Smugglers of Gor (41 page)

“See,” said Tuza, “she is alive. I planned it so. I want you to see her as she is, and should be. And I want her to understand what she is, and should be.”

“She may die,” said Hiza.

“No,” said Tuza. “More is planned for her.”

“Should we not wash the blood from her head and body?” asked Emerald.

“That is work for slaves,” said Tuza.

“But she is free,” said Hiza.

“Let her be washed by slaves, as a slave,” said Tuza. “Yes, yes! Excellent! Unbind our tunic girls; have them wash the chained she-tarsk, that she be less offensive to our eyes. Then set our little beasts about their tasks, let them sweep and clean the camp, let them tidy things, let used boughs be cast aside, let them fetch water and wood, and berries, let them serve us, let us have a fine breakfast. I want our former leader to see that even tunic sluts are freer than she!”

“The rope?” inquired Emerald.

“Remove it from Tula, but put her in rope shackles,” said Tuza. “She is an excellent cook. Let the other two address themselves to less demanding tasks.”

“But on the rope?” said Emerald.

“Certainly,” said Tuza, “for one would not wish them to stray, to be eaten by panthers.”

“We shall have a splendid time,” said Tuza, “before we begin the trek.”

“What will be done with Darla?” inquired Hiza.

“You will see,” said Tuza. “Quickly now, unbind the sluts, that they may be put to work!”

“How many are there?” I had asked.

“Not many,” said Axel. “I would guess six or seven altogether.”

“At least one is a slave,” I said.

“Most likely more,” said Axel. “Panther Women, who tend to be large and fierce for women, often hold smaller, weaker women as slaves.”

“Feminine women?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “they despise feminine women, and enjoy holding them as slaves.”

“How many would be armed then?” I asked.

“Four or five,” he said.

“I trust we would make a determination on this matter before doing anything precipitate,” I said.

“Certainly,” he said. “While you seize one Panther Girl, binding her helplessly, another might drive her javelin into the back of your neck.”

“It seems they touch weapons,” I said.

“Certainly,” he said, “until they are collared, and then it might mean their death to touch one, even inadvertently.”

“Are there men with them?” I asked.

“It seems unlikely,” he said, “for Panther Girls seldom league themselves with men, for before men their bravado fades, its fraudulence becomes transparent. They no longer find themselves dominant, but find themselves before the truly dominant, and then must fight their blood, as other women who long for the raptures of submission, the fulfillments of being owned and mastered.”

“Still,” I said, “might there not be men in the party, if only temporarily?”

“I think not,” he said, “the size and depth of the prints do not suggest that.”

“Some of the prints are those of small, bared feet,” I said.

“Three are with bared feet,” he said, “and they are probably slaves. Still, one cannot be sure. Sometimes Panther Girls trod the forest barefoot. Too, a ruse might be in play, to suggest fewer Panther Girls than are actually with the party.”

“But no men,” I said.

“I think not,” he said, “but we shall soon know.”

“How soon?” I asked.

“Quite soon,” he said.

It was late in the afternoon. There were many shadows. It was hard to see the tracks. It would soon be night.

Axel held Tiomines back. “No, fellow,” he said.

“You pause,” I said.

“We will camp here,” said Axel. “It is growing dark. The forest is dangerous.”

“Panthers might lurk,” I said.

“And knives, and javelins,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“It would be most unwise to come upon our friends inadvertently, suddenly,” he said.

“You seem to think they are quite close,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “can you not smell it?”

“What?” I said.

“A campfire,” he said.

Mila and I, with dampened cloths were wiping the blood from the head, face, neck, and left shoulder of Darla.

She opened her eyes, suddenly, wildly, and jerked at her cuffed hands, held behind her, the two, narrow, snug, circular restraints attached to her waist chain. Mila and I, alarmed, leaped back. Darla struggled to her feet, crying out with rage, as a storm might rise. “What is the meaning of this?” she demanded, jerking at the restraints.

“Behold!” called Tuza, from across the site. “The mighty Darla wakes!”

“Remove these chains!” cried Darla.

“Or is it,” said Tuza, approaching, “merely an escaped slave, wandered in from the forest?”

“Release me!” demanded Darla. She struggled wildly in the bracelets, linked to the snug waist chain. Did she not know her efforts were useless? Had she not, often enough, put captured free women, or free women hoping to join her band, in just such impediments, before delivering them naked to buyers? “Where are my garments!” she cried. “Give them to me! I demand to be released! I demand my clothing! Remove these constraints! Give me my weapons! Where are my ornaments?”

“Some are here,” said Tuza, lifting her left arm, with its armlets and several bracelets, while, with her right hand, she lifted and fingered, exhibiting them, the strings of claws which she had looped about her throat.

Darla took an angry stride toward Tuza but, beside herself with rage, had either failed to notice, or had forgotten, the shackles which bound her ankles, and she fell into the dirt, before Tuza.

“Get up,” said Tuza.

Darla struggled to her feet, and stood facing Tuza, shaking with fury.

“I wonder if men would like her,” said Tuza, regarding her former leader.

“She-tarsk!” cried Darla.

“She is still filthy,” said Tuza. “Mila, Vulo, clean her. I find her appearance offensive.”

“Slaves!” cried. Darla. “How dare you touch me?”

Mila and I stepped back.

“Clean her,” said Tuza. “As you might a shackled slave, waiting to be put upon the block.”

Carefully, frightened, with our cloths, dampened in the Alexandra, we wiped away the blood and dirt which adhered to the body of the former leader. We were much afraid to do this, for she was free, and did not wish it. We trusted she would understand that we did not do this of our will, but as slaves. It is common for a slave, in her training, to be taught the bathing of masters, the sponging, the oils, the strigil, the rinsings, the towelings, and such. To be sure, we are also instructed in various ways we may please the master while bathing him, and in the manner of the slave. On the other hand, as I understand it, the matter is commonly quite different with free women. Certainly Darla did not wish to sustain our ministrations. Contact with a slave may be regarded as sullying by a free woman. She is, after all, free. In the case of the bath of a free woman, as I understand it, the slave commonly does little more than prepare the bath, test the temperature, for this may vary from mistress to mistress, place the oils, and such, scent the water, ready the towelings, lay out the after-bath gowns, and such. To be sure, she may assist her in and out of the bath, as well. Whereas I suppose a woman might have a personal serving slave of whom she is fond, being a woman’s serving slave is commonly regarded as the most dreaded of bondages. Most free women despise, and hate, female slaves, and own, and treat them, accordingly. Often they will not allow them to so much as cast a glance on a male. A good female serving slave, of course, particularly one of taste and discretion, may be invaluable to a free woman. There are some free women of the upper castes, wealthy women, who from childhood have never dressed themselves, who do not even know the intricate clasps and closures of the robes of concealment they wear, let alone their blendings and drapings, the best colors for the time of day and the season, the arrangements ideally in order for receivings, visitings, promenades, attendance at the readings, the theater, the song drama, and so on. In any event, few of us are trained as women’s slaves. Perhaps there are other schools, or courses, in this sort of thing. I have heard that free women, if they have a serving slave, or slaves, often purchase pretty ones, ones of a sort they particularly hate, in this way denying such a slave a master, which gratifies the free woman, and denying a master the slave, which, I suppose, gratifies her as well. It is also rumored that some free women purchase beautiful slaves in order to attract men to themselves, the fellow hoping to see more of the slave. But woe to the slave should she so much as dare to meet the eyes of the visitor. It is then, afterwards, the lash for her. The female serving slave, too, is apparently useful in the affairs of her mistress, carrying messages, arranging meetings, standing watch, and so on. Given the common loathing of the free woman for the slave, Darla’s reluctance to be washed, and publicly, by two slaves, was understandable. Clearly it was intended by Tuza as an insult. Similarly, a captured free woman may be profoundly insulted by her captor, if he has her stripped and exhibited in his presence by female slaves, while he ponders her value. Is she to be kept for a time, or sold? Is she a pot girl, or a kettle-and-mat girl, or does she have the makings, suitably trained, of a pleasure slave? Perhaps, if nothing better, she might be used for sleen feed. In any event, I knew nothing of being a woman’s slave. I had been trained for men.

“Get away from me!” screamed Darla, and Mila and I, disconcerted, drew back.

“Continue,” said Tuza, and we resumed our ministrations, however reluctantly. Darla held her head up, angrily, proudly, and stared out, toward the Alexandra.

“Good,” said Tuza. “Much better. Now brush and comb her hair.”

Hiza located a brush and comb, and I brushed Darla’s hair, and Mila combed it.

“Good,” said Tuza, “you are almost as presentable as a naked slave.”

“Free my hands, free my ankles,” cried Darla, “and give me a dagger, a javelin!”

“I like you as you are,” said Tuza.

“Let us do contest,” cried Darla, “in the manner of the Panther Women!”

“I would not soil my javelin on you,” said Tuza, “pretty Darla.”

“‘Pretty’!” screamed Darla.

“Now that I look upon you, better groomed,” said Tuza, “I think men might find you of some interest.”

“She-sleen!” cried Darla.

“If you had a collar on your neck,” she said.

“She-tarsk!” cried Darla, pulling at the bracelets, with a rattle of metal.

“Look,” said Tuza, “she is crying!”

“No, no, I am not!” wept Darla.

I was startled to see this, but tears ran down the cheeks of Darla. Could it be, I wondered, that she was a female, truly a female?

Tuza drew forth her dagger, and put its point to the bosom of Darla. The former leader drew back a little.

“You are afraid,” said Tuza.

“No,” said Darla.

But I saw she was afraid. She trembled. She turned white. Tears were in her eyes.

She looked then much less like a Panther Woman, than a woman. Darla, I conjectured, in this unexpected, and unusual situation, was suddenly coming to grips with her sex, its slightness, its softness, its helplessness, its weakness, its sensitivity, its limitations, its jeopardy, its fearful and glorious flood of rich and profound emotions, emotions over which she, to her consternation, found she could exercise not the least control, in whose grasp she found herself the lifted and transported prisoner of parts of herself a thousand times stronger than her conscious will, and its depth, its vulnerability, its dependence. Did this situation, chained before Tuza, I wondered, give her some sense of what it might be to be a woman before a man, or, say, a slave before a master?

I feared Tuza would ram the blade into the former leader, to the hilt.

“Do not kill her!” begged Hiza.

“Stand straighter,” said Tuza. “Get your back straight, your belly in, your shoulders back, your head up!”

Tears in her eyes, Darla obeyed.

“Excellent,” said Tuza, “you are standing almost as well as a slave.”

“Please!” said Darla.

“Do you wonder what has become of you, what has been done to you?” asked Tuza. “You are now exhibited as what you are, and should be, a naked, worthless slut, no more than a chained slave!”

“I am free! Free!” cried Darla.

“I thought free women were clothed,” said Tuza.

“Please, Tuza!” wept Darla.

“Do not dare to speak my name!” said Tuza.

“Do not kill her!” cried Hiza.

Tuza stepped back, and indicated Darla with the point of her knife. “There is the one you feared,” she said to Hiza and Emerald. “The mighty leader! See her helpless, see her without her talmit, without her skins, her weapons, her ornaments. Is she so mighty now! See her as she is, stripped, chained, and shackled, frightened, in tears, only a woman!”

Then Tuza turned back to Darla. “Get on your knees,” she said, “where you belong.”

Darla knelt, and looked up at Tuza. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked. “What is to be my fate?”

“You will learn later,” said Tuza. “First we will have breakfast. Busy yourself, Tula. Mila, Vulo, lay out the mats, the plates, the goblets and utensils, and then kneel, prepared to serve your mistresses. Hiza, fetch the talmit once unworthily worn by our pretty prisoner, and tie her ankles together.”

“Please,” said Darla.

“Will it be necessary to gag you?” asked Tuza.

“No,” said Darla.

“You might look well in a gag,” said Tuza, “pretty one.”

“It will not be necessary to gag me,” said Darla.

“You have gagged enough slaves,” said Tuza. “Why should you not be gagged, and as a slave?”

“I will be silent,” said Darla.

The breakfast was prolonged, doubtless by intent. It was served by Tula, returned to the rope, Mila, and myself. We were even, following the meal of the mistresses, allowed to feed ourselves with our own hands.

“Eat well, kajirae,” said Tuza. “We have a long trek to the coast before us.” I recalled we were to be sold on the coast. Darla knelt to the side, unable to rise, her ankles tied together. She had not been fed.