Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Fifteen



I shielded my eyes, as I could, from the light of the candle. It was not bright, I suppose, but the contrast with the darkness of the slave house was painful. I half closed my eyes. I could not see who held the candle. I knew he would carry a switch. At the entrance to the slave house, that rude, long, low-ceilinged, wooden building, the visitors are given a small lamp, or a taper, in its holder, and a switch. The offerings, on their mats, are aligned on the two sides of the building, with an aisle between them.

If we are not pleasing, we are switched.

We strive to be pleasing.

“Does the light hurt your eyes, pretty kajira?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Get on your belly,” he said.

I turned to my belly, with a soft rattle of the chain. I felt it pull against my collar ring. The chain runs to a heavy ring anchored in the floor, on my left, if I were on my back. The mat is thick, and coarse, and the floor is of planking. We are not coddled.

I had seldom been switched.

We hope to please the masters.

The palms of my hands were on the mat, at the sides of my head. I looked to the left, my right cheek on the mat.

I sensed that he was regarding me. We are on some four feet of chain. We are naked.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Laura,” I said, “if it pleases Master.” They may name us, of course, as they please. I had been used under a variety of names. Sometimes, I fear, we stand proxy for another.

“That is a barbarian name,” he said. “Are you a barbarian?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I tensed. “Please do not whip me, Master,” I begged. Some men seem to feel that barbarian women, some barbarian women, from the world Earth, have exceeded their place, and they are then whipped. I did not think that I had exceeded my place. I think I had recognized what it was, since puberty.

Even on my former world, I had been curious as to what it might be, to be owned and serve a master. On Gor, I had learned. Yet each master is different, and our helplessness in the arms of one may not be identical with our helplessness in the arms of another. There are a thousand ecstasies, and a thousand yieldings, each in a sense the same, and yet each different. What is common in each is that one is slave, and one is master. Sometimes, if only from a chagrin at my lowliness, or perhaps in an attempt to recover something of my former free woman’s independence and pride, I had resolved to resist the attentions to which I found myself subjected, but I had soon found myself succumbing as might any other collar slut, which I now was. How helpless we are in their hands! Initially, weeks ago, I had surrendered myself, at least in part, for fear of the consequences of a master’s displeasure, or even his failure to find me fully pleasing. In my training, as brief as it was, I had been taught the lash of the switch and, once, the stroke of the whip, and would go to great lengths to avoid both. I also learned that there are infallible signs in a slave’s body, signs of authentic response, which signs are easily read by Gorean males. They easily detect, and do not accept, pretense. Accordingly, after leaving the house, and having felt the switch, and, once, the lash, I had surrendered wholly, and helplessly, as I must, holding back nothing, surrendered to feeling, emotion, and radical sentience, as a yielding, worthless object, as a slave to her master, which I was. Again and again I would steel myself to resist, somehow, even despite the perils, but then I would be touched, and I would be again a slave. Too, I feared, but longed for, the growing of my needs, now multiplying, waxing, and intensifying. In my mind, and belly, I was becoming different, or, perhaps better, was becoming more and more, in my mind and belly, what I had always been, a slave. And surely I now knew at least the glimmer of slave fires. Men were seeing to it. I had no choice. I was given no choice. It was being done to me, regardless of my will. I felt helpless, but then a slave is helpless. How far I was now from the arrogance of my former self, which, while desperately desiring bondage, had sought, in accord with the mechanistic, sterile prescriptions of my world, demanded of me, to deny these desires, and drive them from my mind! No longer were such options permitted me. I could no longer help myself. I was now a slave!

“Oh!” I said, suddenly, touched.

“Excellent,” he said.

I dug my fingernails into the mat.

***

Some weeks ago, my coffle, disembarked, marched east from the sea, had arrived at an extensive enclave termed Tarncamp. There were many buildings there, for housing, cooking, feeding, washing, sleeping, exercise, storage, and such. Amongst them we passed an impressive pavilion. It was said to be the pavilion of a Lord Nishida. He was first, I gathered, in the camp. The pavilion, palisaded, seemed to be the center of much activity. Men came and went, and slaves, as well. In passing by the open gate, with its two large panels, swung back on each side from the palisade wall, I could see the pavilion within was largely open, rather like an extensive dais. Guards were about. Did he fear attack? In passing, I heard the roar of a beast from somewhere within the palisade. I trusted that it was well secured. It reminded me of the roars, though they had been from a much greater distance, I had heard on the beach, and, twice, in my journey to this place, through the forest. I supposed they emanated from the same, or a similar, sort of beast. It soon became clear that this large enclave was a work camp of some sort, one in which, apparently, much timbering took place. We saw wagons, filled with logs, drawn by tharlarion. We also saw stables in which such beasts might be fed, watered, and sheltered. The journey here had taken some four days. We had, however, following others, including the several men bearing the two large, strange, apparently weighty boxes or crates unloaded from our galley, soon left Tarncamp, and, by a short trail, emerged onto what we learned was a training area of sorts. Here I had my first clear sight of tarns. Before, in the forest, I had known them only as large, frightening shadows overhead, rapid, monstrous darknesses overhead, storms of wings smiting the air, whose passage had torn leaves from the canopy, these then showering downward, scattering about us. Too, I had not forgotten the single wild, streaming, raucous scream I had heard. It had been said that they killed men, and that men flew them. One alighted on the training ground not ten yards from us. Dust scattered about. We crowded together, stripped, our necks in the rope coffle, instinctively. I think I cried out. I know others did. How small the rider was compared to the bird! I think it fair to call it a bird, but it was no form of life with which I was familiar. I wondered on what world such a thing might have emerged from the dark, grisly, unforgiving, demanding games of nature, certainly not on my former world, nor, I suspected, this world. Perhaps it had arisen on some larger world, perhaps a much larger world, a world on which evolution might select for such massive size and power. In this sense, I did not know if such a monster were well thought of as a bird, or not. It was, as far as I could tell, a form of life alien to both the Earth and Gor. Still it was clearly a bird, or very birdlike. It had talons, a beak, long and wicked, and mighty wings. Too, it was crested. I had heard of convergent evolution, as in a shape best fitted to negotiate an aquatic environment, examples of which might be the dolphin, the fish, the ichthyosaur, and such. Too, consider eyes, and how widely spread they are amongst diverse life forms, insects, fish, mammals, birds, and such. Considering the values of given shapes, certain appendages, diverse irritabilities, tactual, auditory, and visual sensors, and such, one would expect them to arise, sooner or later, on any world capable of sustaining complex life forms. Accordingly, I supposed, evolution might provide a place on diverse worlds for birds, or birdlike creatures, creatures of keen eyesight, creatures which might attack, grasp, and tear, creatures not bound to the earth, creatures which might negotiate and traverse the very atmosphere itself.

“Hold your coffle!” called the fellow from the saddle of the tarn, he yards from the ground.

His command was not necessary. We were terrified to move, and were crowded together.

“Burdens down!” called the coffle master. “Stand, align yourselves!” We knew how we were to stand. We stood as slaves, erect and proud, as prize goods.

“Where do you get these tarsks?” called the fellow in the saddle.

“In Brundisium!” responded the coffle master.

We were indignant, as we knew we had been carefully selected. Even a slave has her pride, though it may be no more than the pride of a slave. We must be careful, of course, to give little, or no, sign of our displeasure or annoyance. We did not wish to be cuffed, or put to our bellies and switched in the dirt. Too, we had not been given permission to speak. We could not help it if prices had been low in Brundisium. After all, there had been, I had gathered, serious difficulties in Ar, a large city, in the recent past. Indeed, at least three items in our coffle had been former free women of Ar, two of high caste.

“A copper tarsk for the lot!” said the fellow on the tarn.

“Some sold for silver!” said the coffle master.

I had sold for copper.

“Mat girls,” laughed the tarnsman.

“We must on to Shipcamp,” said the coffle master.

“Hold the coffle,” said the tarnsman, pointing. “See the targets. An exercise is underway. A flight is behind me. I am charged to clear the field.”

We looked to our right, and, in the distance, we saw specks, several specks, moving specks.

The coffle master shaded his eyes.

The specks were far, and, for a bit, it seemed they were arrested, not even moving, and then it was clear they were moving, and were larger, slightly larger. At the distance their speed was not clearly discernible, and yet I was sure, from their passage in the forest, overhead, that it was likely to be considerable.

I looked to my left and saw rows of targets, perhaps forty or fifty.

These were perhaps something in the neighborhood of a foot and a half in width, and some six feet high. Portions of the targets were colored, rather at the level of what might be a man’s waist, chest, neck, and head.

When I turned back, the specks were no longer specks but clearly spread ranks of flighted creatures, at four levels, and, as I later determined, each rank was followed by its column, the ranks in these columns separated by some fifty yards, or so.

The fellow who had arrested our progress, then, with a snap of wings and a shower of dust, departed the field.

Shortly thereafter four waves, or ranks, of tarnsmen swept by, the lowest wave perhaps no more than five yards from the ground, the highest perhaps twenty or twenty-five yards from the ground. In a moment they were gone, arrows launched, but, wheeling about, they returned from the opposite direction, and again loosed their missiles, and then wheeled about, again, and, approaching from the original direction, loosed another volley of missiles, and then sped away. There had been three passes. The targets were bristling with arrows, front and back. Fellows from the margins of the field went to the targets and retrieved the arrows. I would later learn that records were kept, as each arrow could be identified as that of a given bowman. In this way, marksmanship might be evaluated, and bowmen distinguished. The bows used, though I did not realize the importance of this at the time, were short bows. Such a bow can clear the saddle, enabling its missile to be fired easily in any direction. The crossbow is well known on Gor, but its rate of fire is far exceeded by that of the straight bow, either the peasant bow or the shorter, saddle bow.

I was much frightened by what I saw. Almost every arrow fired had struck a target. How frightening, I thought, to be the quarry of such marksmen!

I would later learn that there had been, some days previous, an attack on this camp, which had been repulsed, in part by such tarnsmen.

Shortly after the exercise, the flights apparently departed for some rendezvous, the fellow who had cleared the field returned.

“May we proceed?” called our coffle master.

“Do you want to run any of your girls?” asked the tarnsmen.

“No,” said the coffle master.

I did not understand this exchange. One or two of the other girls, however, must have understood, for their relief, given the negative response of the coffle master, was evident.

“Burdens up,” called the coffle master, and we retrieved our burdens. I think we were all pleased to leave the training area.

Later that evening, we were camped along a road leading east from the training area, toward a place called Shipcamp. We lay in the leaves and grass, as usual, our hands bound behind us, our coffle rope tied between two trees. We could speak to one another then, though softly, that the men not be disturbed.

“I am frightened,” I whispered, to Relia, who had earlier had the lot number Eighteen. It was she who had fled toward the stairs in the dungeon, but had been precluded from reaching them by one of our keepers. She had looked well on her knees, licking and kissing a man’s feet, in gratitude for not having been beaten. Prior to this experience she had been insufferably proud, and arrogant, at least with some of us, though not daring this with the masters, and was certainly so with myself, for I was only a barbarian. She had apparently once been of the Merchants, perhaps the high Merchants, and had even held herself to be of high caste, despite the fact that few Goreans accepted the Merchants as a high caste. It was regarded as a rich caste, but that is not, in the eyes of many, the same as being a high caste. It was, of course, a powerful caste, given its wealth, and even Ubars might court its favor. How are men to be paid, and wars waged, if not with gold? In any event, she who had once been “Eighteen” had now changed considerably, and surely was now better aware of the meaning of the mark which had been burned into her left thigh, just under the hip. She was still reserved with me, and regarded me with condescension, but would no longer strike me, or speak to me as she had originally, perhaps if only because doing so would offer her chain sisters an excellent, and welcome, pretext for administering, given the recent past, another unpleasant lesson in civility. After they had seen her on her knees in the dungeon, a frightened slave at a master’s feet, they no longer stood in awe of her. Indeed, it was not unusual now for one or the other of them to push her, trip her, strike her, or pull her hair. Even now there were bruises on her body. We policed ourselves, so to speak, as no First Girl had been set over us, who would enforce order. I thought ‘Relia’, which name had been given to her just before mine had been given to me, was a nice name, and it was, of course, at least, a Gorean name. Indeed, as I understood it, some free women had that name. If she was purchased by a free woman, of course, it would have been instantly changed, to something more appropriate to a slave, Lana, Tula, Lita, or such. She was quite lovely, and, I suspect, that influenced the master who had named her. Masters often prefer lovely names for slaves; mistresses are usually less indulgent. She was taller than I was as I was taller than the girl behind me in the coffle, who was Janina, another nice name, which was also Gorean. Our lot numbers were now all but indistinguishable on our left breasts. I think we had all tried to remove them, as well as we could, with the bit of precious oil we were supplied when, roped together, we were allowed to enter the shallow, washing pools. We envied the freer girls who might be permitted a wooden tub in the open air. In the house, I had learned that a slave is to keep herself clean, fresh, rested, and well groomed. A free woman may be as ill-kempt and slovenly as she pleases, but this option is not permitted to the slave. She is, after all, a property, and is to be pleasing to her master. Many masters prefer long hair in a slave, hair which is “slave long,” as it is not only lovely but is often useful, as well, in the furs, for delighting and tantalizing a master. Too, she may sometimes be bound with her own hair, and certainly controlled by means of it. Some masters, too, prefer a smooth slave, and, in such a case, may have the slave depilated, or have her body hair shaved away. Sometimes the master attends to this himself. This is more common in certain cities than in others.

“Relia,” I said.

She did not respond.

“Are you asleep?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Are you angry?” I asked.

“No,” she said.

“Janina is asleep,” I said. I did not wish to raise my voice.

“So?” she said.

I did not want her to think that I would have been so forward as to address her first, had Janina been awake. Janina, happily, regarded slaves as pretty much of a muchness. She did not seem much concerned, at least now, that I might be a barbarian. We were all, after all, on the same rope.

“The tarnsman spoke of ‘running a girl’,” I said. “What does that mean?”

“We were not run,” she said. “It does not matter.”

“I am frightened,” I said, again.

“We are all frightened,” she said.

Janina, to my right, stirred.

“It could mean different things,” she said. “It is a capture game. There are many such. You are the quarry. You might be pursued on foot, on kaiilaback, by a tarnsman in the saddle. Ropes might be used, or nets, or a tarn’s talons. In the far south, a bola is used to entangle the legs of a running girl, and then she is bound, and returned to a starting point.”

“It is cruel,” I said.

“Men enjoy it,” she said. “In it they also hone their capture skills.”

“We might as well be animals,” I said.

“We are,” she said.

I felt foolish. How naive had been my remark. Did I not yet realize what I now was?

“It is a sport,” she said. “Sometimes they wager on such things. A good runner can be of great value to her master.”

“Doubtless it could improve her price,” I said, bitterly.

“Considerably,” she said.

“You spoke,” I said, “of honing their capture skills.”

“The ideal prize,” she said, “is the free woman, of an enemy city.”

“They are loot,” I said.

“We are women,” she said, “in the collar or out of it. We are all loot, all prizes, goods, something to be acquired, owned, bought, sold, traded.”

“I was frightened by the archery,” I said, “the birds, the waves, the strikes, the ferocity, the accuracy, the penetration.”

“Were they not such marksmen,” she said, “they would not be in their saddles; there would be no place for them in the cavalry.”

“How could one escape such shafts?”

“Have no fear,” she said. “Men will not fire upon you, no more than on any other domestic animal, a kaiila or verr. We are to be roped, herded together, penned, and shackled, and put to the pleasure of masters. That is for us. We are slaves.”

I pulled a little at the cords which held my hands behind my back. I could feel the hemp loop knotted about my neck, which held me with the others.

“What of free women?” I said, uneasily.

“They are free,” she said. “They are in considerable danger. Why else do you think they submit themselves so readily, and desperately?”

“I see,” I said.

“How quickly,” she said, scornfully, “they tear away their veils, and struggle to divest themselves of their robes, that they may kneel and, head deeply down between their lifted, extended arms, wrists crossed for binding, submit themselves!”

I was silent.

“How quickly,” she said, “their wrists are lashed together!”

“You speak,” I whispered, “as though from experience.”

“Barbarian!” she hissed.

“Forgive me,” I said.

“But how thrilled I was,” she said, “to be bound, and led away.”

“You had been found acceptable,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I was spared. I would live.”

“You are very lovely,” I said.

“In Brundisium,” she said, “I went for a silver tarsk.”

“That is a fine price,” I said.

“In that market,” she said, “it was quite good. What did you go for?”

“I have heard,” I said, “forty-eight copper tarsks.”

“That much?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do not be annoyed,” she said. “Much depends on the market. You might have gone for more, or less.”

“I see,” I said.

“Do not be upset,” she said. “I have seen the eyes of masters upon you.”

“Oh?” I said.

“You are not unattractive,” she said. “In Brundisium, you might have found yourself sold to a tavern.”

“I see,” I said. I gathered this might be a compliment.

“Some men,” she said, “might bid heatedly to have you at their feet.”

“I would hope to be found pleasing,” I said.

“You had better be, and perfectly, if you know what is good for you.”

“I understand,” I said.

“Are you still afraid?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do not be afraid of the archers,” she said. “Your tunic, if you are permitted one, will guarantee your safety. Even free women, in the sacking of a city, often affect tunics, to be taken for slaves. Apprehended, they are often lashed for deceit, a most unpleasant whipping, and then swiftly shackled, collared, and marked.”

“I hope they will give us tunics,” I said.

“In Shipcamp,” she said. “I heard a guard speak.”

“Good,” I said.

“Do you want a tunic?” she asked.

“Of course,” I said.

“You are modest?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“But you are not permitted modesty,” she said.

“Surely in public,” I said.

“Perhaps a little,” she said, “if it is permitted by masters.”

“Yes,” I said, “if it is permitted by masters.”

“But you are a barbarian,” she said.

“No matter,” I said.

“What do you know of modesty?” she said. “You were never a free woman.”

“I was!” I said.

“As free as women on your world can be free!” she scoffed.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“You do not know what it is to be free,” she said, “for you were never a Gorean free woman. You cannot know the freedom we have, the pride, the nobility, the splendor, the power, the raiment, the veiling, the dignity! Men defer to us. They step aside. They make way for us. They will not sit in our presence without permission. We have Home Stones! Did you have a Home Stone?”

“No,” I said.

“I thought not,” she said.

“Not everyone has a Home Stone,” I said.

“Beasts, misfits, vagabonds, exiles, repudiated men, scoundrels, outlaws, and such,” she said, and then, lowering her voice, whispered, “and perhaps Priest-Kings.”

I felt it wise to refrain from speaking, as she had spoken of Priest-Kings.

“How can you think of modesty on your world,” she said. “It is my understanding that there are places on your world where women bare their faces, even on the streets.”

“I have heard of some Gorean free women, unveiled, on the wharves,” I said.

“Of low caste,” she said. “And on work days, not holidays.”

A Gorean free woman is likely to fear the stripping of her face more than the stripping of her body. Although I found this surprising at first, upon reflection, it seemed reasonable. Bodies, however lovely, are relatively similar, and relatively anonymous, whereas the face is likely to be unique, individual, personal, distinct, and special. Moreover, it is revealing, in its thousand mixtures, and subtleties, of expression. Surely a woman is a thousand times more revealed in her features, these revealing her thousand whims, moods, and secrets, than in her body, however exciting and marvelous it may be. And Gorean men savor and relish, and own, and master, the whole. In the face of the woman men read the slave. It is the whole woman, inside and outside, face, body, mind, thoughts, needs, emotions, which is wanted, which is desired, which is collared. Accordingly, the first thing that is done with a captured free woman, unless she is to be held for ransom, or delivered veiled to another for the pleasure, is to face-strip her. After this, so shamed, many women, of their own volition, kneel to be collared. Many, it seems, have waited their entire life to be collared. How often the happiness and radiance of the slave, caressed and mastered, outrages the free woman.

***

“Please do not touch me,” I begged.

“You writhe well,” he said.

I scratched at the coarse fibers of the mat.

“I cannot help myself,” I protested.

“You are not permitted to do so,” he informed me.

“Stop, Master!” I begged.

“Very well,” he said.

“No, no, no!” I begged. “Do not stop! Please, please, do not stop!”

“You beg that I should continue?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” I said.

“As a slave?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said, squirming in shame, in conflict, and need.

“We will see what we can do here,” he said.

“Be merciful,” I begged.

“You are a new slave, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered, intensely.

“Clearly you feel pleasure,” he said, “whether or not you wish to do so.”

“Forgive me,” I said. How could a man respect a woman who is no more than a helpless, spasmodic toy in his grasp, squirming and begging? Where was refinement, sophistication, self-control, dignity, pride, personhood, and respect? How could a woman respect herself when she reveals herself as no more than a helpless, uncontrollable, pleasure animal, a slave?

What is she good for then, but love, service, and submission?

“Your body lubricates nicely,” he said. “It has welcomed me, and clasped me. Too, though it is early, it has rewarded me with a number of spasmodic responses.”

“‘Early’?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“There is more?” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Certainly you are aware that you juice readily, and nicely,” he said.

“Let me alone,” I begged.

“I think, in time,” he said, “you will prove to be a hot little urt.”

“No, no!” I said.

“Perhaps not so much now,” he said. “But later.”

“Be merciful,” I begged. “Please, be merciful!”

“It is easy to see,” he said, “even at this point, why they have chained you in a slave house.”

“When will you be done with me?” I wept.

“You are afraid, are you not?” he said.

“Yes!” I said.

“Let us try this caress,” he said.

“Ai!” I wept.

“Subside,” he said. “Lie still, relax. Let there be a calm before the storm, little vulo.”

***

How mighty was the ship!

How tiny we were on the dock, bearing our burdens, coming and going, serving the workmen, carrying supplies, and food and water, in the shadow of that curved, towering structure rearing above us.

“See,” called Relia, pointing.

“What?” I said.

“Ice,” she said, “ice in the river.”

“It was washed down from a tributary,” said Janina, shading her eyes. “At this time of year there is already ice farther north.”

“It is warm enough here,” I said. We were still tunicked. I supposed it must have been a large piece of ice, broken free, that it would be in the river, here in the Alexandra, this far south.

“Soon the season will change,” said Janina.

“Masters hasten,” said Relia. “The Alexandra will freeze, and the ship will be trapped. She might be crushed.”

“It is still warm,” I said.

“Now,” said Janina.

Clearly colder weather was anticipated. We had been issued woolen materials, woven from the fleece of the bounding hurt, with awls and string, from which we were to fashion winter garmenture for ourselves. The nature of this projected garmenture, as might have been anticipated, was clearly specified. A cloth worker measured us and cut the patterns, as we were not permitted scissors. Under his supervision we sewed the garments. The awls were allotted, counted, and returned. Our work must be approved by the cloth worker. I had to remove stitches twice, and resew them. In any event, we, though slaves, would be well bundled. When we were finished we each had trousers and a jacket. The jackets, belted, came to our thighs, and had hoods. We also had a shawl and blanket. Our feet were wrapped in thick cloths, and our legs, over the trousers, boot-like, were similarly swathed.

“Look at me,” I had laughed, so clad, the cloth worker not about, and had said to Janina, turning about, “I am a free woman!”

She, too, ascertaining the cloth worker was not about, had laughed. There were no free women in Shipcamp, unless they might be of the Pani.

Even to joke about being a free woman might garner a slave a lashing. Surely she should know better.

But today was warm, and we were tunicked.

Our necks were encircled with light metal collars. We could not remove these, as they were locked on us. They were “dock collars,” which indicated the sphere of our activities and where we would be chained at night.

I looked across the Alexandra which, at this point, was some one hundred yards in width. The fragment of ice was downstream, turning in the current. I did not know for certain what lay across the Alexandra, but I did know there were two or three buildings there, and something which was palisaded. Occasionally longboats crossed the Alexandra, to and fro. It was said supplies were kept there, across the river, and that, within the palisade, in log kennels, certain special prisoners, or special slaves, were kept. I knew little of this. It did seem clear that they, sooner or later, if there, would be boarded on the ship. One conjecture had it that they were female slaves of such astounding beauty that it would be inappropriate to house them with more common stock. Others said that they were kept separate because they were so beautiful that their presence would cause disruption in the camp, that men would kill one another for them. I found this hard to believe. It was hard to suppose that there would be women there more beautiful than, say, Relia, and some of the others about.

I looked up, at the mighty ship.

It must have been long in the making. It was already in the water, moored against the wharf, when I arrived. Some of the other girls had seen the chocks smote away, and witnessed its descent to the water. Much of the building dock within which it had been constructed had been dismantled, but one could note, here and there, several remaining ribs of what had been the supporting framework and some timbers of the slide leading to the river.

Workmen busied themselves near me. One fellow carried coils of rope on his shoulder.

I looked up, again, at the ship.

There was apparently still much to do, matters having to do with interior work, and decking, the hanging of the giant rudder, the fixture of masts.

“There is water to be fetched,” said Janina.

“Yes,” I said, and adjusted the strap of the flattened bota on my shoulder.

Shipcamp was a large enclave. It lay at the eastern end of what was usually called the “Eastern Road,” though, I think, it tends to veer southeast. I do not think it as large as Tarncamp. Certainly not as many men were housed here. Tarncamp housed a small army. Too, it had its nearby training field, where I and others had witnessed the exercise in which waves of tarn riders had flown against an array of targets. Shipcamp, though garrisoned with its mercenaries, was less a training and housing facility than a shipyard. It contained several workshops and open-sided sheds. Carpenters were here, and sawyers, rope weavers, sail makers, fitters, riggers, and smiths. Mariners, too, were about. The camp was mostly on the northern shore of the Alexandra. The larger, northern camp was narrow, some half of a pasang in length, along the river, and probably no more than two hundred yards in width, extending back toward the forest. There was very little on the southern bank of the Alexandra, some two or three buildings, and the mysterious palisaded area.

I had been here several days.

The journey from the cold, stony beach of Thassa, brushed by the wind, to Tarncamp had taken the better part of four days, and the similar journey from Tarncamp to Shipcamp had been much the same. One supposes unencumbered men might have made the journey in less time, but women, and wagons, would take longer.

I know little or nothing of what is being done here. I suppose that is appropriate, and to be expected, as I am kajira. Curiosity, we are informed, is not becoming to us. Yet, it is my distinct impression that many here, even the masters, do not understand what is being done here, its purpose, and its destiny. Doubtless some know; perhaps the ponderous Lord Okimoto, the camp commander, whom I had seen four times; perhaps the strange, lame, twisted little man they call Tersites, who was much about, whom I had often seen. He, I take it, is the master of these works and the yard. It seems little escapes him. He speaks with authority, impatiently, often shrilly, petulantly. Men strive to please him. They obey him without question. I suppose him to be a shipwright. One speculates, of course. The ship is very large. It is much larger than a river ship. I am sure there are many points on the Alexandra where it could not be brought about. Too, as nearly as I can determine, it is deeply keeled, and there might well be difficulties in even bringing it to the sea, depths varying, and given many bars, which may shift, and rocks. Too, I would suppose the channel is sometimes narrow, and twisting. Doubtless the masters are well aware of such things, and the route seaward has been sounded and scouted with care. It seems clear the ship is a deep-water ship. It is intended, then, to negotiate Thassa. Perhaps it is intended to trade with Cos and Tyros, or various island ports. But the harbors might be too shallow for it. Would not a variety of galleys be more practical? For what is so large a vessel required? It is much larger, many times larger, I am told, than even the largest of common round ships, or cargo vessels, which, too, are apparently very different from the long, low, knifelike vessels of war. Until Shipcamp, I had known only the two Gorean vessels which had been en route to the north, and the one other, seen during the voyage, when I, with the others, had been permitted on the deck. I had gathered, of course, earlier, that the harbor at Brundisium was large, crowded, and busy, but I, as the others, had been blindfolded when we were boarded.

I again considered the great ship.

It was too large to be propelled by oars. It would supposedly have six masts. They were not yet in place. Not even the great rudder was hung. What was the meaning of such a ship? For what work, what voyage, might it be intended? It was not a warship in any common sense; yet, interestingly, it nested six galleys, three to a side, which might be independently launched, and those galleys, I gathered, given their rams and large, crescent-like blades at their bows, suggested aggression and menace.

One thing seemed clear; when the ship was ready, which should be soon, we were to be joined by the armsmen and work crews from Tarncamp. Indeed, the tarn cavalry, trained toward the west, close to Tarncamp, was also to join us before we embarked. Why would tarns be needed? What purpose might they serve? Too, even though the vessel was large, it would carry hundreds of times the men required to manage it. Better to transport troops, I thought, would be smaller ships, a fleet of such. Who would care to risk an army, perhaps a war, by entrusting it to a single mount, to but one vehicle, to but one vessel? But Thassa, I supposed, vast Thassa, might lift her hand, and smash a fleet as well as a single vessel, and, I suspected, a mighty vessel might brave her wrath where a hundred common barks might perish in the sea. Too, what an enormous store of supplies might be housed in so mighty a vessel, supplies which might last years. Would it not be an island of wood, a world of sorts, sufficient onto itself, indefinitely scorning land, cresting indefinitely the dark turbulence of proud, dreadful, beautiful Thassa?

“Kneel,” said a stern voice, and I instantly knelt. I felt the boards of the dock on my knees. I kept my head down, and clutched the bota.

“Head up,” he said, and I was permitted to lift my head. When the head is lifted, one may commonly meet the eyes of the master.

“Tal, Laura,” he said.

“Tal, Master,” I said. All free males are Master; all free women are Mistress.

The men knew the names of several of us, who were commonly about the docks. We were often accosted in our work, called to, summoned, teased, commented upon, and such. Familiarities were often taken with us. I had often been sped on my way with a smack below the small of my back. It was common to be delayed in our duties, to be embraced, fondled, and kissed. We were, after all, slaves. It was more difficult for some former free women of Ar who were hooted at, cuffed, and jeered. The memories of men were long, particularly those who were veterans of the former occupational forces in Ar, and they wished to well impress upon the women that they were no longer proud, free, noble, and untouchable, but were now mere properties and animals, slaves.

“What have you in your bota?” he inquired.

“It is empty,” I said. Surely that was clear.

“You will replenish it,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I saw you sold,” he said.

I had been purchased, as had many others, by agents of the Pani. There were private slaves in Tarncamp and Shipcamp, but I, like most, was one of the public slaves.

“I hope Master found me pleasing,” I said.

“I bid on you,” he said, “twenty tarsks. What did you go for?”

“Forty-eight,” I said.

“That would be about right, at the time,” he said.

“Master was seeking a bargain,” I suggested.

“Of course,” he said. “You would go for more now.”

“Master?” I asked.

“You are trimmer now,” he said, “sleeker, better toned, more alive, more beautiful, more slave.”

“I have been longer in the collar, Master,” I said.

“Doubtless you are more helpless now,” he said, “more responsive.”

I put my head down.

“One can tell such things,” he said.

I bent down and kissed his right foot, softly, and then his left. It pleased me to do this, for such a male, so strong, so powerful.

“Now,” he said, “you might go for close to a silver tarsk.”

I then knelt up. “A slave is grateful,” I said, “if Master is pleased.”

I did not dare meet his eyes. How attractive were so many Gorean men! I knew their eyes had often been upon me, and more so in the last weeks, but I, too, often cast my glances shyly, unnoticed I trust, upon them. I did not think this was different from other slaves. There are, after all, men, and there are women, and it is natural that each should feel desire, the man the desire of the master, and the woman the desire of the slave. How marvelous, I had thought, to be owned by one of them, to be the slave of just one man, to be his alone, to be his to be done with as he pleased. And often, at night, in the long, low kennel, chained with others, I would think of one particular man, one whom I recalled from long ago. Never had I forgotten him. His memory was ever with me. I did not even know his name. I had first seen him in an emporium on a far world. I had once lain at his feet, bound. I had seen him through the bars of an exhibition cage, prior to my sale. I had no doubt that he had been somehow instrumental in my transition to Gor, in my collaring. He had not recognized me in the cage. He had not even remembered me. I was nothing to him, only another beast to be acquired, to be herded about, to be bought and sold.

“And with what,” he asked, “will you replenish your bota?”

“With water, surely, Master,” I said.

He looked about, as though warily. “Mix in paga,” he said.

“It is early,” I said.

“Nonetheless,” he said.

“There is to be no paga on the dock,” I said.

“Just a little,” he said.

“There is to be no paga on the dock,” I said.

I dared to look up at him, and then quickly turned my eyes away, down. I feared he was not pleased. I was not a paga girl. This was not a tavern. I could be lashed for even approaching a paga vat. “We are not to be used on the dock,” I whispered.

“Fear not, pretty tasta,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I begged.

“Will you try?” he asked.

I was terribly afraid.

“Well?” he asked.

“I will try,” I whispered.

“It seems you should be lashed,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Do you not know that there is to be no paga on the dock?” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said, confused.

“Then why would you fetch some?” he asked.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Do you want to be lashed?” he asked.

“No, Master!” I said.

He slapped his knee, and laughed, uproariously. I now saw two other men about, and they, too, were amused.

I reddened.

“On your way!” he laughed.

I sprang up, tears in my eyes, and fled down the dock, away from the men. I heard them laughing behind me.

I later, in anger, in acute frustration and chagrin, recounted this incident, in all its humiliation, to Relia and Janina. “Do not be concerned,” said Relia. “You are becoming more attractive. The men are noticing you. I have seen heads turn as you pass.” “It is a joke,” said Janina. “We are poor kajirae. The men make sport of us; they frighten us, they tease us.” “They mean no harm,” said Relia. “They cannot use you. It is a way of having to do with you. It is a way of flirting.”

I wondered if he whom I well remembered, he who had so obviously dismissed and forgotten me, that mighty figure, would have behaved so. I supposed so. Doubtless he, too, the handsome, virile, monster, would have laughed. Doubtless he, too, would think nothing of using me, a poor, kneeling, frightened, half-clad kajira, for his amusement. Perhaps he, too, might have designed so cruel a jest, or even one more amusing. We were so utterly helpless. We were slaves. Relia had suggested that they were flirting with me. I wondered if that were true. If they had owned me, they would not have bothered with such things. They would have merely put me to their purposes. I wondered if I were truly becoming more attractive. If it were so, I certainly did not object. Certainly the more appealing, the more beautiful, the more pleasing a slave is, the better is likely to be her life and lot. Certainly she hopes to be pleasing to her master, and strives to be so. She hopes to be a good slave. Too, she does not wish to be lashed.

Two days later, I was halted in my work, and knelt, on the dock, in the presence of a stately fellow with blue robes, who carried a clipboard. He was of the caste of Scribes. He was followed by two men at arms.

“Your lot number, in Brundisium,” he said, scanning the board, with its attached papers, “was 119.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are Laura,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”

“Barbarian,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Stand,” he said, “and cross your wrists behind you.”

One complies.

In a moment my wrists were tied together, behind my back. This accentuates the figure, more than a frontal tie. Too, it is stimulatory, as the captive is more helpless, and more vulnerably displayed. The free end of the rope was then brought about, and looped twice and knotted about my throat. Enough rope, some five or six feet was left, to serve as a leash.

I did not understand what was occurring. I was frightened.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“No,” I was told.

“Take her to the end of the dock and back,” the Scribe said.

In our journey we passed several workmen, and some slaves. Some of the workmen struck their left shoulder with their right hand. Others grinned. “Nice,” said one. “Excellent,” said another. Some of the slaves seemed amused, and then turned away, again, to their tasks.

At last, I was returned to where I had originally been knelt, near the eastern end of the long dock. The scribe and the other armsmen were there.

“Master,” I begged the Scribe, “may I speak?”

“No,” he said. Then he said to the armsman who had the care of my rude leash. “Take her to the slave house.”

“No!” I had begged. “No! Please, no!”

“She is a shapely slut,” he said. “Let it be done.”

I was then led on my leash from the dock.

How aware I then was of the collar on my neck!

***

“Gently,” he said, “gently.”

“Master!” I protested.

His hands were strong, and I knew myself slave, only slave. How faraway now was my former world, my former self!

I must reassert myself, I thought, wildly. I cannot be this! I cannot be here, in the darkness, on a chain! How strong his hands were! How helpless I was in his grasp!

No, no, I thought, and then yes, yes, please.

We are removed, from time to time, we are changed. Even since I was here, girls had come and gone.

“Oh!” I said.

“Good,” he said.

I wanted to resist, and I did not want to resist.

I cannot be this, I thought, but I knew it was what I was. My thigh was marked, clearly, incisively. Clearly there was no mistaking that. I wore a heavy metal collar, to which was attached a chain, fixed to a stout ring, anchored at the side of my mat. Beneath that collar was a light, close-fitting metal collar. It was there, visible, locked, even when I might be up and about the camp, being summoned, fetching and carrying, cleaning, laundering, ironing, digging roots, picking berries, tidying, being about whatever duties might be given me. And there would be the tunic, so exciting to men, in which I felt so exposed, and so vulnerable! Well was I displayed for their perusal! I scratched at the mat, tears in my eyes. And how exciting were such things to me, as well, the mark, the collar, the tunic! How right they seemed to me! How female I felt, marked, collared, and tunicked, how much then a distinctive, lovely part of nature, so different from men!

How could I have felt more woman?

And how thrilled I was, so set forth. Never on my world had I felt so female, so woman! Here I was what I was, at last, gladly, rightfully, woman, owned, helpless, slave!

No, I thought, no! I must escape. I must escape!

“Oh, oh!” I said.

“Easy, little vulo,” he said.

“Ai!” I said.

“We are going to fly, are we not, little vulo?” he asked.

“You have done enough to me,” I said. “Let me subside!”

“I am curious to see what you are,” he said.

I felt myself lifted, turned about, and thrust down, on my back, for his convenience, as the meaningless object, and animal, I was.

“I will show you what I am!” I cried, angrily, rearing up.

I was thrust back, rudely.

I was given three strokes of the switch. I recoiled beneath them, turned to my side, and tried to make myself small.

“Forgive me, Master!” I begged.

He laid aside the switch, but it was at hand.

“Let us see what may be done with you,” he said.

He was patient, and his hands were strong. His touch was sure. Gorean, he was well practiced in the handling of slaves. He had perhaps had hundreds of helpless slaves at his mercy, as I was now. How could we help ourselves, even if it were permitted?

I whimpered a little, and then, suddenly, gasped.

“Yes,” he said, “someday you will be a hot little urt.”

A whimper escaped me.

“One day,” he said, “you will crawl to men, begging, the bondage knot in your hair.”

Surely not, surely not, I thought.

“You are not a fine, noble, proud, free Gorean woman,” he said. “You are only a barbarian.”

Did he think Gorean women any different, I wondered. Did he not know we were all women? Did he not understand that in this very slave house almost all the slaves, perhaps all but I, writhing, bucking, begging, crying out, pleading, had been such “fine, noble, proud, free Gorean women”? Doubtless he meant free women, women not yet collared. There, I supposed, was a dramatic difference. I had had no encounters with Gorean free women, but I had been much apprised by my instructresses, and many fellow slaves, of their alleged nature. These putative informants had entertained what I supposed to be not only a dim, but a radically distorted, and, I hoped, a certainly extreme view, of Gorean free women, regarding them to be haughty, short-tempered, impatient, supercilious, rigid, demanding, unbending, arrogant, boastful, pretentious, hostile, suspicious, cruel, severe, unhappy, unfulfilled, egotistical, and self-centered. Perhaps this evaluation, insofar as it might pertain to anyone, pertained only to certain free women of the high cities, and, perhaps then, of the higher castes. I did not know. I did think it likely that Gorean free women, given the culture, were probably far more conscious of their position and status, of their freedom, their exalted station, and such, than those of my former world. Consequently their reduction to slavery, a condition alleged to be universally despised, would seem to constitute, culturally, a cataclysmic reversal in fortune, one likely to be particularly traumatic and devastating. On the other hand, many, it is said, “court the collar,” and it seems to be the case that “free captures,” in their hundreds or thousands, as in the wars, the raids of slavers, the seizures of caravans, the depredations of pirates, the fall of cities, and such, once collared, once owned, find fulfillments until then no more than suspected. In any event, Gorean or barbarian, we were all women, and once collared, once owned, it seemed there was little to choose between us. Certainly we went for similar prices.

“Yes,” he said, “you will crawl to men.”

I suddenly feared I might.

Were slave fires growing in me? Surely not! What if they should begin to rage? I would be their victim, and prisoner! How helpless I would be! I recalled slaves pleading for the touch of a guard, begging to be brought soon to the block.

At the first opportunity, I thought, before it is too late, while I yet retain a shred of my former self, I must attempt to escape! But who would want to escape, I thought. What had freedom to offer, which might compare with the fulfillments of belonging to, of being possessed by, a master? I had heard of slaves, pathetic collared animals, mere properties, who had undertaken long journeys, undergone terrible hardships, and braved fearful dangers, to find their way back to the feet of a master.

I suddenly, unexpectedly, moaned.

I felt my hips lift, pathetically.

“Steady,” he said. “Wait.”

“Oh,” I said. “Please, now!”

“Soon,” he said, softly, soothingly.

I began to whimper, pleadingly.

“What shall we do with you?” he asked.

I was about to speak, to cry out, to beg, but his hand cupped itself over my mouth. I looked up at him, in the light of the taper. My eyes must have been wild, pleading, over his hand. “Beware,” he said. “Think before you speak.” He then removed his hand from over my mouth. “You may now speak,” he said. “What is your wish?”

“That it be done with me as master pleases,” I whispered.

“Only that?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” I sobbed. “Yes, Master!”

I was sweating, and quivering, in expectation. My body was alive, my belly begging.

I tensed.

He must not leave me so! Please, Master, I thought. Do not leave me so!

I did not know him, save that he was now my master. I knew him not, not from the market, not from the dungeon, not from the ship, not from the camp, not from the dock.

He could be anyone, and I could be any slave.

Surely it was not he for whom I longed in whose power I was. It was not he whose voice it seemed I had heard a hundred times, only to discover myself mistaken, not he whose image I had conjured up so often, he before whom I had hastened to kneel in my dreams. It was not he in whose power I longed to lie helpless, whose voice and image had so often figured in my hopes and heart. I recalled him from the emporium on my former world, from a warehouse, from an exposition cage! It was on his chain that I longed to yield; it was in his ropes that I yearned to find myself cast on the altar of his lust, a helpless offering to his mightiness.

No, no, I thought. I must hate them all, all, even he whom I had unsuccessfully attempted to banish from my least thoughts. How I must hate him, I thought. Was it not he who brought me choiceless to this world, on which I was marked, collared, and sold! Was it not he who had brought me even to this chain, to this degradation, to this rude, primitive place, on a far world?

What fate is this, I asked myself.

How could one such as I, intelligent, educated, refined, sensitive, proud, be here?

“You are ready,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered. Be merciful, Master, I thought. Do not leave me like this!

“I wonder if you think yourself a free woman,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“I wonder if you think yourself a free woman,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

“We shall see,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“I shall now release the catch on your cage, little vulo,” he said, “and you may fly.”

“Master?” I said.

“Aiii!” I cried.

“Fly away,” he said.

“Ai!” I cried, again, and again, and he could scarcely, with all his strength, hold me.

He stood up then, and I lay at his feet. Surely I had been the choiceless vessel of his pleasure, and he was now done with me. But surely he must know, too, even if it is of no interest to him, that the slave, too, feels, trembles, cries out, and endures the thousand raptures consequent on her condition and collar. To be sure, he had been kind, and patient, with me, if only as a matter of curiosity. In a thousand ways we may be put to use, and sometimes with little more meaning than a casual cuffing. Our feelings are nothing. We are done with as the masters please. We are slaves.

“Please, stay with me, but a moment, Master!” I begged, reaching out to him. I wanted to be held, to be kissed, to be sheltered, to be warmed by his presence, to be spoken to.

I saw the light of the taper disappear down the aisle.

I could not believe what had been done to me, what I had felt, how I was changed, my responsiveness.

“Master!” I called after him.

He was gone.

I remained behind, as I must, on the mat, a ravished slave.

No more dared I think of myself as a free woman, if I had ever done so. I knew how I had yielded. It was a slave yielding. There was no doubt in my mind now, if there ever had been. I now knew myself a slave. I was that, only that.

There had been nothing of the free woman in that yielding. It was the yielding of worthless, meaningless slave, spasmodic and helpless, in the arms of a master.

I was angry, and miserable.

I had been abandoned, as a slave may be abandoned.

I must escape, I thought.

Never again could I be a free woman. I knew that. But I was determined to flee, not as a free woman might flee, but as a flighted slave might flee, the slave I knew myself to be. I would always be a slave, but I could, at least, be an escaped slave!

Slaves came and went in the slave house. They were brought in, and taken out. I supposed the stock was to be freshened, from time to time. Sooner or later, I would be again outside, in the camp. I would then again be assigned familiar tasks. What if I might dig roots, or venture out, to gather fire wood? It would be easy to slip between the wands and hurry away, into the forest. One could do this in the morning, before the larls are released. Commonly they are released, or most of them, at night.

I would escape!

How I hated men!

And I knew that I was owned by them.

And mostly I hated one, he who had brought me here from my own world, he who was responsible for my collaring. He had forgotten me, the virile, gross beast, not even recognizing me when I had stood before him, within the bars of the exposition cage in Brundisium, but I had not forgotten him.

At the first opportunity I would escape.