Smugglers of Gor (18 page)

“No,” I said.

“‘No’?” he said.

“I was not marked and collared,” I said.

“An oversight,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“‘Perhaps’?” he said.

“Yes, Master, an oversight, Master,” I said.

“But the matter is remedied here,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

Surely I had known, often enough, on my former world, despite its commands and injunctions, from my casual, unguarded thoughts, from my fantasies, and my dreams, from my longings, from my dispositions, hopes, and needs, from my yearnings, from what I had wanted from men, their force and ownership, from how I had wanted to submit myself, wholly, from my desire to be ruled by a master, to belong to him, and serve him, a vulnerable, helpless, unquestioning chattel, that I was, at least in my heart, a slave.

Now I was kneeling, my thigh marked, my throat enclasped in the collar.

“You had a name, did you not, on your barbarian world?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“What was it?” he asked.

“Margaret Alyssa Cameron,” I said.

“‘Mar-gar-ret-a-liss-a-cam-er-ron’,” he said, slowly.

I thought it well to remain silent. Actually I did not think he had done badly. I was not sure I could repeat, or easily repeat, for example, a series of nine meaningless noises.

“Barbarian names are often complex,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Did you know that such names are commonly found in primitive groups, innocent of civilization?”

“No, Master,” I said.

“Surely you recognized them as barbarisms,” he said.

“I had not thought of it,” I said.

“Of course not,” he said. “You are a barbarian.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Such a name will not do,” he said.

I knew that slave names were commonly simple, as one would expect, as they are the names for animals. Common slave names, at least on the continent, were such as Tula, Bina, Lana, Leila, Lita, and such. Commonly, too, the slave has but a single name, but she may be more clearly specified as, say, Tula, the slave of Flavius, of such and such a street or district. Barbarian slaves are commonly given barbarian names, for example, Amanda, Amber, April, Beryl, Ethel, Tracy, Heather, Rose, Vivian, Victoria, Jocelyn, Stephanie, and such. Such names will mark her as barbarian, and suggest that she is born for the collar, as opposed to a Gorean woman of caste and Home Stone, and may be treated accordingly. Such names are apparently stimulatory to many Gorean males. Many Goreans delight in the mastery of barbarians. Certainly they well teach us our collars. Sometimes a barbarian name is placed on a Gorean female slave as a punishment name, to humiliate and humble her, to inform her that she is, in the master’s view, no more than a barbarian, and may expect to be treated accordingly. I find it difficult, sometimes, to understand the Gorean view in these matters. How is it that there is such a difference between the free woman and the slave, and then, again, that there is no difference? A radical distinction is drawn between the Gorean free woman, with caste and Home Stone, and the slave. The free woman is lofty and noble; she is esteemed, exalted, and honored; she is respected and shown great deference. On the other hand if she, usually a capture from a foreign city, falls slave all that is behind her, and she finds herself no more than another piece of vendible collar meat, auctioned off a block as one might auction a tarsk from the pens. Moreover, many Gorean men divide women into those who are slaves with collars and those who are slaves but not yet collared. Perhaps the distinction is that between culture and biology. In any event, I dare speak only for myself. I had little doubt that I was a slave, that I wanted to be a slave, and that I could be happy only as a slave, that I could be fulfilled only as my master’s slave. Some women wish to serve and love, to submit themselves selflessly, wholly, and helplessly. We are the slaves of our masters. And culturally, in my case, I encountered no problems in this respect. I was something ingredient in the culture, expected in the culture, approved in the culture, and desired in the culture. Accordingly, culturally, I was free to be what I was and wanted to be. I had no dilemma, for I was collared. As far as I can determine the men and women of Earth, my former world, and those of Gor are clearly of the same species. Indeed, legend has it that humans, some humans, were brought here long ago from my former world by unusual beings. They are often spoken of, in whispers, as Priest-Kings. I suppose this is a myth of some sort, but, myth or not, an explanation of some sort would seem to be required. Perhaps ancient humans once possessed an advanced technology, which was somehow lost. One has heard of Mu, Atlantis, and such places. In any event, it seems clear that the human female, whether Gorean or not, tends to be regarded by many Gorean men as the natural property of males. To be sure, this surmise, or conviction, is seldom expressed openly to Gorean women, particularly to those of station, high caste, and such. In any event, once collared, there would seem little to choose between us. We both learn our collars quickly. The Gorean woman may have an advantage in some ways, for she is familiar with the culture; indeed, she may have owned her own slaves, male or female. She is likely to better realize, then, as a woman of my world might not, the nature of female bondage, and what is expected of the female slave. It would seldom occur to a Gorean woman, once enslaved, to dare to be less than fully pleasing to her master. Barbarians, of course, may be less aware of this, at least at first. It is, however, quickly taught to us.

“We will need a barbarian name for you,” he said, “as you are a barbarian. It would not do to waste a fine Gorean name on you.”

I was silent.

“The name must be short, and simple, an obvious slave name, and one that makes clear that you are without significance or importance, that you are a mere, negligible, chattel. Yet, we want the name to be sexually stimulatory, one which will elicit masculine interest, and aggression. We want it, in effect, to say, ‘Here is a helpless, vulnerable slave, is she not lovely, is she not exciting, do with her as you will.’ We want it to suggest that you will be helpless and pleasant at the end of chain, or attractive, bound helplessly, a nicely tethered love bundle, in the furs. Sometimes barbarians are placed in unusually revealing tunics. Their masters often like to show them off, and help them to keep in mind that they are slaves. They do nicely on leashes.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I hoped I might stand, walk, kneel, lie, or writhe well on my leash. How natural that animals be leashed!

“Position!” he snapped.

Instantly, reflexively, I went to position, kneeling back on my heels, back straight, head up, hands palm down on thighs, looking forward, not meeting his eyes, knees spread.

My body must have reacted, somehow, when I had thought of myself on a leash.

I was now, again, in position.

How could a woman be more presented as a slave? Seeing a woman so positioned, what else could she be?

Strangely, the thought crossed my mind of myself, naked, on my former world, in the aisle of the great store, on a master’s leash, and then, as he paused, kneeling at his thigh, head down, docilely. Others, moving about, fully clothed, if they noticed me, would have recognized me as a slave. I wondered if such might one day occur on my former world, that sort of thing. Clearly cultural adjustments would have taken place. Such scenes are not unprecedented on Gor, though commonly the slave would have been tunicked, revealingly, and scantily, of course, as would be appropriate for her condition and status.

The fellow backed away from me, and surveyed me, and spoke, over his shoulder, to his fellows, of which there were two, one of whom was keeping the notes, or records.

“What do you think?” he asked.

“Nice,” said the fellow who was not keeping the notes, or records.

I held position, gracefully, but determinedly. It is not pleasant to be cuffed, or switched. And it is less pleasant to be put under the lash.

“What is she?” asked he who had been addressing me, of the fellow with the board, the marking stick, the papers, the notes, and such. To that fellow he seemed to defer.

“A Laura,” said the fellow with the papers, and such.

“You are Laura,” said the fellow who had been addressing me. “What is your name?”

“Laura,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”

He then went to the next girl in line. I remained in position. I had been named. I was Laura.

The ax bit the wood.

“Good stroke,” said Tyrtaios. “Many would take three to go that deep.”

“These logs,” I said, “are not being dressed.”

“Sawyers are elsewhere,” said Tyrtaios. “They will see to the shaping and fitting, the beams and planking.”

The heavy hauling was done in sturdy wagons, which left Tarncamp, and moved east by means of a narrow path through the forest. These wagons were drawn by draft tharlarion.

“At Shipcamp,” I said. I had not been there.

“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.

“Some,” I said, “say these are for a fort of wood.”

“In a way,” he said.

“We are far from the sea,” I said.

“Some days,” he said.

I struck the trunk, again. The shock moves through one’s whole body. After a time one’s body aches. One longs for the night. I had not come north for the service of a woodsman. Nor had many others, if any. Why, I wondered, had I come north? Yes, I thought, two golden staters, adventure, and what else was to be done? Surely there could be no other reason. There was much discontent in the camp. The wood of the Tur tree is closely grained. It is much easier to fell Needle Trees. Tharlarion, by means of tackle, would draw the logs to a clearing, where, by arranged hoists and pulleys, by hooks and counterweights, they would be lifted to the wagon beds. When it rained it took double teams of tharlarion to draw the wagons, which were often mired, sunk to the axles. I had occasionally been a member of work parties, put to the east road, to repair it for passage. But they had not let us too far down the road. Perhaps work parties came from another direction, to repair the more eastern stretches of the road. As far as I knew, they were not permitted far enough west to reach Tarncamp.

“I think you know more than you say,” I said.

“One must consider carefully those in whom one confides,” he said.

“True,” I said.

“There is a river,” I said.

“The Alexandra,” he said.

“You are building a fort at its head waters, for trading inland?” I asked. “There is a company? You will then barge furs down river to Thassa?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

Again I struck the trunk.

Some yards away four fellows, two on each handle, were working with a large, two-handled, iron toothed saw. It is a heavy device. One saw the sawdust scatter with each clear motion of the blade. Sometimes the blade would be arrested in the wood.

I glanced at them. Then I said to Tyrtaios. “They cannot hear us,” I said.

“I suppose not,” he said.

“I am sure you have been to the other camp, Shipcamp,” I said. “It is said you have been even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”

“Who said that?” he asked.

“One hears things,” I said.

“One pays one’s respects,” he said.

Lord Okimoto was a lord, or
daimyo
, of the Pani, whose headquarters were at Shipcamp. At Tarncamp, the lord, or
daimyo
, was a Lord Nishida. I had seen Lord Nishida about, commonly on tours of inspection. He was usually accompanied by Pani warriors, in their short robes, with the two swords, their hair pulled back and knotted behind the head. In his retinue, as well, were some fellows of the sort who had been recruited in Brundisium. It was by means of some of these that he usually communicated with the common mercenaries. There seemed to be formalities involved here with which I was unfamiliar, and even amongst the Pani themselves. I knew little or nothing of the other
daimyo
, Lord Okimoto. I had gathered that he had some sort of precedence and that Lord Nishida was expected to defer to him. Tyrtaios, at least, it seemed, had been as far as Shipcamp. Beyond the training area, Pani guards regulated traffic on the east road.

“I do not see why armsmen, or so many, were brought here for this work,” I said. “It is not work for armsmen, and you have far more than would be required to garrison a trade fort and police traffic on a river.”

“It would seem so,” said Tyrtaios.

“A great deal of timber has been moved eastward,” I said, “perhaps more than would be needed for a local trade fort, or the construction of barges.”

“Perhaps,” said Tyrtaios.

“One does not enlist a small army without purpose,” I said.

“Perhaps there is a purpose,” he said.

“I know of no cities in the vicinity,” I said, “no walls to raze, no palaces to pillage, no gold to seize, no trade routes to command, no women to collar.”

“Perhaps elsewhere,” he said.

“This is a wilderness,” I said.

“That is why we are here,” he said.

“Some venture, some project, is concealed here,” I said.

“Obviously,” he said.

I struck the trunk angrily, fiercely, three more times. Then I turned to face him. “What venture, what project?” I asked.

“I know little more than you,” he said.

“But more,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“You stand high,” I said. “It is said you have been admitted even to the pavilion of Lord Okimoto.”

He shrugged.

“You were known in Brundisium,” I said. “You were deeply involved in the recruiting. Seemingly you were feared. You gave me fee.”

“Two golden staters,” he said.

“High wages for a woodsman,” I said.

“I trust,” he said, “the staters will not prove to have been poorly invested.”

“I have received nothing more,” I said.

“Nor have the others,” he said, “as yet.”

“And where is the wealth, the silver, the jewels, the women, the gold?” I asked.

“Not here,” he said.

“Where?” I asked.