Conspirators of Gor (54 page)

“Surely not!” I said. To be sure, what did I know of such things? I did sense that if he in whose keeping I was were to touch me, I might cry out helplessly, and, a grateful, shameless slave, press myself piteously to him.

But I hated him!

He had knelt me, eyes closed, head to the floor, wrists crossed behind me, awaiting their pinioning, and then, when I had been released from this custody, I had seen him thrust a stripped, frightened, thonged Kalligone before him to an alcove!

I was quite angry.

How I had been treated!

I resolved to speak as little to Master Desmond thenceforth as possible. I would have to be subtle, of course. The lash is unpleasant. Let him then, over the coming days, puzzle over my coolness, my distance, my aloofness. Surely a free woman could make a man so suffer. Why then might not a slave? Let him try to fathom the mystery of my remoteness, my indifference, my troubling, inexplicable detachment. Perhaps he would then, eventually, regret his treatment of me!

“Allison,” said he in whose charge I was, “I have not been fully satisfied with your behavior, as of late.”

“Please do not whip me,” I said.

“You are hereby sentenced to the modality of the mute slave,” he said. “You are herewith denied permission to speak. You are silenced. You may not, even, in language, beg for permission to speak. As when gagged, one whimper will serve for ‘yes’ and two for ‘no’. Do you understand?”

I looked at him with misery.

I would not even be permitted to speak to Jane or Eve, or even to the Lady Bina or Lord Grendel, unless I was commanded to do so, which commands were highly unlikely of issuance, as free persons tend to be consistent where the discipline of slaves is in question. Indeed, if I were to attempt to circumvent the discipline of Master Desmond by an appeal to Lord Grendel, I had no doubt he would lash me well, and if I were to attempt to appeal to the Lady Bina I was sure she would make inquiries as to what was appropriate under such circumstances, and then, when informed, as custom recommended, would have me lashed as well.

“Do you understand?” he asked.

I whimpered once.

* * * *

The road here was narrow, and rough.

I looked up, at the stone channel of the aqueduct, some hundred feet over my head.

We had left Venna four days ago.

The first two days Jane, Eve, and I had been chained to the back of the last wagon. This was done by each of us having her hands braceleted before her, and a chain run from the bracelets to a ring on the back of the wagon, three chains, three rings, this permitting us to walk abreast.

On the first day, as we were attached to the wagon, Jane and Eve had been in consternation that I could not speak with them.

“Speak to us!” said Jane. “We are your friends!” I could do little more than shake my head, tears running from my eyes.

“I do not understand,” said Jane. “What is wrong?”

Eve tried even to communicate in our native tongue, which you would understand to be a barbarian language. Forgive me, Masters and Mistresses, it is, of course, a barbarian language! But she was seized by Trachinos, cuffed brutally, and thrown to the dirt, in her bracelets. “Gorean!” he said. “Gorean, slave slut!” “Forgive me, Master!” she wept, kneeling and pressing her lips, again and again, to his feet. It is a common placatory behavior of slaves. Slaves are expected to speak in the language of their masters. This helps them remember that they are slaves. Too, of course, the masters wish to understand whatever slaves may say. This is an additional form of control, and surveillance. Trachinos then fastened Eve’s bracelets to the ring chain, and turned away. “Please, forgive me, Master!” she called after him. “So,” said Jane, “even when we are alone, we must speak in Gorean!” I nodded. I was pleased that she had said that in Gorean. We were learning well that we were slaves! “Can you not say something to us?” asked Jane. I shook my head, negatively, tears running down my cheeks. Jane was already on her chain. “What did you do?” asked Jane. I shook my head, again. “Surely,” she said, “you may use language to petition to speak.” I shook my head, again. Jane looked at me, disbelievingly. Commonly, of course, a slave will have a standing permission to speak. This permission, of course, is revocable at will, by the master or the mistress. Thus, in a very real sense, the slave requires permission to speak. This is similar to clothing. Usually, the slave will have a standing permission to clothe herself, if a slave garment can be dignified in such a way. On the other hand, some masters require a slave, each day, to explicitly request permission to clothe herself. This tends to impress her bondage on a girl. If she does not receive the permission, of course, she may not clothe herself. Her clothing, like her speech, is at the discretion of the master. Some masters expect a slave, each day, as in the matter of clothing, to request permission to speak that day. If she does not receive that permission, she may not speak. “May I clothe myself, Master?” “You may.” “May I speak, Master?” “You may.” What Jane had in mind, of course, were the usual formulas by means of which a slave, denied speech, may request to speak. Some typical petitionary formulas would be “I beg to speak,” “I would speak,” and “May I speak, Master?” The common understanding here is that the slave requires the master’s permission to clothe herself and to speak. She is, after all, a slave. The master’s permission is, actually, implicitly involved in many aspects of the slave’s life. To be sure, most of these permissions are standing permissions. And much depends on the particular master and slave. For example, it is almost universal that the slave may not leave the domicile without requesting permission, and it is often required that she will state the purpose of her departure and make clear her expected time of return. The master will be the first to partake of food, and his permission may be required before the slave is permitted to feed. The slave will commonly kneel when a free person enters the room, and, if knelt, will usually await permission to rise. If a slave is ordered nude to the furs she will remain there until the master sees fit to join her, or, if he wishes, put her about, say, her domestic labors. Sometimes the slave, nude and bound, must await the pleasure of the master. This can well heat her.

I heard, ahead, at the first wagon, the voice of Trachinos. The wagons were soon to move. Both Jane and Eve, in their brief tunics and close-fitting collars, were already attached to the back of the wagon, the last wagon, each by a chain looping up from their braceleted wrists to a wagon ring, bolted into the back of the wagon. I was with them, my wrists braceleted before my body, but was not yet on the wagon chain.

I heard steps approaching.

It was he in whose keeping I was! I instantly knelt, and lifted my braceleted wrists to him, pathetically, tears on my cheeks. I pointed to my mouth with my pinioned hands, and whimpered, pleadingly. It was only last night, in the paga tavern, that I had been put in the modality of the mute slave, but almost from the first moment I was suffering. I had struggled again and again last night, in the tavern, on the way back to the wagons, when my shackling was being attended to, to make clear my contrition, and my resolve to be more pleasing. I so desperately wanted to speak to him, to return myself to his favor, such as it might be, to express my shame and sorrow at my overweening, unconscionable pride, my insolence. I so wanted to prostrate myself before him, to lie before him on my belly, to cover his feet with kisses, to beg his forgiveness. I was in a collar! I had failed it! Did I think I was a free woman? I was no longer a free woman, if I had ever been a free woman. I was a slave, and knew myself a slave. And yet I had been a poor slave. I had not been pleasing! Did I not know I belonged in my collar? Yes, I knew I belonged in it. I had learned that well on Gor. Did I not know then how to behave in a collar? Yes, I knew! How then could I have behaved so ignorantly, so foolishly, so stupidly, so badly? I pleaded as I could, without words. But my protestations had been ignored. Master Desmond had declined to relent. It is hard to make clear, one supposes, to one who has not been put in such a modality, one who has never been “gagged by the master’s will,” how this deprivation can so sorely affect a woman, particularly a slave, the most helpless and vulnerable of women. We are not men, with their large bodies, their strength, their ferocity, their callousness, their speed, and power. We are different, so different! What have we, in our collars, what means, to win our ways? We have our slightness, our softness, our wit, our beauty, and our speech. Is not our speech our delight, our pleasure, our joy, our recreation, our weapon, our instrument, our gift? Is it not that whereby we can make known our feelings, our hopes, and fears; that whereby we can express ourselves, plead our causes, make known our wants, needs, and desires, that by means of which we can petition, influence, and wheedle? Is it not that by means of which we may beg for mercy, hope to be heard and understood, hope to placate the large, dangerous beasts who own us? Without it we are muchly helpless; without it how even can we best surrender and submit; without it how can we best acknowledge and serve our masters? Without it how can we well profess our love?

I knelt before him, pathetically, tears on my cheeks. I pointed to my mouth, with my braceleted hands, and whimpered, pleadingly.

He stepped back.

I threw myself to my belly before him, and reached with my closely linked hands, to seize his ankle, that I might hold it, and press my lips to his feet, kissing them, again and again. Do men not enjoy having women so before them, as helpless, prostrated slaves? But he seized the linkage between the bracelets and pulled me to my knees, and then to my feet, and then snapped the wagon chain on my bracelets. I whimpered, pleadingly, but he had turned away.

Again I had failed to please him, a free man.

* * * *

I looked up, at the stone channel of the aqueduct, some hundred feet over my head.

Such structures are majestic, the products of, to me, almost incomprehensible feats of engineering, and I had wanted to express my wonder and awe at them, their size and massiveness, their efficiency, their beauty, the loveliness of the sky and mountains behind them, but I was not permitted to speak.

How helpless and alone, how miserable, one soon is, if placed in the modality of the mute slave!

He in whose care I was, and the others, the free persons, ignored me. Would it not have been more merciful if they had lashed me? I was no longer on the wagon chain, nor were Jane or Eve. They, at least, were kind to me, and spoke to me, though I could not speak back. They no longer spoke of running away. The country now was lonely. The small villages were far behind. The terrain grew steeper, and more formidable. Twice we had heard, at night, when we were shackled in the slave wagon, from somewhere back in the mountains, the roar of a larl. During the day we remained close to the wagons.

We had left Venna four days ago.

The last night at Venna we had visited the paga tavern, The Kneeling Slave. Master Astrinax had been unsuccessful in his recruiting. I had apparently displeased he in whose care I was, for I had been put in the modality of the mute slave. A tavern’s man was extinguishing the lamps.

The masters were preparing to rise from the table when suddenly a flat, linear object of metal clattered, ringing, on the table.

“That is the sword of Trachinos, he of Turia,” said a fearsome voice, that of a large, bearded fellow, clad in the brown of the Peasantry.

But I feared this was no Peasant.

Certainly he carried no staff, no great bow, no sheaf of long arrows, at his left hip.

The blade was the gladius.

“That blade,” said the fellow, pointing to it, “is for hire.”

“We are hiring,” said Astrinax.

“You are far from Turia,” said Lykos.

Turia, I knew, was far to the south, even beyond the equator.

“What brings you this far north?” asked Lykos.

“Sword pleasure,” said the stranger.

I gathered then he was a soldier of fortune, a mercenary, or perhaps a fugitive.

“Your accent,” said Astrinax, “does not sound Turian.”

“Do you dispute me?” inquired the fellow.

“Not at all,” said Astrinax.

“I might,” said Lykos.

“Outside?” asked the stranger.

“If you wish,” said Lykos.

“Whose girl is this?” asked Trachinos.

“She belongs to a woman, the Lady Bina, one supposes of Ar,” said Astrinax.

“In that tunic?” laughed Trachinos.

“Her Mistress might wish to put her out to men, for girl use,” said Astrinax.

“Good,” said Trachinos.

I trembled, and looked down. I was afraid to meet his eyes. Too, some masters do not permit their girls to meet their eyes, unless commanded to do so.

“She cannot speak,” said he in whose charge I was.

“You have cut out her tongue?” said Trachinos.

“No,” said he in whose keeping I was. “She has merely been placed in the modality of the mute slave.”

“Is that true, girl?” asked Trachinos.

It was surely a test. I kept my head down. I whimpered once.

I sensed Astrinax was relieved. He in whose charge I was was impassive. Lykos had moved his robes a little. I could then see the hilt of his gladius.