Magicians of Gor (33 page)

“Cos will be forced to unsheath her claws.”

“And then?” he asked.

“And then we do not know where it will end,” I said.

“What of the Home Stone of Ar’s Station?” he asked.

“Is that your only concern?” I asked.

“For all I care, traitorous Ar may be burned to the ground,” he said.

“It will be again publicly displayed,” I said.

“That is part of your Kaissa?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“You see far ahead,” he said.

“No,” I said. “It is a forced continuation.”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Ar will have no choice,” I said.

“And if the Home Stone of Ar’s Station is again displayed, what then?” he asked.

“It was displayed before.”

“I know a fellow who can obtain it for you,” I said.

“A magician?” he asked.

I smiled.

“The Delta Brigade,” he asked, “the two of us?”

“I think there are more,” I said.

He looked at the delka, scratched on the exterior wall of the shop.

“You are curious as to its meaning, and its power?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“So, too, am I,” I said.

“I am afraid,” he said.

(pg. 190) “So, too, am I” I said.

“And what of this?” asked Marcus, indicating the chest on the street, near us.

“Bring it along,” I said.

“What are we going to do with it?” he asked.

“You will see,” I said.

“You saw her mouth was uncovered,” he said. “She belongs with other lewd women

in the loot pits of the Anbar district, awaiting their brands and collars.”

“With other needful women,” I said.

“She is a slave slut,” he said.

“And will perhaps one day find her rightful master,” I said.

“What are we going to do with her?” he asked.

“You will see,” I said.

We then went to the chest. “Help me lift it,” I said.

In a moment we had it in hand. It was a bit bulky to be easily carried by one

man, but it was not heavy.

We felt its contents more within it.

12
   
The Countries of Courage

“Put it down here,” I said.

We were in a deserted alleyway, about two pasangs from the shop, rather between

it and the Anbar district. It might well appear that we had been on our way to

that district.

“Over her, more,” I said. Marcus and I put the chest against one wall, that it

might not move further in that direction. I then stepped back a bit and

forcibly, with the flat of my foot, with four or five blows, kicked back the

side of the chest, forcing it some inches inward, breaking it muchly from the

ends, tearing it free of the nails and the lid. I delivered similar blows to the

two ends of the chest, splintering it loose of nails and the back. the girl

within cried out in misery. I then, with my hands, seizing it, now muchly freed,

flung up the lid, revealing her within, and she cried out again, and hid her

head, putting her hands over it. She lay there, terrified, among the splinters

and nails, the sides and ends muchly loosened, collapsed about her. I then

turned to the shambles of the chest to its side, spilling her to the stones of

the alley. Shuddering she was on her belly to us and crawled to my feet,

pressing her lips to them.

“She desires to please, as a slave,” observed Marcus.

(pg. 191) “Do you object?” I asked.

She now pressed her lips similarly upon the feet of Marcus.

“No,” he said. “She is obviously a slave, and is both comely and desirable. Too,

she is of Ar, and all of the women of Ar should be slaves.”

She then knelt before us, the palms of her hands on the stones, her head down to

them, as well.

“Doubtless she has seen slaves kneel in such a way,” said Marcus.

“Probably,” I said. It was a common position of slave obeisance.

“She is a slave,” he said.

“She is frightened,” I said.

“She is a slave,” he said.

“That, too,” I granted him.

“Look up, girl,” said Marcus.

She looked up, frightened.

“Are you a slave?” asked Marcus.

Her lip trembled.

“She is legally free,” I pointed out.

“Are you a slave?” pressed Marcus.

“Yes,” she whispered.

“Yes, what?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. I suspected she had used that word to men before

only in her imagination, or speaking it softly to her pillow in the night.

“Legally free,” he said, “but still a slave, and rightfully so?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Lacking only the legalities of the brand and collar?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Yet she is young to be a slave,” I said.

“Do you think we cannot be slaves?” she asked.

“Some men enjoy them,” said Marcus, “squirming in the furs, panting, begging for

more.”

The girl closed her eyes, and sobbed. I wondered if she understood these things.

“She is young,” I said.

“Do you scorn me for my youth?” she asked. “Do you think we do have feelings? Do

you think we are not yet capable of love, that we are not yet women? You are

wrong! How little you understand us! We are young and desirable, and ready to

serve!”

“You are young,” I said. “Your surrender cannot be the full surrender of the

mature woman, the woman experienced in life, (pg. 192) the woman who has come to

understand the barrenness of the conventions by which she is expected to abide,

who has discerned the vacuity of the principles to which she is expected to

mindlessly subscribe, who has learned the emptiness of the roles imposed upon

her by society, roles alien to, and inimical to, the needs of her deepest self.

You are not such a woman, a full, mature, knowledgeable, cognizant woman, a

woman profoundly in touch with her passion and deepest self, one who has come to

understand that her only hope for true happiness and fulfillment lies in

obedience, love and service, one craving the collar, one yearning for a master.”

“No, no, no!” she wept. “I am young, but I am a woman, and alive! Do you think

that intelligence and maturity are prerogatives only of such as you! No! I am

quick at my studies! I am alert! I think much! I am dutiful! I want to make a

man happy, truly happy, in the fullest dimensions of his being, not a part of

him, leaving the rest to hide, or shrivel and die! I cannot know my bondage if

he does not learn his mastery! Why should his birthright be denied to him, and

mine to me? As the master needs the slave so, too, the slave needs the master!

I was taken aback by her words. I recalled how quietly she had lain in the box,

that her veil had been disarranged when first the guardsmen, and Marcus and

myself, had looked upon her. She was undoubtedly of high intelligence. Such is

valued considerably, of course, in a slave. It makes them much better slaves.

How much more tactful, sensitive and inventive are intelligent slaves! Indeed,

the intelligence of some slaves blossoms in bondage, seemingly at last finding

the apt environment for its flowering. To be sure, when a girl knows she may

feel the lash for a mistake, she tends to become considerably more alert.

“What have we here,” asked Marcus, “a little scribe?”

“I am no stranger to scrolls,” she said.

“You are still young,” I said.

“That does not mean I cannot feel,” she said. “That does not mean I am stupid.”

I had no doubt that in time she would make an excellent slave. Indeed, I could

well imagine her, even now, serving in a house, deferentially, with belled

ankles.

“I heard one speaking earlier,” she said, “of the loot area in the district of

Anbar.”

“Can you not wait to be shackled and thrown into the loot pits with other women,

to await the collar and brand?” inquired Marcus.

“Take me there!” she demanded.

(pg. 193) Instantly, appropriately, he lashed her head to the side with the back

of his right hand.

She was struck to the ground with the force of the blow and at a snapping of his

fingers, and his gesture, she struggled again to her knees before us, her mouth

bloody. Her eyes were wide. It was perhaps the first time she had been cuffed.

Marcus glared down at her. He did not have much patience with slaves. Phoebe had

often learned that to her dismay. To be sure, she was scarcely ever struck or

beaten now. She had become a superb slave in the past few months, under Marcus’

tutelage.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said. “I was not respectful. It was appropriate that I

be cuffed.”

In her eyes there were awe and admiration for Marcus. She saw that he would not

hesitate to impose discipline upon her.

“It is common,” I said, “for a slave to request permission to speak.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said, putting down her head.

“You said you were no stranger to scrolls,” I said.

“To some, Master,” she said. “I did not mean to be arrogant. If I have not been

pleasing, lash me.”

“Have you read,” I asked, “the Manuals of the Pens of Mira, Leonora’s

Compendium, the Songs of Dina, or Hargon’s The Nature and Arts of the Female

Slave?”

“No, Master,” she said, eagerly. Such texts, and numerous others, like them, are

sometimes utilized in a girl’s training, particularly by professional slavers.

Sometimes they are read aloud in training sessions by a scribe, a whip master in

attendance. Most girls are eager to acquire such knowledge. Indeed, they often

ply one another for secrets of love, makeup, costuming, perfuming, dance, and

such, as each wishes to be as perfect for her master as it lies within her power

to be. Also, of course, such diligence is prudential on her part. She will be

lashed if she is not pleasing. Also, her very life, literally, is in his hands.

Perhaps a word is in order pertaining to the Songs of Dina. Some free women

claim that this book, which is supposedly written by Din, “a slave”, which

continues to appear in various editions and revisions, because of its

intelligence and sensitivity, is actually, and must be, written by a free woman.

I suspect, on the other hand, that it is truly by a slave, as is claimed on the

title page. There are two reasons for this. First, ‘Dina’ is a common slave

name, often given to girls with the “Dina’ brand, which is a small, roselike

brand. Second, the nature of the songs themselves. No free woman could have sung

of chains and love, and the lash, and the glory of masters as she. Those are

songs which, in my opinion, could be written only by a woman who knew what it

was to be at a man’s slave ring. As to the matter of the poetess’ intelligence

and sensitivity, I surely grant them to the free women, but maintain that such

are entirely possible in a slave, and even more to expected in her than in them.

I suspect their position may even be inconsistent. When a women is enslaved, for

example, surely they do not suppose that her intelligence and sensitivity

disappear. Surely they would not expect theirs to do so, if they had them. No,

she still has them. Also, it has been my personal experience, for what it is

worth, that slaves are almost always more intelligent and sensitive than free

women, who often, at least until taken in hand, tend to be ignorant, smug, vain

and stupid. Also, it might be noted that many women are enslaved nto simply

because it is convenient to do so, the ropes are handy, so to speak, or because

they are beautiful of face and figure, but actually because of their

intelligence and sensitivity, qualifies which appeal to many Gorean men. indeed,

as I have suggested, the intelligence and sensitivity of many women actually

tends to blossom in bondage, finding within it the apt environment for its

expression, for its flowering. This may have to do with such matters as the

release of inhibitions, happiness, fulfillment, and such. I do not know.

“What of the Prition of Clearchus of Cos?” I asked.

“A Cosian?” said Marcus.

“Yes,” I said.

“That will not be found in Ar,” he said.

“It used to be,” I said, “at least before the war.”

“Yes, Master,” she beamed. “I have read it!”

“You, a free girl, have read it?” I asked. To be sure, the book is a classic.

“Yes, Master!” she smiled.

“Does your father know you have read it?” I asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“What do you suppose he would do to you, if he found out?” I asked.

“I think he would sell me, Master,” she said.

“And appropriately,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she smiled.

“Stand,” I said. “Turn about. Cross your wrists behind you.”

“Yes, Master!” she said, eagerly, complying.

“Oh!” she said, bound.

“Turn about,” I said.

Swiftly she did so, and looked shyly up at me. She tested the (pg. 195) fiber on

her wrists, subtly, attempting to do so inconspicuously, trying its smugness and

strength, its effectiveness. She put down her head and suddenly, inadvertently,

shuddered, with pleasure. I had used capture knots. She knew herself helpless. I

supposed it was the first time she had ever been bound.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am tied as a slave is tied, am I not?” she asked.

“As slaves are sometimes tied,” I said.

This comprehension was suddenly reflected, or exhibited, in her entire body, in

fear, and desire and pleasure, she flexing her knees, twisting, her shoulders