too, more alive, more eager, more vital, such things connected, simply enough, with your #depth fulfillments as a woman."

"As a slave!" she said.

"Yes," I said. "That is what a woman is, most deeply, most lovingly, a slave."

She shuddered.

"And then," I said, "I think it possible that your face might be no longer merely pretty, but, flushed and radiant, tending to express in its way your happiness, your fulfillment, your truth, your awareness that you then occupied, and would continue to occupy, and helplessly, your proper place in nature, very pretty."

"And then my price?" she asked.

"There are many beautiful women on Gor," I said.

"And then my price!" she insisted.

"For a superb, cuddly slut?" I asked.

"My price!" she demanded.

"Probably an average number of copper tarsks," I said.

"Guards!" she cried, in fury, at the same time angrily lifting the corner of her veil, fumbling with it, repinning it. Men had hurried to her side. She pointed to me. "It is true," she cried. "He is a spy, a sleen of Cos. Too, he intends to spread seditious rumors among the troops. Give him ten lashes, of suitable severity!"

"It will be done, lady," said my keeper.

"Then see that he is gagged, thoroughly," she said.

"Yes, lady," said the keeper.

Already a fellow was loosening one of the shackles. In a moment my hands were manacled before my body.

"Kneel to the whip," said the keeper.

I knelt, my head to the sand.

In a moment I heard the hiss of the lash. Then it had fallen on me ten times.

I was then pulled up, kneeling, and my hands were again fastened behind my back. The wadding of the gag was thrust in my mouth, deeply. It was then fastened in place, the binding knotted behind the back of my neck, tightly, painfully. I was then flung to my belly in the sand, my ankles bound closely to one stake, my neck-rope, considerably shortened now, keeping my body stretched, to another.

There was some blood in the sand, near me. "See that he is worked well," she said.

"We shall, lady," my keeper assured her. She then, I think, withdrew.

I lay in the sand, my head turned to the side.

I heard two sting flies hum by, "needle flies," as the men of Ar called them.

It had been very hot in the marsh today. It had been oppressively hot, steamingly hot. I supposed the heat must have been hard for the Lady Ina, in her robes. Muchly she must have suffered in them. Such sacrifices must be made by the fashionable and high born, however. Much more practical for the delta would have been the skimpy garments of female slaves, the brief tunics, the short, open-sided, exciting camisks, the scandalous ta-teeras, or slave rags, indeed, the many varieties of stimulating slave garments, sometimes mere strips and strings, garments deliberately revelatory of imbonded beauty. How unfortunate, I thought, that Lady Ina had no serving slaves with her, to assist her in the intricacies of her toilet. She even had to brush her own hair.