Conspirators of Gor (61 page)

“Tarsk normally do not cluster and run like that,” said Master Desmond.

“Master?” I said.

“They were herded,” he said. “Our friends, the hunters, are suggesting that we discontinue our journey.”

“I hope we are all well,” I said.

“We shall hope so,” he said.

“Even Trachinos and Akesinos?” I said.

“Certainly,” he said. “We may need them.”

“I am afraid,” I said.

“The wagons provided cover,” he said, “and some were probably away from the wagons.”

“Thank you for rescuing me from Trachinos,” I said.

“I thought I told you to be responsive to him,” he said.

I was silent.

“Some men,” he said, “speak freely when a slave is in their arms.”

“I hate you,” I said.

“Did you wish to be rescued?” he said.

“Of course!” I said.

“Pull up your tunic, what is left of it, slut,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I saw you in his arms,” he said. “I saw your readiness. I heard your little, begging cry. In another handful of Ihn, with a proper caress or two, you would have melted to him, whimpering and begging like a paga slut.”

“I cannot help myself, Master,” I said. “Have you not noted I am in a slave collar?”

“Beware,” he said.

“And I am still in one,” I said.

“The collar,” he said, “does not make the slave. It merely identifies the slave.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Master,” I said.

“Yes?” he said.

“I note,” I said, “that you did, in fact, interfere. You did, in fact, interpose yourself.”

“True,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said, “Master does not truly desire to see me in the arms of Trachinos.”

“I thought,” he said, “it might be amusing to frustrate Trachinos.”

“Perhaps there is another reason,” I said.

“What might that be?” he asked.

“Perhaps Master can guess,” I said.

“Oh?” he said.

“You inquired of Master Trachinos,” I said, “if he found me pleasant to hold, and, as I recall, you expressed a view that you would think me such.”

“Certainly,” he said. “If you were not such you would not have been put in a collar.”

“I think Master finds me of slave interest,” I said.

“I do,” he said, “though I also think you are worthless.”

“I am here,” I said, within reach, slave-clad, if that. “Perhaps Master would like to take me in his arms.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

I inched more closely to him.

“I may not resist,” I whispered. “I am a slave.”

He thrust me back, rudely, away from him.

“Master!” I said.

“I do not own you,” he said.

“What difference does that make?” I asked.

“You are indeed worthless,” he said, “and not simply worthless as any slave is worthless, as a meaningless property-girl, an article of collar meat, a vendible beast, but beyond that.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Astrinax was right about you,” he said, “even from Ar.”

“Master?” I said.

“Honor,” he said.

“Is honor not for fools?” I asked.

“Some men are fools,” he said.

“And perhaps Master is amongst them!” I said.

“That is my hope,” he said.

“You kissed me in Ar,” I said. “You even made me respond to you, and as a slave!”

“You were not then in my keeping,” he said.

“I want you to own me!” I said. “What are you doing?”

“Shackling you,” he said. “I think the hunters will return. I think they will want a feast, with roast tarsk. You and the others, later, will be needed to prepare and serve the feast.”

“Can you not understand, Master?” I wept. “I want you to own me. I have wanted this from the beginning, even from the Sul Market! I want to be at your feet. I want to be yours, helplessly so, to be done with as you will. I want your collar, the stroke of your whip, should you be pleased to lash me! Whip me if you want, but I want to be yours! I beg you to buy me!”

“Only a slave begs to be bought,” he said.

“I am a slave, and I want to be yours! Please, Master, buy me! Buy me!”

With two clicks my ankles were fastened in the shackles, the chain looped about the central bar. Then he was gone. I jerked at the shackles and chain, but only abraded my ankles, and then I wept, for a slave is not permitted to lessen her value, in even so small a way. I trusted I would not be struck.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“You must forgive us,” said Kleomenes, leader of the hunters, to Astrinax. “We had no idea your wagons were in the path of our drive.”

“It is nothing,” said Astrinax. To be sure, his right thigh, beneath his tunic, was bandaged, as it had been gashed by the tusk of a running tarsk in the confusion at the wagons.

Surely the hunters had seemed concerned, even contrite, and had not made their own camp, but dragged, on ropes, through the dust, the bodies of two slain tarsk back to our wagons. They had also assisted in the repair of the wagon tongue.

Grease from the tarsk, on the spit, dripped into the fire, hissing there. Eve and I turned the spit.

Jane carried the bota of paga, hurrying about, as she might be summoned.

How far we were, marked, collared, barefoot, half-naked, from our former world, from the exclusive college, from the elegant, prestigious sorority. I thought the boys who had known us might not have been displeased to see us so. I think they would have been delighted to see us so, and, particularly, to understand the collars were truly on us. Is this not how males want us? But if this was so, why had they not kept us so? Surely they had the power to do so. In any event, on Gor, it would be done with us as men pleased. On Gor, men did as they wished, at least with such as we.

Firelight well illuminated the nearby wagons, and shadows danced on the wood. The evening was, as far as one might suppose, one of innocent merriment. The men sat cross-legged, but a chair, of branches, had been arranged for the Lady Bina. Had she been natively Gorean she would presumably have knelt sedately, in the manner of the free woman, doubtless, here, in such a place, on some mat or blanket. She chatted with the men, her veil casually loose. Lord Grendel, in the domicile, had warned her about irresponsible veiling, but the Lady Bina, as many free women, did much as she pleased. They are, after all, free. Lord Grendel, it seemed, regarded her with almost proprietary attention. Were he not a beast and thus incapable of such emotions one might have supposed he was in love with her. She would lift the veil to drink demurely behind it, her blue eyes sparkling over the cloth. Some women of low caste drink through the veil, which stains the cloth. That seemed to me unrefined. I needed not be concerned with such things, of course, as we must go about face-stripped, as the animals we are. One of the most disconcerting and shocking things that can happen to a free woman is to have her veil taken from her, bearing her features to a public gaze. Slavers, and conquerors, will often tie a free woman’s hands behind her before removing her veil. How helpless she is then, unable to prevent her face-stripping. Sometimes raiders are displeased with what they behold when the veil is torn away. Then it is not unknown for some to leave the woman’s hands tied behind her and to strip her, and tie a sign about her neck, as, for example, “Poor stuff,” “Rejected for bondage,” “Not to be collared,” “I am unworthy of being a slave,” or such. When she is again returned to her robes, and status, rejected and humiliated, woe to any girls whom she might own. The Lady Bina drank not paga, but ka-la-na, with studied delicacy. I think she was more concerned with presenting the image of a Gorean free woman than with the drinking itself. The Lady Bina was an avid pupil of what she took to be cultural proprieties. Certainly she had carefully attended to the instructions of the Lady Delia, the companion of Epicrates, in Ar. She was, incidentally, drinking what you know as a “soft ka-la-na.” In most Gorean houses, I had learned, to my interest, there is a mixing bowl, in which the stronger, or “hard,” ka-la-nas are mixed with water, the proportions determined according to the household, the occasion, the wishes of guests, and such. It would be an orgy indeed to distribute an unmixed hard ka-la-na amongst the supper couches. Normally this would take place only at private parties for high-spirited males, rash, reckless, rowdy fellows, garlanded revelers, the sort of parties at which one might encounter flute girls, slave dancers, and such. Sometimes such parties spill into the streets, resulting in disturbances of the peace, vandalism, and such.

The roast done, Lykos, with a two-edged blade, cut portions which he placed, from the knife, on wooden trenchers borne by myself and Eve. These we delivered to the men, kneeling, head down, between our extended arms.

I made certain to be the first to serve Desmond of Harfax. I thought I knelt well, gracefully, properly, subserviently. My posture and attitude, my entire deportment, as was appropriate, expressed the submissiveness of the slave. What he could not see, of course, was that, inside, I was also submissive. My heart was submissive. I wanted to be submissive. Many women of my old world would have scorned me for this, castigated me for being what I was, myself, would have insisted instead that I share their views and values, would have dictated to me, with terrible social and economic sanctions for noncompliance, would have demanded that I emulate them, and I had tried to do so, despite their obvious wretchedness, their forlorn misery and unhappiness, but I had found such things empty. Rather, I longed to be defeated; I wanted to be conquered and owned; I wanted to have no choice but to obey with perfection; I wanted to be subject to discipline; I wanted to submit; I wanted a master.

Desmond of Harfax took the trencher.

I did not expect to be thanked, of course. I had learned, shortly after my arrival on Gor, that one does not thank a slave. It is what she is for. If she does not serve humbly and well, she may be punished. Indeed, a slave is likely to be frightened, if thanked. Something is different. She does not comprehend it. What does it mean? Is her master, perhaps absently, distractedly, not noticing her, or no longer thinking of her as a slave, as his slave? Is she to be sold? Has she already been sold?

Although I had not expected to be thanked, I had, looking up, hoped to have from him some acknowledgement of my existence, an expression, the hint of a smile, a possible frown, an annoyed gesture, suggesting he was displeased with me, from my behavior in the wagon, a sense that his needs might be upon him, and he would like to have his hands on me, and as what I was, a slave.

But I saw nothing.

He had taken the trencher. It might have been given to him by any slave! Perhaps he was not even aware of who had brought it to him!

What a beast he was! Again I hated him. In the wagon, I had presented myself to him as, in effect, a begging slave, and I had been rejected!

I was sure, from a thousand things, here and there, now and then, large and small, that he found me of slave interest.

I think he wanted this slave.

I think he burned for her.

Why then had he not seized me, and cast me to his feet, and pointed to his boots that I might lie on my belly before him, and cover them, as I wished, with the kisses of a trembling, submitted slave?

Why had he not done so?

What an absurd excuse, honor!

What was honor?

There was blood, steel, and gold, and the might of masters, and the soft flesh of helpless, collared slaves! Where in all this was honor?

What was honor?

“I do think, friend Astrinax,” said Kleomenes, leader of the hunters, “that it would be unwise for you to proceed further into the Voltai.”

Kleomenes, as would be expected, assumed that the leader of our expedition was Astrinax. For example, the Lady Bina deferred to him. And, presumably, he would be unaware of what might lurk in the night, somewhere beyond the light of the fire.

“We thank you,” said Astrinax, “for your concern.”

“Today,” said Kleomenes, “you were fortunate, but the Voltai is dangerous. There are beasts, some quite dangerous. There might be avalanches, suddenly flooding streams, dislodged boulders, tumbling, fallen trees, trails might be lost, faded or washed away. It is even possible gangs of ruffians are about, seeking refuge in the wilderness from the guardsmen of a dozen cities.”

“You are right,” said Astrinax, “we must think of turning back.”

Trachinos looked up, quickly, suspiciously. If we did turn back, there might be little point in delaying the strike of his band, somewhere in the mountains.

Could this whole venture be some meaningless lark, pointless, one without a horde, a concealed treasure, a vein of gold somewhere?

“Why are you in the Voltai?” Kleomenes inquired, pleasantly.

“We are instructed,” said Astrinax, guardedly.

“By whom?” asked Kleomenes.