Tribesmen of Gor

12 What Occurred in Tarna’s Kasbah; Hassan and I Decide to Take Our Leave from that Place

I rolled about, on my back, splashing in the water.

It was quite pleasant. The temperature of the water, perhaps, was a bit warm.

Also, it was perfumed. Yet I did not mind. It had been weeks since I had had a bath. I was appreciative of this hospitality in the male seraglio of the kasbah of Tarna, bandit chieftain of the Tahari.

“Hurry, Slave,” said the tall, dark-haired girl, bare-armed, in an ankle-length, flowing white garment. “The mistress will be ready for you soon.” She held four large, heavy snowy towels, each of a different absorbency. To one side another girl, clad similarly, was replacing bath oils in a rack, with which I had been rubbed prior to entering the second sunken bath. I had now rinsed them from my body, but I was not eager to leave the water. I reveled in it.

Hassan, in a brief, white-silk garment, sat cross-legged nearby.

“You do not appear too dismal,” said he to me.

“Is your mistress, Tarna, pretty?” I asked the tall dark-haired girl.

“Emerge and towel yourself,” said the girl.

“I can well use the bath,” I said to her, grinning.

“That is true,” she conceded. “Hurry!”

Four days ago, at dawn, Tarna, at the head of her men, left the Oasis of the Battle of Red Rock in flames. Only its citadel, its kasbah, had been impregnable. Its palm groves had been cut down, its gardens destroyed, four of its five public wells caved in and filled. The other well, by two many men, had been defended with too much vigor. There had been some four or five hundred raiders. When they left Red Rock their kaiila had been heavy with loot. Some forty female slaves, coffled, braceleted, had been taken. Two males, too, had been taken, myself and Hassan. As Tarna had left Red Rock, not looking back, straight in the saddle, burnoose swelling in the morning wind over the sand, I had marched beside her, stripped, wrists manacled behind my back, chained by the neck to her stirrup. Hassan, similarly secured, trudged at the stirrup of one of her lieutenants. Before the sun was high and the sands burning we reached her loot wagons, kept in the desert. There, Hassan and I, locked in slave hoods, and chained, were thrown into one of the wagons, with other loot. Even the female slaves, when fastened in their wagons, were hooded. The location of the kasbah of Tarna, bandit chieftain of the Tahari, her lair, was secret. We had reached its vicinity this morning, shortly after dawn. We, and the other prisoners, had been unhooded. Then, again, Hassan and I had been chained at stirrups. I at Tarna’s own, by her boot. “Where are we?” I had asked Hassan. The kaiila crop of a guard had struck me across the mouth. “I do not know,” had said Hassan. He, too, was struck. The female prisoners were ranged, in coffle, between two riders, one at the head and one at the foot of the chain, A chain from the neck of the first, some ten feet in length, ascended to the pommel of the lead guard; a chain from the neck of the last, some ten feet in length, ascended to the pommel of the guard bringing up the rear. They were marched this way that residents and the garrison of the kasbah, in the great yard, behind the gate, regardless of the side on which they stood, might, with unimpeded vision, see the flesh loot well displayed. The canvas covers of the wagons, too, were thrown back, that the goods taken at Red Rock could be seen in their abundance and richness.

As the raiders returned, from their column, by mirror, a signal was flashed to the kasbah. On receipt of this signal a pennon, a victory pennon, was raised on the gate tower. We saw the gate swinging open.

Suddenly Tarna kicked her kaii1a in the flanks and bolted from the column. The chain tore at the back of my neck and I was thrown from my feet and dragged through the brush and dust, twisting. She rode for a hundred yards and reined in the kaiila. “Have you stamina? Can you run?” she asked. I looked at her, coughing, covered with dust, cut by brush. “On your feet!” she said, her eyes bright over the purple veil. “I will teach you to crawl,” she said. I struggled to my feet. She walked the kaiila, then, widely circling, increased its pace, gradually, smoothly. “Excellent!” she cried. I was of the warriors. She increased the pace. “Excellent,” she cried, “excellent!” Even among warriors I had been agile, swift. My heart pounded; I fought for breath. More than a pasang she ran me into the desert. “Incredible!” she laughed. Then, laughing, she kicked the kaiila and I was again hurled from my feet, and wrists manacled behind me, was dragged, rolling, twisting, behind her. After a quarter of a pasang she let me regain my feet, then, cantering, I bloody and stumbling, body shaking, neck burning, vision black at the edges, returned to the head of her column; I sank to my knees in the dust below her stirrup; “Look up,” said she, “Slave”; I looked up; “I will make you crawl,” she said; then she said, “On your feet.” I got up. She seemed startled. She did not think that I could yet stand.

“You are strong,” she said. I felt the tip of her scimitar beneath my chin, forcing it up. “I enjoy running men at my stirrup,” she said. “You are strong. I shall enjoy taming you.” Then she turned in the saddle and, with her scimitar, indicated her distant kasbah. “Onward!” she cried, and the column, with loot and slaves, made its way toward the high, arched gate of her desert for-tress. To my interest I noted that this was but one of two kasbahs. Another, even larger, lay to its cast some two pasangs. I did not know to whom this larger kasbah belonged.

Soon Tarna, with her men, and loot and slaves, entered the great gate of her for-tress. She lifted her arms and scimitar, acknowledging the cheering.

“Hurry, Slave,” said the tall, dark-haired girt, bare-armed, in her ankle-length, flowing white garment. “The mistress will be ready for you soon.”

“Is your mistress pretty?” I asked her. I had not, because of the purple sand veil worn by Tama, which she had looped loosely about her face, well looked upon her. What I had seen of her seemed to me not only pretty, but beautiful. I bad little doubt that she was a proud, striking female. I had not been able, of course, to well judge, in her mannish garb, and burnoose, the lineaments of her body. The beauty of a woman can only be judged well when she is naked, as female slaves are sold.

“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,” snapped the dark-haired girl. “Hurry!”

“We have never seen our mistress,” said the other girl, in long garment, who was in charge of the bath oils.

“Hurry, Slave,” said the first girl, “or we will call the guards, to have you beaten!” She looked anxiously about. I had little doubt that it might be she who would be held responsible if I were not ready on time for the pleasure of the mistress. I saw the other girl laying out a light tunic of red silk, and a necklace of yellow, rounded beads, which I supposed way for me. “Get out now,” she said, “and towel yourself!”

I rolled back in the water. I had been well fed. I had slept much since morning.

I felt refreshed, and rested. I had a long kaiila ride before me tonight.

“What,” I asked the girl, “is the fate of the female slaves taken from Red Rock?”

“Even now,” she said, “under guard, in wagons, they are bound for the markets of Tor, where they will be sold.”

“Are there, then, few girls kept in the fortress?” I asked.

“Girls are kept, of course, some girls,” she said, “for the men.”

“Where?” I asked.

“On the lower levels of the kasbah,” she said.

“But you are not kept for the men?” I asked.

“Of course not!” she said, angrily.

There were several of Tarna’s males sitting about, in silken tunics, some with jewelry, curious about Hassan and myself. Some of them were rather sullen. The mistress had not, this night, chosen one of them for her evening’s pleasure. One of them, earlier, a fellow in a ruby necklace, had said, “I am more handsome, surely, than he,” referring to me. I supposed it were true. On the other hand, Hassan and myself had a certain advantage, I supposed, in freshness and novelty.

I was pleased that I had been selected for the night. I found the kasbah’s seraglio pleasant, but I did not wish to remain here longer than necessary.

“I do not understand how it is that I, Hassan,” Hassan had said, “was not first picked for the pleasure of the mistress.”

“Doubtless I am the most fascinating,” I said to him.

“There is no accounting for the taste of women,” he had said.

“That is true,” I said. “I have noted that Alyena much prefers you to me.”

“That is true.” he said.

“She is, of course,” I pointed out, “only slave.”

“It is true that she is only a slave,” he said, “but she, though slave, is an extremely intelligent young woman.”

“That is true,” I admitted. The slave raiders of the Kurii, the Others, selected, among other things, for high intelligence in their victims. Their two major criteria, as neither as I could determine, were femininity and intelligence. These two traits, hormonal and intellectual, almost always produce a vulnerable, fragile, alert, sensitive beauty, one almost ready for the collar.

Extremely intelligent, feminine girls, as most Goreans know, make excellent slaves, Goreans show little interest either in stupid women, though some are sexually attractive, or in mules. Stupid women are too stupid to be good slaves; mules are not even women. But the true female, the awakened, helpless prisoner of her instincts and blood, with a fine mind, a deep, lovely, sensitive mind, imaginative and inventive, is the one the Goreans want, head down, at their feet. What man would want his collar on anything less precious? “Yet, Tarna,” I suggested, “does not seem to be obtuse.”

“No,” he admitted. “That is true.”

“And it is I who have been first chosen,” I pointed out.

“There is no accounting for the taste of women,” be said. “Alyena,” be said, “who is better, prefers me.”

“I have not seen Tama stripped and tied at the slave ring,” I said. “I do not know if Alyena is better or not.”

“Let us assume she is,” proposed Hassan.

“Very well,” I said.

“She prefers me,” he said, “There is no accounting for the taste of women,” I said.

At this point I had been summoned by the two bare-armed, white-garbed girls, for my bath.

“Do you object, Ali?” asked one of the silken fellows.

“No, I do not,” snapped the girl in the white garment, with towels.

I had not understood, for a moment, to whom he might be speaking. The girl, however, had answered him. I recalled I had asked her if she were kept for the men, and that she had responded, angrily, “Of course not!” He had then asked, “Do you object, Ali?”

I swam to the side of the bath and looked up at her. “What is your name?” I asked.

She stepped back. “Ali,” said she.

“That is a man’s name,” I said. “Or a boy’s.

“My mistress,” said the girl, “gives me what name she pleases.” She was angry.

The fellow who had spoken before laughed.

“Be silent, Fina!” she snapped, sharply.

His face turned white. He put his head down. “Yes, Mistress,” he said.

“Fina,” I said to her, “is a woman’s name, or a girls.”

“It pleases the mistress,” said she, “to give us what names she pleases.” She glanced at the males about, in their silk. “Each,” said she, “all of them have such names, the names of girls.” She glared at Hassan, and myself. “You two, too, will be so designated!” Then she cried, “Go! Go to your alcoves, Slaves!

Go!”

The men, some of them frightened, with the exception of Hassan who sat, puzzled, by the side of the bath, scurried to their tiny alcoves.

The two girls, in white garments, as I had come to understand, were dominant in the seraglio, rather in the nature of eunuchs, imposing order upon it and keeping its slaves in harmonious discipline. Their word, imperiously delivered, with the confidence of unquestioned command, doubtless backed by the whips and scimitars of male guards outside, served as law to the inmates of Tarna’s seraglio; when they spoke, men obeyed; when they spoke sharply, men feared; in the seraglio, backed by the power of Tarna’s guards, these two beautiful women were dominant over the men; they, particularly the taller, dark- haired one, obviously despised the silken males in her charge; openly she held them, to their misery, in contempt.

We heard the outer gate of the seraglio, at the far end of the corridor, being pounded on.

“Hurry!” cried the girl. “They are coming for you! Get out! Towel yourself!”

I reached out and, from the bath, seized her right ankle. The other girl, she who laid out the red-silk tunic, the yellow beads, gasped. I looked up at the tall girl. “You do not wear a collar,” I said.

“No,” she said. Then she said, “Release my ankle, bold sleen!”

“This does not seem the ankle of a male,” I said. I held her fair ankle in my grip.

“Release me!” she said.

About the ankle there was, welded, an iron ring. “What is this?” I asked her.

“It is thus that Tarna marks her female seraglio slaves!” said the girl.

“Release me!”

The pounding was louder. “Release me!” she cried. “I will have you whipped!”

“But then I may not be ready in time for the mistress,” I said.

“I will have you beaten to the bone tomorrow!” she hissed.

“Then, tonight,” I said, “I will have to explain to the Mistress why I cannot much please her.”

The girl turned white. “You seduced me,” I explained.

“No! No!” she cried.

“What were you called as a woman?” I asked.

“Lana!” she cried out in agony. She tried to pull away. “Release me!”

We heard the outer gate, by guards, being opened. “They will be here in a moment!” she cried. “Please!”

I released her ankle, and lifted myself, dripping, from the bath.

She thrust the towels at me, almost in a frenzy. We heard the arriving guards outside the inner door conversing with those who guarded it.

“Towel yourself!” she said.

I lifted my arms. “Towel me, Lana,” said I.

“Sleen!” she cried.

I looked about at the seraglio. It was lovely. There were high separated, decorated columns, many arches, much carving, rich hangings, much tile, floors marbled and mosaiced, too. It was lofty, spacious, beautiful. I regretted I did not have more time to spend here.

“Sleen!” wept the girl, beginning to rub me with the first of the towels. “Help me!” she cried to the other girl, who was frightened.

“No,” I said. “Only you, Lana.”

Weeping, furious, Lana applied the towel to my body. “Oh!” she cried. For I then had her in my arms. I reached behind her body. She put her head back. “No!” she cried. “Are you mad? I am your seraglio mistress! No!” The garment, hooks broken, fell to her ankles.

“You do not have the body, either, of a male,” I observed.

“Please,” she wept.

I kissed her on each breast, for they were beautiful.

“I am your seraglio mistress!” she wept.

I kissed her fully on the mouth, holding her helplessly. “No,” I said, “you are only a beautiful slave girl.”

I released her and she, clumsily, in haste, applied the towels to my body. When she had finished she was at my feet, drying them. I lifted her to her feet and put her back against one of the cool, narrow marble columns supporting the arched roof of the seraglio. I stood close to her, our lips but an inch parted.

With my fingertips, on either side, I caressed the sides of her throat. “This throat,” I said, “is aristocratic and beautiful. It would look well in a collar.” Her eyes met mine. “I wish it wore yours.” she said, “-Master.” I kissed her.

I heard the bolt sliding back on the inner door. The other girl threw me the red-silk tunic and I slipped it on, dropping the yellow necklace inside the tunic.

The door opened. Two guards stood there, in purple and yellow burnoose.

“Is the slave ready?” asked one of the guards, looking about. “What is going on here?” asked the other, surveying the exposed beauty of Lana, the seraglio mistress. She, frightened, hands before her mouth, pressed back against the column.

“She is preparing to bathe,” I told them. I went to her and took her by the left arm, over the elbow, and the right ankle, and upended the beauty, headfirst, into the pool.

I glanced to Hassan, and to the other girl. “I shall return shortly,” I told him.

“Very well,” he said, edging toward the other girl.

“The mistress,” said one of the guards, “does not finish with her males shortly.”

Lana’s head, sputtering, blinking, emerged from the bath.

“She will tonight,” I told him. Then I turned to Hassan. “Be ready,” I told him.

“We have a long kaiila ride this night.”

“Very well,” he said. The guards looked at me as though I might be mad. He was now standing almost directly behind the other girl, she who had handled the bath oils.

“Let us hurry,” said I to the guards. “We must not keep the mistress waiting.”

“He is eager,” laughed one of the guards.

“He is a fool,” said the other.

Lana, dripping, head down, crawled from the bath. I saw Hassan measuring the distance between the two girls.

I led the way, swiftly, through the inner door of the seraglio. “Is your mistress pretty?” I asked one of the guards, who was hurrying to follow.

“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ he growled.

He bolted the door behind him, shutting and locking the seraglio from the outside. There were two guards, I noted, at the door. Down the corridor, some fifty yards of tile and hangings, there was the outer door. This was knocked upon, and, from the outside, opened. There were two guards there, too.

“Come now,” I said, “truly, is your mistress pretty?”

“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ said the guard.

“I am Tarna,” said the woman. She reclined on the wide couch, resting on one elbow, regarding me.

I looked about the room. I went to the window, and looked down, into the courtyard.

“The drop,” she said, “is some seventy feet.”

I examined the walls, the door.

“The door,” said she, “by the guards outside, opens only to my signal.”

“Come,” said she, “stand at the foot of my couch.”

“We are alone?” I asked.

“Guards stand outside the door,” she said, puzzled.

“That is acceptable,” I said.

I regarded her. “You are a strange slave,” she said. She reclined, resting, on one elbow. She wore a soft gown, flowing, yellow, long, of Turian silk; it was sheer and, with its deep neckline, and about the hips, well betrayed her. Her hair was black, and long, and rich, and well displayed against the yellow cushion behind her.

I was pleased to see that she was not as ugly as a sand sleen. I was pleased to see, contrarywise, that she was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were very dark.

“I own you,” she said.

“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me tonight,” I told her.

“You are a strange slave,” she said.

“There is another kasbah nearby,” I said, “one which lies within two pasangs.

Whose kasbah is it?”

“It does not matter,” she said. “Do you like being a slave?” she asked.

There were red silken sheets on the great couch, on which she reclined. At its foot there was a slave ring.

“It is my understanding, following merchant law, and Tahari custom,” I said, “that I am not a slave, for though I am a prisoner, I have been neither branded nor collared, nor have I performed a gesture of submission.”

“My bold slave,” she said.

I shrugged.

“Do you find me pleasing,” she asked, “out of mannish desert garb?”

I regarded her. “Yes,” I said.

In her hands I saw she held a kaiila crop. “I am mistress,” she said.

“You are quite beautiful,” I said. “You should be a slave girl.”

She put back her head and laughed. “Bold, bold slave.” said she. “I like you!

You seem different from the others. Perhaps I will not, even, give you a girl’s name.”

“Perhaps not,” I admitted.

“I have wondered, sometimes,” said she, “what it would be like to be a woman.”

“Surely you are a woman,” I said.

“Am I attractive?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“Do you know that, with a scimitar,” she asked, “I am quite skilled, more skilled than any man?”

“No,” I said, “I did not know that.”

“But I have wondered sometimes,” she said. “What it would be like to be a woman.”

I smiled.

“A true woman,” she said, “at the mercy of a man.”

“Oh?” I asked. I looked about the room. There were, here and there, in coffers, scarves, and, from which the hangings depended, suitable cords.

The guards would have to be dealt with.

Then her manner changed. She became arrogant, angry. “Serve me wine, Slave,” she said.

I went to the wine table and, from the curved vessel, poured a small cup of wine. I gave this to her. She sat, on the edge of the couch, and sipped it. Then her eyes became irritated. “Orders I gave,” said she, “that you were to be presented to me this night in yellow slave beads. I see that I must have the seraglio mistress beaten in the morning.”

“No,” I said. “I have them here, inside my tunic.”

“Put them on,” she said.

“No,” I said.

She put down the wine. “No?” she asked.

“No,” I said.

She laughed. “But I may have you whipped,” she said, “tortured, destroyed.”

“I doubt it,” I said.

“Kneel to the whip,” she said. She lifted the crop.

“No,” I said.

She stood back. She did not attempt to strike me. “I do not understand,” she said. “Surely you must understand that, in this room, in this kasbah, in the Tahari, you are mine, to do with as I please. I have complete power over you!

You are my slave, absolutely!”

“No,” I said.

“What a fantastic slave you are,” she said. “I do not know if I should have you killed or not.” She looked at me. “Are you not afraid?”

“No,” I said.

“You are different,” she said, “different from all the others. I must handle you carefully. I do not even know if it would be wise to break you, to make you cringe and grovel.” She seemed lost in thought.

I poured myself a small cup of the wine, and drank it, replacing the cup on the table.

“You are beautiful,” I said, looking at her. “Your lips,” I said, “are interesting.” They were a bit full, protruding, pouting. They would crush well beneath a man’s teeth.

“How is that?” she asked.

“It would be easy,” I said, “to bring blood from them in a master’s kiss.”

Her eyes flashed. “Go to the slave ring!” she hissed.

“No,” I said.

She stood back, as though stunned. “I will call the guards,” she said.

“Do so,” I suggested.

But it was clear she did not wish to do this.

“You do not obey me,” she said.

“You are the woman,” I said. “It is you who must obey.”

“Insolent sleen!” she cried, turning away, gown swirling. “Insolent sleen!” Then she faced me. “I shall call the guards, now,” she said, “to enter and destroy you!”

“But you will not then learn,” I said, “what it is to be a woman, a true woman-at the mercy of men.”

She went to the window angrily, furiously, and looked out, over the walls of the kasbah to the sands silvered by the light of the three moons. Overhead the stars were bright.

She turned to face me, fists clenched, her right fist on the kaiila crop.

“Surely you have been curious to learn, sometime, what it would be like to be a true woman-at the mercy of men.”

“Never!” she cried. “Never! I am Tarna. I do not have such thoughts! I am Tarna!

I am Tarna!”

She turned away, to the window.

“Call the guards,” I said.

She turned to face me. “Teach me to be a woman,” she said.

“Come here,” I said. She came and stood before me, angry. I put out my hand. She looked at it. Then slowly she put the long, supple, leather kaiila crop into my hand.

“Would you dare to strike me?” she asked.

“Certainly,” I said.

“Is it your intention to strike me?” she asked.

“If you do not obey,” I said.

“You would,” she said. “You would!”

“Yes,” I said.

“I will obey,” she said.

I threw the kaiila crop to one side, to the floor. It slid along the tiles. She watched it.

“Fetch me the crop,” I said.

She did so, and again placed it in my hand. “Turn about,” I told her. “Go to the couch, lie upon it.”

Her shoulders shook with defiance. But then she turned about, and went to the couch, lying upon it.

I let her lie there for a moment, I watched her eyes. I had little doubt, from her eyes, and her breathing, that if I were to touch her body, intimately, my hand would be hot and soaked with the helplessness of her arousal. Seldom had I seen a woman so ready.

Tarna, I gathered, had waited long to be a woman.

I threw aside the kaiila crop.

“Do you not want the crop,” she asked, “to discipline me?”

“Fetch it,” I said.

She rose from the bed, scarcely able to stand, bent over, so much was her need upon her.

“No,” I said.

She looked at me.

“On your knees,” I said. “In your teeth.”

She crawled to the crop and, putting her head down, sideways, took it in her teeth. She, on her hands and knees, brought it to me. I took it roughly from her mouth. “Get on the couch,” I told her.

“Yes, Warrior.” she whispered, again crawling upon the scarlet sheets. I put the crop beside the couch, at hand. I doubted that it would be necessary to use it.

I went to one of the coffers and picked out two scarves.

“What are they for?” she asked.

“You will see,” I told her.

I dropped them to the pillow beside her. “You made me fetch a kaiila crop,” she said, “on my hands and knees, and in my mouth, as though I might be a she-sleen.”

“You are a she-sleen,” I said. “You will be treated as one.”

“I am not in the habit,” she said, “of fetching kaiila crops in my teeth for men.”

“If you knew more men,” I said, “true men, the experience would be less unfamiliar.”

“I see,” she said.

“The she-sleen,” I said, “is a sinuous and beautiful animal, and very dangerous, one cannot show weakness with such an animal. They will turn and rend the master. One must keep them under perfect discipline.”

“And if one keeps the she-sleen under perfect discipline?” asked Tarna.

“Then,” said I, “it is a superb, and beautiful, and most pleasing pet.”

“And I am the she-sleen?” she asked.

“Yes.” I said.

“And,” she asked, “am I, your she-sleen, to be kept under perfect discipline?”

“Of course,” I said.

“You are a beast,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“If I were a she-sleen,” she said, snuggling back into the pillow, “I think I would like a master such as you.”

“You are a she-sleen,” I said.

“And you?” she asked.

“I am your master,” I said.

“Keep me under perfect discipline, Master,” she said.

“I will,” I said.

She looked up at me, her lips parted, her eyes bright.

“I give you my permission,” she said, “to do with me what you want.”

“I do not need your permission,” I said.

Her hands were beside her bead, on the pillow. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“You will see,” I told her. I stood beside the couch, looming over her, looking down upon her.

I saw she wished to say something. I waited. She rose up, on her elbows.

“I have never felt this way before,” she said.

I shrugged. I had no interest in her feelings.

“You are different from the others,” she whispered, “the docile, weak ones.”

“It is you, a female,” I said, “who is weak, and it will be you who will be docile.”

“A she-sleen?” she smiled.

“You are not truly a she-sleen,” I said.

“Oh?” she asked. “What am I, truly?”

“What do you feel like?” I asked.

“I have strange feelings,” she said. “I have never felt them before.”

She looked at me. “I feel, before you,” she said, “weak, vulnerable. I want to be overwhelmed by you, and held. I imagine a slave girl must have some such feelings, before a strong master.”

I smiled.

“You are so different,” she said, “so different from the others, the weak, docile ones.”

“It is you,” I told her, “who is weak.” I held her hands down, pinned, under mine, beside her head. She could not free herself.

“Yes,” she said, “I am weak.” She smiled up at me.

“And it is you,” I told her, “who will be docile.”

“Yes,” she said, “I will be docile.”

I freed her hands, and looked down at her.

“Yes,” she said, “I am helpless. I will be docile.”

“You would make a pretty slave,” I said.

“Would I?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.

“You will see,” I said.

“I beg your favor,” said she. “Warrior.”

“What do you want?” I asked.

“Tonight-please, Warrior,” she said, “tonight let me be truly as a female slave. Treat me not as your mistress, who owns you, but as only a slave girl, whom you own, at your mercy. Treat me as a slave girl! Please, Warrior, treat me as a slave girl!”

“Oh?” I asked.

“Teach me,” she begged, “to be a woman!”

“I do not have time,” I said.

She looked at me, wildly.

“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me this night,” I said. One of the scarves, which I had been surreptitiously wadding at the side, I thrust swiftly, deeply, into her mouth. She could not speak, but twisted, only tiny, fumbling sounds coming from her mouth. Kneeling across her, pinning her arms to her sides, I then, with the other scarf, tied the wadding securely in her mouth. Holding both her hands in my left hand I then dragged her from the couch to the side of the room where, with my right hand, I tore down some of the soft cords used to arrange the voluminous, decorative drapes and hangings which adorned the chamber. I then threw her to the slave ring and, with the cords, tied her wrists behind her back, and then, passing the cord through the ring, crossed and tied her ankles together, pulling them rather close to her bound wrists. I then put her on her knees, bound hand and foot, at the slave ring. She struggled to face me, squirming, her eyes wild with rage.

I looked to the door, considering the distance.

Swiftly I pulled the binding of the wadding free. I then, moving swiftly, so as to be in place, went to the door. Head down, furious, Tarna fought to expel the wadding, It took her a moment longer to do so than I had anticipated, but it did not disarrange my plans. She spit out the wet, heavy scarf. She threw back her head. “Guards!” she cried. “Guards!”

In a moment the door flew open and the two guards, scimitars drawn, entered the room.

They saw Tarna at the slave ring. They stopped, startled. I was behind them. I took the neck of each and, in the instant before they could react, struck together their heads, felling both.

I closed the door.

Tarna was looking at me, wildly. “You tricked me,” she cried, squirming at the ring.

I thrust the wadding back, deeply, in her mouth, securing it with the other scarf.

“Yes,” I said.

I dragged the two unconscious guards to the side. I took the garments of one, and tied both, gagging them, to one side. One of the luxurious hangings I flung over them.

I moved swiftly to the door, and, opening it a crack, reconnoitered.

I looked back to Tarna. She was enraged. She struggled. She had, of course, been bound by a warrior. She was helpless. Near the red silk I had cast aside, when donning the desert garments of the guard, on the tiles, I saw the vulgar, wooden, rounded, yellow slave beads, the necklace, which I had not chosen to permit being placed upon me.

Tarna shrank back. She shook her head. I scooped up the beads, which were in five strands, and, kneeling behind her, pulling down her gown a bit, from the shoulders, to better display them, fastened them tightly about her throat. I then set a large mirror across the room from her, that she might see how beautiful she was. “Do not struggle overmuch,” I warned her, “or, when your men come, they will find you stripped to the thighs.”

I could not make out what she said, but it is perhaps just as well.

“Perhaps I shall return someday,” I said, “to make you a slave.”

She squirmed in the cords, writhing, enraged, then stopped suddenly, furious; in another move she would have stripped herself.

I blew her a kiss, in the Gorean fashion, brushing the kiss with my fingertips towards her.

Her eyes were wild over the gag, furious, enraged.

Perhaps I would return someday and make her a slave. I thought that she would make a pleasing slave girl.

I shut the door upon her.

I made my way, swiftly, through the palace, recalling the way from my being conducted earlier to the boudoir of this kasbah’s chieftainess, the much-feared Tarna.

It was late and I encountered few guards. The sand veil was high about my face, as though I were a messenger incognito. The garments were sufficient to permit me passage.

At the outer door of the seraglio I demanded entrance, to fetch the slave, Hassan, to the quarters of Tarna.

I was admitted. At the inner door, I was challenged.

“I have this letter of passage,” I said, reaching into my cloak. The letter of passage was the back of my hand, flying up and to the right, while, at the same time, with my left fist, I drove into the diaphragm of the man on my left. He could make no sound, doubled up. Before the man on my right could recover, or unsheathe his weapon, I had struck him unconscious; I then, at my leisure, did the same with the other fellow. I gagged and tied both of them.

I then swung open the inner door to the seraglio.

“Greetings,” said Hassan.

“Greetings,” I said.

“Did all go well?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Is all in order here?” I asked.

“It seems so,” he said.

I heard the muffled sounds of the two seraglio mistresses, Lana and she in whose charge had been the oils of the bath.

They had been bound and gagged with strips of their white garments. They stood, naked, each backed against one of the slender, lofty, cool marble pillars which supported the roof of the seraglio; their wrists were fastened behind them, about the pillars. Each uttered tiny sounds of protest; their eyes were wild over their gags.

There was a reddish stain down the interior of the left thigh of the one girl, she who had handled the oils of the bath.

“She was virginal,” I remarked.

“Yes,” said Hassan.

“What of this one?” I asked Hassan, indicating Lana.

“I tested her,” said Hassan. “She, too, is virginal. I left her for you.”

Lana shrank back against the pillar.

“What have we here?” I asked. I noted one silken fellow, he with the ruby necklace, trying furtively to slip about the side of the room to the door.

He broke into a run, but I managed to trip him, and Hassan leaped upon him and carried him, squirming, to the bath. “We will be beaten,” whimpered the fellow.

“Give the alarm!” he shouted to his fellow males. Two or three stood about, but they did not cry out. Hassan took the fellow and threw him on his belly by the bath and held his head under water, for about an Ehn. When he pulled the fellow’s head up, he said to him, “You might be drowned in the bath. Such accidents can happen.” Then he thrust his head again under the water. When he pulled it up the second time the fellow cried out for mercy. Hassan threw him to two of the other males. “If be attempts to give the alarm,” said Hassan, “drown him.” “Very well,” said one of the other fellows. I gathered there was little lost affection for the fellow in the ruby necklace in the seraglio of Tarna. He was, I had learned, a weak fellow, an informer, one constantly alert to opportunities to ingratiate himself with the mistress who despised him, one of her most obsequious pets, held in contempt by all. “You may blame his drowning on us, of course,” said Hassan. “Naturally,” said one of the silken fellows. The fellow in the ruby necklace shuddered. “I will be silent,” he said. “You will be silent, or be silenced,” said one of the fellows. “Remember,” said another, “whatever happens, eventually, you will be put back with us.” “I will remember,” said the fellow. “I will do as you wish.”

“Take him to an alcove,” I said. “Bind and gag him. Then, too, retire to your alcoves.”

“Very well,” they said, retiring, taking with them the stumbling, miserable fellow in the ruby necklace.

The seraglio, then, seemed empty, silent. We heard the torches crackle. I looked again to Lana. She shrank back. She, the seraglio mistress, unprotected, bound, gagged, helpless, was alone with us.

“I left her for you,” said Hassan.

Swiftly I untied her hands and then retied them, so that they were above her head and behind it, fastened at the sides of the pillar. I then, lifting her, lowered her gently to the tiles. She squirmed, helplessly. By the ankles I pulled her as far from the pillar as the bonds on her wrists, fashioned by Hassan from strips from her white, removed clothing, would permit. She lifted one knee. I thrust her knees apart. She lifted her head, trying to put her gagged mouth against me. I saw pain in her eyes. I pulled down the gag, for a moment, and let her free herself of the wadding. “I love you, Master,” she whispered. “I love you!” I kissed her, thrust back the wadding, and regagged her.

I rose to my feet.

“You have ruined her, I judge,” said Hassan, “as an effective mistress of the seraglio.”

The girl was trying to put her leg against me, reaching for me. I took her ankle, and crouching, kissed it, on the top, and then pressed my lips to the bottom of her foot, near the instep, then beneath and behind the shin, then again, twice, near the bottom of the foot, at the instep.

I judged her responses, the movements of her eyes. “Yes,” I said, “I expect so.”

Lana lifted her body to me, helplessly. “I will guarantee, my dear,” I said to her, “that, hereafter, you will be given to men.” I then, with her virgin blood, on her belly, traced the Tahari slave mark. Seeing this, the mark of a free man’s satisfaction with her, I had little doubt that Tarna would dismiss her from the seraglio, sending her in chains to the lower levels, where, with low-order slave girls, she might be used to serve the lusts of her raiders.

Lana’s eyes shone with pleasure. I had found her acceptable. I had, furthermore, indicated this upon her flesh. She would now be done with the seraglio. She would now have to do with free men, with true men, she the slave. She lay bound and gagged, proudly. She stretched her body, as she could, luxuriantly, reveling in the sensation in her body and the feel of the coolness of the tiles upon her flesh.

I noted that Hassan, following my example, had also indicated his pleasure on the flesh of the other girl.

“We must leave soon,” he said.

“There are two guards outside the outer door,” I said. “They will expect me, soon, to bring you through.”

“Surely,” said he, “I should be better dressed for riding in the night.”

“One of the guards outside the outer door,” I said, “may perhaps be persuaded to loan you garments, weapons and accouterments.”

“He would be a good fellow, indeed,” said Hassan.

“They seemed to me good fellows,” I said.