Swordsmen of Gor

Chapter Three WE SUP WITH PERTINAX; CONSTANTINA

“Is she First Girl, Master?” asked Cecily, angrily.

“No,” I said. “If she were I would have you at her feet.”

“Hear that?” asked Cecily, angrily, of the other girl.

“Stir the soup,” snapped the other girl.

“Do not quarrel,” said Pertinax, affably.

Masters seldom interfere in the squabbles of slaves.

His slave, Constantina, cast him a dark look. I found that interesting. One had the sense she was not pleased with chores. Certainly she had done little, and had seen to it that Cecily had done much, even to the gathering of firewood.

Pertinax and I were sitting, cross-legged, waiting to be served.

His slave, Constantina, seemed to me unpleasant, irritable, even surly. Perhaps it was because of Cecily. It is not unusual when one attractive slave encounters another attractive slave in the vicinity of her master that certain frictions may occur. Both know, so to speak, that they are meaningless, and no more than luscious toys for men, toys which, to their misery, and fear, may easily be discarded or replaced, and, accordingly, they tend to be acutely jealous of the attentions of their masters.

Slave girls are not unaware of their effect on men, or of those of other slaves.

They are well aware that it is not only they, but others of their kind, as well, which constitute delectable, tempting morsels for any male appetite.

The female slave cast amongst strong men is not unlike steaming, juicy, roasted meat cast among ravening sleen.

Indeed, few females of Earth, from their experiences on their native world, have any understanding of what it would be to be a female amongst men such as those of Gor; few such females would be prepared in the least for the possessiveness and power, the virility and lusts, of such men, natural men, and masters; and few would anticipate how exquisitely desirable they would appear to such men, and few would suspect how helpless and vulnerable, too, they would find themselves in the midst of such men, particularly were their necks clasped in the collar of a slave.

And yet I had the sense that Constantina’s attitudes might not be typical of the common slave, fearing for the loss of the interest or attentions of her master.

Indeed, she seemed to show not only myself, a stranger, but her master little deference. I found it of interest that he, for his part, seemed to accept this. I found this tolerance on his part surprising, and her laxity incomprehensible. I could not have expected this in a Gorean domicile, and if, unaccountably, it had occurred, I would have expected the slave to have been subjected to a sharp, immediate discipline, that presumably to be followed by a period of punishment, perhaps being chained uncomfortably for several Ahn, perhaps being housed in a tiny slave box for a day and a night, perhaps being smeared with honey and then being staked out, naked, spread-eagled, for insects, or such. I wondered if our host were Gorean.

Her behavior, too, had seemed untypical, at least of a slave, when her master had arrived with company. Initially, I had wondered if her response might not have been more to be expected of an ill-tempered, unhappy wife of Earth, a common form of contractual partner, or a Gorean free companion, a pledged partner, should her husband, or companion, appear at supper time with unannounced, unexpected guests. But it had soon seemed to me that her annoyance was less that of being taken unawares, or unprepared, and finding herself at a loss, and being thusly embarrassed, as a simple disinclination to the work itself. It was less a social contretemps, it seemed, than an imposition, that she might be expected to work, at all. I had the distinct impression that she was such as to not only evade and resent the performance of various domesticities, even those that might be commonly expected of her, but was literally unaccustomed to them, as well. Perhaps, I thought, she is new to her collar. I wondered if Pertinax was Gorean. It is unusual for a Gorean male to accept laxity in a female slave.

I thought she might profit from a bout with the whip.

That implement is ideally suited to reminding a slave that she is a slave.

I wondered that he did not strip and tie Constantina, and then let her squirm, jerk, and weep, under the implement.

I thought she would profit muchly from its attentions.

Constantina seems a rather fine name for a slave, I thought. It is not unknown, of course, as a free woman’s name. It did seem pretentious for a slave.

Her tunic seemed a bit ample for that of a slave, as the hem of its skirt came to her knees, and the neckline was modestly high, though open enough to show the collar.

The tunic itself was heavier and richer, and more closely woven, than was typical of such garments.

It was almost as though she might have designed it not so much as the garment of a slave, as a garment designed to resemble that of a slave.

She seemed to have excellent legs. I wondered that her master had not then, in his vanity, chosen to show them off. Gorean masters tend to be very proud of their slaves, rather as men of Earth are proud of their dogs and horses.

I thought she was nicely figured, though the size, weight and texture of the tunic tended to conceal this to some extent.

The tunic would be slipped on, over the head. There was, accordingly, no disrobing loop at the left shoulder.

On the other hand the “strip” command may be obeyed, even so, with grace and alacrity. The garment is usually slipped back over the head as the girl kneels.

Even in response to a simple, direct command, as suggested, the girl is expected to be graceful. Clumsiness is not acceptable in a slave; she is not a free woman. She is quite different, you see; she is a slave.

There are, of course, a number of disrobing commands in Gorean, which are less curt and brutal than the direct, blunt, unadorned “Strip.” For example, one might hear “Remove your clothing,” “Bare yourself,” “Disrobe,” “Show me a slave,” “I would see my slave,” “Why are you clothed before me?” “Exhibit my property,” “Display yourself,” “You need not wear your tunic at the moment,” “Remove the impediments to my vision,” “You are lovelier stripped than clothed, are you not?” “What do I own?” “To the collar and brand, girl,” “How were you on the block?” And so on.

There was, as noted, a collar on her neck.

I wondered if it was locked.

I supposed so.

If locked, I wondered who held the key.

Surely not she, as she was a slave.

In her way, she was not unattractive, but that was to be expected, in one who was a slave, or expected to pass as a slave.

Personally, on the other hand, I thought most Goreans would not have bid on her, as, clearly, she was not yet slave soft, or slave ready. There are enormous differences among women in these matters.

Although, as I have suggested, she was not unattractive, it must be understood that this was in an Earth sort of way, the way in which many Earth females may be accounted attractive, attractive more in the sense of what they might become, how perhaps they might be, rather than in the sense of what they currently are. By this I mean, despite certain suitabilities of face and figure, she had something of the tightness, the apparent inhibitions, the uncertainties, and confusions, masked with the compensatory arrogance, nastiness, and insolence, of many Earth females, afflicted with the customary ambivalences toward their sex, comprehensible enough, one supposes, given their backgrounds, educations, and conditionings, their subjection to an environment seemingly engineered to produce, depending on a variety of circumstances, and the person, symptoms or tortures ranging from anxiety and neurosis to ill temper, misery, nastiness, pettiness, boredom, and depression.

“The soup is hot,” said Constantina. “Surely you can tell that, stupid slave. Hurry, wrap the tabuk strips on their skewers, and put them to the fire. Are the suls and turpah ready?”

“If my eyes do not deceive me,” said Cecily, testily, “my neck is not the only neck which is encircled with a slave band.”

Constantina drew back her hand, as though to strike Cecily, but she stopped, suddenly, angrily, as Cecily, eyes flashing, was clearly prepared to return the blow, or worse. Fights amongst slave girls can be very disagreeable, with rolling about, clawing, biting, scratching, and such. One is reminded somewhat of the altercations that sometimes take place between sleen, in territorial disputes, mate competition, the contesting of a kill, and so on. In such frays, in the tangling, snarling, twisting, and swirling about, it is sometimes difficult to tell where one beast leaves off and the other begins. It can be worth an arm to try to separate fighting sleen.

“Why not have her serve naked,” said Constantina. “Is that not commonly done with collared sluts?”

“Why not have them both serve naked?” I suggested.

Constantina turned white. Had she never served so, humbly, hoping to please, fearing the switch if she did not?

“No, no,” said Pertinax, soothingly.

Constantina’s color returned. She seemed shaken. I found this of interest. Did she not know that, as a slave, she was a domestic animal, as much as a verr or tarsk, and was not permitted modesty?

Cecily seemed pleased at this slight turn of events.

Constantina’s hair was blonde and her eyes were blue. Cecily was a dark-eyed brunette. Constantina’s hair was longer than Cecily’s hair, and Constantina was a bit taller than Cecily, and a bit thinner than Cecily. Both would look well at the end of a man’s chain. I supposed Constantina’s hair must be a natural blonde, as Goreans tend to be very strict about such things. Few slavers will try to pass off a girl as being, say, blonde or auburn-haired, if that is not the natural hair color of the slave. In some cases their stock has been confiscated by the city and their establishment burned to the ground. If a girl with dyed hair is brought to Gor her head is normally shaved in the pens, that it may grow back in its natural color. Most slaves, like Cecily, are brunette, except in the north, where blondes are more common. I wondered if Constantina had been purchased in the light of someone’s notion of what might constitute an attractive slave. If this were the case, I was surprised an auburn-haired girl had not been chosen, as auburn hair tends to be prized in most markets. I wondered if Constantina’s buyer had been aware of that. To be sure, he might have found such women appealing, blondes, personally, for some reason. There is a supposition amongst some buyers that blonde slaves tend to be more sexually inert, and less pathetically needful in the furs, than dark-haired slaves, but this supposition is mistaken. Whatever the case may be initially, once the slave fires have been lit in a woman’s belly, whatever her coloring, and such, you have a slave at your feet. The blonde can whimper, beg, and crawl as needfully as any other slave.

It is pleasant to have women so, at one’s feet.

To be sure, a woman whose slave fires have not been ignited may have little understanding of this sort of thing, little understanding of the needs, sensations, miseries, and torments to which their embonded sisters are subject.

It is little wonder then that free women commonly hold female slaves in contempt, despising them for their needs.

How weak they are, they think.

But how alive they actually are!

And how the free woman, fearing to explore the edges of her consciousness, uneasily, perhaps angrily, perhaps inconsolably, senses how much she is missing, herself, to be found only in the arms of a dominant male, a master!

I glanced about the hut. I saw no slave whip on its convenient peg. This seemed an odd omission in a Gorean dwelling, at least one in which there was a slave, or slaves. It is not that the whip is often used. Indeed, normally, it is seldom, if ever, used, for there is no call for it. The girl knows it will be used if she is in the least bit displeasing, and so there is seldom a call for it. That it is there, and it will be used, if the master sees fit, is usually all that is necessary to keep it securely on its peg.

I had the sense that his slave, Constantina, was surly. It was almost as though she were distempered, to be expected to attend to her duties. I wondered if she attended to the hut, the firewood, and such, at all. Did Pertinax himself, our supposed forester, attend to such things? Were there other slaves about?

“I suppose,” I said to Pertinax, “you obtain little news here, so far from Port Kar.”

“One hears things occasionally,” he said. “Transients, like yourself, a coastal peddler, the arrival twice yearly of an inspector and scribe, to review the trees, to inventory the reserves.”

“You suggested earlier,” I said, “that things might have changed in Ar?”

“Did I?” he asked.

“I think so,” I said.

“A surmise,” he said, “based on the appearance of many intruders.”

“Surely harvesters, loggers, and such, come occasionally to cull the forests.”

“Of course,” he said, uneasily I thought.

“When will they be due?” I asked.

“One does not know,” he said. “It is intermittent, depending on the needs of the arsenal, of the fleet.”

“The fellows who disembarked from the ship,” I said, “did not seem harvesters, loggers, or such.”

“No,” he said. “Not they.”

“Who are they?” I asked. “What is their business?”

“I do not know,” he said.

“The logs must be taken to the coast, for shipment,” I said.

“Of course,” he said.

“I saw no track amidst the trees, no road,” I said.

“It is elsewhere,” he said.

“I saw no stables for draft tharlarion,” I said.

“They are elsewhere,” he said.

“I am surprised there are no crews here, sawyers and carpenters, to dress and shape the wood, to cut planks and joints, such things.”

“It is not the season,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

I had then more evidence that our friend, Pertinax, and perhaps his slave, Constantina, were not what they pretended to be. For one who did not know the ways of Port Kar, it would be a natural assumption, one I pretended to make, that dressing crews would shape and plank a great deal of the wood before shipping it to the south. Indeed, I had often thought that that would be a sensible practice. On the other hand, the artisans of the arsenal, under the command of the master shipwrights, attended to these matters in the arsenal itself. The rationale for this, as it had been explained to me, was that each mast, each strake, each plank, each article of the ship, was to be shaped and customized under the supervision of the arsenal’s naval architects. Accordingly, it would be rare, if it was allowed at all, given the practices of Port Kar, and perhaps the vanity and arrogance of her craftsmen, intending to control to the greatest extent possible every detail of their work, to allow this carpentry to take place in a remote venue in which they had no direct supervision.

I would learn later, however, something earlier suspected, that something along these lines was taking place within the forest itself, outside the reserves, some pasangs to the south.

It had to do with the intruders, and the river, the Alexandra.

And it had little to do, I conjectured, even then, with the reserves of Port Kar and the needs of her arsenal.

“Foresters,” I said, “normally cluster their huts, in small palisaded enclaves, but I saw no other huts here, nor a palisade.”

Constantina cast a swift glance at me, and Pertinax looked down.

“The village is elsewhere,” he said. “This is an outpost hut, near the coast, where we may watch for round ships.”

“I see,” I said.

The “round ships” are cargo ships.

The Gorean “round ship” is not round, of course, though the Gorean would translate as I have it. It is merely that the ratio of keel to beam is greater in the long ship, or ship of war, more length of keel to width of beam, than in the “round ship.”

The round ship is designed for the carrying of cargo. The long ship is designed for speed and maneuverability. It is like a knife in the water.

“You are of the warriors, I take it,” said Pertinax.

“Why should you think so?” I asked.

“You carry yourself as a warrior,” said Pertinax. “Also, your weapon seems such as theirs.”

It was the Gorean short sword, or gladius, light, easily unsheathed, convenient, designed for wickedly close work, to move behind the guard of longer, heavier weapons, to slip about buffeted shields or bucklers. It was pointed for thrusting, double-edged for slashing. Lifted and shaken it could part silk.

“I have fought,” I said.

“You could be a mercenary,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“But I think you are of the warriors,” he said.

“Perhaps of the assassins,” I said.

“You do not have the eyes of an assassin,” he said.

“What sort of eyes are those?” I asked.

“Those of a fee killer, an assassin,” he said.

“I see,” I said.

“You are a tarnsman, are you not?” asked Pertinax.

“I have not said so,” I said.

“But you are, are you not?”

“I have ridden,” I said.

“Those who know the tarn are not as other men,” he said.

“They are as other men,” I said. “It is merely that they have learned the tarn.”

“Then they are different afterwards,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“If they have survived,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

Many have died learning the tarn. The tarn is a dangerous bird, aggressive, carnivorous, often treacherous. The wingspan of many tarns is in the neighborhood of forty feet. Humans are small beside them. Many human beings will not approach them. It, like many wild beasts, can sense fear, and that stimulates its aggression. In facing a tarn a human being has little but will to place between himself and the beak and talons. To be sure many tarns are domesticated, so to speak, raised from the egg in the vicinity of humans, taught to expect their food from them, accustomed to harnessing from the age of the chick, and so on. In the past domestic tarns were sometimes freed, to hunt in the wild, and later to return to their cots, sometimes to the blasts of the tarn whistle. That is seldom done now. A hungry tarn is quite dangerous, you see, and the reed of its domesticity is fragile. There is no assurance that its strike will be directed on a tabuk or wild tarsk, or verr. Too, it is not unknown for such tarns to revert, so to speak. I think no tarn is that far from the wild. In their blood, it is said, are the wind and the sky.

I thought of a tarn once known, a sable monster, whose challenge scream could be heard for pasangs, Ubar of the Skies.

There had been a woman, Elizabeth Cardwell, whom I, for her own good, had hoped to rescue from the perils of Gor, and return to Earth, but she had fled with the tarn, to escape that fate. When the tarn returned I drove him away in a foolish rage. I had encountered the tarn again, years later, in the Barrens, and we had again been one, but at the end of local wars I had freed him again, that he might again take his place as the master of a mighty flock, that he might be again awing in broad, lonely skies, be again a prince amongst clouds, a lord amongst winds, that he might be again regent and king ruling over the vast grasslands he surveyed.

The woman, predictably, had fallen slave.

Encountering her I had left her slave.

I had encountered her again, later, in the Tahari.

Once, I would have given her the gift of Earth, returning her to the liberties, such as they are, of her native world, but she had fled. She had chosen Gor. It had been her choice.

Where was she now?

She was now in a collar, where she belonged.

I supposed I should sell her, perhaps to the mercy of Cosians, or into the beaded leather collars of the Barrens, or perhaps south to Schendi. Those of the Barrens and Schendi know well what to do with white female slaves.

She had made her choice.

She had wagered. She had lost.

She looked well, as other women, in her collar.

“But you are a tarnsman, are you not?” persisted Pertinax.

“I have ridden,” I said. I was not clear why this might be important to him.

“I think the tabuk strips, the suls and turpah, the soup, all, must be ready,” said Pertinax. “Let us have supper.”

The hut was now redolent with the odors of which, for a forester, at least, must have seemed a feast.

“There is paga,” said Pertinax.

“Of the brewery of Temus of Ar?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Pertinax.

“It must be rare in the forests,” I said.

“Yes,” said Pertinax.

“It is my favorite,” I said.

“I am glad to hear it,” said Pertinax.

“Serve the men, slave,” said Constantina.

Cecily looked at her, startled.

“Surely you will both serve,” I said.

“He is right,” said Pertinax, cautiously. It seemed he might be afraid to incur the displeasure of the slave.

Angrily, Constantina went to the side to fetch trenchers and utensils, to assist Cecily, who was already, ladle in hand, at the kettle, apportioning servings into two bowls, forward. Two other bowls were in the background, which might do for the slaves, later, were they given permission to eat. The first food or drink is always taken by the master, but, commonly, following this, the slave receives permission to share in the meal.

Cecily, kneeling, head down, placed one of the bowls before Pertinax, which was proper, as he was the host. I was then similarly served.

Constantina, irritably, was placing food on the trenchers, flinging it onto the simple, wooden surfaces. I noted that she was sharing out, already, four trenchers. How did she know she would be given permission to eat? I noticed she put very little on one of the trenchers. I supposed that was the one for Cecily. This irritated me. Cecily after all, was the slave of a guest. I don’t think Cecily noticed, at the time. She did later.

“You have a Home Stone here somewhere?” I said to Pertinax. Usually the Home Stone is displayed in a place of honor. I did not, however, detect its presence. In his own hut, if it has a Home Stone, it is said that even a beggar is a Ubar.

“This is an outpost hut,” said Pertinax, “a temporary place, a mere domicile of convenience. I have no Home Stone here.”

“But elsewhere?”

“My Home Stone,” he said, “is the Home Stone of Port Kar.”

“Of course,” I said.

I noted Constantina take a bit of meat from one of the trenchers, presumably her own. Cecily had carefully, earlier, removed the tabuk strips from their skewers and had laid them on a plate to the side. From that location Constantina had selected hers, and later, those for others. The suls and turpah, too, had been put to the side, for servicing onto the trenchers.

Constantina must have noticed my eyes on her. She put down her trencher, on a small stand to the side, and, bending down, handed a trencher to Pertinax.

“Thank you,” he said.

That was interesting, I thought. He had thanked one who was merely a slave.

She then fetched another trencher, mine, it seems, and brought it to my place, and, bending down, put it toward me, for me to take it. I did not, however, take it.

She looked at me, puzzled, irritated.

“On your knees,” I said to her, unpleasantly.

She cast me a look of fury.

“Kneel,” I said to her.

She looked at Pertinax, angrily, but he merely smiled.

“Now,” I said.

Angrily she knelt beside me, clutching the trencher. Her knuckles were white.

I had repeated a command. It should not be necessary to do that. Such is cause for discipline. Cecily looked frightened. Slaves, of course, are to obey immediately, and unquestioningly. Exceptions to this practice should occur only if the slave has not heard the command or does not understand it. If the masters should ask, “Must a command be repeated?” the slave knows that she is in jeopardy; at the least, the master is thinking, “Whip.” At such a point, the slave will doubtless do her best to make it clear to the master, honestly, that she did not hear the command or does not understand it. “Please be merciful, Master,” she might plead. “I did not hear Master.” Or, say, “Your girl desires to please, but she does not understand what she is to do. Please tell her, Master.” The girl might, of course, honestly suspect that the master did not say himself as he intended. An inquiry in such a case, is simple, and should clarify matters. She might, of course, beg permission to speak, and attempt to discuss or review the command, perhaps if she fears the command might have been ill considered, perhaps contrary to the master’s own best interests. For example, it would not be regarded, or, perhaps better, should not be regarded, as a breach of discipline if the slave were to remonstrate against, or at least question, the advisability of a master’s putting his own life or welfare in jeopardy. Few slaves will happily bring a master his cloak if he is in no condition to walk the high bridges, or, more dangerously, enter for some reason unarmed amongst enemies. In the end, of course, the master’s will is definitive. It is for the slave to hear and obey. In all such matters, ideally, however, common sense and judgment should hold sway.

“Head down,” I said to Constantina.

She put her head down, before me.

I waited for a few moments, and then took the trencher. “Draw back,” I said to her. “And wait, kneeling.”

She moved back a little, regarding me with fury, but obeyed.

“You look well on your knees,” I said.

She made a tiny, angry noise, but remained as placed.

I glanced to Pertinax, to see if he objected to my treatment of the slave. But his eyes were alight. I wondered if he had never seen his own slave so.

I wondered if she were a slave.

Pertinax was not a forester.

“Perhaps the slaves may now feed,” said Pertinax.

“Surely,” I said.

It was at that time that Cecily, regarding her trencher, first became aware of its lightness. Constantina had given her little, and, I suspected, that little was not of the best.

After a bit I snapped my fingers that Cecily should approach me, and then, bit by bit, as she knelt by me, and extended her head, delicately, I fed her. She was not to use her hands, of course. Such homely practices remind the slave that she is dependent on the master for all things, not only for her collar, her clothing, if any, and her life, but even the tiniest morsel of food. Bit by bit I fed Cecily and watched her take the food gently, delicately, between her small, fine white teeth. Some of the sul I let her lick from my fingers.

I stole a glance at Pertinax, and noted that he, as I had suspected would be the case, was almost aflame with admiration and awe, with delight and envy. To have a beautiful woman so at one’s mercy, so much in one’s power, so much one’s own, fills a man with triumph and joy, even with exultation. He then begins to understand what it can be, to be what he is, a man. To be sure, Goreans take this sort of thing much for granted.

Cecily took the food gratefully from me, and seemed almost dreamily content. Sometimes, head down, she kissed softly at my hand, and fingers.

“Slave, slave!” hissed Constantina.

“Yours, Master,” Cecily whispered to me.

“Slave!” cried Constantina.

“Perhaps,” I said to Pertinax, “you might similarly feed your girl.”

“Never!” said Constantina.

“That will not be necessary,” said Pertinax.

“Perhaps it is time for paga,” I said.

Pertinax made as though to rise, but I motioned him to remain as he was, and he, with a glance at Constantina, a glance almost apologetic, resumed his position.

“Cecily,” I said.

She rose, and went to the side. In a moment she had removed the lid from the vessel, set it aside, and half-filled two goblets. One she placed where Constantina might reach it, and the other she brought to my place, holding it, and knelt there. She lifted her eyes to me, to see if the serving ritual might begin, but my eyes cautioned her to wait.

I glanced back at Constantina, where she knelt, seething with rage, with humiliation.

“Is she a pleasure slave?” I asked Pertinax.

“Scarcely,” he said, almost laughing, as though the idea were somehow preposterous.

Constantina cast him an ugly glance.

I had told from her manner of kneeling, of course, that she was not a pleasure slave. There are a variety of ways in which a pleasure slave may kneel, but the most common is back on her heels, knees spread, back straight, head up, the palms of her hands down, on her thighs. Sometimes, when her needs are muchly upon her, she may kneel muchly like that, save that her head may be lowered humbly, daring not to meet the eyes of the master, and the backs of her hands, not the palms of her hands, may be down on her thighs, which exposes the delicate palms of the hands to the master, a lovely hint of hope and petition. As is well known the small, soft palms of a woman’s hands are sensitive and alive with nerve tissue, though far less so than what they are symbolizing, the moist, pleading tissues of her begging, heated belly.

“Any woman can be made a pleasure slave,” I informed Pertinax.

“I should like to think so,” he said.

A tiny, angry noise escaped Constantina.

“Where is your whip?” I asked Pertinax.

“I have none,” said Pertinax. “It is not necessary.”

“You are mistaken,” I said.

“Would you dare to whip me?” asked Constantina.

“Were you given permission to speak?” I inquired.

“She has a standing permission to speak,” said Pertinax, hastily.

“In her case, that may be a mistake,” I said.

Pertinax was silent, and looked away.

“Would you dare to whip me?” persisted Constantina.

“That is for your master to do,” I said.

“He dares not do so,” she said, haughtily.

“Why not?” I asked.

“Let us have paga,” said Pertinax, quickly, affably.

“Serve your master,” I said to Constantina.

She seemed startled, but no more so, I think, than Pertinax.

I gathered that this relationship, the ritual serving of drink to the master by a slave, was unfamiliar to them.

By now it was overwhelmingly clear that Constantina’s relationship to Pertinax was not that of a slave to her master, even should she be a slave, perhaps in some legal sense.

She picked up the goblet.

“Both hands,” I informed her.

She put both hands on the goblet.

The justification for this grasp is practical and aesthetic, practical in the sense of assuring greater control of the vessel, and aesthetic, having to do with symmetry, and a framing of the slave’s beauty. But, too, in this fashion the position of the slave’s hands is clear. No hand is free, for example, to grasp a dagger, or slip powder into the drink. Long ago, in Turia, it is said that a free woman, armed with a dagger, disguised as a slave, attempted to assassinate a Ubar in his cups. Fortunately for the Ubar the attack was botched. Unfortunately for the would-be assassin, she failed to make her escape. It seems her anonymous employers had had no intention that she should escape, as arrangements for such a withdrawal might have been dangerous, and might have resulted, should confederates be captured, in the exposure of their identities. Fleeing, she had found doors locked before her. Captured and put under the iron, the Ubar would later find much pleasure in her. Too, as she had been of high family in Turia, her public bondage, exposure in triumphs, and such, afforded the populace much delight. No longer carried in her sedan chair by slaves, for whom citizens must make way, she was now less than a tarsk in the city. Surely she had been chained in more than one paga tavern. One wonders why a woman would have risked so much. One wonders if there are secret wheels, and springs, and engines, deep in the mind and heart, which impel one to travel fearful, beckoning roads. One wonders why some women place themselves at risk, why they undertake hazardous journeys and voyages, why they walk the high bridges at night, such things. Perhaps she was, in her way, courting the collar. If so, she found it. It is hard to understand the mind, and even harder, one supposes, to understand the heart.

In any event, both hands are to be on the goblet.

She rose to her feet, holding the goblet with both hands. She approached Pertinax. She bent down, and, irritably, extended the goblet to him.

“On your knees,” I told her.

Angrily she knelt.

Pertinax much enjoyed, I could tell, having her on her knees before him. How right she looked.

I wondered if, somewhere, there might not be a man in Pertinax.

Again, she extended the goblet to Pertinax.

“No,” I said to her.

“I am on my knees,” she snapped. “What more do you want?”

“Have you never served wine or paga to a man?” I inquired.

“What do you want?” she asked.

“Cecily,” I said, “it seems we have here an ignorant slave. Instruct her.”

“I, too, Master,” she said, “am ignorant. I am little trained.”

“That is true,” I said, “but do what you can.”

“I will not be instructed by a slave,” said Constantina, adding, quickly, “such a slave.”

“Then you will be stripped and instructed by my belt,” I said.

“I protest,” said Pertinax.

“You have no Home Stone here,” I said.

“It is my hut,” he said.

“I am not sure of that,” I said.

“You are not my master,” she said. “You cannot whip me!”

“Are you sure of that?” I asked.

“No,” she said. She then looked at me uncertainly. Perhaps for the first time she sensed she was looking into the eyes of a man who could bring the whip to her back and legs. I saw she was trying to deal with this thought. Too, I saw a flicker in her eyes, perhaps of fear, but, too, perhaps of something else, as well.

She had never before been, I suspected, subject to a male.

Certainly one does not go about punishing the slaves of others, though free women tend to be rather free in this regard, and most Goreans are not above reprimanding errant slaves, whether their own or those of others. An errant slave girl is not above being, say, knelt and cuffed by a free person. Do not all slaves call free men “Master,” and free women “Mistress”?

Too, Constantina was clearly in need of discipline, and I suspected I might be willing to make an exception to my general reservations in her case.

To be sure, if she were a free woman, the whip would not do at all. Free women on Gor, as on Earth, are free to do much what they wish, with little or no fear of consequences. They are free to do almost anything, without fear of punishment. This indulgence and latitude are not extended, of course, to the slave.

“Master?” asked Cecily.

“Begin,” I said to her.

“You are before your master,” said Cecily. “Split your knees.”

I sensed Cecily would enjoy this.

“Never!” said Constantina.

“Now, slave!” snapped Cecily.

Constantina threw me a pleading glance, but I fear she found little comfort in my gaze.

“Ai!” said Pertinax, softly.

Constantina knelt before him, her knees spread, in the position of a Gorean pleasure slave. I gathered he had never had this woman so before him.

Obviously he, if not Constantina, was muchly pleased.

“Press the metal of the goblet to your belly,” said Cecily. “Press it in there, so that you can feel it. Really feel it, the metal against your belly. Surely you understand this, the metal against your belly. More. Better. More. Good. Now, to your breasts, softly but firmly. Feel the metal.”

There was a change in the breath of Constantina. She cast me a glance, almost piteously. I think she did not understand her sensations.

“Look at your master, not mine,” said Cecily, unpleasantly.

Constantina turned to Pertinax, unwillingly, it seemed, the goblet at her breasts.

“Now,” said Cecily, “lift the goblet to your lips, and, gazing over the rim at your master, kiss the goblet, tenderly, and lick it, lovingly, lingeringly, for he is your master, and he is permitting you, a mere slave, to serve him. Keep your eyes on your own master, slave!”

Constantina turned back to Pertinax.

Then she put down her head, frightened, for perhaps it was the first time she had seen him regard her as what she was, or supposedly was, a slave.

“Now,” said Cecily, “extend your arms, holding the cup, to your master, and put your head down, humbly, between your extended arms.”

This is, of course, a beautiful sight.

Pertinax, it seemed, would almost forget to accept the cup. Perhaps he was unwilling to let the moment go. Then he accepted the cup, and drank.

“Thank you,” he said.

“You do not thank her,” I informed him. “It is a great honor and privilege for a slave to be permitted to serve her master. Too, it is what she is for.”

“True,” said Pertinax.

“That was not so hard, was it, girl?” I asked Constantina.

“No,” she said.

“No, what?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “— Master.”

“You may now draw back,” I said, “but you will remain in the vicinity, kneeling. You may be required later.”

“‘Required’,” she said, uncertainly.

“For further serving,” I said.

“Yes,” she said, “— Master.”

Pertinax seemed unable to take his eyes from her. I wondered what their relationship might be.

“May I serve Master paga?” inquired Cecily.

“Yes,” I said, and she served me paga, and well. I trusted Constantina was attentive.

How incredibly beautiful was the former Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym!

Then she withdrew, a bit, to kneel in the background, where, unobtrusively, she would be at hand, should she be needed, or wanted, or desired. The slave does not withdraw from the master’s presence without permission.

I finished the paga and set down the goblet.

“I thank you for your hospitality,” I said to Pertinax.

“It is nothing,” he said. “I hope you will stay the night.”

“The others, I gather,” I said, “have not yet arrived.”

“What others?” he said.

“I do not know,” I said.

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Perhaps we should talk,” I said to Pertinax.

“Remain as you are,” I said to Constantina, for it seemed she stirred, and would have risen to her feet.

She was not accustomed, it seemed, to obeying men. I found this odd, as she had a collar on her neck.

“By all means,” said Pertinax, uncertainly. “But talk of what?”

At that moment, far over the roof, high, outside the hut, far overhead, there was a thunderous noise. It was like a sudden, passing surf, a storm in the sky. It lasted no more than a part of an Ehn.

“Master?” said Cecily, startled.

Constantina seemed frightened.

Perhaps she had at one time seen tarns.

I did not leave my place.

“Migratory tarns,” said Pertinax.

“The tarn is not a migratory bird,” I said.

“Forest tarns,” he said.

“Tarns are of the mountains and the plains,” I said. “They do not frequent the forests. They cannot hunt in them, for the closeness of the trees.”

“Perhaps it was thunder,” he said.

“You may be unfamiliar with the sound,” I said, “but I am not. That was the passage of several tarns, perhaps a tarn cavalry.”

“No,” he said, “not a cavalry.”

“Not one disciplined, at any rate,” I said.

In a tarn cavalry the wing beats are synchronized, much as in the pace of marching men. Normally this is facilitated, unless surprise is intended, by the beating of a tarn drum, which sets the cadence. One of the glorious sights of Gor is the wheeling, the maneuvering and flight, of such cavalries in the sky, a lovely sight, in its way not unlike that of a fleet of lateen-rigged galleys abroad on gleaming Thassa, the sea.

“A very large band of mercenary brigands?” I suggested.

“They are not mounted,” said Pertinax.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“Do not speak,” snapped Constantina. “Be quiet, you fool!”

Pertinax subsided, and looked down.

I rose to my feet and went to my things, gathering in some few articles, and then returned to face Constantina, where she knelt. I took her by the hair and, as she cried out, twisted her about and threw her to her back, and knelt across her body. She squirmed, helpless, pinioned. She looked up at me, wildly, protestingly, frightened, as I thrust the wadding into her mouth, and then, turning her to her belly, secured it in place behind the back of her neck. I then, with binding fiber, as she lay on her belly, lashed her wrists together behind her back, tightly, and so served her ankles, as well, which I then bound, high, to her wrists. Such a tie is very unpleasant. I then lifted her in my arms, carried her outside, and threw her to the leaves, in the darkness, some feet from the hut entrance. I then returned to the hut, and resumed my place, cross-legged, across from Pertinax.

“I have no interest in killing you,” I said to Pertinax, “but I think we should talk.”

“By all means,” he said.

“I doubt that you are Gorean,” I said. “Certainly you are not of Port Kar, and you are not a forester. My slave and I were set down on the beach, doubtless to be met. You arrived, supposedly, as a matter of coincidence. I do not believe that. Whom do you serve?”

“Men,” he said.

“Priest-Kings? Kurii?” I asked. Certainly Priest-Kings knew the coordinates for the landing of the ship of Peisistratus, but, so, too, it seemed possible, did Kurii. Certainly the coordinates had been transmitted through Kurii to Peisistratus.

“I know nothing of Priest-Kings and Kurii,” said Pertinax. “Are they not mythical?”

“No,” I said.

“Men,” repeated Pertinax.

“Men who serve Priest-Kings, or Kurii?” I asked.

“Men,” he said. “I know nothing more.”

“I think you do not fear the intruders in the forest, those who come in ships,” I said. “I think you understand them.”

He said nothing.

“Explain to me the tarns,” I said.

“They are from Thentis,” he said, “most of them, some from elsewhere.”

Thentis is a high Gorean city, east and north of Ko-ro-ba. It is famed for its tarn flocks.

One thinks of “Thentis, Famed for her Tarn Flocks,” rather as one thinks of “Glorious Ar,” of “Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning,” of “Port Kar, Jewel of Gleaming Thassa,” and so on.

“How do you know they were not mounted?” I asked.

“They are raised, but are young, and not trained,” he said. “Few but hardy tarnsters, or tarnsmen themselves, would dare to approach them in their present state. They are linked together by long ropes. They are being delivered to a rendezvous, in the forest.”

“Near the Alexandra,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, startled.

“There is a mystery here,” I said. “What is its nature?”

“I know little of it,” said Pertinax, “but I can link you with those who do.”

“As you did not discourse with me of these things,” I said, “I gathered that there were others who could, for whom you were waiting.”

“They are in the forest,” he said. “They will not be coming here. I will take you to them, in two days.”

“Your slave,” I said, “is badly in need of discipline.”

“As she has been treated this evening,” he said, “I think she is more aware than hitherto that she is a female.”

“It is unfortunate,” I said, “that some women must be reminded of that.”

“She thinks of herself as a man,” he said.

“She is mistaken,” I said. “Her thinking must be corrected.”

One could see clearly she was woman, even if she did not understand that, except perhaps in some peripheral sense.

Certainly she was nicely shaped. And I thought she might, given some instruction, and a sense of what it was to be a slave, sell well.

It is interesting, I thought, the Book of Woman. How few have opened that book. Is the seal, I wondered, so securely fastened? Is it truly so hard to break? How many women themselves have feared to open that book and read what is written there. But some do open the book, with whatever trepidation, and read what is written there. And then, page by page, they peruse the ancient text, and in it, ever more deeply, page by turning page, discover themselves, and I think there is no final page for that book, for the book is without an end, for it is the Book of Woman.

“She is from Earth, is she not?” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“As are you?”

“Yes,” he said. “But so, too, I gather, are you, and your slave. Your accents.”

“English,” I said.

“It seemed so,” he said.

“You are Canadian, or American?” I surmised.

“Canadian,” he said.

“Your slave,” I said, “is Canadian?”

“No,” he said. “She is American, from the eastern seaboard of America.”

“An excellent area for slaving, I understand,” I said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “I would not know.”

I recalled Peisistratus, who had sampled women from various nations and continents, had spoken highly of several areas, Canada, Australia, England, France, Germany, Japan, Taiwan, Hawaii, the southwest of the United States, its west coast, its eastern seaboard, and such. It was pleasant, he had remarked, to take beautiful, highly intelligent, sophisticated, civilized women, so often unhappy, some even stupidly at war with their sex, and teach them their collars.

“She is from New York City,” said Pertinax.

“Not originally,” I said. “Her accent is different. I lived there for a time.”

“Then from elsewhere,” he said.

“An immigrant to that metropolis,” I said, “perhaps from Cleveland, Cincinnati, Chicago, Los Angeles, San Francisco, or somewhere.”

“I do not know,” he said.

“Perhaps one determined and ambitious, and one not too scrupulous, one intending to achieve wealth and success at any cost.”

He smiled. “Yes,” he said.

“As many others,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“And now,” said I, “she is in a collar on Gor.”

“Yes,” he said.

“But it seems she does not yet know the meaning of her collar,” I said.

“No,” he smiled.

“Teach it to her,” I said.

“You do not understand,” he said. “She is my superior. There are riches behind her. It is she who recruited me.”

“A slave has such power?” I asked.

“It would seem so,” he said.

“In two days, as I understand it, you are prepared to unravel this mystery for me?”

“We will leave in two days,” he said. “There is to be a rendezvous. I will conduct you to the place.”

“You think you will then be through with the matter?” I asked.

“Surely,” he said.

“You are entangled here,” I said.

He regarded me, uneasily, startled.

“No,” he said.

“We shall see,” I said.

“Should we not free Constantina?” he asked.

“Leave her where she is,” I said. “Let her squirm in the darkness and leaves, for a time. It will do her good.”

“Is that appropriate?” he asked.

“Quite,” I said, “as she is a slave.”

“Perhaps she will work herself free,” said Pertinax.

A small sound of mirth escaped Cecily.

Pertinax looked at her, puzzled.

“She was bound by a warrior,” I explained.

“I see,” said Pertinax.

“She might, of course,” I said, “be stolen, say, by some of the brigands to whom you have occasionally alluded, or, say, be dragged away, by a sleen, to be eaten in some secluded place.”

“We must bring her in, instantly,” said Pertinax, “and free her!”

“Shortly,” I said. “You know who I am, I take it.”

“You are a tarnsman,” he said, “one known as Tarl Cabot.”

“You have read my girl’s collar?” I inquired.

“No,” he said.

“You have been waiting for me,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I am Tarl Cabot,” I said. “That is of less interest, I take it, than the fact that I have ridden.”

“That you are a tarnsman, yes,” he said. “I think so.”

“Master!” said Cecily. “I hear a stirring outside.”

“Yes,” I said, “it is a sleen.”

“Master!” she cried.

“It has been there for a time,” I said.

“I cannot go out,” said Pertinax, turning white. “I am no hunter, no sleen master. I am no match for a sleen. It would kill me!”

“Do not be concerned,” I said. “I saw it when I went out. The sleen is a tenacious hunter. It clearly had another trail in which it was interested. At the most it will investigate your Constantina, poking her a bit with its snout, or such. In its hunt she will be no more than an inconvenience or distraction. It might not even be hungry. It is probably gone by now.”

“Bring her in,” said Pertinax. “I beg you!”

“She is only a slave,” I reminded him.

“Please!” he said.

“To be sure,” I said, “she will not be worth much on the block if she has been mauled by a sleen.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“I saw the beast,” I said. “I watched it. There is no danger.”

“Please!” he insisted.

“It was otherwise occupied,” I said.

“There might be another,” he said.

“The sleen is territorial,” I said. “It is unlikely there would be another in the vicinity.”

“Please! Please!” he said.

“Very well,” I said. I then left the hut and went to where I had left the girl. The sleen was gone, as I had anticipated. I could see a little, from one of the moons, which was ascendant, but not yet full. The leaves about her were muchly crushed, which suggested she had done, at least at first, a good deal of squirming and, as she could, rolling about. I also saw sleen tracks near her, and could smell sleen on the leaves. She had been unable to call attention to what she must have deemed her harrowing predicament, given the gag. One might have heard something if one were quite close to her. When I came to her she had fainted. I picked her up, and carried her into the hut, and Pertinax, gratefully, closed and bolted the door. I removed the bonds and gag from the unconscious girl and replaced the binding fiber in my pouch, and left the gag out, to dry. She murmured then, in misery, and, half-conscious, huddled, trembling, on the floor of the hut.

“Let us see more of her legs,” I suggested.

“No!” cried Pertinax.

I thrust up the tunic so that I could see more of her legs. She was nicely legged, but one expects that in a slave.

The girl whimpered, but, terrified, made no effort to readjust her tunic. It was as though she realized that various things might be done to her as others might please, and that she must abide their will.

Pertinax regarded her with visible excitement. Had he never seen a slave?

“It is late,” I suggested. “Perhaps we should retire.”

“There are blankets,” said Pertinax.

“Good,” I said.

“And there are two mattresses, filled with grass,” he said.

“Why do you have two?” I asked.

Pertinax did not respond.

“Cecily and I,” I said, “if you have no objection, will share this mattress.”

“Certainly,” said Pertinax.

“Surely you should have the mattress, Master,” said Cecily, “and I should sleep at your feet.”

What she had in mind was doubtless a common arrangement in a Gorean dwelling, of which she had been apprised by other slaves while in the Pleasure Cylinder associated with the Steel World from which we had recently departed. It is common for the slave to be slept at the foot of the master’s couch, chained there to a slave ring. But in such a situation she is likely to have at least a mat and, commonly, deep, luxurious furs on which to recline. Indeed, the slave is often put to service on such furs, which are commonly spoken of as “love furs.” If she has been displeasing, of course, she may be slept naked at the foot of the couch, on her chain, on the bare tiles or stones of the floor. That is not so pleasant, and, of course, it gives the slave some time to consider how she might endeavor to be more pleasing to the master. It is a sign of favor with the master for a slave to be allowed to share the surface of the couch. On the other hand, I suspect it is commonly done, except perhaps in a house with many slaves. Certainly it is pleasant to have a slave at one’s side, of whom one may make use at any Ahn of the night or morning. It is a cusp in a slave’s bondage when she is first permitted to the surface of the master’s couch.

“Later, perhaps,” I said. “I have not had you in more than twenty Ahn.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, pleased.

Pertinax crouched down beside Constantina.

She lay still, as though frightened, disbelieving, or numb.

“Let me help you to your couch,” he said.

“No,” I said, standing up, approaching them. “You, Pertinax, are master. It is you who will have the couch, and not the slave. She will sleep at the foot of the couch, on the floor, or outside.”

“Surely not,” protested Pertinax.

I nudged the slave with my foot, not gently, and she reacted, and whimpered. “Do you understand, slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said, “Master.”

“Then crawl to your master,” I said, “kiss his feet, and beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of his couch.”

Constantina, on all fours, head down, her long hair to the floor, crawled to Pertinax, bent down, and kissed his feet. “I beg to be permitted to sleep at the foot of your couch, Master,” she said.

“Ai!” cried Pertinax, half in consternation, half in delight.

“Well?” I asked Pertinax. “A slave awaits an answer to her petition.”

“You may do so,” said Pertinax, his voice unsteady.

“Thank you, Master,” she said, and went to her place.

Cecily drew away her tunic, like the beautiful, uninhibited, shameless little animal she was, and knelt beside the mattress, at its lower left side, and lifted it a bit, and kissed it. She looked at me, expectantly, hopefully, to learn my will, and I reached down and seized her by the hair and, as she winced, in pain and delight, I drew her beside me on the mattress.

Even in the Pleasure Cylinder the slave fires had been well lit in Cecily’s lovely, helpless, vulnerable little belly, and she had soon found herself, as is common with female slaves, their victim and prisoner.

How the flames of their needs goad slaves to the feet of masters, even to the feet of those they may loathe.

I did not begrudge Cecily her ecstasies, nor would I hinder them. Some masters try to shame their slaves for what they cannot help, indeed for responses for which the master himself may have been significantly responsible, particularly if they have known them as lofty, frigid free women, now, by their will, reduced to begging animals. That, however, seems to me cruel. It does help the slave, of course, to see herself as a slave, in misery and shame, as she recalls her former contempt for such things in slaves. Now she herself understands what it is to be in the throes of being mastered.

And at a given point she throws her head back and says, “Yes, yes!” to the collar, and is whole.

Cecily, in her yieldings, was muchly pleasured, and her master, too, if it must be known, was well pleased with his slave.

Constantina had risen to her knees and was looking, hollow-eyed, dry-eyed, across the hut at us. There was a little light, from the embers of the fire.

“She is a slave, a slave!” said Constantina.

“Yes, yes, yes,” gasped Cecily, beside herself with collar rapture.

“Disgusting! Disgusting!” said Constantina.

“Pertinax,” I said, “take your slave, and put her to use.”

“No, no!” said Pertinax, frightened.

I then rolled to the side, and struggled with the vital thing in my arms, kissing, and licking me, gasping, wanting more, and more.

Later, an Ahn or more later, Cecily was asleep, and, I gathered, so, too, was Constantina. I lay awake, looking up at the beams and thatch of the hut’s roof. Who was I to meet in two days, or so?

“Cabot,” I heard.

“Yes,” I said, softly.

“You spoke of entanglement,” said Pertinax.

“Yes,” I said.

“I am to be paid,” he said, “and then I am done with matters.”

“I do not think so,” I said.

“What of her?” he asked.

“The slave?”

“Constantina,” he said.

“She, too, is entangled,” I said.

I was now confident that his employers were not representing Priest-Kings, but others, perhaps brigands, or merchants, somehow associated with Kurii. Some Kurii, I was sure, from the Steel World, would have had the coordinates for our landing. Certainly they had been transmitted through Kurii, and the security may have been lax, or deliberately compromised. It was a common practice for Kurii to recruit agents on Earth, usually through confederates, often slavers. There were doubtless several possible networks involved in such matters. Diverse and subtle are the tentacles of the Steel Worlds.

My convictions in this matter had primarily to do with Constantina. It seemed to me quite unlikely that she would have been recruited by Priest-Kings. What need had they, in their plenitude of power, of such instruments? She was, on the other hand, exactly the sort of woman whom slavers, abetting the schemes of Kurii, would choose to recruit. When their services were no longer required there were always other things that could be done with them. There was always the block, and collar. Such women, vain and egotistical, self-serving, greedy and deceitful, dazzled by dreams of riches and power, would think little of betraying others, but it seldom occurred to them, for some reason, that they might, in their turn, be betrayed as easily.

Expecting to be returned to Earth, to power and riches, they would commonly find themselves incarcerated, perhaps thrust into tiny cages, bewildered, grasping the bars, awaiting their sale.

Why not?

They had served their purpose.

Let them now be good for a little something further, say, whatever handful of coins they might bring on the block.

“What are we to do?” asked Pertinax.

“Link me with those who hired you,” I said.

I do not know if he slept then.

For my part, I knew that the Priest-Kings, for some reason, had arranged to have me set down on the beach, which was not far away, no more than a quarter of a pasang from this hut.

I was then certain that another was to meet me, one who truly stood in the service of Priest-Kings.

On the morrow, I would go again to the beach, to the point where I had been landed.

It was there, surely, I was to be met.

It rained heavily that night, the storm coming in from Thassa. I supposed that the seas might have been high for two or three days, perhaps for hundreds of pasangs offshore. That might delay the arrival of a ship, one approaching from the west, say, from Tyros or Cos. Gorean vessels, incidentally, are usually shallow-drafted, and usually tend to keep in sight of land. Few would risk the open sea in an inauspicious season. In storms, many would beach. On the other hand, ships from Tyros and Cos, if they were to reach shores to their east, could not coast, but must address themselves to the open sea, and for days.

I decided that on the morrow I would return to the beach.