Magicians of Gor Page 5

  "They may have to give up ostraka," said the peasant sitting cross-legged by the fire.

  "Why?" I asked.

  "It is dangerous to carry them," he said. "Too many folks are killed for them."

  "What then will Ar do?" I asked.

  "I think she will shut her gates," he said.

  "But her forces are interposed between her gates and Cos," I said.

  "True," said the peasant.

  I then continued my search for Marcus and Phoebe. He was, of course, quite proud of her. I did not doubt but what he was circulating about, seemingly merely wandering about, but showing her off. She would surely be one the most fetching slaves in the area.

  How lofty, I thought, are the walls of Ar. Yet they were only of stone and mortar. They could be breached. Her bridges could be, as the Goreans have it, washed in blood. But there were forces of Ar between her walls and the banners of Cos. It was well.

  I stopped for a moment to watch an amusing race. Several slave girls are aligned, on all fours, poised, their heads down. Then, carefully, a line of beans, one to a girl, is placed before them. She must then, on all fours, push the bean before her, touching it only with her nose. The finish line was a few yards away. "Go!" I heard. The crowd cheered on its favorites. On this sport, as well as on several others, small bets were placed. Sometimes a new slave, one who has recently been a haughty, arrogant free woman, is used in such a race. Such things, aside from their amusing, and fitting, aspects, are thought to be useful in accommodating her to her new reality, that of the female slave. In them she learns something more of the range of activities that may be required of her.

  I passed two fellows wrestling in a circle, others watching.

  Another group, gathered about a fire, were singing and passing about a bota, I presume, of paga.

  I passed a pair of fellows intent over a Kaissa board. There might have been chaos about them. I do not think they would have noticed.

  A female slave passed me, looking shyly down. She moved, excellently. I saw another regarding me. She was on her master's leash. I recalled that Phoebe, too, had been on a leash. Perhaps by now, I thought, Marcus would have returned with his slave, suffering in her need, to the tent, if only to satisfy himself with her, for he, too, I was certain, was in an agony to have her. Yet, in spite of his need, his intense desire for her, which it seemed he would choose to conceal from her, and her obvious, even explicitly expressed piteous need, which he chose to ignore, thereby supposedly, I suppose, indicating to her its meaninglessness to him, he had, as though nothing were afoot, simply taken her from the tent, as though merely to take in the sights, to see what might be seen in the camp. If Marcus had returned to the tent by now, of course, I did not think it would do for me to drop back, at least just yet. I wondered if, even now, Phoebe might be writhing at his mercy in an intricate slave binding, one which might make her so much the more helpless under his touch. Yet, given what I knew of Marcus, and his will, and determination, he was probably still about in the camp. But how long, I wondered, could he hold out. Certainly Phoebe had been superb in her tunic, adjusted on her by the slave girdle. The mere sight of her had led me to hurry to the mats. I supposed, however, that they were somewhere about. Knowing Marcus I would suppose so. He was excellent at gritting his teeth. I wondered if Phoebe had dared yet, in her need, to come close to him, on her leash, or even, perhaps, to brush against him, perhaps as though inadvertently. If Marcus thought such a thing deliberate on her part it might have earned her another cuffing. To be sure, it doubtless amused Marcus, or seemed fitting to him, to lead her about on her leash, suffering in a need which might be detectable even in the darkness and the shifting shadows. He might regard that as quite appropriate for a "slut of Cos."

  There was, from one side, a sudden sound of grunting and the cracking of great staffs, and urging cries from men. Two fellows, brawny lads, in half tunics, were doing staff contest. Both were good. Sometimes I could scarcely follow the movement of these weapons. "Watch him!" called a fellow to one of the contestants. "Cheers for Rarir!" called another. "Aii!" cried one of the lads, blood at the side of his head and ear, stumbling to the side. "Good blow!" cried an onlooker. But the lad came back with redoubled energy. I stayed for a moment. The lad from Rarir, as I understood it, then managed to pierce the guard of his opponent and thrust the staff into the fellow's chest. He followed this with a smiting to the side of the fellow's head which staggered him. He then, at the last moment, held back. The opponent, dazed, sat back in the dirt, laughing. "Victory for Rarir!" cried a man. "Pay us!" called another. Extending his hand to the foe the victor pulled him to his feet. They embraced. "Paga! Paga for both!" called a fellow.

  I circled about a bit.

  I saw no sight of Marcus or his lovely slave. Perhaps they had returned to the tent.

  In one place, hearing a jangling of bells, I went over to a large open circle of fellows to watch a game of "girl catch." There are many ways in which this game, or sort of game, is played. In this one, which was not untypical, a female slave, within an enclosure, her hands bound behind her back, and hooded, is belled, usually with common slave bells at the collar, wrists and ankles and a larger bell, a guide bell, with its particular note, at her left hip. Some fellows then, also hooded, or blindfolded, enter the enclosure, to catch her. Neither the quarry nor the hunters can see the other. The girl is forbidden to remain still for more than a certain interval, usually a few Ihn. She is under the control of a referee. His switch can encourage her to move, and, simultaneously, of course, mark her position. She is hooded in order that she may not determine into whose power she comes. When she is caught that game, or one of its rounds, is concluded. The victor's prize, of course, is the use of the slave.

  I continued to walk about.

  Two fellows were haggling over the price of a verr.

  I saw a yoked slave girl, two buckets attached to the ends of the yoke. She was probably bearing water for draft tharlarion. There were some in the camp. I had smelled them.

  A fellow stumbled by, drunk.

  I looked after the girl. She was small, and comely. She would probably have to make several trips to water the tharlarion.

  I wondered if the drunken fellow knew where his camp was. Fortunately there were no carnaria in this vicinity. It would not do to stumble into one.

  Around one of the campfires there was much singing.

  I heard the sound of a lash, and sobs. A girl was being disciplined. She was tied on her knees, her wrists over her head, tied to a horizontal bar between two poles. I gathered that she had been displeasing.

  In a tent I heard a heated political discussion.

  "Marlenus of Ar will return," said a fellow. "He will save us."

  "Marlenus is dead," said another.

  "Let his daughter then, Talena, take the throne," said another.

  "She is no longer his daughter," said a fellow. "She has been disavowed by Marlenus. She was disowned."

  "How is it then that her candidacy for the throne is taken seriously in the city?" asked a man.

  "I do not know," admitted the other.

  "Some speak of her as a possible Ubara," said a man.

  "Absurd," said another.

  "Many do not think so," said the man.

  "She is an arrogant and unworthy slut," said another. "She should be in a collar."

  "Beware, lest you speak treason," said one of the men.

  "Can it be treason to speak the truth?" inquired a fellow.

  "Yes," said the other fellow.

  "Indeed," said a man, heatedly, "she may even know the whereabouts of Marlenus. Indeed, she, and others, may be responsible for his disappearance, or continued absence."

  "I have not heard what you said," said a man.

  "And I have not said it," was the rejoinder.

  "I think it will be Talena," said a man, "who will sit upon the throne of Ar."

  "How marvelous for Cos!" said a fellow. "That is surely what they would wish, that
a female should sit upon the throne of Ar."

  "Perhaps they will see to it that she does," said a man.

  "Ar is in great peril," said a man.

  "She has might between Cos and her gates," said a fellow. "There is nothing to fear."

  "Yes!" said another man, fervently.

  "We must trust in the Priest-Kings," said another.

  "Yes," said another.

  "I can remember," said a fellow, "when we trusted in our steel."

  I then left the vicinity of this tent.

  I wondered if I could balance on the greased wineskin. I knew a fellow who, I had little doubt, could have done so, Lecchio, of the troupe of Boots Tarsk-Bit.

  I recalled the free female whose capture I had noted in Ar, that which had taken place in a street-level room in the Metellan district. Surely she must have known the law. The consorting of a free female with another man's slave renders her susceptible to the collar of the slave's master. The net had been cunningly arranged, that it might, when released, activated perhaps by springs or the pulling of a lever, fall and drape itself over the couch. It was clearly a device designed for such a purpose. The net and the room doubtless constituted a capture cubicle, simpler perhaps, but not unlike those in certain inns, in which a woman, lulled by the bolting on the doors, and feeling herself secure, may complete her toilet at leisure, bathing, combing her hair, perfuming herself and such, before the trap doors, dropped from beneath her, plunge her into the waiting arms of slavers. Guardsmen and magistrates, I had noted, had been in immediate attendance. She had had light brown hair and had been excellently curved. Yet I did not doubt but what her figure, even then of great interest, would be soon improved by diet and exercise, certainly before she would be put upon the block. To one side, in the half darkness, I heard the grunting of a man, and a female's gasping, and sobbing. There, to one side, in the shadows, difficult to make out, a slave girl, I could see the glint of her collar, writhed in a fellow's arms. I wondered if he owned her, or had simply caught her in the darkness. She was gasping, and squirming, and clutching at him. Her head twisted back and forth in the dirt. Her small, sweet, bared legs thrashed. Such responsiveness, of course, is not unusual in a female slave. It is a common function of the liberation of bondage. It comes with the collar, so to speak. Indeed, if a new slave does not soon exhibit profound and authentic sexual responsiveness, which matter may be checked by the examination of her body, within, say, an Ahn or so, the master's whip will soon inquire why. One blow of the whip is worth six months of coaxing. I thought again of the captured free woman, she taken in the net. Doubtless she, too, soon, given no choice, would become similarly responsive. Indeed, she, like other female slaves, would soon learn to be, and discover that she had become, perhaps to her initial dismay and horror, helplessly responsive to the touch of men, any man.

  The pair thrashed in the darkness. She was pinioned, she sobbed with joy.

  To be sure, if one prefers an inert, or frigid, or anesthetic, so to speak, woman, one may always make do with a free female, inhibited by her status, and such. They are plentiful, dismally so. Goreans, incidentally, doubt that any female is, qua female, irremediably or ultimately frigid. It is a common observation, even on Earth, that one man's petulant and frigid wife is another man's, to be sure, a different sort of man's, passionate, begging, obedient slave.

  "I yield me, Master!" wept the slave, softly.

  "It is known to me," he said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  I heard the sound of a tabor several yards away, and the swirl of a flute, and the clapping of hands.

  I went in that direction.

  "Marcus," I said, pleased, finding him in the crowd there.

  "Women are dancing," he said.

  "Superb," I said.

  Behind Marcus was Phoebe, standing very straight, and very close to him, but not touching him. She was holding her lower lip between her teeth, presumably to help her keep control of herself. Also there was a little blood at the left side of her mouth. I gathered she must have dared in her need to brush hopefully or timidly against her master, or whimpered a bit more than he cared to hear. Indeed, perhaps she had even dared to importune him. Her wrists were still bound behind her. The lead on her leash looped up to Marcus' grasp.

  "The camp is in a holiday mood," I said.

  "Yes," he said.

  I saw more than one fellow looking at Phoebe. She had marvelous legs and ankles, and a trim figure. She stood very straight. It was not difficult to tell now, even by glancing at her, that she was in need. One of the fellows looking her over laughed. Phoebe trembled, and bit her lip a little more.

  A fellow tore off the tunic of a slave girl and thrust her out, into the circle.

  "Aii!" cried men.

  The female danced.

  "I entered Phoebe in "meat catch," " said Marcus, "but she failed to catch even a single morsel."

  "I am not surprised," I said. "She can hardly stand."

  "That one is pretty," said Marcus. He referred to a redhead, thrust into the circle.

  "I had thought you might have taken Phoebe to the tent by now," I said.

  "No," said Marcus.

  There were now some four or five girls in the circle. One wore a sign that said, "I am for sale."

  Phoebe made a tiny noise.

  "I think Phoebe is ready for the tent now," I said.

  "She did not even want to leave it," said Marcus.

  "True," I said.

  Two more girls entered the circle.

  "Perhaps you should take Phoebe back to the tent," I said. "She is hot."

  "Oh?" asked Marcus.

  "Yes," I said.

  Clearly she was hot, beggingly hot, hot as only a collared slut can be hot, hot as only a slave can be hot, slave hot.

  "Perhaps I should put her into the circle," he said.

  "She can scarcely move," I said.

  "Oh," he said. But I think he was pleased.

  "She is in desperate need of a man's touch," I said.

  "It does not matter," he said. "She is only a slave."

  "Look," said Marcus. He referred to a new girl, joining the others in the circle. She wore ropes and performed on her knees, her sides, her back and stomach.

  "She is very good," said Marcus.

  "Yes," I said.

  The dance in the circle, as one might have gathered, was not the stately dance of free maidens, even in which, of course, the maidens, though scarcely admitting this even to themselves, experience something of the stimulatory voluptuousness of movement, but slave dance, that form of dance, in its thousands of variations, in which a female may excitingly and beautifully, marvelously and fulfillingly, express the depths and profundities of her nature. In such dance the woman moves as a female, and shows herself as a female, in all her excitingness and beauty. It is no wonder that women love such dance, in which dance they are so desirable and beautiful, in which dance they feel so free, so sexual, so much a slave.

  Another woman entered the circle. She, too, was excellent.

  "How do you like them?" Marcus asked Phoebe. It was no accident, surely, that he had brought her here to watch the dancing.

  "Please take me to the tent, Master," she begged.

  As Marcus had undoubtedly anticipated the sight of the dance would have its effect on his little Cosian. She saw how beautiful could be slaves, of which she was one. On the other hand, I suspected he had not counted on the effect on himself.

  Another girl, a slim blonde, was thrust into the circle. Her master, arms folded, regarded her. She lifted her chained wrists above her head, palms facing outward, this, because of the linkage of the manacles, tightening it, bringing the backs of her hands closely together. She faced her master. Desperate was she to please him. There was a placatory aspect to her dance. It seemed she wished to divert his wrath.

  "Ah," said Marcus, softly.

  The girl who wore the sign, "I am for sale," danced before us, as she had before others, displaying
her master's proffered merchandise. I saw that she wanted to be purchased. That was obvious in the pleading nature of her dance. Her master was perhaps a dealer, and one, as are many, who is harsh with his stock. Her dance, thusly, was rather like the "Buy me, Master" behavior of a girl on a chain, the "slaver's necklace," or in a market, the sort of behavior in which she begs purchase. A girl on such a chain, or in a market, who is too much passed over has reason for alarm. Not only is she likely to be lowered on the chain, perhaps even to "last girl," which is demeaning to her, and a great blow to her vanity, but she is likely to be encouraged to greater efforts by a variety of admonitory devices, in particular, the switch and whip. Earth-girl slaves brought to Gor, for example, are often, particularly at first, understandably enough, I suppose, afraid to be sold, and accordingly, naturally enough, I suppose, sometimes attempt, usually in subtle ways, to discourage buyers, thereby hoping to be permitted to cling to the relative security of the slaver's chain. Needless to say, this behavior is soon corrected and, in a short time, only too eager now to be off the slaver's chain, they are displaying themselves, and proposing themselves, luscious, eager, ready, begging merchandise, to prospective buyers.

  The girl for sale was a short-legged brunet, extremely attractive. I considered buying her, but decided against it. This was not a time for buying slaves. I gestured for her to dance on. She whirled away. A tear moved diagonally down her cheek.

  She might, of course, not belong to a dealer.

  There are many reasons why a master might put his girl, or girls, up for sale, of course. He might wish, for example, if he is a breeder, to improve the quality of his pens or kennels, trying out new blood lines, freshening his stock, and such. He might wish, casually, merely to try out new slaves, perhaps ridding himself of one to acquire another, who may have caught his eye. Perhaps he wants to keep a flow of slaves in his house, lest he grow too attached to one, always a danger. Too, of course, economic considerations sometimes become paramount, these sometimes dictating the selling off of chattels, whose value, of course, unlike that of a free woman, constitutes a source of possible income. Indeed, there are many reasons for the buying and selling of slaves, as there are for other forms of properties.