Smugglers of Gor (63 page)

In a few more Ehn, I felt the bottom of the boat grate against the shore. The oars were drawn inboard, and my captor left the boat, and, wading, drew it high, onto the beach.

As I lay supine, apparently as my captor wished, I could see little but the inside of the boat, and the sky.

I did realize we were now on the southern shore of the river. So, I thought, I have, at last, managed to cross the river!

He then reentered the boat and undid the ropage which had bound my ankles and legs. The coils were then, in their several loops, cinched up, closely, about my waist. He lifted me over the side of the small craft and set me, standing, on the beach. I could feel the sand, and gravel, beneath my bare feet.

This was the first time I had been in a position to see the southern shore this closely. Some small boats were tied up on the shore, rather as they had been on the opposite shore. To one side, there was a steep wooden stairway, with broad steps, leading up from the beach to the level, where I could see something of the higher parts of the walls, and the roofs, of several small buildings, and the carved points of the palings of the stockade.

At the head of the walkway were two guards, who apparently recognized my captor.

I did not know his status at Shipcamp. I did not think he was a high officer, as there were few such, and most such posts were held by Pani. I did not think him a common member of the mercenary infantry, nor of the tarn cavalry. Yet he was recognized here, in an area prohibited to most, and had apparently experienced no difficulty in accompanying Master Axel into the forest. There might then be, I realized, groups within groups, or groups apart from groups.

A tug on my leash ring informed me that I was to follow my captor, who, to my relief, chose to avail himself of the wooden walkway.

As I climbed the steps of the stairway I wondered a little at the breadth of the steps. Then, to my unease, I realized the likely explanation for the width of the plankings. Such a footing would be suitable for conducting coffles of bound, blindfolded slaves.

I was soon at the height of the stairway, on the broad, wooden platform from which the stairway descended. At each side of this platform was a post to which was attached a slave ring. I was knelt near the post at the right and my leash was looped about the slave ring. My captor and the two guards then withdrew some paces, where they conversed together. In a few moments my captor had returned to my side, and the two guards were making their way toward the stockade.

My leash was unlooped from the ring. “On your feet, slave girl,” said my captor.

I struggled to my feet.

“Back on your knees,” snapped my captor, “and rise, properly.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

I then rose, gracefully, as I had been taught, and stood before him, gracefully, and submissively, my head down.

Men may require different things from a slave, but, unless one has reason to believe otherwise, or has been instructed otherwise, the slave is to be softly spoken, deferent, docile, obedient, and submissive, quite submissive, utterly submissive. She is not a free woman; she is a slave, a belonging.

“You are a poor slave,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” I said.

At the gate of the stockade, I think that signs of some sort might have been exchanged. In any event, the gate was opened.

I felt a tug on the leash ring.

Shortly thereafter I was at the gate. One of the guards regarded me. “The slut has good legs,” he said. “It is hard to see much more,” said the other.

“Do not fear,” said my captor, “the ropes will soon be off.”

I looked back, from this height, across the river. Even the great ship looked small. I could detect the “ready banner” on its line, like a tiny, fluttering scarlet thread in the distance.

“Enter,” said a third guard, who was within the stockade. “Nicely marked,” he said, as I passed.

My brand was the small, tasteful, but unmistakable “Kef,” the “staff and fronds,” beauty subject to discipline. There are many slave brands on Gor, but the “Kef,” is the most common. The joke is that it is the common brand for the common girl, but I knew that some of the highest, most expensive, and most beautiful girls wore it. In any event, it is a beautiful brand, and is commonly thought to muchly enhance the value and beauty of the goods it marks. “Kef,” I am informed, is the first letter in the Gorean word, ‘Kajira’. Whereas I now speak Gorean, as I must, as it is the language of the masters, I have not been taught to read the language. This sort of thing is not that unusual. Barbarian slaves, and illiterate slaves, usually extracted from the lower castes, are commonly kept illiterate. Would one teach a sleen, a kaiila, a verr, to read? Similarly, such slaves may be used to carry messages they cannot read. An additional security is that the message is often put in a sealed message capsule tied about the slave’s neck, the message being inaccessible to the slave, as she is back-braceleted. A slave may not be taught to read without her master’s permission. In any event, I am illiterate in Gorean. Does that not make me more a slave?

As I entered the gate, I could see, toward the rear wall of the stockade, something like a barracks or kennel, not unlike my kennel at Shipcamp, and, before it, within the palings, a clearing, which I supposed might function as an exercise yard, an inspection yard, a sales yard, or such. Near the gate, within it, to my right as I entered, was a low, flat, round tank, presumably for water, and a feed trough. I supposed their nearness to the gate was for the convenience of masters, to facilitate their replenishment, supplies being brought from the outside. In the yard, too, I saw what I took to be several kajirae. At least they were stripped and collared, and, I did not doubt, marked, as well. They turned about, and regarded me. I noted the height of the palings. I had not realized they were so high. They were at least twice the height of a male, and each was wickedly pointed. So, I thought, these are the special slaves, the precious slaves, those which might precipitate mutinies, which might cast woe and discord amongst the men of Tarncamp or Shipcamp. Yes, I thought, they are beautiful, but I did not think them that extraordinary, or different. I had seen many slaves in Tarncamp, and particularly in Shipcamp, where I had been housed, which seemed to me their equals, if not superiors. If that were the case, I thought, there must be more involved than what was circulated in the rumors, rumors perhaps deliberately circulated, in the camps. But what then could be the real reason for the isolation of these slaves?

The two guards who had been stationed at the head of the stairway, leading upward from the shore, withdrew, presumably returning to their post. The third guard, the interior guard, then lowered the two closing beams into their brackets. As the beams were heavy their lifting and lowering was managed by a system of counterweights. I also noted that there was an arrangement for chaining them in place, which chaining might be secured by a massive padlock. Now, however, the loops of heavy chain, and the padlock, now open, reposed on a large hook, to the right of the gate, as one would look outward.

I looked about the interior of the stockade, at the slaves I could see. I supposed there might be others in the kennel. Perhaps only so many were allowed into the sunlight and fresh air at a time.

My captor began removing the ropes from my body, and then, even, my hands were unbound. I felt the welcome air on my body. I rubbed my wrists. So, I thought, I had been bound as a she-tarsk. I might thank my captor for that. I still wore the leash collar and leash.

“Genuinely acceptable,” said the guard.

I was standing well, as I had been taught, as a slave. I had not thought much about it. After a time one does not. After a time the kajira stands, walks, sits, moves, kneels, reclines, and such, with grace. As kajira, she is to be beautiful. She is given no option in this matter. There is always the whip. She is not permitted the awkwardness, the clumsiness, the crudity of movement, the carelessness of movement, the slovenly posture of the free woman. I suppose it is rather like a dancer. I had erred earlier, by the post at the head of the stairway, but it had been difficult to rise to my feet, bound as I was. Happily I had not been punished, but given the opportunity to rise again, more properly.

“Usually we remove their tunics when they enter,” said the guard.

“She is a fled slave,” said my captor.

“I see,” said the guard.

Fled slaves are, as suggested earlier, commonly returned naked to their masters. Nudity, in its way, as earlier noted, makes escape less likely. Shortly after my capture my clothing had been removed. I now suspected that a similar consideration explained the absence of clothing on the kajirae incarcerated within the stockade. Are they truly so special, I thought, that this precaution seemed advisable, or is it a part of a plan, designed to enhance the aura of specialness and mystery with which it seemed this place was perhaps deliberately imbued?

“What is her name?” asked the guard.

“‘Laura’,” said my captor.

The guard then removed a marking stick from his wallet and I felt its soft point pressing into my left breast. I looked down at the markings, which, to me, were unintelligible. “There,” he said, “‘Laura’.”

“The others are not inscribed, as nearly as I can tell,” said my captor.

“The others are prize slaves,” said the guard. “This will distinguish this one from the others.”

“It is interesting,” said my captor, “that it would require a marking to make that clear.”

“I grant you,” said the guard, “you have a beauty here.”

How pleased I was to hear this unsolicited, casual appraisal. What woman, slave or free, does not wish to be beautiful?

If only my captor might see me so, I thought. How I had hoped he might find me of interest, the sort of interest a man feels for a woman he might buy. He had, of course, well pleasured himself with me, and frequently, on the return to Shipcamp, as a master may well pleasure himself with a slave. But, too, he had well taught me, with his perfunctory use of me, and his indifference, though I was crying with need, surrender, and helpless passion, that I was a meaningless pleasure object. What was he to do? In the forest I was the only slave available to him. I was no more than a local convenience for his lust, a convenience no farther from him than the length of my leash. How could I interest him, as a slave desires to interest a master? Had I been a free woman, perhaps I might have tortured him, and made him long for me, flirting, approaching and then backing away, demanding attentions and bargains, teasing, and taunting, implicitly bespeaking my favors, and then, perhaps with feigned surprise or scorn, withholding them. Might I not make my companioning, if I were interested in such, a prize in a game many might play, and from which, at my whim, I might withdraw? Might I not sell myself, on my own terms, as I saw fit, to the highest bidder, for station, and wealth? But there is no hurry in such matters. Lure, seem to promise, and then deny. What powers are at the disposition of the free woman! Is it not a pastime most pleasant, one of the more diverting of sports, and one which, with its anecdotes, stories, and amusements, is twice delightful, once in its enactment, and then, again, in its recounting? Accounts of such exploits surely afford the gist of many a meeting amongst oneself and one’s free sisters. Who is the most skillful player, she with the most victories, the most discomfited, shattered swains, she who is to be most admired, the most emulated, and perhaps the most envied? But I was not such a woman. I was a slave. No such tactics, pleasantries, and stratagems could be mine. We are at the disposal of the free. We must obey, instantly, and unquestioningly. A simple word, a gesture, a snapping of fingers may command us. Did I not learn that in the forest? We hasten to do the biddings of our masters. It is our hope that we will be found pleasing, fully pleasing, and, if not, we must expect to be punished. So the games of the free woman are far from the slave. Nor would I have cared for them. But, too, such games can be dangerous. Gorean men do not enjoy being trifled with. The same free woman who may have taunted with her veil, and the glimpse of a slippered foot, may later find herself stripped and collared, at the feet of some fellow who was wearied of her nonsense. Why do they behave so, I wondered? Do they want the collar?

“A common, mediocre slut, average collar-meat,” said my captor.

“But there are other matters involved,” said the guard.

“Political matters?” said my captor.

“Perhaps,” said the guard. “Is the banner still flying?”

“Yes,” said my captor.

“Water her,” said the guard, gesturing to the tank at the side. “Then secure her as you will within. I will send a slave to feed her shortly.”

I was then led to the tank.

“On all fours,” said my captor. “Drink.”

I went to all fours at the edge of the tank and put down my head, and drank. The leash went up, from the ring on my leash collar, to my captor’s hand. I was well aware of how I had been positioned, and was drinking. Might not a leashed sleen or verr be watered similarly? In such small ways may a slave be reminded that she is a beast, to be sure one of a sort likely to be of interest to men.

I was then taken to a ditch near the wall where I relieved myself.

“Now,” said he, “again, on all fours, and into the kennel.”

He then walked beside me as I made my way, on all fours, into the darkness of the kennel.

I recalled that my “keeping” was in his charge.

It took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the kennel, which was of stout planking, and logs.

There were empty blanket spaces but, too, there were several slaves within. As nearly as I could tell none were secured.

My attention, when my eyes became better accustomed to the light, was arrested by one slave who sat to the side, her head down, her long black hair over her knees, about which she had forlornly clasped both arms. She seemed an image of hopelessness, and misery. What struck me most about her was that she, of all the slaves in the stockade, was gowned. The gown was sleeveless, of course, for she was a slave, but its length, if she were to stand, must have fallen almost to her ankles. It was a slave garment, but it was not a tunic, not the common, brief garment in which masters place their girls to remind them that they are slaves and which, to the pleasure of men, leaves little doubt as to their purchasable charms, or the far more scandalous common camisk, outlawed in public in certain cities, both garments for which a slave will be grateful, and beg piteously to be permitted. Rather it was the sort of slave garment in which a matron might insist her slaves be clothed if she was entertaining her sons. I was sure it was the only garment the slave wore. Too, it would doubtless lack a nether closure. The only slave garment I knew which was permitted a nether closure was the Turian camisk. I did not understand why this slave, and not the others, was permitted a garment so tasteful and modest. A slave walked past her and said something to her, which caused her to raise her head, angrily. Two of the other girls laughed. The gowned slave, obviously, did not stand high in the kennel order. Surely, I thought, her gowning would be likely to produce contempt and amusement amongst her kennel sisters, if not actual envy and hostility. Perhaps, I thought, it is a joke that she is so garbed, a mockery of sorts. I wondered about the gowned slave, apparently so alone, and despised. What of nudity to mark out prize slaves, and diminish the possibility of their flight, I asked myself. Why is she not stripped, as the others? Then I realized she was more marked out, or as marked out, as the others. In such a gown she stood out prominently amongst them, and even amongst tunicked or camisked slaves. And, if she should slip it away, she would have no other, and would then be as easily noticed as any other stripped kajira.