Conspirators of Gor (23 page)

I did not fear pregnancy, for early in my sojourn in the house I had been given Slave Wine. Understanding its nature, I had imbibed it willingly enough, as disgusting and foul a brew as it was. Its effects are removed, I am told, if one is given a Releaser, which, I am told, is palatable, even delicious. As a slave, an animal, I knew I could be bred, as any other animal. It is done with us as masters please. But I was not now apprehensive. I had not been administered a Releaser. The breeding of slaves, as you know, as other animals, is carefully controlled. I would be bred only if the masters so pleased.

I took forty-two silver tarsks to be a considerable amount of coin, particularly for a new slave.

My estimation of my extraordinary beauty, I was pleased to note, was now well confirmed, confirmed objectively, in virtue of a block price, in virtue of a sober economic transaction. The matter was now beyond argument. The former Lady Persinna, as I recalled, whom I had thought very beautiful, had gone for only three and a half silver tarsks.

I recalled that it had been estimated, even on Earth, that I would go from between forty and sixty, an amount which I had then mistakenly interpreted as dollars, thousands of dollars, a form of Earth currency.

I heard coins being counted out, one upon the other.

I could not resist looking. Might it not, though improbable perhaps, be gold?

“Master!” I protested. Then I was frightened, for I had spoken without permission. “Forgive me, Master!” I said.

The coins being counted into the palms of the auctioneer were neither of gold nor silver. They were copper.

“Forty-two,” said a fellow, thick-bodied, short-bearded, in a brown robe, girded up to his knees. His arms were bare. His left arm was scarred.

“Forty-two copper tarsks,” confirmed the auctioneer.

I could not believe that I had brought so little.

“A splendid buy,” the auctioneer assured the buyer. “Fortune has smiled upon your bidding.”

“An untutored barbarian,” said the fellow.

“We had hoped to get fifty for her,” said the auctioneer.

“She is not worth so much,” said the fellow.

“I trust she will prove satisfactory,” said the auctioneer. “If not, we will buy her back.”

“For how much?” asked the fellow, warily.

“Twenty,” speculated the auctioneer.

“How much Gorean does she have?” asked the man.

“Enough,” said the auctioneer. To be sure, I do not know how he knew that. And I surely hoped it would be enough. It is hard to be pleasing, if one cannot understand what is expected of one.

“She will prove satisfactory,” said the fellow. “The whip will see to it.”

The slaver’s man, from behind, took me by the arms, lifted me up, my feet some inches above the surface of the platform, and descended the steps of the platform, to the street, and placed me before the bearded fellow in the short, girded-up robe.

He was looking at me.

I did not know what to do.

“She is stupid,” said the bearded fellow to the auctioneer.

I quickly knelt down before the man and, the palms of my hands down on the street, pressed my lips to his sandals, kissing them.

“On all fours,” he said.

I had not yet dared to look into the eyes of my master.

As I was on all fours, before him, he removed something from within his robes, and bent down.

There was a click, and a collar had been fastened about my neck. I was now collared. The collar proclaimed me slave, even should I be clothed, and, doubtless, it bore certain information, perhaps something as simple, as “I am the slave of so-and-so,” “I belong to so-and-so,” or such. If it contained a name, that would doubtless be the name I would be given.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Whatever Master pleases,” I said.

“You see,” said the slaver’s man, “she is not stupid.”

“What are you called?” asked the fellow.

“I have been called ‘Allison’,” I said.

“A barbarian name,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are Allison,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.”

“Look up,” he said.

I did so.

It can be frightening to look up, into the eyes of someone who owns you.

“Are you any good in the furs?” he asked.

“I fear not, Master,” I said. That seemed the safest response I could manage.

“The whip can change that,” he said.

“I will try to be pleasing to my Master,” I said.

“You looked well at my feet,” he said. “I think you will be responsive.”

I shuddered. I feared I might be responsive, and as a slave.

He then turned about, and strode away.

I was not braceleted, or leashed. I hurried after him, heeling him. With two hands I felt the collar on my neck. It was the first standard Gorean slave collar I had worn. It was a flat band which closely encircled my throat. Such collars are common in the north. It was sturdy, but light, and not uncomfortable. Soon I would forget I wore such a device, but it was there. It was, of course, locked. I had determined that, almost immediately.

Hurrying behind my master, I did not feel as self-conscious as I might have otherwise. It is hard to go naked in the streets, alone, on errands, and such. Too, there is always the danger that one might encounter a free woman.

I was a little curious as to why I had not been bound, in one way or another, perhaps put on a wrist leash, or something. Did he have such confidence in me, that I would not try to run away? To be sure, I would have been afraid to run away. The instructresses had well impressed on me, in the house, that there was no escape for the Gorean slave girl, barbarian or not. There was nowhere to turn, nowhere to run. In my case, it would not be merely the brand, the garmenture, the collar, the closely knit society, and such, but the very Gorean I had been taught was quite possibly a slave Gorean, subtly different in certain ways from the Gorean spoken by the free. In this respect a Gorean woman enslaved had an advantage over me. But, just as there were barbarian accents, aside from deliberately inserted, betraying subtleties, even the enslaved Gorean girls would usually have an accent different from that of their masters. I recalled that the girl from Tabor, the island, had had a different accent. And I had heard that the island accents of, say, Tyros and Cos, were clearly different from those of, say, Ar or Venna. Turia in the south was different, as well, and surely, so, too, would be those of Torvaldsland, in the north. Still, as I hurried behind my master, I continued to ponder why no bond had been put on me. And then I realized that I did wear a bond, two bonds, the most inescapable bonds of all, a mark fixed in my thigh, and a collar, locked about my neck.

My first master was Menon, of the Peasants. He did not have a holding, nor did he till the fields. If he had, he would have looked for a larger, sturdier girl than I, one who in harness, alone or with another, might drag a hoeing plow. Menon maintained a public eating house near the sun gate, so spoken of because it is opened at dawn and closed at dusk. Several girls worked in the large kitchen, behind the eating hall, amongst whom I was placed. Our Ahn were long, and we were chained at night. I was the only barbarian in the kitchen, and I was much abused. While the kitchen master occasionally put me to his use, I think he preferred others. When I tried to call myself to his attention, placing myself before him, making inquiries, simply to be near him, and such, this was noticed by the other girls, and I paid for my forwardness when we were alone. My hair was jerked and twisted, short of being torn from my head, which would have been a punishable offense, and my body was much bruised, by small, angry fists, and, often enough, from the blows of ladles and stirring spoons. When I put myself to my belly before the kitchen master, pressing my lips to his feet, and complaining, or simply begging to be protected, I would receive little comfort. I was not Gorean. “Masters,” he would say, smiling, “do not much mix in the squabbles of slaves.” Had there been a “first girl,” I might have assisted her in her tasks, done much of her work, flattered her, cultivated her, petitioned her, and so on, but there was no first girl. The nearest thing to a first girl was Marcella, who did not care for me, and was the favorite of the kitchen master. It was not much comfort to me that she might regard me as a rival; rather, it was a source of considerable apprehension.

As you might suppose, girls are eager to escape the labors of the great kitchen, and make the most of their turns at serving the long tables, hoping to come to the attention of one or another of the guests. I, like the others, in such welcome opportunities to enter the eating hall, rare in my case, would hitch up my tunic, and be somewhat negligent in the adjustment of the disrobing loop. It need not be drawn up too tightly, nor knotted too securely. I was learning to move, and smile, and, too, the men, many of them so strong and virile, made me more and more uneasy, and more and more conscious of my bondage. The unquestioning simplicity and naturalness with which they looked upon me, and accepted me, spoke to me, and commanded me, as a slave, and excited me. I was a female slave, and knew myself more so each day, and they were males, and masters. Sometimes I twisted in my chains at night, moaned, and scratched at the straw and the wooden flooring, remembering one or another of them.

As is well known, free women are not permitted in the paga taverns or brothels, and it is dangerous for them to enter them, even for those bold enough to disguise themselves as slaves, but similar restrictions do not apply to the public eating houses. Even so, free women of high caste seldom patronize them, not because of any explicit impropriety in doing so, but, rather, because of the narrowness and plainness of the offerings, the rudeness of the appointments, and the general vulgarity of the diners. Such reservations, however, are seldom entertained by men of high caste, who welcome an opportunity to obtain a cheap, convenient meal, particularly during the workday. Paga may not be served in the eating houses, but a variety of cheap ka-la-nas is usually available.

Long tables are commonly used in the eating houses, with benches, rather as in Torvaldsland. In such an arrangement, the patron usually spends less time eating. There is no lingering over paga, taking time for a game of kaissa or stones, trying out one or another of the proprietor’s girls in an alcove, or such. One is usually in and out, without much ado, which usually means more coins per Ahn in the entry kettle. Two ostraka may be purchased. One pays upon entry. The basic ostrakon entitles one to the general meal of the day, with a mug of kal-da, and costs a tarsk-bit. The second ostrakon, or the ostrakon of privilege, costs two tarsk-bits, and entitles the patron to a choice amongst a number of offerings, and a glass of ka-la-na. Most patrons purchase the basic ostrakon. The ostrakon in question, the basic ostrakon or the ostrakon of privilege, is presented to the girl who serves that section of the patron’s table.

“Is Master pleased?” I asked.

“You are a pretty slave,” he said.

“A slave is pleased should she be found pleasing by a master,” I said.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“‘Allison’, if it pleases Master,” I said.

“I have not seen you here before,” he said.

“Allison is seldom permitted to serve a table,” I said.

“You are a barbarian,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Are barbarians any good?” he asked.

“Perhaps Master would care to try one, and see,” I said.

“You are apparently eager to escape the kitchen,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Fetch more suls,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

At the sorority my sisters and I, as thoughtful, informed individuals, had set ourselves to increase our wealth and advance our station in life. Certainly we had not come to college in order to familiarize ourselves with Medieval French poetry, learn about Roman band instruments, and such. The route to these ends, the assurance of a future of comfort and influence, was obviously to contract a match with a suitable young man, one of wealth and family. Accordingly, in the social circles of an exclusive, prestigious institution, located high in the tiers of a subtly hierarchical society, one given to denying its hierarchicality, and are not all societies inevitably hierarchical, we, and others, competed for the attentions of promising young men. It was a race or game of sorts, but certainly not one of simple vanity, entered into for the sake of outdoing others, of testing one’s charms and such, but one, too, with significant consequences, bearing importantly on one’s future. The sorority, with its prestige, and its relationship with the most exclusive fraternities, was an excellent platform from which to conduct our operations. In this light, then, as suggested earlier, an expulsion from the sorority, with its shame, and such, would constitute a social calamity to be avoided at all costs. All that, of course, was now far behind me. I was now half-clad in a Gorean eating house, a slave band encircling my throat. Still, I saw, and was well aware, that certain similar constants and practicalities characterized my current existence. Certainly I was not the only girl who hoped to escape the eating house. What means, what tools, or weapons, has a female slave at her disposal? Only her charm and beauty. She owns nothing, not even the collar on her neck. It is she, rather, who is owned. She has little to offer a man but herself. Once again, as before, I was competing with other women for prizes we could not obtain for ourselves, but only through men. The nature of our life would again depend on men. Here the difference was that we were slaves. Men were still the masters, but now not subtly, almost invisibly, as on Earth, but now openly, visibly, in the full force of law. Our futures, our hopes, depended on men. And we were literally collared. How clear then, without obfuscation, the pretenses put aside, the veils now removed, became the nature of reality, culturally, socially, and biologically.