Rebels of Gor (20 page)

“Must I lower my head?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She regarded me.

“It is pleasant to have a woman so before one,” I said.

“Collared,” she said, “kneeling naked, bound, helpless.”

“Yes,” I said. “Do you think I am unlike other men?”

“No,” she said. “Why here have men not denied themselves to themselves, why have they not refused to be men?”

“I do not know,” I said. “But I do not object. Do you?”

“—No,” she said.

“You are far from taxis and elevators, from finance, from polluted canyons of stone, from cacophonous dins, from jostlings and crowdings, from halls of business,” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I have been brought to Gor.”

“As a slave,” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“What do you think of this world?” I asked.

“Earth must once have been like this,” she said, “the freshness, the rain, the air, the flight of birds, the blue sky, the water, the food with taste.”

“One supposes so,” I said.

“What have our people done to our world?” she asked.

“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps they have insufficiently loved it.”

“On a world such as this,” she said, “one such as I can be only a slave.”

“And deservedly so, and correctly so,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“On your former world,” I said, “I suspect you never discussed such matters as you are now, while kneeling before a man, while naked and bound.”

“No,” she said.

“You were not a slave.”

“No.”

“Perhaps you recall a young woman whose name was once Margaret Wentworth.”

“Yes,” she said.

“And the free woman pretending to be a slave in the northern forests of continental Gor, with the pompous name ‘Constantina’?”

“Yes,” she said.

“Miss Margaret Wentworth,” I said, “petty, shallow, greedy for money, accepted a commission on Gor, into which, as it was expected to pay well, she did not care to inquire too closely.”

“Master?” she said.

“Widen your knees, slave,” I said. “Enough. And to abet your endeavors you brought with you a weak, confused, hesitant, foolishly enamored Earth male, one commonly belittled and disparaged, disdained and derided, whose name was Gregory White.”

“That is so,” she said.

“You enjoyed humiliating and dominating him,” I said.

“He is a weakling,” she said.

“This Gregory White, in Tarncamp,” I said, “did much heavy manual labor, grew lean and powerful, became different, learned weapons, learned the sword and the saddle of the tarn. He has fought. He is an officer in the tarn cavalry in the forces of Lord Temmu, respected, trusted, and relied upon.”

“He is an Earth male,” she said. “I despise him.”

“I see,” I said.

“Outside the tharlarion stable, in Tarncamp,” she said, “before I was delivered by Ashigaru to the quarters of Lord Nishida, his weakness and pusillanimity, his reluctance to be true to, and satisfy, his masculinity, were sufficiently evident.”

“I do not remember the incident in precisely the same fashion,” I said.

“He is not Gorean,” she said. “I scorn him.”

“You were hoping to be his slave,” I said.

“No,” she said, “no!”

“He found you disgusting, and worthless, and he left you,” I said.

“Surely not!” she cried.

“He found you lacking, even as a slave,” I said. “You were repudiated, put aside.”

“He loved me, he wanted me, he would have done anything for me!” she cried.

“Perhaps Gregory White,” I said, “perhaps once. He is now Pertinax, a warrior. Are you worthy to be the slave of a warrior?”

“He is weak,” she said. “I can rule him. Even as a slave, I could rule him. I know this. It is true. With a smile, a pout, a glance, a trembling lip, a quavering word, a tear, I could return him to the feeble ineptitude of an Earth male. He is trapped in the toils of convention, a prisoner of the plans of others; he is not his own man but a creation of cultural conditioning, a conditioning founded on alienating a male from manhood. He is too weak to break even the paper fetters of propriety. There is more manhood in a shuddering urt.”

“I see,” I said.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“Does Saru wish to speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Saru wishes to speak.”

“Saru may speak,” I said.

“How is it,” she asked, “that Master is in the palace of General Yamada?”

“It seems,” I said, “at the request of the general.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“That is acceptable,” I said. “Curiosity is not becoming in a
kajira
.”

“Please,” she said.

The less a slave girl knows the less she can betray, deliberately or inadvertently.

I had been very impressed with General Yamada, much as one might be impressed when one has entered a cave and, turning about, finds that one is now under the scrutiny of a charming, watchful larl crouched at the entrance. Lord Yamada was clearly a great leader, a superb tactician, and an astute strategist. It was not surprising to me that victory was no stranger to his warriors and Ashigaru. Had it not been for the intervention of Priest-Kings or Kurii, or both, I think the remnants of Lord Temmu’s land forces would have perished on a beach long ago, rather than appearing, seemingly unaccountably, in the vicinity of Brundisium on continental Gor. Had Lord Temmu not had the mighty, nigh-impregnable holding of the house of Temmu at his disposal I suspected that this war would have been concluded long ago, and not to his advantage. Lord Yamada was a pleasant man but he could also nail enemies to the decks of ships and mount heads on posts for pasangs along a road. He was a persistent and efficient fellow, and one of enterprise and calculation. He was also one of singular will, of unswerving resolve, and vaulting ambition. He understood not only the business of marches and sieges, but the politics of logistics and supply. He also maintained, apparently, a network of informers and spies. It had often been suspected that he was as well apprised of the appointments, plans, and secrets of the house of Temmu as those of his own. Personally he was attentive, courteous, and genial. Physically he was large, but bore himself with the poise and grace I had come to expect in Pani of position and family. His features were strong, his eyes keen. It was said he sometimes attended to his own executions.

“Please,” she said, again.

“You are
kajira
,” I reminded her.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

The plot of Lord Yamada had now become reasonably clear. Lord Temmu, as many in the islands, particularly in times of doubt and uncertainty, would consult the supposed deliverances of severally scattered bones and shells. This form of inquiry was taken seriously by many. Certainly it was culturally sanctioned and familiar. For the successful pursuit of this matter, of course, one required the services of a skilled reader. Thus, somehow Daichi, presumably a reader of some reputation, and a secret creature of Lord Yamada, had been placed in the house of Temmu. Once ensconced, it would be a simple matter for his readings, thanks to forewarnings, collusions, and arrangements issuing from the house of Yamada, to appear alarmingly accurate. With advanced intelligence it would not be difficult to pave the road to impressive prophecy. Thus, given the legerdemain of ambiguity and obscurity, abetted by occasional, reassuring nuggets of augured gold, it would be possible to convince a gullible patron to pursue courses of action which were less to his advantage than to that of another, in this case, Lord Yamada. I was confident that Daichi, like similar practitioners of kindred arts, might, with the usual amalgam of pretentious pronouncements, awesome gravity, and ponderous theatricality, influence the thinking and action of any client so luckless as to have fallen under his spell. Those who permit strings to be attached to their limbs must expect to be moved by the puppeteer. One would need, of course, some sort of communication between the two houses, which would be easily enough supplied before the siege in virtue of strangers, wanderers, peddlers, merchants, and such, and, during the siege, by envoys, negotiators, messengers, and such, for example, Tyrtaios. And Sumomo’s role, I anticipated, was largely that of communicating Daichi’s information, available from Lord Temmu, to the enemy, by so simple a contrivance as casting missives over the parapet, to be retrieved below. Similarly, as a contract woman whose contract was held by so high-ranking an official as a daimyo, in this case Lord Nishida, she would have, for most practical purposes, most of the time, a complete liberty of movement within the holding. Certainly she would have no difficulty in receiving information from Daichi, nor, generally, any difficulty in communicating independently with the enemy below.

“Why has Master sent for me?” she asked.

“That seems an unusual question for a female slave,” I said.

“Forgive me,” she said.

“To be sure,” I said, “as I understand it, you went for only a
fukuro
of rice.”

“Did any go for more?” she asked.

“I gather, some,” I said.

“Oh?” she said.

“But few,” I said.

“The men of the holding were starving,” she said. “In another week we might have been bartered for a handful of rice.”

“Some went for two
fukuros
,” I said.

“I regret that I am so displeasing a slave,” she said.

“Most went for one
fukuro
,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“I would suppose that Jane went for but one
fukuro
,” I said.

“Who is Jane?” she asked, warily.

“It is not important,” I said.

“Please,” she said.

“She was the slave of a warrior, Pertinax,” I said.

“Surely not!” she said.

“Surely so,” I said.

“He has a slave?” she said.

“Had,” I said.

“How is that?” she said.

“I bought her for him,” I said.

“Master is generous,” she said, angrily.

“You are angry?” I asked.

“Of course not,” she said, in fury, tears springing to her eyes.

“Good,” I said.

“He is a fool of Earth,” she said. “He would not know what to do with a slave.”

“His Jane,” I said, “after some instruction, and not much, was left in little doubt that she was in a collar.”

“It is a barbarian name,” she said.

“As ‘Margaret’, or such,” I said.

“I hate her,” she said, pulling at her bound wrists.

“You are in the presence of a free man,” I said. “Remain on your knees.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I thought you might,” I said.

“Of course it is nothing to me,” she said, quickly.

“I understand,” I said.

“She is of Earth, of course,” she said.

“It is not unusual for the women of Earth to be in bondage,” I said, “historically, currently, publicly, privately.”

“And for those brought to Gor,” she said.

“Most, I would suppose,” I said, “immediately, or eventually.”

“‘Eventually’?” she said.

“Certainly,” I said, “once her business is done, her specific task completed, it is natural to suppose that she should remain of some value.”

“Block value,” she said.

“Precisely,” I said.

“As in my case,” she said.

“As slavers see it,” I said, “you were a slave from the moment your name was entered on an acquisition list.”

“I see,” she said.

“Branding and collaring,” I said, “would then be rather in the nature of accompanying details, confirming the matter.”

“I see,” she said.

“Such things, identifications in their way, are in accord with Merchant Law,” I said.

“Tell me more of this ‘Jane’,” she said.

“There is little to tell of a slave,” I said, “other than that she is a slave.”

“Of course,” she said.

“Are you jealous?” I said.

“Certainly not!” she said.

“Then it does not matter,” I said.

“Please, Master,” she said, “please!”

“There is little to tell,” I said, “other than the fact that she is a lovely slave, an intelligent, shapely brunette, nicely curved, the sort a man likes to sleep at his feet.”

“I take it that she is, as am I, a barbarian.”

“Not at all,” I said. “She is Gorean, once the Lady Portia Lia Serisia, of Sun Gate Towers, a scion of the Serisii, a banking family once of considerable repute and power in Ar.”

“‘Once’?” she said.

“It no longer exists,” I said. “It put gold before the Home Stone.”

“I do not understand,” she said.