Outlaw of Gor (22 page)

“Preposterous!” said Targo, shaking his head vehemently.

I gathered that he was not bluffing, for how could he have known that I did not know the true value of the stones? How could he know that I had not purchased them and had them set in the scabbard myself?

“You drive a hard bargain,” I said. “Four -”

“May I see the scabbard, Warrior?” he asked.

“Surely,” I said, and removed it from the belt and handed it to him. The sword itself I retained, knotting the scabbard straps and thrusting the blade into them.

Targo gazed at the stones appreciatively. “Not bad,” said he, “but not enough -”

I pretended to impatience. “Then show me your other girls,” I said.

I could see that this did not please Targo, for apparently he wished to rid his chain of the blond girl. Perhaps she was a troublemaker, or was dangerous to retain for some other reason.

“Show him the others,” said the grizzled man. “This one will not even say 'Buy Me, Master'.”

Targo threw a violent look at the grizzled man, who smiling to himself knelt to supervise the irons in the brazier.

Angrily Targo led the way to the grassy clearing among the trees.

He clapped his hands sharply twice, and there was a scurrying and tumbling of bodies and the sound of the long chain slipping through the ankle rings. The girls now knelt, each in the position of the Pleasure Slave, in their camisks on the grass, in a line between the two trees to which their chain was fastened. As I passed each she boldly raised her eyes to mine and said, “Buy Me, Master”.

Many of them were beauties, and I thought that the chain, though small, was a rich one, and that almost any man might find thereon a woman to his taste. They were vital, splendid creatures, many of them undoubtedly exquisitely trained to delight the senses of a master. And many of the cities of Gor were represented on that chain, sometimes spoken of as the Slaver's Necklace–there was a blond girl from lofty Thentis, a dark-skinned girl with black hair that fell to her ankles from the desert city of Tor, girls from the miserable streets of Port Kar in the delta of the Vosk, girls even from the high cylinders of Great Ar itself. I wondered how many of them were bred slaves, and how many had once been free.

And as I paused before each beauty in that chain and met her eyes and heard her words, “Buy Me, Master,” I asked myself why I should not buy her, why I should not free her instead of the other girl. Were these marvelous creatures, each of whom already wore the graceful brand of the slave girl, any the less worthy than she?

“No,” I said to Targo. “I will not buy any of these.”

To my surprise a sigh of disappointment, even of keen frustration, coursed down the chain. Two of the girls, she from Tor and one of the girls from Ar wept, their heads buried in their hands. I wished I had not looked at them.

Upon reflection it seemed to me clear that the chain must, in the end, be a lonely place for a girl, filled with life, knowing that he brand has destined her for love, that each of them must long for a man to care enough for them to buy them, that each must long to follow a man home to his compartments, wearing his collar and chains, where they will learn his strength and his heart and will be taught the delights of submission. Better the arms of a master than the cold steel of the ankle ring.

When they had said to me, “Buy Me, Master,” it had not been simply a ritual phrase. They had wanted to be sold to me–or I supposed, to any man who would take them from the hated chain of Targo.

Targo seemed relieved. Clutching me by the elbow, he guided me back to the tree where the blond girl knelt chained.

As I looked at her I asked myself why she, and why not another, or why any? What would it matter if her thigh, too, should wear that graceful brand? I supposed it was mostly the institution of slavery I objected to, and that that institution was not altered if I should, as an act of foolish sentiment, free one girl. She could not go with me into the Sardar, of course, and when I abandoned her, she, alone and unprotected, would soon fall prey to a beast or find herself on yet another slaver's chain. Yes, I told myself, it was foolish.

“I have decided not to buy her,” I said.

Then, strangely, the girl's head lifted and she looked into my eyes. She tried to smile. The words were soft, but clearly and unmistakably spoken, “Buy me, Master”.

“Ai!” cried the grizzled man, and even Targo the Slaver looked baffled.

It had been the first time the girl had uttered the ritual phrase.

I looked upon her, and saw that she was indeed beautiful, but mostly I saw that her eyes pleaded with mine. As I saw that, my rational resolve to abandon her dissipated, and I yielded, as I sometimes had in the past, to an act of sentiment.

“Take the scabbard,” I said to Targo. “I will buy her.”

“And the helmet!” said Targo.

“Agreed,” I said.

He seized the scabbard and the delight with which he clutched it told me that I had been, in his mind, sorely bested in the bargaining. Almost as an afterthought, he plucked the helmet from my grasp. Both he and I knew it was almost worthless. I smiled ruefully to myself. I was not much good in such matters, I supposed. But perhaps if I had better known the value of the stones?

The girl's eyes looked into mine, perhaps trying to read in my eyes what would be her fate, for her fate was now in my hands, for I was her master.

Strange and cruel are the ways of Gor, I thought, where six small green stones, weighing perhaps scarcely two ounces, and a damaged helmet, could purchase a human being.

Targo and the grizzled man had gone to the domed tent to fetch the keys to the girl's chains. “What is you name?” I asked the girl. “A slave has no name,” she said. “You may give me one if you wish.”

On Gor a slave, not being legally a person, does not have a name in his own right, just as, on earth, our domestic animals, not being persons before the law, do not have names. That name which he has had from birth, by which he has called himself and knows himself, that name which is so much a part of his own conception of himself, of his own true and most intimate identity, is suddenly gone.

“I gather you are not a bred slave,” I said.

She smiled and shook her head. “No,” she said.

“I am content,” I said, “to call you by the name you bore when you were free.”

“You are kind,” she said.

“What was your name when you were free?” I asked.

“Lara,” she said.

“Lara?” I asked.

“Yes, Warrior,” she said. “Do you not recognise me? I was Tatrix of Tharna.”

When the girl had been unchained I lifted her in my arms and carried her into one of the domed tents that had been indicated to me.

There we would wait until her collar had been engraved.

The floor of the tent was covered with thick, colourful rugs, and the inside was decorated with numerous silken hangings. The light was furnished by a brass tharlarion oil lamp which swung on three chains. Cushions were scattered about on the rugs. On one side of the tent there stood, with its straps, a Pleasure Rack.

I set the girl gently down.

She looked at the rack.

“First,” she said, “you will use me, will you not?”

“No,” I said.

Then she knelt at my feet and put her head to the rug, throwing her hair over her head, exposing her neck.

“Strike,” she said.

I lifted her to her feet.

“Didn't you buy me to destroy me?” she asked, bewildered.

“No,” I said. “Is that why you said to me, 'Buy Me, Master'?”

“I think so,” she said. “I think I wanted you to kill me.” Then she looked at me. “But I am not sure.”

“Why did you want to die?” I asked.

“I who was Tatrix of Tharna,” she said, her eyes downcast, “did not wish to live as a slave.”

“I will not kill you,” I said.

“Give me your sword, Warrior,” said she, “and I will throw myself upon it.”

“No,” I said.

“Ah yes,” she said, “a warrior is unwilling to have the blood of a woman on his sword.”

“You are young,” I said, “—beautiful and much alive. Put the Cities of Dust from your mind.”

She laughed bitterly.

“Why did you buy me?” she asked. “Surely you wish to exact your vengeance? Have you forgotten it was I who put you in a yoke, who whipped you, who condemned you to the Amusements, who would have given you to the tarn? That it was I who betrayed you and sent you to the mines of Tharna?”

“No,” I said, my eyes hard. “I have not forgotten.”

“Nor have I,” she said proudly, making it clear that she would ask me for nothing, and expect nothing of me, not even her life.

She stood bravely before me, yet so helpless, so much at my mercy. She might have stood thus before a larl in the Voltai. It was important to her to die well. I admired her for this, and found her in her hopelessness and defiance very beautiful. Her lower lip trembled, ever so slightly. Almost imperceptibly she bit it to control its movement, lest I should see. I found her magnificent. There was a tiny drop of blood on her lips. I shook my head to drive away the thought that I wanted with my tongue to taste the blood on her lips, to kiss it from her mouth.

I said simply, “I do not wish to harm you.”

She looked at me, not comprehending.

“Why did you buy me?” she asked.

“I bought you to free you,” I said.

“You did not then know I was Tatrix of Tharna,” she sneered.

“No,” I said.

“Now that you know,” she asked, “what will you do with me? Will it be the oil of tharlarions? Will you throw me to leech plants? Will you stake me out for your tarn, use me to bait a sleen trap?”

I laughed at her, and she looked at me, bewildered.

“Well?” she demanded.

“You have given me much to think about,” I admitted.

“What will you do with me?” she demanded.

“I will free you,” I said.

She stepped back in disbelief. Her blue eyes seemed filled with wonder, and then they glistened with tears. Her shoulders shook with sobs.

I put my arms around her slender shoulders and to my amazement she who had worn the golden mask of Tharna, she who had been Tatrix of that great city, put her head upon my chest and wept. “No,” she said, “I am worthy only of being a slave.”

“That is not true,” I said. “Remember once you told a man not to beat me. Remember once you said it was hard to be first in Tharna. Remember that once you looked upon a field of talenders and I was too dull and foolish to speak to you.”

She stood within my arms, her tear-filled eyes lifted to mine. “Why did you return me to Tharna?” she asked.

“To barter you for the freedom of my friends,” I said.

“And not for the silver and jewels of Tharna?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She stepped back. “Am I not beautiful?”

I regarded her.

“You are indeed beautiful,” I said. “—so beautiful that a thousand warriors might give their lives to see your face, so beautiful that a hundred cities might come to ruin on your behalf.”

“Would I not please–a beast?” she asked.

“It would be a victory for a man to have you on his chain,” I said.

“And yet, Warrior,” she said, “you would not have kept me–you threatened to put me on the block and sell me to another.”

I was silent.

“Why would you not keep me for your own?”

It was a bold question, strange to come from this girl, once Tatrix of Tharna. “My love is Talena,” I said, “daughter of Marlenus who was once Ubar of Ar.”

“A man may have many slave girls,” she sniffed. “Surely in your Pleasure Gardens–wherever they may be–many beautiful captives wear your collar?”

“No,” I said.

“You are a strange warrior...”

I shrugged.

She stood boldly before me. “Do you not want me?”

“To see you is to want you,” I admitted.

“Then take me,” she challenged. “I am yours.”

I looked down at the rug, wondering how to speak to her.

“I don't understand,” I said.

“Beasts are fools!” she exclaimed.

After this incredible outburst she went to the side of the tent, and held one of the hangings with her fist, thrusting her face against it.

She turned, still clutching the hanging in her fist. Her eyes were filled with tears, but angry. “You returned me to Tharna,” she said, almost as if making an accusation.

“For the love of my friends,” I said.

“And honour!” she said.

“Perhaps honour too,” I admitted.

“I hate your honour!” she cried.

“Some things,” I said, “are more compelling than even the beauty of a woman.”

“I hate you,” she said.

“I'm sorry.”

Lara laughed, a small, sad laugh, and sat down on the rug at the side of the tent, tucking her knees under her chin. “I don't hate you, you know,” she said.

“I know.”

“But I did–I did hate you. When I was Tatrix of Tharna I hated you. I hated you so.”

I was silent. I knew she had spoken the truth. I had sensed those virulent feelings with which she had unaccountably, to my mind regarded me.

“Do you know, Warrior,” she asked, “why I–now only a miserable slave–hated you so?”

“No,” I said.

“Because when I first saw you I knew you from a thousand forbidden dreams.” Her eyes sought me out. She spoke softly. “In these dreams I had been proud in my palace surrounded by my council and warriors and then, shattering the roof like glass, a great tarn descended, bearing a helmeted warrior. He scattered my council and defeated my armies and took me and stripped me and bound me naked across the saddle of his bird and then, with a great cry, he carried me to his city, and there I, once proud Tatrix of Tharna, wore his brand and collar.”

“Do not fear these dreams,” I said.

“And in his city,” said the girl, her eyes bright, “he put bells upon my ankles and dressed me in dancing silk. I had no choice you understand. I must do as he wished. And when I could dance no more he took me in his arms and like a beast forced me to serve his pleasure.”

“It was a cruel dream,” I said.

She laughed, and her face burned with shame. “No,” she said, “it was not a cruel dream.”