Rebels of Gor (44 page)

“I am not a slave!” she cried.

“Head down,” said Haruki. “Do you dare look into the eyes of a free male without permission?”

“That is it,” I said.

“Good,” said Tajima.

I regarded her, as I had learned to regard women on Gor, to see them unclouded by hypocrisy, pretense, convention, and lies, to see them as they are, so fascinating, so special, so different, so wonderful, so designed by nature to be owned, collared, and mastered. Her face was lovely, her figure exquisite. Her wrists were slender, and would take bracelets nicely. Her feet were small, and her ankles were trim. Such ankles take shackles well. Light chain would hold her with perfection, as any such small lovely beast. Yes, I thought, she might do well on the block. How pleasant it is to buy women.

“Excellent,” I said.

“Beast,” she said.

“Her hair,” I said, “is slave long.” Indeed, it fell behind her almost to her ankles. Perhaps it had never been cut.

“Inappropriate, however,” said Tajima, “for a field slave.”

She looked up, startled.

“Do not move,” said Tajima.

“What are you going to do?” she cried, alarmed.

He had approached her with an unsheathed knife. He now stood behind her, one fist knotted in her hair.

“Do not resist,” he warned her.

“Do not!” she begged.

“You cannot be taken with us, as you are,” I said. “You might be mistaken for Sumomo, the daughter of the shogun.”

“I am Sumomo,” she said, “daughter of Yamada, Shogun of the Islands!”

“You are no longer Sumomo,” I informed her.

“Hold still,” said Tajima.

“She will have to have a new name,” said Haruki.

“If she is to have one,” I said.

“True,” said Haruki.

Not all animals, of course, are named. Consider a flock of verr, a herd of tarsks. Still it is common for slaves to be named, as this makes it easier to refer to them, to command them, and so on.

Tears welled in the eyes of the slave as Tajima, cut by cut, cropped her hair. Indeed, in my view he had cropped it rather short, even for a field slave.

“Good,” said Tajima, stepping back, well satisfied with his work.

I feared that Tajima had relished the slave’s shearing. To be sure, she had not treated him well, in Tarncamp, and elsewhere.

Disbelievingly, awed, with dismay, she put her hands to her head.

“What have you done to me?” she said.

“Very little,” he said, “as of now.”

He then sheathed the knife, and came around the girl, and stood, with us, appraisingly, before her.

“The white garment would surely be recognized,” I said.

“Certainly,” said Tajima.

“It is all I have!” she said.

“Remove it,” he said. “Do not fear, I have arranged another.”

“A slave is not permitted modesty,” I said, “no more than any other animal, but unclothed you would obviously be conspicuous. Certainly nudity is easily noticed.”

In public, female slaves are almost always clothed. The most obvious exceptions to this are of an instructive or punitive nature. When a girl is new to the collar she is sometimes denied clothing in public. This well impresses on her that she is no longer a free woman. She is soon likely to plead for a rag or tunic. Similarly, a slave who has been displeasing may be denied clothing in public, as a punishment. Obviously a nude slave has little status amongst clothed slaves, even given the usual nature of the clothing likely to be permitted to a slave. Also, as an aesthetic note, one might remark the fact that most slave garments are extremely attractive on a woman. Indeed, they are designed with this in mind, the striking enhancement of her beauty. Many women have no sense as to how beautiful they really are until they find themselves in the garments of a slave. What garmenture could be more stimulating, more attractive, more provocative, or feminine? How could a woman be more female than in such a garment, other than, say, being chained nude to a master’s slave ring, or such? Too, I fear that such garmenture, and the collar, as both much enhance a woman’s beauty, have their appeal to her vanity. What woman, slave or free, objects to being beautiful? Indeed, what free woman has not conjectured how she might appear, so excitingly and beautifully clad? Nudity, incidentally, is not so rare amongst Gorean men, particularly those engaged in heavy labors. One thinks little of it in such situations.

“I am to be disguised?” she said.

“Rather,” said Tajima, “clothed appropriately.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“It is dark,” said Haruki, looking outside.

“Would you prefer to retain your white gown?” I asked.

“No,” she said. “It is light and thin. It conceals me but inadequately. I fear it even hints at my lineaments. It is humiliating and disgraceful.” She then turned to Tajima. “Where are my robes?” she said.

Tajima bent down and drew from the bag he had brought to the hut, a small wad of cloth. This he threw against the slave, who caught it, and then held it from her.

“What is this?” she said.

“It is the tunic of a field slave,” said Tajima.

“I cannot wear this,” she said.

“Cut her throat,” said Haruki.

She backed away into a corner of the shed where the light of the tiny lamp scarcely reached.

“We must reach the next village before dawn,” said Haruki.

A few moments later the slave emerged from the gloom, the white gown clutched in her hands.

She now stood before us, in the sleeveless, brief rag of a field slave.

“Ah,” said Haruki.

“Excellent,” said Tajima.

“Remember your posture,” I cautioned her.

“Beasts!” she said.

Haruki no longer suggested doing away with the captive. Tajima was clearly pleased, which reaction, I suspected, did not displease the captive. Yes, I thought to myself, a good price, certainly.

“Put the gown there,” said Tajima, indicating the coils of hair he had shorn from her.

She complied, and then stepped back, more into the gloom, again.

“I will take these things out and burn them,” said Haruki.

“My thanks, gardener
san
,” said Tajima.

I thought it a shame to waste the hair, as woman’s hair, given its tensility and weather-resistance, makes excellent catapult cordage, much better than hemp and common cordage. It is prized by artillery men on the continent. On the other hand, it was clearly important that such evidence be destroyed, as it might link us, or the village, with a shogun’s daughter.

“Step forward, slave,” said Tajima.

“I am not a slave,” she said.

“Stand here,” he said, “before me, in the full light of the lamp. I would look more fully on my property.”

“I am not your property,” she said. “I am a free woman.”

“You are not a bad looking slave,” he said.

“Tarsk!” she said.

“I am pleased to own you,” he said.

“Tarsk, tarsk!” she said.

“Beware,” I said.

Haruki soon returned to the hut. I gathered he had disposed of the hair and gown in one of the night fires. He also, interestingly, held in one hand some loops of knotted rope.

“Here,” said Tajima to the slave, pointing to the floor of the hut, at his feet, “here, before me, go to all fours, and keep your head down.”

“What are you going to do?” she asked.

“What am I going to do, what?” he asked.

“What are you going to do—Master,” she whispered.

How careless she had been on the outer parapet, in casting an object to the valley below. How was it that she had failed to exercise a greater caution? How anomalous an action that had been for a woman of her obvious intelligence. Did she not recognize the jeopardy, the risks, involved? She had doubtless, of course, felt herself secure, alone and unobserved. That was understood. That must be the case. Had she not communicated with a confederate or confederates below, similarly, on several occasions? But how had it been that on that occasion she had, apparently, shut out the very possibility of detection? What was different on that night?

Might she not be observed?

Could she have been unaware that Tajima might have drifted near her, as he, to her contempt and amusement, had so often done in the past?

How was it that it had not even occurred to her that he, or another, might have been about? How could such a possibility be forgotten? Why should it be forgotten? What could explain such a lapse? Had she closed a gate, which she refused to open?

I had never understood the passion of that contempt, the intense cruelty of that amusement, lavished on the hapless Tajima.

She had not even accorded him the respect prescribed for a female with respect to a male in the Pani culture, let alone that of a supposed contract woman with respect to a free male.

Why should she have treated him so, so derided and hated him?

Should she not, at least, have been flattered by his interest?

Would it not have been enough to ignore him or avoid him?

Is civility so costly?

“Remain as you are,” he said.

Tajima then left the hut. The loops of knotted rope dangled from Haruki’s hand. I saw them. I do not think the slave did.

In a few moments Tajima had returned to the hut. In his hands, cupped, I saw, in the light of the lamp, he held what seemed to be a quantity of dirt, of ash, of soot.

“No,” begged the slave.

“Keep your head down,” he said.

He then, judiciously, applied these materials, some dirt, some ash and soot, to the slave and her small garment.

“Now,” I said, “one could not tell her from a field slave.”

“She is less than a field slave,” said Tajima. “She is a pleasure slave.”

“No!” wept the girl.

“Head down,” said Tajima.

“Disguised as a field slave,” I suggested.

“Precisely, Tarl Cabot, tarnsman,” said Tajima.

“You would use the daughter of the shogun for pleasure?” asked Haruki.

“Certainly,” said Tajima.

“I am a virgin!” said the slave.

“Not for long, dirty little slave,” said Tajima.

“You will soon learn to jump, squirm, and beg,” I informed her.

“Keep your head down,” said Tajima.

“Is a detail not missing?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, and reached, again, into the sack he had brought into the hut.

I heard, again, a slight sound of metal, possibly something impinging on slave bracelets or shackles.

We noted the object withdrawn from the sack.

“What is that?” she said, frightened.

“Would it not encircle your neck, nicely?” asked Haruki.

“What is it?” she said.

“Perhaps the daughter of the shogun is stupid,” said Tajima.

“I am not stupid!” she said.

“Surely you know what it is,” I said.

“It cannot be!” she said.

“It is,” said Haruki, “it is a collar, a slave collar, a collar for a slave.”

“No!” said the girl.

“Yes,” said Tajima.

“A lock collar,” I said.

“Of course,” said Tajima.

“Do not put it on me!” she said.

“Keep your head down,” said Tajima.

“Do not collar me!” she begged.

“Head down,” said Tajima.

“I trust that it is not engraved,” I said.

“Not yet,” said Tajima.

“All slaves need not be collared,” she said, intensely.

“On the continent,” I said, “it is prescribed by Merchant Law.”

“Do not collar me!” she begged. “If I am collared, everyone will see me as a slave, know me as a slave, and treat me as a slave!”

“You are a slave,” said Tajima. “Let it be proclaimed to the world.”

“That is proper,” I said.

“Have mercy,” she said. “No!”

There was a snap and the device, encircling her throat, was closed.

She sobbed, tears falling to the floor of the hut.

She who had been the unpleasant, difficult, lofty, haughty Sumomo was now on all fours, collared.

“On the continent,” I said, “slaves are slaves, and are clearly to be identified as such.” How beautiful a woman is in a collar, and how meaningful is the collar on her neck!

“You will have to hold her tightly,” said Haruki.

“How so?” said Tajima.

“It must not be blurred or spoiled,” said Haruki.

“I do not understand,” said the girl.

“I thought we must wait,” said Tajima, “to the holding of Temmu, or to the encampment of tarns.”
 

“What are you speaking of?” asked the slave.