Swordsmen of Gor (76 page)

There was shouting from the shore, as we passed, of hundreds, perhaps thousands, of men, and a drumming, rhythmic, that carried over the cold, green waters of gleaming Thassa.

I joined Lord Nishida, and Aëtius, at the stern castle.

“We are free of the river,” I said.

“It is treacherous, a liquid snake,” said Aëtius.

“It is a beautiful river,” I said, “and one of the few this far north navigable by a vessel this deeply keeled.” Most Gorean galleys could negotiate water as shallow as five to seven feet Gorean. The round ship would need only a few feet more.

“A snake,” said Aëtius.

To him, concerned with reaching the sea, bringing his great charge to gleaming Thassa, it had been a menace, a liquid valley, which might contain unseen, submerged mountains of rock, which might tear the bottom from a passing ship. At best it was a twisting, dangerous road.

I looked at the sky. “Perhaps,” I said, “in a day or two you would wish yourself again on the river.”

Surely he could see the lowering sky, the movement of the water ahead. Might not any captain discern such signs, and be wary?

We looked back, at the shore, some two hundred yards astern.

The shouting and drumming continued, but was now little more than a rumble in the distance.

“What are they doing, those soldiers?” asked Lord Nishida, looking back.

There was shouting, and the clashing of blades, and the pounding of spear metal on metal-rimmed shields.

“Master,” said Cecily, who had approached.

I indicated that she might stand beside me, at the stern rail.

“Thank you, Master!” she said, and hurried forward.

Normally the slave remains behind the master, commonly on the left, as she would in heeling him. The free woman, of course, either walks beside the free man, or precedes him. The slave walks behind, for she is a slave. She heels on the left, by custom, as most men are right-handed, and their weapon arm is not to be encumbered. On the other hand, these arrangements are not without value to the slave. In walking behind him, for example, she is protected, sheltered from danger by the wall of his arm and steel. On savage, untamed, perilous Gor, you see, women are vulnerable, and in need of the protection of men. Even free women, whatever their denials or resentments may be, are well aware of this. It is only within the walls formed by the blades of men that their nobilities and privileges, their precious vanities and pretensions, can exist. Otherwise they would be in collars, at the feet of masters. This is the same, incidentally, in all cultures, though in several of them the matter is obscured, and almost invisible. Some women take for granted a boon granted to them by men, unaware of the favor shown to them. Any culture, if it wished, could enslave its women.

And have not several, in effect, done so?

I permitted Cecily to stand beside me.

I did not begrudge her this privilege. I could always cuff her back, behind me, should I wish.

The slave, commonly, is to be unobtrusive, and deferent. In the presence of free persons she will commonly kneel, and keep her head down. When she speaks to free persons, if given permission to speak, her voice is to be suitable to her condition, modest, soft, and respectful, that of a slave. Too, she is to speak clearly and with excellent diction. She is not a free woman. Therefore, there must be no slurring of speech, or mumbling. Masters will not have it.

One of the common requirements for a Gorean female slave might surprise those who are unfamiliar with such things. Aside from her beauty and passion, the Gorean female slave is commonly quite intelligent. I wonder if that is surprising. One hopes not. Few men, if any, are satisfied with a mere body. They wish a body it is a delight to own and master, a richly minded body, and it is probably for this reason that, for the most part, only highly intelligent women are brought into the collar. The average slave, accordingly, is likely to be intellectually superior to the average free woman. Indeed, I have sometimes wondered if that is one of the reasons, doubtless only one of several, why the free woman so hates the slave. She suspects, in fury then, on some level, at least, that the frightened, half-naked creature kneeling before her, collared, cringing, hoping not to be struck, is quite possibly her intellectual superior. Naturally this surmise does not please her. The switch may then strike. In any event, highly intelligent women make the best slaves. They are much more aware of their sex, and its needs, and desires, than shallower women, more ready to listen to the whispers of their heart than simpler women, and have prepared themselves for years, it seems, in their dreams and fantasies, to kneel and kiss the feet of masters. Aside from the pleasures of owning and mastering such a woman, for it is a joy to possess one, a property so intellectually stimulating, one profits from an apparent genetic linkage, doubtless selected for over millennia, from the caves and markets onward, between intelligence and sexual responsiveness. There is a correlation between her intelligence and her slave needs, between her intelligence and her helplessness, between her intelligence and her soon-to-be-discovered, uncontrollable, spasmodic helplessness beneath a master’s touch. It is easy to ignite the slave fires in the belly of an intelligent woman. She is vulnerable, and remarkably helpless under your touch. She will then beg. She then belongs to men, and knows it.

So dominate her, wholly, in every way, and own her.

And relish her, all of her, every bit of her, her mind and her body, her sensitivity, her vulnerability, her feelings, her thoughts and emotions, her high intelligence.

Who would want less in a possession?

Are not such things of value in any animal?

But be certain to keep her on her knees.

She knows she belongs there.

It is what she needs and wants.

So much then for her intelligence, and such.

Whatever the nature or quality of such things, they are now, with her, merely more of your possessions.

It is the whole slave, you see, which is owned.

The richer the slave in properties, intellectual and otherwise, the more profit and pleasure in owning her.

And such things, of course, will surely improve her price.

Much, of course, goes beyond her gratitude and helplessness in a master’s hands, hot and begging. That is only a part of her life, though surely a part which informs, signals, and makes clear the nature of the whole. While polishing boots how can she forget the sound of the chains, which were fastened to her shackles, the feel of the slave bracelets or thongs which fastened her hands behind her back, or to a ring over and behind her head, her writhing in bonds? The life of the slave girl is a whole and total life. The radiation of her servitude and sexuality permeates her entire existence, even to the smallest, homeliest task she performs, the polishing of boots, the baking of bread, the cleaning of her master’s domicile, the laundering of her master’s tunic. She is attentive, and serves well; she is devoted; she is dutiful; she is sensitive to the master’s moods and behaves accordingly; sometimes he wants her to speak, and sometimes not; sometimes he wants her naked, licking at his thigh, and sometimes not; always it is the master’s will which determines matters; her obedience, of course, is to be unquestioning and instant, for she is a slave; and, as she is highly intelligent, she is muchly concerned, as she should be, to be found pleasing, wholly pleasing. It is hers to please, and his to be pleased. She lives to please. A frown or a sharp word may bring tears to her eyes. She may fear such much more than the stroke of a switch, or whip, to which she, as a slave, is subject. Such women converse well from their knees. Who would want a stupid slave? And so one seeks the finest, the most beautiful, the most needful, the most intelligent for one’s collar. Behold such, stripped, and put up for sale! See her turned, extolled, exhibited! Would you not bid on such goods? Who would wish to take anything less off the block? Who would wish to own anything less? Surely you would not wish to have anything less in your collar? So bid well. See if you cannot bring her into your collar. Consider her at your feet, collared, yours. Would it not be pleasant to have her there, or one similar? Too, it is they, such slaves, who know what it is to be owned, and they will labor mightily, fearing to be deprived of their most profound fulfillments, to be found worth keeping. “I will improve, Master! Please do not sell me, Master!” They long to be, abject and overwhelmed, conquered and surrendered, subdued and submitted, wholly, at the feet of a dominant male. At his feet they are fulfilled. They know it is where they belong. Their dreams, their heart, has told them so. It is where they want to be. The master is, for such a woman, so needful a woman, her dream come true. With tears in her eyes she kisses the chains that bind her. Kneeling, gratefully, she presses her lips to her master’s whip, held before her, and licks and kisses it, at length, tenderly, not daring to touch it with her hands, this symbol of his sovereignty over her. Humbly she kneels before him and kisses his boots, rejoicing to be permitted even so simple a privilege. At suppers, she usually serves in silence, particularly if a free woman is present. When not serving she will usually kneel in the background, at hand, ready, particularly if a free woman is present, lest she be summoned. For she is not free; she is slave. When alone with the master, of course, much may be expected of her. She knows what it is to fetch his sandals in her teeth, to dance naked, pleadingly, before him, to sustain his caresses, perhaps roped or chained, thus unable to resist even should she desire to do so, to strive to please him in the furs, and with perfection, and as the lowly, abject slave she is, such things.

Her bondage is her life.

In her servitude she finds fulfillments and joys scarcely conceivable by the free woman, fulfillments and joys unutterably beyond those of the free woman.

She is in a collar.

She is a man’s slave.

She is happy.

We were now some four hundred yards from shore. The shouting and drumming continued, but little of it now reached us.

“I would be answered,” said Lord Nishida.

There had been shouting, the clashing of blades, the pounding of spear metal on metal-rimmed shields. The sound of a trumpet now carried across the cold water.

As Pertinax had now joined us, I turned to him. “What do you think is going on, on the beach?” I said.

“How would I know?” he asked.

“I think you can guess,” I said. I was interested to see how far Pertinax had come from Earth, not in miles, but in heart, in blood.

“In its way,” he said, “it seems celebratory.”

“It is,” I said.

“I do not understand,” said Lord Nishida.

“It is a salute,” I said. “They are saluting you. You are praised, and honored. They acclaim your power, your bravery, your success.”

“But they are our enemies,” said Lord Nishida.

“Surely such things exist amongst the Pani, as well,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “but I had not expected to find them here.”

“It is important that those who would kill one another respect one another,” I said. “One would not wish to kill an unworthy foe, one whom one did not respect. There is efficiency in that, and it may be practical, or necessary, but little glory. It is more like the crushing of lice, the extermination of urts. Many Gorean warriors, in private matters, will not cross swords with a foe they do not respect.”

“Interesting,” said Lord Nishida.

“It is a strange thing,” said Pertinax, “but I think I understand it.”

“You are becoming Gorean,” I said.

“That is my hope,” he said. His Jane was with him, and she knelt at his thigh.

“Doubtless,” I said, “some on the beach have the glass of the Builders. Let us then raise our hands. Let us acknowledge the salute.”

Lord Nishida, I, and Pertinax, standing at the rail of the stern castle, lifted our hands.

On the shores of the river, to the left and right, we saw hundreds, perhaps thousands of spears raised.

I then turned away from the rail.

“What do you think of the sky?” I asked Aëtius.

He looked for a time. Then he said, “We have our course.”

“Master,” called Cecily, from the rail.

I joined her at the rail.

“Look,” she said, “there is something there, in the water.”

It was hard to make out, at the distance. It was behind, on the starboard side, away from the wake of the ship.

“What is it?” asked Cecily.

“I am not sure,” I said. “I think it is a sea sleen.”

I then made my way forward, heeled by Cecily.

Chapter Forty-One

WE ARE PURSUED;

THIS IS NOTED BY TWO MARINERS

This was the beginning of our third day at sea.

Two mariners were at the starboard rail, amidships, leaning out, looking back.

I joined them, noticed nothing, and then looked out, across the water, squarely abeam.

The sea was calm. Tor-tu-Gor was low behind us, on the horizon, in our wake. It was a winter sky, though we had not yet come to the Ninth Passage Hand, following which is the winter solstice. Toward the tenth Ahn, the Gorean noon, after we had emerged from the Alexandra earlier, in the morning, some three days ago, at, say, the fifth Ahn, the ship had changed course, radically. I gathered that Aëtius had reconsidered the sky, or that someone to whom he might report had done so. About the sixteenth Ahn, the storm was well to the north. This could be seen from the darkness over the water. Had we kept the former course we would have been in the vicinity of the storm, if not embroiled within it. To be sure it might have been no more than a robust squall. Perhaps, in its passing, it would have lasted for little more than a quarter of an Ahn. Perhaps a galley might have weathered it, without even sheeting itself with canvas. Still, it is hard to know about such things. One does not know what the sky portends, only that it portends. I myself, particularly with an untried ship, would not have challenged it. And so, too, had ruled whoever might be the master of the ship of Tersites. To be sure, many storms cover the sea for hundreds of square pasangs and one can no more avoid them than the sea herself. Too, some storms last several days. One strives to weather such storms, and sometimes one must flee before them. In a galley one would normally take down the mast and yard, that they not be lost in the wind, or, if necessary, rig the smallest of her sails, the storm sail, get the storm astern and run before her, as might a tabuk attempting to elude a pursuing larl. I had confirmed with the helmsman the following morning that we had returned to our former course. It would take us south of Cos, north of Tyros.