Smugglers of Gor

Chapter Fifty



He took no chances with me.

On the return to Shipcamp I was stripped, which is a common way to return an escaped slave to masters. This not only designates the slave as having been errant or displeasing, but marks her out, as well, for attention. A tunicked slave amongst tunicked slaves might attract little attention; she might even slip away again; a naked slave amongst tunicked slaves, on the other hand, is quickly noticed. Nudity, in its way, makes escape less likely. Further, in the trek to Shipcamp, my hands were braceleted behind me, and I was kept on the leash, usually, in more dangerous areas, following him, led, but in more open areas often forced to precede him, almost like a slave on promenade. At night my wrists would be braceleted about a small tree, I placed either on my belly, my arms forward about this living stanchion, or on my back, my arms back, above and behind me.

I was muchly used, for slave purposes, on the trek back to Shipcamp, especially in the evening and night, but, sometimes, during the day, as well, when, his need upon him, as it seemed so frequently to be, he would throw me to the leaves.

Often enough, as well, I would creep to him, whimpering.

Never as a free woman had I suspected how grievous, irresistible, and even painful might be a slave’s needs, how helpless she would be in their grip. I supposed even on Earth I would have been ready to yield to a master, hoping to be found pleasing. But on Gor, once I was in a collar, half naked, with a slave brand seared into my flesh, and knew myself an object, a domestic animal, only goods, these feelings and needs became far more acute. Then I had been, at Shipcamp, chained in the slave house. There I had begun to sense the ecstasy, and the terror, and the helplessness, of one in whom slave fires had been ignited. Then, after my recapture, in the arms of my captor, for whose touch I had longed even as long ago as my former world, when I had seen him but once before my acquisition, these fires had begun, perhaps to his amusement, to blaze in such a way that I found myself their prisoner and victim. Doubtless this was due in part to his ruthless skill in setting such fires in the belly of a slave, but, too, I would have been almost helpless before him, even had I been a free woman, on my former world, for he, so severe, virile, confident, and strong, was the most exciting and attractive man I had ever seen, and here I was before him not as a free woman, but, on this rich, green, savage, perilous, exotic world, his world, Gor, a slave.

And, to my fear, chagrin, and humiliation, given what had been done to me on this world, I found myself disturbed, considering what almost any man might now do to me, now that I was a slave, and not simply he for whose collar I longed with such excruciating desire. I did not doubt now but what I could not help responding, and as a slave, to the touch of almost any of these arrogant, conquering Gorean males. In setting slave fires in a woman’s belly they well know how to make her a slave.

“The wands, Master,” I said.

“The larls are in,” he said.

“Sometimes they are,” I said. I had depended on that, in my original flight.

“More likely our approach has been noted,” he said. “Surveillance may be intensified.”

“I am to be turned over to Pani?” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“What is to be done with me?” I asked.

“You will learn,” he said.

“I returned to the wands before,” I said, “inadvertently.”

“Perhaps not so inadvertently,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Look there,” he said, “through the trees.”

“The ship, the great ship!” I said.

“We are in time,” he said. “It has not yet left.”

It was hard to see through the leafage but, clearly, the great ship was still at its moorings.

“There is not much time,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

He pressed aside a branch, and pointed toward the dock. “See the high pole north of the dock, across from the stern of the ship.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I was sure that pole had not been there when I had been employed about the dock.

“At its height,” he said, “on its line, is the ready banner.”

He indicated a long, tapering, triangular swirl of bright scarlet silk. It could be seen from a great distance.

“Final preparations are being made,” he said. “When the banner is lowered, the moorings will be cast, and the voyage begun.”

“How long is it flown?” I asked.

“I had heard three days,” he said.

“But one or two days may have already passed,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. “We will learn.”

“Perhaps it will leave today,” I said.

“No,” he said. “It will leave in the early morning, to make the most of a day’s light.”

“Perhaps then tomorrow?” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said, letting the branch fall back into place. “I do not know.”

“Tal!” called a cheery voice.

“Axel!” said my captor.

“I see you have her,” said Axel. “Good! Doubtless, a barbarian, she was an easy catch. Come within the wands. We wish to loose the larls again.”

I felt the tug on my leash ring, and I stumbled after my captor.

Shortly thereafter we were within the perimeter of Shipcamp. There, near the wands, doubtless waiting, was an unusually lovely slave. She, as I, was dark-haired and dark-eyed. “Master!” she said, delightedly, and knelt quickly before my captor, kissed his feet, and lifted her head happily to him. “We feared for you!”

“What are you doing here?” asked my captor.

“I brought her,” said Axel.

“So you came, perforce?” asked my captor.

“Of course, Master,” she said, smiling. “What could I do? He is a free man.”

“So this is Asperiche?” I said.

“Yes,” said my captor, indicating with a gesture that Asperiche might rise.

“She is very lovely,” I said.

“So this is Laura?” said Asperiche.

“Yes,” said my captor.

“And she is very lovely,” said Axel.

“Oh?” said Asperiche.

“Certainly,” said Axel.

“I had expected her to be different,” she said.

“How so?” asked Axel.

“More beautiful,” said Asperiche.

I knew I was not the sort of girl who went for a handful of silver, or even a piece of gold.

Still I thought I was beautiful enough. Some men had seemed to think so. Surely I was popular in the slave house.

Asperiche regarded me. I straightened my body. She walked about a bit, partly behind me, and then, again, was before me. “But, yes, you are pretty, Laura,” she said. “And you look well, on a leash, braceleted.”

“Thank you,” I said.

“You are short of clothing,” she observed.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am tunicked,” she said.

“Rather briefly,” I said.

“My master enjoys exhibiting me,” she said. “I am the sort of slave masters enjoy showing off, the sort they relish displaying.”

“You have a beautiful figure and face,” I granted her.

“You must be very stupid,” she said, “to run away. You are kajira. Do you not know that there is no escape for a kajira? But then you are a barbarian, and all barbarians are stupid.”

“I am not stupid,” I said.

“Surely you must feel stupid,” she said, “to be led back here on a leash for all to see, naked and braceleted, like a tethered verr.”

“I do feel stupid,” I said.

“You did a very stupid thing,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “I did a very stupid thing.”

“Perhaps you are not stupid,” she said. “Perhaps you were only a fool.”

“I was a fool,” I said.

“Perhaps you are no longer a fool,” she said. “Perhaps now you know you are a slave, and that there is no escape for you.”

“Yes,” I said, “I now know I am a slave, and that there is no escape for me — Mistress.”

“‘Mistress’?” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “for you are superior to me. You are a private slave, and I am only a camp slave.”

“We are both only slaves, Laura,” she said.

“I want to be a slave!” I said.

“We all want to be slaves,” she whispered.

“Enough of the meaningless chatter of bond sluts,” said Axel. Then he turned to my captor. “I will report the capture of the slave to the magistrates,” said Axel. “You will see to her keeping.”

“I will do so,” said my captor.

“May I accompany Master Axel?” inquired Asperiche.

“Yes,” said my captor, “heel him closely and well.”

“I shall,” she said, happily.

How willingly and light-heartedly, I thought, did the slave follow Master Axel. Surely my captor must have noticed this. Would he not be concerned? I was made uneasy. Aside from raids, warfare, and such, the exchange of kajirae normally takes place in a civilized manner, with negotiation, and buying and selling, and such. But, occasionally, I knew exchanges took place by means of the negotiation of blades, particularly on the open road or in the fields, outside walls, beyond the jurisdiction of archons and praetors. I supposed the weapon skills of my captor and Master Axel would be similar. Few men, I was sure, saving perhaps workmen, some mariners, and such, had been hired north without the assurance that they possessed one or another of the dark skills. Some here, I speculated, might even be of the caste of Warriors, though in such a case, perhaps renegades or exiles, possibly men who had fared badly in city revolutions, even men who may have forsworn Home Stones or betrayed codes, desperate men, dangerous men. And I did not see my captor as one with whom one might trifle with impunity. Was he not concerned with the behavior of his slave? What master would not be? Had Asperiche been sold? No, she had knelt before my captor, kissed his feet, and addressed him as ‘Master’. Might my captor be thinking of ridding himself of her? Might he be interested in some other slave? Might I be she? But Asperiche was beautiful! But Gorean males, depending on their means, may have more than one slave. The pleasure gardens of Ubars and high merchants might house innumerable slaves, even slaves purchased by agents, slaves of whom their masters might not even be aware. I had heard of a Mintar of Ar who owned more than a thousand slaves, though most were chained in his mills. There were city slaves, too, of course, in the high cities, in their brief gray tunics and gray metal collars. I hoped my captor wanted me. How I would strive to please him, in all the ways of the meaningless, abject slave! How I longed to be the single slave of a private master! I did not think it could be borne, that I might share my master with another. I trusted that lovely Asperiche would not be the cause of bloodshed between Master Axel and my captor. It is strange, I thought, how Gorean masters, before whom we are negligible, at whose feet we are nothing, who hold us in the lofty contempt of a free person, will kill for us. Are we then so meaningless, truly? But, I thought, Master Axel and my captor are friends. Surely they would not draw steel on one another. But Asperiche was very beautiful. Even on behalf of lesser women, I supposed, edged steel might suddenly divide friends. But perhaps my captor was not determined to retain Asperiche. Was she not a bauble, as any slave, which might be bestowed as a master might wish? But my captor, I was sure, would need a slave. He was such a man. I wondered if many of the males of my world could even understand such a thing, that there are men so powerful, so masculine, so virile, so lustful, so passionate, so dominant, so uncompromising, so demanding, that they will make women slaves, for they will choose to have them as such, as properties, as the goods and animals they will then be. They will choose to own their women, categorically and absolutely. We are their rightless belongings. I supposed few males of my former world, that tepid, gray world, could even understand such a thing. And few women of my former world, I supposed, had ever found themselves the object of a passion so intense, so fierce, and demanding, that it could be satisfied with nothing less than their absolute possession, their ownership, with nothing less than their being the belonging of their master. Presumably they could not even understand such passion, such desire, until, perhaps, they found themselves collared, and the object of it. Let them then understand that they are owned, as any object may be owned, wholly and without qualification; let them then strive to be a suitable belonging, an acceptable belonging; let them then strive to be pleasing, fully pleasing, and in all the ways of the slave, for the whip is not pleasant.

“Master Axel,” I said, “reports my capture to my Pani masters.”

“Yes,” said my captor.

“And you are to see to my keeping?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“As is appropriate for my captor?” I said.

“It is to be expected,” he said.

“So I am to be returned to my kennel?” I said. This was the long, low, log-built building, which I shared with several others, in which we would be chained at night.

He looked at me. I could not read his expression.

“I trust I will be permitted a tunic,” I said.

“It is not likely,” he said.

“Then I would be humiliated before my sister slaves,” I said.

“They did not run away,” he said.

We noted a female slave passing, carrying, on her head, a basket, filled with damp male tunics. She was presumably returning either from the river or from one of the laundry troughs, filled with rain water.

“She is shackled!” I said.

“Some are,” he said. “She is probably from one of the port cities. There they know something of Thassa. There is a rumor abroad, hopefully false, that mad Tersites and the Pani intend to take the great ship past the farther islands, seeking the World’s End. It is little wonder then that the slim, lovely ankles of some kajirae, most likely those who would be most aware of the dangers of such a voyage, are now graced by ankle rings, linked by less than a foot of slave chain.”

“I see,” I said.

“Do not be concerned,” he said. “The ankle rings are lovely, and the chain is not heavy. It is girl chain. The whole arrangement is quite attractive.”

“You enjoy seeing us in chains, do you not?” I said.

“Certainly,” he said. “A woman is lovely in chains.”

“I see,” I said.

“Whereas the chaining is effective, as it would be in the case of any animal,” he said, “one must not overlook the aesthetics of this, and the psychology. The obdurate, unyielding metal affords a lovely contrast with the soft, vulnerable, helpless flesh it impounds; how it lies against it, and such. Consider the colors, the textures, the differences in the substances involved. Consider its weight on her limbs. Even the sounds of the links moving against one another can be an informative, illuminating music. Is a woman not beautiful in chains? Indeed, most chainings are designed to enhance a woman’s beauty, such as the sirik. And much, too, is psychological. After all, chained or not, there is no escape for the slave. But seeing her so helplessly confined, and so vulnerable, pleases the male, who naturally relishes having so beautiful and desirable a beast before him, at his mercy. And, too, of course, it has its psychological effect on the female, making it absolutely clear to her that she is a slave, wholly and helplessly at the mercy of masters, as she wishes to be.”

I did not respond to my captor. He need not know how sexually stimulatory to me was the leash in which I found myself, proclaiming me a leashed animal, the slave bracelets which confined my hands behind my back, the weight of chains that I had occasionally worn, even the chain on my ankle in the kennel. How I was stimulated by the bars of a cage, by ropes on my body, by the commands of a master, by the lightness and brevity of a tunic, by my nudity! And my bondage itself, the very condition itself, as I had anticipated even on my former world, that I would be owned and must obey, was a joy to me. How I then pitied free women, and began to understand why they hated us so. We were the most joyful, and truest of women, the slaves of our masters.

“You will return me to my kennel,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“You will be kept in another way,” he said.

“Please,” I said, “keep Laura — keep her for yourself!”

“I do not own you,” he said.

“She would be yours,” I said, “your slave!”

“I thought you hated me,” he said.

“I love you!” I sobbed.

My left cheek, my head struck to the side, stung with the sudden, fierce, angry, open-handed slap of his smiting right hand, and I might have reeled and fallen, save that his left hand, its grip close to the leash collar, held me upright, in place. Tears streamed from my eyes, and my cheek burned with pain. He relaxed his grip, enough that I could get to my knees, and I knelt before him. I must look up at him, for the leash was pulled up, taut, and tight, gripped in his fist. “Forgive me, Master,” I said.

He looked down upon me, with a savage, angry, ferocious light in his eyes, with all the contempt with which the free may regard a slave.

“Even a beast may love her master,” I said.

“Do not dare speak of love, you blasphemous she-tarsk,” he said. “You are not a free woman but what you should be, a meaningless slave. You are an article to be used, an object purchased for work and pleasure, for inordinate raptures of unspeakable pleasure, to be derived from your body whenever and however a master might please.”

“So use me!” I begged.

He drew back his right hand, again, angrily.

“Please do not strike me, Master!” I said.

He lowered his hand, but he kept the leash taut. I was unable to lower my head.

“Does Master not want Laura?” I asked.

“You should be fed to sleen,” he said.

“You muchly caressed me in the forest,” I said. “You made me such that I could not help but respond to you as a slave girl to her master.”

“As you would do to any man,” he said.

“We are slaves,” I said.

“There was no other at hand,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

He relaxed the leash, and I put down my head, gratefully.

“I thought Master might want Laura,” I said.

“Laura,” he said, “is worthless.”

“Still,” I whispered.

“We must see to your keeping,” he said.

“Buy me,” I begged.

He laughed, but I did not care. In begging to be bought, one acknowledges that one can be bought, and thus acknowledges that one is a slave. But I did not care. I was a slave. I had known this from long ago, from the time transforming changes had occurred in my body, a consequence of which was my realization that I belonged in a man’s collar.

“Who would want a worthless slave?” he said.

“I think many men,” I said.

“Your face is acceptable,” he said, “and you are not badly curved.”

“Surely,” I said, “there is a slave ring anchored in the floor of your hut, to which I might be chained.”

“To the same ring to which Asperiche is chained?” he said.

“If it be Master’s wish,” I said.

“I do not chain just anything to a slave ring,” he said.

“I am sure many men would find me acceptable at such a ring,” I said. “And was it not Master who brought me to the collar?”

“You are an insolent she-sleen,” he said.

“The whip will teach me timidity and deference,” I said.

“On your feet,” he said.

I rose up, and stood before him, head down.

“I am not to be returned to my kennel?” I said.

“No,” he said.

“And I am not to be taken to your hut?”

“No,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

He then turned about, and I followed, on the leash. He began to descend toward the river. On the way, we passed a number of slave girls, several of whom smiled contemptuously as I was led by. “Fool,” said one. “Caught slave,” said another.

At the shore I looked across the broad Alexandra. The remains of the framework in which the great ship had been built were to my left, and, a hundred paces or so to my right, was the eastern end of the long dock at which the great ship was moored. North of the dock, amongst some of the shops, and workers’ huts, I saw the high pole at which was flown the long, some yards long, unfurled, wind-whipped, scarlet triangle of silk, which I had been informed was the “ready banner,” the banner that was put in place three days before departure. But neither, at that time, my captor nor myself knew when it had been hoisted into place. He would doubtless soon learn, whereas I, if I were to inquire of a free person, might be cuffed. Curiosity, as it is said, is not becoming in a kajira.

Standing at the edge of the shore, I could see, across the river, some of the buildings, and the mysterious stockade, which had excited my curiosity in the past. I gathered that there might be special supplies stored there, even treasure. One story was that slaves were held there who were too beautiful to risk holding in Tarncamp or Shipcamp, for fear men might mutiny to claim them. I thought it quite possible that high slaves might be housed there, and perhaps unusually beautiful slaves, or exotics, or such, but I did not think there would be that much difference between one girl on a block and another. Unusual prices are usually the results of unusual goods, or unusual market situations. One would expect, for example, that an unusual dancer, a trained physician, the daughter of a defeated general, or such, might go for more than another slave, even if the other slave might, for most intents and purposes, be an equivalent, even a better, buy. For example, two of my friends, sister slaves, kennel sisters, Relia and Janina, I thought, were quite beautiful. I did not expect many slaves to be more beautiful than they. Too, men may see beauty differently. One man’s pleasure slave may be another man’s pot girl, or kettle-and-mat girl.

At the edge of the shore, there were several small boats tied in place, to stakes anchored in the beach, some, long boats, propelled by several oars, and others, smaller boats, propelled by a pair of oars. These boats sufficed for traffic across the river. They were not equipped with the weights and cords, the water-tight cabinets for marking tools and charts, used by the fellows who regularly plotted, and sounded, the river’s sometimes treacherous depths and channels.

“Master?” I said, gazing across the broad, shimmering waters.

“Oh!” I cried, taken by the hair and flung down, on my back on the beach. I squirmed, trying to avoid the pebbles.

“Master!” I said.

But several coils of rope were tying my ankles together and then more rope was being tied about my calves and thighs. I was then put to my stomach, and I felt the small key inserted into the locks of the slave bracelets, and they were removed and, I suppose, placed in his wallet or pack. Then my hands were tied behind my back, and more coils of rope, as I was being positioned, rolled, and turned, were being put about my body, binding my forearms in place, and reaching, in coil after coil, even to my shoulders. These were no lovely, silken cords, supple, delightful cords, bright with color slave cords, suitable for the attractive binding of a secured, helpless slave, but were a common, coarse ropage, the same, it seemed, as that which tethered the boats in place. “Please, Master!” I begged. I squirmed, swathed in the coarse constraints. I was uncomfortable. “Please, Master,” I said, “the ropes are coarse. They scratch. I am tightly bound. I can hardly move.” He had left the leash collar and leash on me, and now, by it, pulled me to a sitting position on the beach. “Please, free me, Master!” I said.

“You are a she-tarsk,” he said. “Does a she-tarsk object to being bound as what she is, a she-tarsk?”

“Master!” I said.

Then he pulled me to my feet by the leash under my chin, and I could not stand upright, as I was bound, my ankles closely crossed, save for his left hand on my arm, and his right hand on the leash, close to the collar.

“I am only a female slave,” I said. “I am much smaller and weaker than you. Please show me mercy!”

He then scooped me up, lightly, and carried me to one of the nearby small boats, one with two oars, and put me on my back, roughly, on the boards, at the bottom of the boat. The lower part of my body would then be between his feet, and partly under his seat.

He must then have freed the boat from its mooring, for he was wading beside it, thrusting it into the river, and then he entered the boat, took his seat, freed the oars, set them in place, and began to row.

As he was rowing he was facing me, naturally, and the closer shore. He could not see where the small craft was going without turning about. I, on the other hand, as I was situated, might I struggle to a sitting position, could see around him to the opposite shore.

I tried to struggle up a bit, to see, but his foot pressed me back to the boards. Yes, I thought, angrily, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira! So I lay back on the boards. I looked up. The sky was quite blue, and cloudless.

We had been some Ehn on the water, when I realized he was looking at me.

“You are a pretty package, partly tucked beneath the thwart,” he said.

“Where are we going?” I asked. “What are you going to do with me?”

He smiled.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “but we are curious!”

“But it is not becoming, is it?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I said. I roiled in frustration, with helpless frustration. The boards were rough, and hot from the afternoon sun. Our lives, our destinies, our fates, are in the hands of the masters! Do they think we have no interest in what is going on, in what is to take place, in what is to be done with us? I twisted futilely in the ropes, unanswered, uninformed.

“What is wrong?” he asked.

“How you torture us!” I said.

“How so?” he asked.

“Where are we going, what is to be done with me?” I cried.

“You are in a collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“One does not explain things to beasts,” he said. “Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” I said. There are many sorts of things involved in this practice, of course. For example, in not explaining things to a slave it is made further clear to her, as if she needed further proof, that she is negligible, that she is a slave, an animal, a beast. Would one, for example, feel it incumbent on one to explain things to a sleen, a kaiila, or verr? Too, of course, if the slave is kept ignorant, or uninformed, one has much more control over her. She is more helpless, more at one’s mercy. But surely, too, the masters enjoy treating us as the slaves we are, in their thousand small ways. Is it not part of the pleasures of the mastery, finding amusement in keeping us in ignorance, in frustrating our desire to know? Why should we know, we are slaves! It is a small thing, but it is very real. So let us suffer in our unease, our anxiety, and our helpless frustration. Let it be so; we are slaves! But, too, I wondered, lying before him, bound, do we not want it so, and is it not pleasant in its way, finding ourselves helplessly subject to this deprivation and torment; is it not a reassurance to us that we are truly what we wish to be, slaves.

In a few more Ehn, I felt the bottom of the boat grate against the shore. The oars were drawn inboard, and my captor left the boat, and, wading, drew it high, onto the beach.

As I lay supine, apparently as my captor wished, I could see little but the inside of the boat, and the sky.

I did realize we were now on the southern shore of the river. So, I thought, I have, at last, managed to cross the river!

He then reentered the boat and undid the ropage which had bound my ankles and legs. The coils were then, in their several loops, cinched up, closely, about my waist. He lifted me over the side of the small craft and set me, standing, on the beach. I could feel the sand, and gravel, beneath my bare feet.

This was the first time I had been in a position to see the southern shore this closely. Some small boats were tied up on the shore, rather as they had been on the opposite shore. To one side, there was a steep wooden stairway, with broad steps, leading up from the beach to the level, where I could see something of the higher parts of the walls, and the roofs, of several small buildings, and the carved points of the palings of the stockade.

At the head of the walkway were two guards, who apparently recognized my captor.

I did not know his status at Shipcamp. I did not think he was a high officer, as there were few such, and most such posts were held by Pani. I did not think him a common member of the mercenary infantry, nor of the tarn cavalry. Yet he was recognized here, in an area prohibited to most, and had apparently experienced no difficulty in accompanying Master Axel into the forest. There might then be, I realized, groups within groups, or groups apart from groups.

A tug on my leash ring informed me that I was to follow my captor, who, to my relief, chose to avail himself of the wooden walkway.

As I climbed the steps of the stairway I wondered a little at the breadth of the steps. Then, to my unease, I realized the likely explanation for the width of the plankings. Such a footing would be suitable for conducting coffles of bound, blindfolded slaves.

I was soon at the height of the stairway, on the broad, wooden platform from which the stairway descended. At each side of this platform was a post to which was attached a slave ring. I was knelt near the post at the right and my leash was looped about the slave ring. My captor and the two guards then withdrew some paces, where they conversed together. In a few moments my captor had returned to my side, and the two guards were making their way toward the stockade.

My leash was unlooped from the ring. “On your feet, slave girl,” said my captor.

I struggled to my feet.

“Back on your knees,” snapped my captor, “and rise, properly.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I then rose, gracefully, as I had been taught, and stood before him, gracefully, and submissively, my head down.

Men may require different things from a slave, but, unless one has reason to believe otherwise, or has been instructed otherwise, the slave is to be softly spoken, deferent, docile, obedient, and submissive, quite submissive, utterly submissive. She is not a free woman; she is a slave, a belonging.

“You are a poor slave,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

At the gate of the stockade, I think that signs of some sort might have been exchanged. In any event, the gate was opened.

I felt a tug on the leash ring.

Shortly thereafter I was at the gate. One of the guards regarded me. “The slut has good legs,” he said. “It is hard to see much more,” said the other.

“Do not fear,” said my captor, “the ropes will soon be off.”

I looked back, from this height, across the river. Even the great ship looked small. I could detect the “ready banner” on its line, like a tiny, fluttering scarlet thread in the distance.

“Enter,” said a third guard, who was within the stockade. “Nicely marked,” he said, as I passed.

My brand was the small, tasteful, but unmistakable “Kef,” the “staff and fronds,” beauty subject to discipline. There are many slave brands on Gor, but the “Kef,” is the most common. The joke is that it is the common brand for the common girl, but I knew that some of the highest, most expensive, and most beautiful girls wore it. In any event, it is a beautiful brand, and is commonly thought to muchly enhance the value and beauty of the goods it marks. “Kef,” I am informed, is the first letter in the Gorean word, ‘Kajira’. Whereas I now speak Gorean, as I must, as it is the language of the masters, I have not been taught to read the language. This sort of thing is not that unusual. Barbarian slaves, and illiterate slaves, usually extracted from the lower castes, are commonly kept illiterate. Would one teach a sleen, a kaiila, a verr, to read? Similarly, such slaves may be used to carry messages they cannot read. An additional security is that the message is often put in a sealed message capsule tied about the slave’s neck, the message being inaccessible to the slave, as she is back-braceleted. A slave may not be taught to read without her master’s permission. In any event, I am illiterate in Gorean. Does that not make me more a slave?

As I entered the gate, I could see, toward the rear wall of the stockade, something like a barracks or kennel, not unlike my kennel at Shipcamp, and, before it, within the palings, a clearing, which I supposed might function as an exercise yard, an inspection yard, a sales yard, or such. Near the gate, within it, to my right as I entered, was a low, flat, round tank, presumably for water, and a feed trough. I supposed their nearness to the gate was for the convenience of masters, to facilitate their replenishment, supplies being brought from the outside. In the yard, too, I saw what I took to be several kajirae. At least they were stripped and collared, and, I did not doubt, marked, as well. They turned about, and regarded me. I noted the height of the palings. I had not realized they were so high. They were at least twice the height of a male, and each was wickedly pointed. So, I thought, these are the special slaves, the precious slaves, those which might precipitate mutinies, which might cast woe and discord amongst the men of Tarncamp or Shipcamp. Yes, I thought, they are beautiful, but I did not think them that extraordinary, or different. I had seen many slaves in Tarncamp, and particularly in Shipcamp, where I had been housed, which seemed to me their equals, if not superiors. If that were the case, I thought, there must be more involved than what was circulated in the rumors, rumors perhaps deliberately circulated, in the camps. But what then could be the real reason for the isolation of these slaves?

The two guards who had been stationed at the head of the stairway, leading upward from the shore, withdrew, presumably returning to their post. The third guard, the interior guard, then lowered the two closing beams into their brackets. As the beams were heavy their lifting and lowering was managed by a system of counterweights. I also noted that there was an arrangement for chaining them in place, which chaining might be secured by a massive padlock. Now, however, the loops of heavy chain, and the padlock, now open, reposed on a large hook, to the right of the gate, as one would look outward.

I looked about the interior of the stockade, at the slaves I could see. I supposed there might be others in the kennel. Perhaps only so many were allowed into the sunlight and fresh air at a time.

My captor began removing the ropes from my body, and then, even, my hands were unbound. I felt the welcome air on my body. I rubbed my wrists. So, I thought, I had been bound as a she-tarsk. I might thank my captor for that. I still wore the leash collar and leash.

“Genuinely acceptable,” said the guard.

I was standing well, as I had been taught, as a slave. I had not thought much about it. After a time one does not. After a time the kajira stands, walks, sits, moves, kneels, reclines, and such, with grace. As kajira, she is to be beautiful. She is given no option in this matter. There is always the whip. She is not permitted the awkwardness, the clumsiness, the crudity of movement, the carelessness of movement, the slovenly posture of the free woman. I suppose it is rather like a dancer. I had erred earlier, by the post at the head of the stairway, but it had been difficult to rise to my feet, bound as I was. Happily I had not been punished, but given the opportunity to rise again, more properly.

“Usually we remove their tunics when they enter,” said the guard.

“She is a fled slave,” said my captor.

“I see,” said the guard.

Fled slaves are, as suggested earlier, commonly returned naked to their masters. Nudity, in its way, as earlier noted, makes escape less likely. Shortly after my capture my clothing had been removed. I now suspected that a similar consideration explained the absence of clothing on the kajirae incarcerated within the stockade. Are they truly so special, I thought, that this precaution seemed advisable, or is it a part of a plan, designed to enhance the aura of specialness and mystery with which it seemed this place was perhaps deliberately imbued?

“What is her name?” asked the guard.

“‘Laura’,” said my captor.

The guard then removed a marking stick from his wallet and I felt its soft point pressing into my left breast. I looked down at the markings, which, to me, were unintelligible. “There,” he said, “‘Laura’.”

“The others are not inscribed, as nearly as I can tell,” said my captor.

“The others are prize slaves,” said the guard. “This will distinguish this one from the others.”

“It is interesting,” said my captor, “that it would require a marking to make that clear.”

“I grant you,” said the guard, “you have a beauty here.”

How pleased I was to hear this unsolicited, casual appraisal. What woman, slave or free, does not wish to be beautiful?

If only my captor might see me so, I thought. How I had hoped he might find me of interest, the sort of interest a man feels for a woman he might buy. He had, of course, well pleasured himself with me, and frequently, on the return to Shipcamp, as a master may well pleasure himself with a slave. But, too, he had well taught me, with his perfunctory use of me, and his indifference, though I was crying with need, surrender, and helpless passion, that I was a meaningless pleasure object. What was he to do? In the forest I was the only slave available to him. I was no more than a local convenience for his lust, a convenience no farther from him than the length of my leash. How could I interest him, as a slave desires to interest a master? Had I been a free woman, perhaps I might have tortured him, and made him long for me, flirting, approaching and then backing away, demanding attentions and bargains, teasing, and taunting, implicitly bespeaking my favors, and then, perhaps with feigned surprise or scorn, withholding them. Might I not make my companioning, if I were interested in such, a prize in a game many might play, and from which, at my whim, I might withdraw? Might I not sell myself, on my own terms, as I saw fit, to the highest bidder, for station, and wealth? But there is no hurry in such matters. Lure, seem to promise, and then deny. What powers are at the disposition of the free woman! Is it not a pastime most pleasant, one of the more diverting of sports, and one which, with its anecdotes, stories, and amusements, is twice delightful, once in its enactment, and then, again, in its recounting? Accounts of such exploits surely afford the gist of many a meeting amongst oneself and one’s free sisters. Who is the most skillful player, she with the most victories, the most discomfited, shattered swains, she who is to be most admired, the most emulated, and perhaps the most envied? But I was not such a woman. I was a slave. No such tactics, pleasantries, and stratagems could be mine. We are at the disposal of the free. We must obey, instantly, and unquestioningly. A simple word, a gesture, a snapping of fingers may command us. Did I not learn that in the forest? We hasten to do the biddings of our masters. It is our hope that we will be found pleasing, fully pleasing, and, if not, we must expect to be punished. So the games of the free woman are far from the slave. Nor would I have cared for them. But, too, such games can be dangerous. Gorean men do not enjoy being trifled with. The same free woman who may have taunted with her veil, and the glimpse of a slippered foot, may later find herself stripped and collared, at the feet of some fellow who was wearied of her nonsense. Why do they behave so, I wondered? Do they want the collar?

“A common, mediocre slut, average collar-meat,” said my captor.

“But there are other matters involved,” said the guard.

“Political matters?” said my captor.

“Perhaps,” said the guard. “Is the banner still flying?”

“Yes,” said my captor.

“Water her,” said the guard, gesturing to the tank at the side. “Then secure her as you will within. I will send a slave to feed her shortly.”

I was then led to the tank.

“On all fours,” said my captor. “Drink.”

I went to all fours at the edge of the tank and put down my head, and drank. The leash went up, from the ring on my leash collar, to my captor’s hand. I was well aware of how I had been positioned, and was drinking. Might not a leashed sleen or verr be watered similarly? In such small ways may a slave be reminded that she is a beast, to be sure one of a sort likely to be of interest to men.

I was then taken to a ditch near the wall where I relieved myself.

“Now,” said he, “again, on all fours, and into the kennel.”

He then walked beside me as I made my way, on all fours, into the darkness of the kennel.

I recalled that my “keeping” was in his charge.

It took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the kennel, which was of stout planking, and logs.

There were empty blanket spaces but, too, there were several slaves within. As nearly as I could tell none were secured.

My attention, when my eyes became better accustomed to the light, was arrested by one slave who sat to the side, her head down, her long black hair over her knees, about which she had forlornly clasped both arms. She seemed an image of hopelessness, and misery. What struck me most about her was that she, of all the slaves in the stockade, was gowned. The gown was sleeveless, of course, for she was a slave, but its length, if she were to stand, must have fallen almost to her ankles. It was a slave garment, but it was not a tunic, not the common, brief garment in which masters place their girls to remind them that they are slaves and which, to the pleasure of men, leaves little doubt as to their purchasable charms, or the far more scandalous common camisk, outlawed in public in certain cities, both garments for which a slave will be grateful, and beg piteously to be permitted. Rather it was the sort of slave garment in which a matron might insist her slaves be clothed if she was entertaining her sons. I was sure it was the only garment the slave wore. Too, it would doubtless lack a nether closure. The only slave garment I knew which was permitted a nether closure was the Turian camisk. I did not understand why this slave, and not the others, was permitted a garment so tasteful and modest. A slave walked past her and said something to her, which caused her to raise her head, angrily. Two of the other girls laughed. The gowned slave, obviously, did not stand high in the kennel order. Surely, I thought, her gowning would be likely to produce contempt and amusement amongst her kennel sisters, if not actual envy and hostility. Perhaps, I thought, it is a joke that she is so garbed, a mockery of sorts. I wondered about the gowned slave, apparently so alone, and despised. What of nudity to mark out prize slaves, and diminish the possibility of their flight, I asked myself. Why is she not stripped, as the others? Then I realized she was more marked out, or as marked out, as the others. In such a gown she stood out prominently amongst them, and even amongst tunicked or camisked slaves. And, if she should slip it away, she would have no other, and would then be as easily noticed as any other stripped kajira.

“Oh!” I said, thrust back, sitting, against the back wall of the kennel. My captor tossed a bundle of chain on the boards beside me. The leash collar was unbuckled from my throat and put to the side, with the coiled leash. To my dismay a heavy metal collar was placed about my throat and snapped shut. There was a ring in the back of the collar and, in a moment, by a chain and two snap locks I was fastened to a heavy ring behind me, set deeply in the logs of the kennel. Then manacles were snapped about both my right wrist and left wrist, separately, and by these, and chains and rings, my hands were chained, one on each side, to wall rings. I could not even feed myself. Then my ankles were grasped and each, in turn, was encircled with iron, independently shackled, and, by chains run to floor rings, one on the left, and one on the right, I was fastened in place.

My captor then retrieved the leash and leash collar, stood up, and looked down at me. I could not well see his expression, as he was outlined against the light from the opened door of the kennel behind him.

I shook the chains in misery, looking up at him, unbelievingly. I tried to lean forward but was held by the wall collar.

“Now, slut,” he snarled, “escape!”

“I did a foolish thing,” I said. “It was terribly foolish. I am sorry.”

“What did you think to accomplish?” he asked. “You were tunicked, half naked in a scrap of rep cloth, and collared. You were marked. Where would you go, what would you do?”

“I was upset,” I said. “I was not thinking clearly.”

“There is no escape for such as you,” he said.

“Need I be chained so heavily?” I asked.

“Be pleased,” he said, “that you are not placed in close chains.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“In your chains,” he said, “which please me, as in them you are eminently locatable, be instructed, barbarian slut. Learn from them. In them ponder the futility of escape.”

“Yes, Master,” I said. I had indeed been the fool. I had learned there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl.

He made as though he would turn away.

“Master!” I cried.

“Yes?” he said.

“I know I cannot escape,” I said.

“Good,” he said.

“But I do not wish to escape,” I said.

“Oh?” he said.

“No!” I said.

“Why?” he said.

“Because I want the collar!” I said. “It belongs on me! I fought this for years, but it is true. Some women desire more than anything to be a slave, and I am one! Call me shamed and degraded, if you wish, but it is true, as true as my sex and the color of my eyes. And what is wrong with being what you are, and want to be? What have females been to males, and women to men, for thousands of generations? Have we not been fought for and led away, on ropes, haremed and herded, bargained for and exchanged, bought and sold, for millennia? Have not the attractive been chosen and the masters the choosers? Have we not been bred together, male and female, man and woman, for countless millennia as master and slave? Is this not in the hereditary coils of our very being, that we should be at our masters’ feet? Surely I am a slave! I have known this from childhood. In how many dreams and irresistible thoughts did I kneel before a master! I am a slave! It is what I am in my heart, and desire to be. I ache for the ruthless domination of a master. I belong in a man’s collar, his to do with as he wishes! Despise me, hate me, denounce me, if you wish, but I want to kneel, and be collared, and be owned! I want a master!”

“Worthless slut,” he said.

“Buy me!” I begged. “Own me! Be my master!”

“I?” he asked.

“I want you as my master!” I said.

“A slave’s wants are meaningless,” he said. “She is a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” I wept. How true that was!

“She goes where she is sold. She does not choose the chains which will weight her fair limbs.”

“No, Master,” I said.

“Any man will do for you,” he said.

“I must serve any man who owns me to the best of my ability,” I said, “I go with the coins that will buy me, but I desire you as my master, and have, from the first moment I saw you, long ago, on Earth, in the great emporium.”

“You turned about, and fled,” he said.

“I was terrified,” I said. “I did not know what to do! Never before had I been so looked upon, looked upon as a slave!”

“You looked well in the warehouse,” he said, “on the floor, naked, bound hand and foot, at my feet.”

“We are slaves,” I said. “We want masters.”

“Do you think you will escape now?” he asked.

“Do you think I can escape the iron on my neck and limbs?” I asked.

“Why did you run from Shipcamp?” he said.

“Please do not make me speak,” I said.

“Do you wish to be shoulder-and-belly lashed?” he asked, loosening the leash strap.

“No, Master!” I said.

“Speak,” he said.

“Please,” I begged.

“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.

“No, Master,” I wept. “I longed for you, so longed for you, and then you observed me in the exposition cage in Brundisium and turned away, and then, to my hope and joy, I encountered you on the dock at Shipcamp, but you scorned me. Walked away! I was nothing! I was scorned! I was miserable, distraught, devastated, furious, helpless, my hopes vanished, my world collapsed! All the seething obstinacy my world had conditioned into me erupted; all the lies and falsities of my former world reasserted themselves, proclaiming nature a mistake and her repudiation a necessity and virtue, reasserted themselves hissing and shrieking, in all the pervasive, manufactured din contrived to drown out the songs of nature, the messages of the hereditary coils, the voice of reality. So I decided to show the masters! I would run, I would escape! They would never catch me! And I would hate you, hate you with all my heart, for you had scorned me! And I knew I must flee at the first opportunity, as who knew when the great ship might depart? Who could escape if chained in one of its holds, abroad on deep, fierce Thassa? So it was with great anxiety that I awaited my opportunity. Then, when it came, I seized it.”

“Why did you return to Shipcamp?” he asked.

“I was lost, confused,” I said. “Surely it was not intentional.”

“You were hurrying back to your chain,” he said.

“No!” I wept.

“It was the same with the Panther Girls who prematurely relaxed their vigilance in the forest.”

“Surely not!” I said.

“So,” he said, “you would like me as your master?”

“Yes,” I said. “Buy me! Buy me!”

“No,” he said.

“But did the trek to Shipcamp mean nothing, what you did to me, what you made me feel?”

“No,” he said.

“I see,” I said, and then, apprehensive, added, “— Master.”

“There was no other at hand,” he said. “I told you that before.”

“You well sported with a capture,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

It was as I had feared. I meant nothing to him. But what more, I asked myself, could a slave expect of a free man?

Even in my training we had been taught that we were nothing, only slaves.

“Master!” I said.

“Do not escape, slut,” he said. Then he turned away.

“Master!” I sobbed.

He did not look back.

I saw the gate of the stockade open and close, the two beams lowered into place.

I leaned back, in misery, against the wall of the kennel.

“You are well chained,” said the gowned slave. “One might think you were important.”

“I am not important,” I said.

“That is true,” she said.

“She is a barbarian,” said one of the girls.

“That is obvious,” said the gowned slave.

Doubtless this had been clear from my accent.

“You are so clever,” said another girl, sneeringly.

“I could have had you boiled in tharlarion oil,” snapped the gowned slave.

“Be careful or they will take your gown away,” laughed another girl.

“Her vanity is exceeded only by her addled wits,” said another girl.

“She is mad,” laughed another.

“I am not!” cried the gowned slave.

“She thinks she is important,” said another.

“I am important,” said the gowned slave. “I was important.”

“Who are you?” asked another of the girls.

“No one,” said the gowned slave, angrily.

“She is mad,” said one of the girls, “with all her airs. That is why they have named her ‘Ubara’.”

“That is cruel,” I said.

“It is a joke,” said one of the girls.

“I hate barbarians!” cried the gowned slave.

“They are stupid and ignorant,” said a girl, “but why would you hate them?”

The gowned slave was silent.

“What is your name?” asked one of the girls of me.

“Laura,” I said.

“That is a pretty name,” said one of the slaves. “But as you are a barbarian, why did they not give you a barbarian name?”

“I think it is a barbarian name,” I said.

“That is a well-known town on the Laurius to the south,” said a girl.

“Perhaps it is a coincidence,” I said, though I doubted that. Certainly I had found occasional words in Gorean which were words also in my native language, or very similar to such words, perhaps influenced by them or derived from them. I supposed Gorean, like most complex languages, may have borrowed from many tongues. Certainly it seemed to me that Goreans, or most of them, were clearly human, and, doubtless, directly or indirectly, owed their origin to my native world, Earth. Perhaps, I thought, the clue to the mystery might lie in the distant, formidable Sardar Mountains, of which the legendary or fabled Priest-Kings were supposedly denizens. In any event, much in these matters was obscure to me.

“Perhaps,” said the girl.

“You are very nice looking, Laura,” said another slave. “Why are you so chained? Do they think you are going to leap over the stockade wall? What did you do?”

“I ran away,” I said.

“You see,” said a girl who had earlier spoken, “barbarians, they are stupid.”

“We are not stupid,” I said. “We may be ignorant. We might do foolish things.”

“Such as run away?” said one of the girls.

“Yes,” I said.

“Ubara!” called a male voice, from the clearing outside the kennel, within the stockade.

The gowned slave, whether or not her wits were addled, or whether or not she was mad, must have been subjected to discipline, for she sprang up, and hurried outside and knelt before the guard, putting her head down to his feet, then lifting it, to attend his words.

I was startled at seeing the gowned slave outside the kennel, in the light. Before she had been much in the darkness of the kennel, away from the door. Now I saw that she was an incredibly beautiful woman, with a face and figure that might bring as much as a piece of gold off the block. She had long, dark hair, and a smooth olive skin. She might be mad, I thought, but she was such as one might expect to find chained beside a Ubar’s throne. She might be an admiral’s woman, or the slave of a polemarkos. If all were such as she, I thought, then the stockade might well be what it was rumored to be, a holding area for unusually beautiful slaves, prize slaves. Her appearance and mien suggested that in the days of her freedom, for I supposed she had once been free, she might have been of high caste. A slave, of course, has no caste. She is property, an animal, a beast.

“No!” she cried. “I will not!”

“You will not?” inquired the guard.

“Of course, I will obey, Master!” she cried. “But do not make me do this! Do not so humiliate and insult me, I beg of you! I am a high slave! I was of high caste! I might bring gold! I would be worthy of sandals!”

“Fetch a bowl,” he said. “Go to the feed trough, fill it, and feed the barbarian slave.”

“Please, no!” she begged.

“Now,” said the guard.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Several of the slaves in the kennel, and some of those outside, laughed delightedly, apparently gratified by the discomfiture of the lovely, olive-skinned slave.

In a few Ehn, obviously fuming with displeasure, but holding a small bowl, which she had dipped briefly and angrily into the feed trough, the gowned slave, apparently named ‘Ubara’ as an insult or joke, entered the kennel. Several of her kennel sisters laughed.

“She-sleen!” said the gowned slave.

“Feed the barbarian, low slave!” laughed a girl.

“The mad one, in her lovely gown, worthy of a high merchant’s companion, is least amongst us!” said another.

“She waits upon a barbarian,” said another. “Let her pride absorb that!”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” I said to her. “It is not my doing.”

Even in the light I could see that the gowned slave had dark eyes, matching the sable crown of glorious hair which swirled about her shoulders and down her back. When she had exited the kennel I had seen that the hair, despite its length, had been cut in the “slave flame.” That is unusual. The “slave flame” is usually used with medium-length hair, just behind the shoulders. Her eyes, she was now close to me, were deep, and beautiful, but, I saw, too, they were now dark with anger. I did not doubt but what it might take gold to bring such a prize from the block.

“There,” said the gowned slave, placing the bowl on the planks before me.

“Mistress,” I said, “I cannot reach it.”

“Unfortunate,” she said.

As I was chained, I could not even bring my hands together, nor could I lift them to my mouth.

“You should not have run away,” she said.

“I am hungry, Mistress,” I said.

“Then eat,” she said.

“Please, Mistress!” I said.

“The ship will leave soon,” she said. “I have heard the ready banner is flying. Perhaps they will feed you on the ship.”

“Feed her, low slave!” said one of the girls.

“We will call the guard!” said another.

“Do not call the guard,” said the gowned slave, obviously frightened. “I am teasing. It is only a merry jest.”

“Feed her,” said another.

“I shall, you she-tarsks,” said the gowned slave.

I did not think the gowned slave had addled wits, or was mad. In any event, I saw no indication of this. If anything, I saw high intelligence and cleverness. She did carry herself aristocratically. Her origins, I gathered, were mysterious. I did not doubt she might have been of high caste. That she should feed me was intended, I gathered, to insult her, to humiliate her, and help her better understand that she, identically with the others, was a slave. Surely that was not so hard to understand. Did she not know there was a collar on her neck? And I did not doubt but what beneath that gown there was a searing furrowed into her left thigh, just beneath the hip. Perhaps she did have airs, or pretensions. Perhaps she did suggest terrors she was in no position to inflict. Perhaps she did pretend she had once, if not now, been important. Perhaps she did despise the other slaves as inferiors. Perhaps she did not even recognize herself as a slave, or think of herself as a slave. Perhaps she thought of herself as wholly other than the others, as though she might be free, and they mere slaves. Did she think to put herself on the free side of the immeasurable chasm that separated persons and citizens from properties and beasts? Such things, doubtless, would make her resented amongst her chain sisters, but, too, they would not seem to me indications of madness, and certainly not, if there were any ground for possible airs or pretensions.

The gowned slave put her hand behind my head, holding it in place, and thrust the small bowl to my lips.

“Feed, barbarian she-tarsk,” she said.

I choked a little, and I felt some of the gruel run beside my mouth.

“There,” she said, “it is done,” and drew the bowl away.

I recalled the quick, superficial descent of the bowl into the feeding trough. The bowl was small, of plain, unglazed, baked clay, and was chipped, and there had been very little in it, presumably by the gowned slave’s intent, and part of what there was had been removed with the bowl.

She stood up, and, with her finger, several times, wiped some gruel from the bowl, which adhered to her finger, which she would then suck away. Then she turned away to return the bowl somewhere outside.

I was still very hungry.

“We saw, Laura!” said one of the slaves.

“You were not well fed,” said another.

“Call the guard, and complain,” said another.

“No,” I said, “he is a master.” I did not wish to be lashed.

“We will back you,” said another girl. “Call out!”

“No,” I said.

“Then we will do so,” said another.

“Pretty Ubara then will be stripped and lashed, tied in the doorway,” said another.

“It will not be the first time,” laughed another.

“No,” I said, “do not do so! Please do not do so!”

“What is going on?” said the guard, entering, holding the gowned slave roughly by one arm. She seemed small and distraught beside him, so held.

“Ubara did not feed the barbarian!” said a girl.

“No, she ate her food!” said another.

“Speak!” said the guard, shaking the miserable gowned slave by the arm, almost causing her to lose her footing.

“I fed her well, as commanded!” said the gowned slave, frightened. “A full bowl, as commanded! I did not eat her food.”

So, I thought, beauty, for all your having possibly been of high caste or whatever, and for all your pretensions and superiorities, you are now only a frightened slave, and a liar.

The guard dragged the gowned slave before me. “Speak,” he said to me. It was clear he held the beautiful, olive-skinned slave in contempt. To him, I saw, she was no more than another slave, and perhaps one that was less than pleasing. I did not think he would find her stripping and lashing amiss. Perhaps it was he who had put her in the gown, to signal her out for envy and derision. It is the masters, of course, who decide whether or not a slave is to be clothed, and, if clothed, how, and to what extent. Such small things, as many others, help the slave to keep well in mind that she is a slave.

“I was fed, Master,” I said. “I am content.”

Several of the slaves in the kennel cried out in protest. The gowned slave, her arm released, regarded me with surprise, and then, as the guard withdrew, with contempt.

“You did not inform on me,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“You were afraid to do so,” she said.

“No,” I said.

“Why did you not have her beaten?” asked a girl.

“She was afraid,” snarled the gowned slave.

“No!” I said.

“Then why?” asked another slave.

“The whip hurts,” I said.

The gowned slave, her face contorted with fury, bent toward me. “You are a fool,” she whispered. “I owe you nothing!”

“I expect nothing, and want nothing, from such as you,” I said.

“From such as I?” she said.

“You may or may not have been born to high caste,” I said, “but I see little of high caste about you. You may be beautiful, but you are small, petty, cruel, pretentious, self-centered, and a liar, and most obviously, now a slave.”

“Silence, slave!” she hissed.

“A slave may speak so to a slave,” I said.

“I am not a slave!” she cried.

“Slave!” I said.

The gowned slave then threw herself upon me, screaming, striking, biting, and scratching, and the other slaves about leapt to their feet, and rushed toward us, to protect me, and, as they seized her, the gowned slave had seized my hair, and shook my head, violently, and I had pulled back, with a rattle of chain, that I not be strangled in the wall collar, and the gowned slave’s hands were pulled apart, away from my hair, and she wept with pain, as she was dragged back, away from me, by the hair.

“Release me!” she demanded, but two girls held her arms, one on each side, and another had her hair pulled back so tightly that the gowned slave’s head was facing the ceiling of the kennel. Other slaves were crowded about, angrily, and some others had entered from the clearing outside the kennel.

“I hope you marked her,” said a slave to the gowned slave, “that your nose will be cut off!”

“No, no!” cried the gowned slave. “She is not marked, not marked!”

“Who are you that you would attack a chained slave?” asked a slave.

“She is not marked!” cried the gowned slave.

I was scratched but, as it turned out, superficially. I did not think any damage had been done. I was more angry than anything else. My assailant’s blows, dealt with the sides of her fists, happily, had been administered only with a woman’s strength, and my rescuers had been upon her almost as soon as she had hurled herself upon me. The bites about my shoulder had not drawn blood. I did taste blood, but I had inadvertently bitten my own lip in the tumult.

“Cut off her nose!” said a slave of the gowned slave.

“No!” she wept.

Masters, as is recognized, seldom mix in the altercations of slaves. On the other hand, they are very much concerned with maintaining the value of the goods involved. Nothing is to be done to a girl which might reduce her value on the block. For example, the supple, broad-bladed, five-stranded slave whip designed to punish an errant slave, and well, is also designed in such a way that it will leave no lingering residue of its attentions. Happily for women, and, I suppose, for their owners, if they are owned, it is very rare that their disagreements, unlike those of men, result in any permanent injuries or disablements. Amongst free women who may tear veils or lose slippers, or amongst slaves, who may rend or lose a tunic, not much is likely to take place which could not be reduced to unpleasantries such as insults, scratchings, bitings, and yanked hair.

“Cut off her ears, too!” cried another slave.

“No, no!” wept the gowned slave.

She was then forced down to her knees.

She struggled but was helpless in the hands of her chain sisters, two of whom maintained their grip on her arms, one on each side.

“Would that we had a dagger,” said one of the slaves.

“The guard has one,” said a slave.

“Call him!” said another.

“No, no, no!” begged the gowned slave.

“Leave it to Laura!” said a girl.

“No!” begged the gowned slave. “No! Not to her!”

“Beg her forgiveness!” said one of the girls holding the gowned slave’s arm, the left arm.

“She is a barbarian!” protested the gowned slave.

“Now!” cried a girl, and, taking the gowned slave’s head by the hair, with two hands, forced it down to the planks before me.

The gowned slave howled with misery. “Forgive me, forgive me!” she wept.

“Call her ‘Mistress’,” said another girl.

“Mistress!” wept the gowned slave.

“I am not ‘Mistress’,” I said. “Let her up.”

It was permitted to the gowned slave that she might raise her head, but she was held on her knees, helpless, as before, before me.

“Bespeak your contriteness,” said a girl. “Beg her forgiveness, as what you are, a lowly, miserable slave.”

“That is not necessary,” I said.

“Now,” demanded one of the girls.

“I am not injured,” I said.

“I am contrite, Mistress,” said the gowned slave. “Please forgive me, Mistress.”

“I forgive you,” I said.

“We do not!” said a slave, angrily.

“Please, let her alone,” I said.

“Are you important?” asked a slave of the gowned slave.

“No, Mistress,” she said.

“What are you?” asked another.

“A slave, Mistress,” she said.

“What sort of slave?” asked another.

“A meaningless slave, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

“Are you better than we?” asked a girl.

“No, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

“Are you less than we?” asked another.

“Yes, Mistress,” said the gowned slave.

Several of the slaves laughed. “She speaks truly,” said one of them.

“Remove her gown,” said a girl.

“No!” begged the gowned slave.

“The guard will not permit it,” said a slave.

“Go, see!” said a slave, and another slave hurried from the kennel.

“No, no!” said the gowned slave.

In a moment the slave who had rapidly exited the kennel returned, beaming. “It may be done!” she shouted.

“No!” wept the gowned slave, but then, in a moment, she was as stripped as the others. She was then dragged toward the door. There the light was better. “The mark of Treve!” cried a slave, pointing to the thigh of the held slave.

So, I thought, she is branded. I knew little of Treve, other than the fact that it was reputedly a bandit city somewhere in the vastness of the mighty Voltai mountains, far to the south.

“I hope masters burn a dozen brands into her leg,” said a slave.

“Yes,” said another.

“Let her alone,” I said. “Please let her alone.”

The slaves then went about their ways. She who had been gowned then crept back into the darkness of the kennel, and lay on the planks, her head down on her arms.

A slave approached me. “Are you all right?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“The gate is opening!” called a girl.

“Keep back,” said the guard.

Four men entered, two bearing small boxes, and two, together, bearing a long chain with collars.

“What is it?” asked a girl.

“A coffle chain,” said a girl.

“We are going to be moved!” said a slave.

“Is the ready banner down?” called another.

“I cannot see,” said a slave.

“What is in the boxes?” called a girl, from the kennel doorway.

“I do not know,” said a girl, from the clearing.

“I can see through the gate!” called a girl. “Across the river! I cannot see the ready banner! It is down!”

“Get back!” ordered the guard. There was a snap of his whip.

“The ship departs tomorrow!” cried a girl, frightened.

“Back, back!” said the guard. I heard the snap of his whip, twice more. “Into the kennel!” he said. There was another snap of the whip, and the slaves who were in the clearing, hurried back into the kennel. They left the door open, and were clustered just inside, looking out.

“I do not want to sail to the farther islands,” said a girl. “It is too late in the season. Thassa will not permit it.”

“I have heard the World’s End,” said another.

“That is absurd,” said another. “That would be madness.”

“I do not want to go to the World’s End,” said a girl.

“We will go where we are taken,” said another.

“Have no fear,” said another. “That cannot be the destination.”

“The men are going,” I heard. “The guard is closing the gate.”

“To the feed trough!” called the guard.

The slaves then hurried to the trough, with the exception of she who had been gowned, who remained prone on the planking inside the kennel, to the left of the door, and one other, who lingered by me. “I will bring you something,” she said.

“Thank you,” I said.

The slaves were crowded at the trough. They were permitted to use their hands. After a time she who had volunteered to feed me entered the kennel. She carried the small, simple bowl which had been earlier carried by the slave who had been gowned. She held it to my mouth that I might feed, and, with a finger, as I could not do so, wiped what had clung to the bottom and sides of the bowl into my mouth.

“Thank you,” I said.

She then returned the bowl to the feed trough in the clearing, and returned.

“I am very grateful,” I said.

“You did not want Ubara hurt,” she said. “Why?”

“She is a slave,” I said.

“Do not expect her to be grateful,” she said.

“I do not,” I said.

“I do not know why Ubara is as she is,” said the slave.

“Perhaps she was once free,” I said.

“So, too, were we all,” said the girl. “There are no bred slaves here, save that we are women.”

“You think that women are born slaves?” I said.

“We are not complete until we are the slaves of our masters,” she said.

“Even Ubara?” I asked.

“She fears greatly that for which she most longs,” she said.

“Do you think she would make a good slave?” I asked.

“She is very beautiful,” she said.

“But surely more is required,” I said.

“She has not yet learned her collar,” she said.

“I see,” I said.

“Men can teach it to her,” she said.

“I have learned my collar,” I said.

“But you ran away,” she said.

“I now know my collar,” I said, “and want it, and love it.”

“Even though you will be despised by free women?” she asked.

“Let them be themselves,” I said, “and let us be ourselves.”

“They are the mistresses,” she said.

“Why do they hate us so?” I asked.

“It is we whom men strip and collar, and bind, and buy and sell, and raid for, and capture, and put to their feet, and want,” she said.

“I feel sorry for free women,” I said.

“Do not feel sorry for them,” she said. “They have the switch and whip.”

“How deprived, and lonely they must be,” I said, “in their pride and misery.”

“They envy us our collars, and our joy,” she said.

“I fear so,” I said.

“Have you been mastered?” she asked.

“I am a slave,” I said. “Any man can master me.”

“But perhaps you hope for a given master?” she asked.

“Oh, yes!” I breathed. “But why do you ask?”

“You are well chained,” she observed.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Think,” she said. “You have not only been put naked in a high-security stockade, but chained, by the neck, and hand and foot. You are held to the wall, and you cannot even bring your hands together before your body or bring your legs together. Surely you are aware of your vulnerability, and how you might be caressed with impunity.”

“Yes,” I said, frightened.

“What do you think the point of all this is,” she asked, “the meaning of such a chaining?”

“I think,” I said, “to instruct me.”

“How so?” she asked.

“To convince me of the futility of escape,” I said.

“Perhaps,” she said. “What else?”

“That I may better know myself a slave?” I said.

“Doubtless,” she said. “And, too, does your utter helplessness and complete vulnerability not arouse you?”

I dared not respond.

“But there is more meaning here,” she said, “than you understand, and perhaps more than he who chained you understands.”

“I do not understand, at all,” I said.

“There is no slave in this stockade,” she said, “who is not lovely, who would not be an excellent buy, who would not be a prize to remove from an auction block, and yet you are the only one who is chained.”

“Perhaps they fear I will try to escape,” I said.

“By leaping naked over the palings?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

“If that were all,” she said, “a single ankle chain would do. It would hold you in place very nicely, in utter helplessness, while you await the convenience of masters.”

“I cannot understand you,” I said.

“What sorts of things are secured?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

“Prizes, treasures, valuables,” she said.

“It seems so,” I said.

“And what is secured with great care,” she asked, “with heaviness and authority, even immoderately?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“Something which is important to one,” she said, “something one does not wish to risk losing, something which one wants, something which one desires, something which one refuses to give up, something which one is determined to possess.”

“Surely not!” I said.