Magicians of Gor (82 page)

between us.

“Do not fear,” I said. “I have no intention at present of testing you for

vitality.”

I then picked up the makings of the gag which were to her left, the wadding and

the binding.

She eyed them, apprehensively.

“This is not the first time you have been a slave,” I said. “Once, I knew, you

were owned by Rask of Treve.”

She looked up at me.

“Did you serve him well?” I asked.

“He put me often in slave silk, and jewelry, to show me off,” she said, “as it

amused him, he, of Treve, to have the daughter of Marlenus of Ar for a slave,

but he did not make much use of me. Indeed, I served him, by his will, almost

entirely in domestic labors, keeping his tent, and such. This he seemed to feel

was appropriate, such demeaning, servile labors, for the daughter of Marlenus of

Ar. But, too, I do not think he much cared for me. Then, when he got his hands

on a meaningless little blond chit, a true slave in ever hort of her body, named

El-in-or, he gave me away, to a panther girl named Verna, to be taken to the

northern forests. I served panther girls, too, as domestic slave, and was later

sold, at the coast, where I came into the collar of Samos, of Port Kar.”

“It is difficult to believe that Rask of Treve did not put you to slave use,” I

said.

“He did, of course,” she said.

“And how were you?” I asked.

“He told guests that I was superb,” she said.

“And were you?” I asked.

“I had better have been,” she said.

“True,” I said. I had twice met Rask of Treve, both times in Port Kar. He was

the sort of fellow whom women strove to serve unquestioningly to the best of

their abilities.

“Surely you learned much of the arts of the slave in his tent,” I said.

(pg. 484) “No,” she said. “I was more of a prize, or a political prisoner. I was

more like a free woman in slave silk than a slave, in his camp.”

“Then, in effect,” I said, “aside from having worn the collar and such, you have

never experienced what one might call a full slavery?”

“Like a common slave slut?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“No!” she said, angrily.

“That would seem to have been an oversight on the part of Rask of Treve,” I

said.

“Perhaps,” she said, angrily.

“Perhaps other masters can remedy that oversight,” I said.

“I am the Ubara of Ar!” she said.

“No,” I said. “You are a slave girl.” I then gagged her.

I then stood up, and looked down at her. “Tomorrow,” I said, “guardsmen will

come to free you of your bonds, and return you to the Central Cylinder. You must

not forget, of course, even in the Central Cylinder, that you are my slave girl.

Too, you must remember that I will come for you. When will it be? You will not

know. Will you fear to enter a room alone, or a corridor unescorted, for fear

someone may be there, waiting? Will you fear dark places, or shadows? Will you

fear high bridges, and roofs, and promenades, because you fear that loop of a

tarnsman tightening on your body, dragging you into the sky, his capture? Will

you fear even your own chambers, perhaps even to open the portals of your own

wardrobe, for fear someone might be waiting? Will you fear to remove your

clothing, for fear someone, somehow, somewhere, might see? Will you fear to

enter the bath, for fear you might be surprised there? Will you fear to sleep, I

wonder, knowing that someone might come to you in the night, that you might

waken suddenly to the gag, and helplessness?”

I looked down at her. There were tears in her eyes, over the gag. She looked

well in bonds. She was a pretty slave.

“Let us go,” I said to Marcus.

We then left the room.

28
   
The Room

(pg.485) I lay on a blanket, in the small room, in the insula of Torbon, on

Demetrios Street, in the Metellan district.

Outside, the city was generally quiet.

I looked up at the darkness of the ceiling.

It must have been in the neighborhood of the twelfth Ahn. By now, Milo and

Lavinia must have left the city. Too, Boots Tarsk-Bit, with his troupe, would be

on his way north, perhaps on the Viktel Aria. Somewhere, hidden among their

belongings, would be an obscure item, a seeming oddity, a stone. To look at it

one might not know it from many other stones. And yet it was different from all

other stones; it was special. I wondered about the Home Stones of Gor. Many seem

small and quite plain. Yet for these stones, and on account of these stones,

these seemingly inauspicious, simple objects, cities have been built, and

burned, armies have clashed, strong men have wept, empires have risen and

fallen. The simplicity of many of these stones has puzzled me. I have wondered

sometimes how it is that they have become invested with such import. They may,

of course, somewhat simply, be thought of as symbolizing various things, and

perhaps different things to different people. They can stand, for example, for a

city, and, indeed, are sometimes identified with the city. They, have some

affinity, too, surely, with territoriality and community. Even a remote hut, far

from the paved avenues of a town or city, may have a Home Stone, and therein, in

the place of his Home Stone, is the meanest beggar or the poorest peasant a

Ubar. The Home Stone says this place is mine, this is my home. I am here. But I

think, often, that it is a mistake to try to translate the Home Stone into

meanings. It is not a word, or a sentence. It does not really translate. It is,

more like a tree, or the world. It exists, which goes beyond, which surpasses,

meaning. In this primitive sense the Home Stone is simply that, and irreducibly,

the Home Stone. It is too important, too precious, to mean. And in not meaning,

it becomes, of course, the most meaningful of all. It becomes, in a sense, the

foundation of meaning, and, for Goreans, it is anterior to meaning, and precedes

meaning. Do not ask a Gorean what the Home Stone means because he will (pg. 486)

not understand your question. It will puzzle him. It is the Home Stone.

Sometimes I think that many Home Stones are so simple because they are too

important, too precious, to be insulted with decoration or embellishment. And

then, too, sometimes I think that they are kept, on the whole, so simple,

because this is a way of saying that everything is important, and precious, and

beautiful, the small stones by the river, the leaves of tress, the tracks of

small animals, a blade of grass, a drop of water, a grain of sand, the world.

The word “Gor”, in Gorean, incidentally, means “Home Stone’. Their name for our

common sun, Sol, is “Tor-tu-Gor” which means “Light upon the Home Stone’,

A wagon trundled by. I heard the snort of a tharlarion. There were not so many

wagons now. There was less need. Ar was by now muchly looted, stripped of her

gold and silver, her precious items, even of many of her women and slaves. The

wagon, at any rate, would be some sort of official carrier, or licensed, or

authorized, as such. It was after curfew.

I thought of a slave. Tonight would not be a comfortable night for her, or, I

supposed, the better part of tomorrow. I had already arranged that a sealed

message, conveyed by courier, would reach the Central Cylinder tomorrow, after

the tenth Ahn. I wondered if she had been yet missed. Quite possibly. If not

now, surely by morning, when her women would arrive for her robing, her bathing,

the breaking of her fast, her morning audiences. How frantic would then be the

Central Cylinder. Well could I imagine Seremides storming about, striking

subordinates, denouncing his staff, threatening his officers, and all Ar,

overturning furniture, tearing down hangings, picking up the pen, putting it

down again, spilling ink, shouting orders, rescinding them, issuing them again,

demanding that word not be sent to the camp of Myron, not yet, not yet. How

eagerly they would seize on any clue. How swiftly, how desperately, would the

simple message be received, specifying her location. They would rush there and

find she whom they took to be their Ubara chained in place, as though she might

now be no more than someone’s mere slave girl. How they would rejoice upon her

recovery, and would hasten to cover her, and send for one of the metal workers,

to relieve her of her effective, shameful bonds. They would then convey her back

to the Central Cylinder, secretly, that none in Ar might know what had occurred.

She would then, within an Ahn or two, be restored to the role of the Ubara, and

perhaps even be seated again upon the throne. I wondered if she would be uneasy,

or perhaps even terrified, realizing the folly in which she was now enmeshed,

(pg.487) daring to ascend the dais, not to lie on its steps as a half naked

slave, collared, at a Ubar’s feet, an item of display, but to sit upon the

throne itself. Surely she must be aware of the presumption of this act, of the

insolence, and fearful peril, of it. One could scarcely dare conjecture the

punishments which might be attendant upon it, she only a slave. Well must she be

concerned to keep her bondage secret. Yet she must know that some in Ar would

know that secret, that some would even have access to the papers involved in its

proof.

I heard someone outside down in the street, doubtless a guardsman, cry, “Halt!

Halt!” There was then the sound of running feet. Guardsmen in the Metallan

district, as now in Ar, generally, went in pairs. Some fellows, I gathered, had

been spotted, violating the curfew.

No, the slave would not spend a comfortable night, lying on the flat flooring

stones, naked, her wrists chained closely to her ankles, kept in place by a neck

chain, fastened to a floor ring. It would be something of a change for her, from

the comforts, and cushions, of the Ubara’s couch. But I thought this might be

good for her. Long ago, when she had been the slave of Rask of Treve, she had

been, I gathered, treated as something rather special, kept less as a slave than

as a free woman kept, for his amusement, in the shame of slave garb. There, I

gathered, she had been kept more as a prize, or trophy, than a slave. She there,

though certainly technically in bondage, had, it seems, been pampered. That did

not displease me. Let this night, however, teach her what can be the lot of a

more common girl, such as she was.

I looked up at the ceiling.

I did not think she would forget this first night in my keeping.

I smiled to myself.

Let her sit again upon the throne of Ar. Beneath the robes of the Ubara, in all

their beauty, complexity and ornateness, she would be no more than my naked

slave.

I heard a sound outside, on the stairs.

I thought that perhaps she might, in time, tend to forget that she was now a

slave and come again, on the whole, to think of herself as Ubara of Ar. On the

other hand, surely, from time to time, perhaps in an uneasy or frightening

moment, she would recollect that she was my slave. Sometimes at night, I did not

doubt, she would start at some small noise, and lie there in the darkness,

wondering if she were alone. Or perhaps I had come for my slave, with gag and

bonds, to claim her.

(pg. 488) I considered Ar, and its condition. I thought of the delta of the

Vosk, and the disaster which had occurred there, and of the veterans returned

from the delta. How angry I was, even though I was not of Ar, that they had, for

all their loyalty and sacrifice, for all their service, courage and devotion,

received little but scorn and neglect from their compatriots, a scorn and

neglect engineered by factions hoping to profit from the perversities of such

politics, using them to further their own ends, among these ends being to put Ar

and those of Ar into a condition of even greater weakness and confusion, to

undermine their will and sap their pride, to put Ar and those of Ar even more at

the mercy of their enemies. And interestingly, it seemed that many of Ar,

particularly the young, the less experienced, the more gullible, the more

innocent, and, too, perhaps, the most fearful of hardship, responsibility and

danger, and their attendant risks, those accustomed to such things, those who

had always received and never given, those who had never sacrificed anything,

were among those most ready to lap up the sops of Cos, clinging to excuses for

their cowardice, indeed, commending their lack of courage as a new virtue, a

new, and improved, convenient courage. Yet how unfair was this to the perceptive

young, piercing the propaganda, scorning the public boards, recognizing without

being told what was being done to them and their city, smarting with shame,

burning with indignation, recollective of Ar’s glory, the young in whom flowed

the blood of their fathers, and the hope of the city’s future. Perhaps there was

not, after all, young and old, but rather those who were ready to work and

serve, and those who were not, those who preferred to profit from the work and

service of others, risking nothing, contributing nothing. But even so, how odd,

I thought, that those who did not wade in the delta, facing the arrows of

rencers, the spears of Cos, the teeth of tharlarion, should profess their