Magicians of Gor (28 page)

Street-of-Brands district over a hundred braziers would be waiting, from each of

which would project several irons. They were all to be marked with the cursive

Kef, as common girls. That is the most common brand for female slaves on Gor.

Claudia Tentia Hinrabia had already been branded, of course, long ago, so she

needed only be recollared. Her brand, if it is of interest, was also the cursive

Kef. It had amused Cernus to have that put on her, such a common brand, she a

Hinrabian. But I did not think she objected to it. It is not merely a familiar

brand, but, more importantly, a particularly lovely one.

I heard, from several yards away, perhaps fifty yards away, the sound startling

me even so, the crack of a whip. Several women in the chain cried out, and some

wept. Yet I did not think the leather had touched any of them. To be sure, the

fearsome sound of it undoubtedly informed them of what might befall them later,

hinting clearly of the rigors of discipline, and the attendant sanctions, to

which they were to be soon subject. The women then, with the sounds of chain,

began to get to their feet. It was interesting to see the varying alacrities of

their response to this signal. Judging by those nearest to me, those who seemed

to be the most female were the quickest to respond. It was almost as though

they, somehow, in some hitherto untapped portion of their brain, or in some

hitherto concealed, or suspected but perhaps not explicitly recognized, (pg.

160) portion of their brain, were prepared for, and understood, certain

relationships, relationships which might be exemplified by, or symbolized by,

such things as the chains on her wrists, or the sound of the whip. By contrast

certain others of the women, who seemed to me simpler, or more sluggish in body,

or perhaps merely, at this time, less in touch with themselves, were reactively

slower. Slavery, of course, is the surest path by means of which a woman can

discover her femininity. The paradox of the collar is the freedom which a woman

experiences in at last finding herself, and becoming herself. She is a woman,

really, you see, not a man, and not something else, either, also different from

a woman, and she will never be fully content until she finds her personal truth,

until she becomes, so to speak, what she is.

“What is to become of us?” asked the blonde of me, she who had been the last to

be added to the chain.

I stayed my hand. She shrank back.

“You may beg forgiveness,” I said.

She looked at me wildly.

I had not struck her, at least yet. She was, after all, a free woman.

The whip then, again, further ahead, down the line, cracked.

“I beg forgiveness!” she said.

“You beg forgiveness—what?” I asked.

“I beg forgiveness, Master!” she said.

I lowered my head.

I thought it well for her to accustom herself to such uterances.

She still had her hands lifted. She had lifted her wrists, as she could, in the

manacles, to fend the blow which I had not struck.

“Put your hands down,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Stand Straight,” I said. “Shoulders back.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I regarded her.

She had tiny, fine hair on the back of her wrists. One could see it, in its

golden fineness, extending toward the dark, clasping iron, beneath which it

vanished. She was nicely curved. I thought she would bring a good price. I

continued to regard her and she became acutely aware of my scrutiny. She stood

even straighter, and more beautifully. Yes, I thought to myself, she is starting

to understand. Doubtless in time she will do quite well at a man’s slave ring.

The whip cracked again, this time quite close, as the fellow with the device had

been approaching, stopping here and there. Another fellow with him was checking

the manacles and joining rings.

(pg. 161) “The beads are on the string,” said the second fellow, he who was

checking the security of the chain. This was an oblique allusion to the

“slaver’s necklace,” as a coffle, of female slaves is sometimes called. To be

sure, the women on this chain, as they were merely free women, had only been

referred to, in rude humor, as “beads” and not “jewels. I did not doubt,

however, but what in a few months time these same women, properly disciplined,

trained and brought into touch with their most profound and fundamental

realities would also, in the same fashion as other female slaves, become

“jewels.”

“Bring the extra chain back through the coffle,” said the fellow with the whip.

There was coil of unused chain near my feet, left from the coffling. We could

probably have added forty or fifty more women to the coffle had we wished.

My fellow guardsman lifted the far end of the chain and threaded it through the

arms of the blonde. I then drew it forward and put it through the arms of the

next woman. Then, in time, with the help of three or four other fellows,

locating themselves along the coffle line, most of the weight being shortly

borne by the wrist chains of the lovely “beads” themselves, we had doubled the

chain, bringing it forward. In this way we distributed the weight of the unused

length of chain over the wrist chains of the last forty women or so, this

constituting no unusual burden to any one of them. We did not wish to cut the

chain. Moreover it would be needed the next day. Coffle chains are usually

adjusted, of course, to the number of women to be placed in it. To be sure,

women can be spaced more or less closely on such a chain. A slaver’s joke, one

which free women are likely to hear with apprehension, has it that there is

always room for another female on the chain.

In a few Ehn I had returned to my place at the end of the line.

The chain, ahead, to the crack of a whip, began to move. The blonde, however, at

the end of the chain, given the length of the chain, did not move until at least

two Ehn later.

Some of the women at the front of the chain had probably had to be informed that

the first step taken in coffle is with the left foot. Later, of course, such

things would become second nature to them.

As we moved from the Plaza of Tarns the streets seemed muchly deserted. Among

the people we did pass, or who were passing by, few seemed to take much interest

in the coffle. Many even looked away. It now had little, or nothing, to do (pg.

162) with them. Its contents, in effect, were no longer of Ar. Some fellows in

Turian garb did stand by a wall, their arms folded, considering the coffle, much

as might have assessing slavers. Twice some children addressed themselves to the

coffle, jeering its captives, spitting upon them, stinging them with hurled

pebbles, rushing forward, even, to lash at them with switches. Already, it

seemed, to these children, the women were no more than mere slaves.

When I had threaded the chain back through the arms of Claudia Tentia Hinrabia,

incidentally, I did not mention to her that she had been selected to entertain

at a late supper to be given by Talena of Ar, her Ubara, in the room of the

Ubar, in the Central Cylinder. She would find out, soon enough.

10
   
The Sword is Thirsty

“I can remember when the men of Ar, those I saw of them in the north, walked

proudly,” said Marcus.

The city was subdued, save for some idealistic youth, who seemed to take pride

in its downfall.

“Yes,” I said.

It was now some months after the entry of Myron, polemarkos of Temos, into Ar.

The systematic looting of Ar had proceeded apace. More levies of women, free and

slave, had been conducted. Work on the destruction of the walls had continued.

Marcus and I were on the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, the major thoroughfare

in Ar.

“The major blow,” said he, “was doubtless the movement of the Home Stone to

Telnus.”

This had been admitted on the public boards at last. Originally it had been

rumored, which rumors had been denied, that only a surrogate for the stone had

appeared in the Planting Feast. Later, however, when the ceremony of

citizenship, in which the Home Stone figures, was postponed, speculation had

become rampant. There had been demands by minor Initiates, of smaller temples,

outside the pomerium of the city, first, for the ceremonies to be conducted,

and, later, these ceremonies not taking place, for the Home Stone to be

produced. In the furor of speculation over this matter the secular and

ecclesiastical authorities in the city had remained silent. At last, in view of

the distinct unrest in the city, and the possible danger of riots (pg. 163) and

demonstrations, a communication was received from the Central Cylinder, jointly

presented by Talena, Ubara of Ar; Seremides, captain of the guard; Antonius,

executive officers of the High Council; Tulbinius, Chief Initiate; and Myron,

polemarkos of Temos, to the effect that Ar might now rejoice, as in these

unsettled times Lurius of Jad, in his generosity and wisdom, at the request of

the governance of Ar, and in the best interests of the people and councils of

Ar, had permitted the Home Stone to be brought to Telnus for safekeeping. A

surrogate stone was subsequently used for the ceremony of citizenship. Certain

youth refused then to participate in the ceremony and certain others, refusing

to touch the surrogate stone, uttered the responses and pledges while facing

northwest, toward Cos, toward their Home Stone.

Marcus and I, with the armbands of auxiliary guardsmen, saluted a Cosian officer

whom we passed.

“Tarsk,” grumbled Marcus.

“He is probably a nice enough fellow,” I said.

“Sometimes I regret that you are a dear friend,” he said.

“Why is that?” I asked.

“It makes it improper to challenge you to mortal combat,” he said.

“Folks have occasionally slain their dearest friends,” I said.

“That is true,” he said, brightening up.

“Just because someone is your mortal enemy,” I said, “does not mean that you

have to dislike him.”

“I suppose not,” said Marcus.

“Of course not,” I said.

We walked on.

“You are just in a bad mood,” I said. Such moods were not uncommon with Marcus.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Does Phoebe have her period?” I asked.

“No,” he said.

“You were out late last night,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Frequenting the taverns?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “I was wandering about.”

“It is now dangerous to walk the streets of Ar at night,” I said.

“For whom?” he said.

“For anyone, I suppose,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Where did you walk?” I asked.

“In the Anbar district,” he said.

(pg. 164) “That is a dangerous district,” I said, “even formerly.” It and the

district of Trevelyan were two of the most dangerous districts in Ar, even

before the fall of the city.

“Oh?” he said.

“Yes,” I assured him. “It is frequented by brigands.”

“It is now frequented by two less than yesterday,” he said.

“Why do you do these things?” I asked.

“My sword,” he said, “was thirsty.”

“I am angry,” I said.

“I made a profit on the transaction,” he said.

“You robbed the brigands?” I asked.

“Their bodies,” he said.

“We do not need the money,” I said. Indeed, we had most of a hundred gold pieces

left, a considerable fortune, which we had obtained last summer in the vicinity

of Brundisium.

“Well, I did not really do it for the money,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“Not all values are material,” Marcus reminded me.

“You should not risk your life in such a way,” I said, angrily.

“What else is there to do?” he asked.

“I am sure you could think of something,” I said, “if you seriously put your

mind to it.”

“Not it is you who seem in an ill humor,” he remarked.

“If you find yourself spitted in the Anbar district that will not much profit

the Home Stone of Ar’s Station,” I said.

“You told me that the Home Stone of Ar’s Station would be exhibited again,” he

said.

“I am sure it will be,” I said.

“That was months ago,” he said.

“Be patient,” I said.

“I do not even know where it is,” he said. “It may be in Telnus by now.”

“I do not think so,” I said.

“At least those of Ar know where their Home Stone is,” he said.

“Do not be surly,” I said.

“You do not think it is in Telnus?” he asked.

“No,” I said. “I think it is still in Ar.”

“Why?” he asked.

“I have an excellent reason,” I said.

“Would you be so kind as to share this reason with me?” asked Marcus.

“No,” I said.

“Why not?” he asked.

“You are too noble to take it seriously,” I said.

(pg. 165) “Thank you,” said her, “perhaps.”

We paused to drink, from the upper basin of a fountain.

“Listen,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

We turned about.

Some twenty men, stripped, in heavy metal collars, these linked by heavy chains,

their hands behind their backs, presumably manacled, prodded now and then by the

butts of guards’ spears, were approaching. Behind the line came a flute girl,

sometimes turning about, playing the instrument. It was this sound we had heard.