Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Twenty-Two



“Master,” said Asperiche, “what is the punishment for an escaped slave?”

“Why do you ask?” I said.

“No reason,” she said.

“Are you thinking of escaping?” I asked.

“To where?” she said.

“Anywhere, I suppose,” I said.

“I am branded,” she said, “and collared.”

“So?” I said.

“No,” she said. “I am not a complete fool, like some.”

“Do you have anyone in mind?” I said.

“No,” she said.

“Good,” I said.

“I suppose the chances of escape are slight,” she said.

“I gather so,” I said.

“I suppose one might escape to the teeth of beasts, or to a new master,” she said.

“It is dangerous to keep an escaped slave,” I said, “and, having fled, she would almost certainly be kept in a far harsher bondage.”

“I fear so,” she said.

“It is a matter of honor to return an escaped slave to her master,” I said.

“If a Home Stone is shared, or such,” she said.

“Of course,” I said. Slave raids, naturally, were a separate matter. But then the slave does not escape. She is simply stolen, as might be any other form of property.

“What would be her punishment?” she asked.

“For a first offense,” I said, “commonly a beating, one she will never forget.”

“And for a second attempt?” she asked.

“There is seldom a second attempt,” I said.

“There is scarcely ever a first attempt,” she said.

“True,” I said.

“For Gorean girls,” she said.

“True,” I said. Once the collar is on a Gorean girl she realizes she is a slave. Even should she manage to return to her own city, or family, she will be scorned, and kept as a slave, and subjected to the greatest cruelties and indignities, for her bondage has stained the honor of her city, or family. Such are soon sold away, or sometimes returned in chains to the very enemies who first captured and enslaved her. The Gorean slave girl is well aware that the collar is on her. She realizes the obduracy of her condition, and her utter inability to change it. She is helpless. She is slave. “And for any girls,” I added.

“Not always,” she said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Some slaves,” she said, “are stupid.”

“Few,” I said.

“What of barbarians?”

“Most barbarian slaves are quite intelligent,” I said. “They are selected, in part, for their intelligence. Who would want a stupid slave?”

“I would suppose some men,” she said.

“Surely not,” I said.

“What of those who might find a barbarian of interest?” she asked.

“Barbarians sell well,” I said. This was so, particularly after a third or fourth sale. Some merchants bought them on speculation. Too, barbarians were selected with great care. It was not as though one seized them as they fled from buildings in a burning city, and, even there, sometimes one simply stripped them and released them, assessing them as less than collar-worthy. To be assessed as less than collar-worthy is a great insult to a woman. This may have something to do with the animosity with which the Gorean free woman commonly regards the female slave, who, obviously, has been found collar-worthy.

“It is probably true,” she said, “that not all barbarians are stupid.”

“Of course not,” I said.

“Nor all who find them of interest either,” she said, begrudgingly.

“Certainly,” I said, heatedly.

“What is wrong?” she said.

“Nothing,” I said.

“Shall I fetch the whip?” she asked.

“No!” I said.

“Master has not answered my question,” she said.

“What question?” I said.

“What might be the punishment,” she said, “for a slave’s second attempt at escape?”

“There would be no second attempt,” I said.

“But, if so?” she said.

“Hamstringing, disfigurement, being run for sleen or larls, the cutting off of feet, sometimes being used as live feed,” I said. “Are you sure you are not thinking of escape?”

“No,” she said. “I am quite content in my collar, as I have learned what it is to be in the arms of a master.”

The strongest chains that bind a woman, that make her thrive and rejoice in her bondage, are not formed of metal.

“I do not understand the nature of this conversation,” I said.

“The great ship, as I understand it,” she said, “is due to cast off very soon, any day now.”

“That is true,” I said. We had delayed the loading of the two large boxes, with their mysterious contents, until the departure of the great ship was imminent.

“That may explain much,” she said.

“What are you talking about?” I said.

“Do you know Axel of Argentum?” she inquired.

“No,” I said. “Who is he?”

“One whom I often find in my vicinity,” she said.

“You are well-shaped,” I said. “There are probably a number of fellows in your vicinity, several of whom are unknown to you.”

“I cannot abide him,” she said.

“You are not at his feet,” I said.

“He is too much about,” she said.

“He may be thinking of making an offer for you,” I said.

“Master would not sell me,” she said.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Do not sell me to him!” she said.

“What do you think you are worth?” I asked.

“I loathe him!” she said.

“Perhaps you wish to be sold to him,” I said.

“No!” she said.

“You say he is too much about?”

“Yes!” she said.

“What is this to me?” I asked.

“I heard him speaking to another,” she said.

“And you were simply in the vicinity,” I said.

“I was passing,” she said.

“Perhaps he might find you too much about,” I said.

“He is handsome in a vulgar sort of way,” she said.

“Perhaps he might turn the head of a simpler girl?” I suggested.

“Perhaps,” she said. “I, personally, cannot stand him.”

“What you heard,” I said, “was not from slaves.”

“No,” she said. “We would dare not speak of such things.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Perhaps Master would care to hear what I heard,” she said.

“It seems you wish to tell me.”

“I thought Master might be interested,” she said.

“Proceed,” I said.

I supposed that this Axel of Argentum, or whoever he was, had probably overheard the discourse of slaves. In fact, I would not have been surprised if he had overhead this matter from Asperiche herself, who had it from other slaves. Asperiche was a very intelligent woman, and in pretending shyness, a trepidation, an overt, too obvious unwillingness to speak, a fearing to speak, might have signaled her desire to speak, and, perhaps, thus call herself to the attention of a handsome fellow, if only for the nonce, as a vessel of information, a rather lovely vessel. Might he not be curious, and thus command her to speak, to which command she, as kajira, however unwillingly, however tearfully, must helplessly respond, however reluctant she might be to do so. And, in this way, once he was apprised of the matter, she might pretend to me she had the information from him. And certainly he would then know of it. Asperiche was clever. And why had she chosen him? Why not another? And why was she in the fellow’s vicinity in the first place? Yes, I recalled, she was passing by. Did she want a bid made on her? How furious she would be if I let her go for a tarsk-bit.

“I am prepared to inform Master,” she said.

“Do so,” I said.

“A slave,” she said, “has escaped.”

“Fled,” I said, “not escaped.”

“Fled, then,” she said.

“What is this to me?” I asked.

“She transgressed the wands this morning,” said Asperiche.

“So, what is this to me?” I asked.

“Very little, I suppose,” she said. “But it is, I think, a first offense. One thus hopes the masters will be lenient, particularly as she may have value, and the ship is soon to sail.”

“I see,” I said.

“I think I will be pleased, quite pleased, of course, to see her tied and beaten.”

“Why?” I asked.

“No reason,” she said.

“A first offense?” I asked.

“I think so,” she said.

“You think that is in her favor, here?”

“I trust so,” she said.

“Out here,” I said, “it does not matter. The larls will take her. There will not be enough left of her to beat. Even the Pani will not pursue her.”

Asperiche turned white.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“Master must interfere!” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“You must!” she wept.

“It is unfortunate,” I said, “particularly if she is a nice piece of slave meat.”

“Master!” said Asperiche.

“She knew the law,” I said. “She disobeyed. She transgressed the wands. She must pay the price.”

“Please, Master!” she said.

“Only a fool comes between a larl and its prey,” I said.

“But it is the barbarian, Laura,” she said.

“I know no barbarian named Laura,” I said.

“It is she whose lot number in Brundisium was 119,” she said.

“What?” I cried.