Conspirators of Gor (24 page)

“Hitch up your disrobing loop, properly, pull down the hem of your tunic,” said the free woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

I hoped she would finish quickly.

Gorean free women of high caste almost invariably veil themselves in public. Gorean free women of the lower castes tend to be less fastidious, or strict, in such matters. Whereas some will emulate the high-caste women, others will veil themselves more casually, or loosely, exposing more of their features. This is sometimes referred to as half-veiling. In privacy, of course, free women seldom veil themselves. In public, it is easy to eat and drink behind the veil. It may be done with delicacy and grace. It is commonly done in the eating houses. I have seen low-caste free women drink through the veil, but this is rare. It is regarded as barbarous. I have seen some free women, of low caste, on hot days, who will eschew the veil altogether. This is, however, rare. As is well known the female slave may not veil herself even should she wish to do so. That would be an insult to free women. Too, one would not, for example, veil a tarsk.

I moved quickly away from the free woman.

She had come to the eating house alone. I was not surprised. I could see something of her face. What fellow would want her in his bracelets?

There is little room between the tables and one, making one’s way, usually slowly, for the crowding, taking orders, carrying platters, and such, often brushes against the patrons. There was a small, oval, bronze mirror in the kitchen, fixed on a wall, and I often regarded myself in its reflection, turning my face one way or another, brushing back my hair, arranging it, and such. It seemed to me that certain changes were occurring in me. It is said that bondage makes a woman more beautiful, and I suspect that that is true. This is doubtless, in part, a function of appearance, and behavior, but I think it extends well beyond a certain deference, a tone of voice, a betraying garmenture, a collar, suitable postures, lowering the head, and such. Bondage, whatever might be its numerous effects, feminizes a woman, radically, and the feminine woman is the most female, the most beautiful, of all women. She becomes soft, graceful, vulnerable, and eager to please. The collar removes many conflicts, which trouble, tighten, and coarsen a woman. She knows what she is, and how she is to behave. Allowed nothing else, and soon desiring nothing else, she accepts herself joyfully as what she is, a female, and a slave, her master’s slave, her master’s possession. She is radiant. She has never been so happy. She pities the free women, lacking masters. Too, she now understands herself as a natural, intensely sexual creature. The slave’s sexual needs are as natural, and persistent and irresistible, as her needs to eat and drink. In one sense she is at peace with her sex, but, in another sense, periodically, if her slave fires burn, she is its helpless victim, a tormented slave, who will crawl even to a hated master, for his least touch. She now not only wants sex, but needs it, and will beg for it, and strive to be sufficiently pleasing, that it may be granted to her. She is grateful, in her chains or thongs, to be her master’s pleasure object, his possession, and plaything. She knows herself his property, and would be nothing else. Who can recount the ecstasies of the possessed slave? Knowing herself a slave, she wishes to belong to a master. She could be satisfied with no man who would be contented with less than owning her, wholly. Gorean men are such. She sings at her work.

One cannot help, you must understand, in the closeness of the quarters, the small space between the benches, brushing against a master now and then. There is so little room.

“Oh,” I gasped, startled.

His large hand had closed on my leg, above the knee.

“Please, Master,” I whispered, smiling, protesting.

Then I shuddered. His grip was strong, commanding. It would be difficult to free myself. I was holding a large platter of strips of roast bosk, fastened in threes with wooden skewers, one of the choices for the second ostrakon.

I saw Marcella approaching, in the narrow aisle. She was carrying a vessel of steaming kal-da.

She did not look pleasant.

“Struggle,” said he.

“I might spill the platter,” I said.

“You are rather pretty for an eating-house girl,” he said.

In the past such compliments had been few. Of late, they had been more frequent. Too, of late, I had been more often assigned to the tables. Who knows how often fellows will come to the eating house, or why they will seek one table rather than another?

“Would Master not like to have me at his slave ring?” I whispered. “I would try to please him.”

He grinned, and removed his hand from my leg.

“May I serve Master?” I asked.

“What have you?” he asked.

“Roast bosk,” I said.

“I have paid only the first ostrakon,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Be off, pretty slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Infamous she-sleen!” said a woman.

I had not noticed that the unpleasant free woman, she who, some days ago, had castigated me for a too-casual tunicking, was again in the vicinity. Once again, which did not surprise me, she was alone.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress.”

I quickly tried to hurry away, and Marcella, who was now near, between the benches, stood to one side, I supposed that I might pass. I smiled at her. Usually she would have expected me to turn about and move back, retracing my steps, removing myself from her path. I did not really want the attentions of the kitchen master, even though he had, of late, discouraged the other girls from bullying me. Surely she must understand that. She could have him. I wanted better game, higher game.

“Thank you,” I said to Marcella, smiling, as I went to move past her, anxious to remove myself as quickly as possible from the vicinity of the free woman.

“Oh!” I cried, in misery, stumbling, plunging over Marcella’s extended foot, sprawling between the benches, the platter of steaming meat flying ahead of me, meat and gravy showering about, then the platter clattering between the benches. Two or three men stood up, angrily wiping gravy and hot meat from their backs and shoulders. Marcella, simultaneously, had screamed, and turned, as though it might have been she who had been so discomfited. And I, too, screamed, but in pain, as the scalding kal-da soaked and burned through my tunic, and drenched my calves and ankles. “Clumsy slave!” cried Marcella. “You tripped me!” I cried. “I did not! You tripped me!” she screamed. Several of the masters laughed, some brushing themselves off, some others helping themselves to a three of skewered slices of the roast bosk, which they retrieved from the table, the floor, their laps. I was on my hands and knees, in pain, from the scalding, tears bursting from my eyes. Masters, I knew, did not look lightly on clumsiness in a slave. Too, to make matters worse, if they could be worse, the roast bosk was an item available only for the second ostrakon. I recalled that one of the girls in the kitchen, who had spilled porridge, had been put under the five-stranded Gorean slave lash. I had felt it once, in the house of Tenalion. “You tripped me!” I cried to Marcella. I did not want to be whipped! “You tripped me!” screamed Marcella. “No!” I cried. “Yes!” she screamed. She did not wish to be whipped either. “I saw the whole thing!” said the free woman. “That one,” she said, pointing at me, “is to blame!” “No, Mistress,” I sobbed. “That one, that one!” repeated the free woman, indicating me. I did not see how she, from her location, could have seen what occurred. I did know that she did not like me. A free woman, of course, may lie, for they are free. Marcella was lying, of course, but she had the words of a free woman spoken on her behalf. “Thank you, Mistress,” said Marcella, respectfully, much pleased at the course events were taking. I was sobbing, and still in pain. I did not want to be stripped, tied, and put under the whip. I feared the pain, and terribly, but, too, it is humiliating to be beaten for clumsiness, to be beaten as an inept slave, one who has failed to be pleasing. The slave is to be both beautiful and graceful. If she is not, let the lash instruct her. She is a slave. She is not permitted the woodenness, the awkwardness, of the free woman. “You should be sold for sleen feed!” said the free woman, coming angrily from her place, and hurrying about the table. I was still on the floor, on all fours, miserable, in pain. The boards were greasy. The tunic, in back, was wet, with warm fluid. It clung to my body. My legs hurt.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” I begged.

I felt the slipper of the free woman kick me, twice, viciously, in the left thigh. There would be marks there. I sensed she had spit upon me.

“I am sorry, Mistress!” I said. “Please, forgive me, Mistress!”

I went to my belly, in the grease and scraps, between the benches.

“Oh!” I wept, again kicked.

“Thank you, Mistress!” I said. “Thank you, Mistress!”

Should a slave not be grateful for her improvement?

“Aii!” I wept, again kicked.

“Thank you, Mistress!” I sobbed. “Thank you, Mistress!”

“What is going on here?” demanded a voice. Someone was making his way toward us, pushing, between the benches. My heart sank. It was the voice of Menon, my master. I had been several weeks in his establishment, but he seldom appeared in the kitchen. I was not sure he would remember the miserable, frightened slave purchased in the Metellan district. I struggled to my knees, held them closely together, and kept my head down.

“This slave tripped me, Master,” said Marcella, indicating me.

“Have you received permission to speak?” inquired Menon.

“No, Master,” said Marcella, turning white, dropping to her knees, head down.

“Well, Masters?” inquired Menon.

“They were passing between the benches,” said a fellow. “One of the girls tripped, and fell.”

“That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “tripped the other!”

“I see,” said Menon.

I kept my head down.

“You saw?” inquired Menon.

“Certainly,” said the free woman.

Menon turned about, a bit. I took him to be noting the place, across the table, with its dish and mug, where the free woman had been sitting.

“Did any others see?” inquired Menon.

No one volunteered to speak. Most, of course, would have had their backs turned to the aisle.

“That one,” said the free woman, presumably indicating me, “should be lashed bloody, to the bone, and fed to sleen!”

“There would not be much nourishment there,” said a fellow.

There was laughter.

I could not help it if I were slighter than many slaves, more slender. Many men, of late, I had been given to understand, did not find fault with me on this score. Certainly I had been one of the most beautiful girls in the sorority, and here, in the garmenture of slaves, what beauty I might possess, as that of other female slaves, left little to conjecture.

“Be silent!” screamed the free woman to the men.

There was silence.

I was afraid. As I was now well aware I was a female slave and what that meant on Gor, I would have been terrified to address a free man or men in that tone of voice, let alone utter words bearing such an import.

What would have been done with me?

But she was free.

There was no band on her neck.

She was not an animal.

She was not purchasable.

She was not owned.

“The house,” said Menon, “is distressed that your views have been shown less deference than they deserve.”

“You know,” said the free woman, “that she, that one, is a she-tarsk, a she-urt, a she-sleen, one who tunicks herself provocatively, who brushes against masters, who lingers in serving, who leans too closely to the diners, who puts her half-naked body before them shamelessly, who smiles so prettily, like a paga slut at the loading docks, advertising her master’s tavern.”

“And she is a barbarian, as well,” said Menon.

“Yes,” said the free woman, triumphantly. “A barbarian!”

Menon recalled I was a barbarian.

“My Home Stone,” she said, “is that of Ar.”

Menon nodded. Although his establishment was within the walls of Ar, it was not likely he shared its Home Stone. As he was of the Peasants, I supposed his Home Stone, the community stone, so to speak, not that of his domicile, would be that of some village in the environs of Ar.

“Is there no way to assuage your wrath?” asked Menon.

“No,” said the free woman.

Menon drew his pouch on its strings up from his belt, and opened it.

“No,” she said.

Menon fetched from within the pouch a handful of copper tarsk-bits.

“Perhaps,” said the free woman, “she needs only to be well lashed.”

Menon dropped the coins into the palm of the free woman.

“The master, of course,” she said, “will decide, as he pleases, what is to be the fate of a neck-banded she-tarsk.”

“Thank you, Lady,” said he.

I do not know if she looked again at me, but she hurried about the table, to her place and, a moment later, made away.

Menon was crouching near Marcella, who was shaking.