Swordsmen of Gor

“‘Jane’ is a lovely name,” I said.

“Do not belittle me!” she begged. “Do not shame me! Do not so demean me! It is a slave name, fit only for a barbarian brought here for the markets! Men will see me as a low slave! They will see me as no more than switch meat!”

“I am now going to name you,” I said.

“No!” she wept. She cast a wild look at Pertinax. “Please, no, Master!” she wept.

“Be silent,” said Pertinax. I gathered that he was not overly pleased with the slave’s view of certain names. Too, he probably agreed with me that ‘Jane’ was a lovely name. I had never understood why its simplicity and beauty, on Earth, was not more widely recognized. I could understand that the name on Gor, being a barbarian name, was associated with kajirae. But men on Gor certainly had no objection to the name because it, as most female Earth names, suggested a barbarian slave, and barbarian slaves, though not selling as well in some markets as Gorean slaves, particularly those once of high caste, tended to be prized by many masters. The general reputation of the barbarian slave was that of a chattel who would soon prove to be hot, devoted, and dutiful. Indeed, given the sexual desert from which most Earth slaves were extracted, and the mechanistic social ecology of that world, which alienated both men and women from their depth natures, Gor came to many as a welcome revelation. On Gor, many found a human and sexual redemption, a rescue and a salvation. Typically, kajirae from Earth adapted quickly, and gratefully, to their collars. In them they enjoyed a medley of fulfillments and gratifications which might have been not only denied to them on Earth, mindlessly execrated, and such, but might even have been incomprehensible to them on Earth. To be sure, Gorean women, too, soon learned their womanhood at the feet of masters.

Women, after all, are women.

“Look at me,” I said. “I am now going to name you.”

“Yes, Master,” she said. Her eyes were bright with protest, and tears.

“You are Jane,” I said. “Rejoice that you are no longer a nameless slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“What is your name?” I asked.

“‘Jane’, Master,” she said.

“Who are you?”

“I am Jane,” she said, “Master.”

“Perhaps we should now think of supper,” I said to Cecily.

“She is clothed,” observed Jane.

“To some extent,” I agreed. A slave tunic leaves little to one’s imagination.

Jane looked to Pertinax. “Master,” she said, “will surely see that his slave is attired.”

“Certainly,” said Pertinax.

“Decorously, as befits a former free woman of Ar,” she said, and then she added, with a glance at the brief tunic of Cecily, “and not as a barbarian.”

Cecily said nothing. She had been a slave long enough to appreciate, and relish, and take delight in, the freedom of the tunic. Too, it thrilled her, in her vanity, well aware of her considerable beauty, to be shamelessly exhibited for the delectation of men. She knew herself to be an excellent specimen of the most desirable of all human females, the female slave.

The slave is not ashamed of her beauty, but proud of it.

Let the free woman be concerned with her veils, and fear that an ankle might be glimpsed beneath layered robes.

The slave loves men, and wishes to be found pleasing.

“It is true,” I said, “that it would be wise to see that the slave is attired, for there are strong men in the camp.”

A subtle tremor betrayed the slave’s apprehension.

“Do not fear, Jane,” said Cecily. “After supper I will go to the supply shed and obtain some cloth.”

“I will come along,” I said.

“Master?” said Cecily.

“I have been wondering,” I said to her, “how you would look in a camisk.”

“A Turian camisk?” she asked.

“No,” I said, “the common camisk.”

“Never!” cried Jane.

“Once you have seen your girl in a common camisk,” I said to Pertinax, “I suspect that you will not permit her to kneel with her knees together.”

“Oh?” he said, interested.

His Jane was a shapely brat.

“Too, I will look into a collar,” I said to Pertinax. “I did not have one prepared, as I did not know how you might want it engraved.”

“What would you suggest?” he asked, again evincing some interest. I took this as a good sign.

“Something like ‘I am Jane. I am the property of Pertinax of Tarncamp’.”

“Excellent,” he said.

“I do not need to be collared, Master,” said the slave. “I am branded. None will mistake me for a free woman.”

“No,” he said. “Nor will any be in doubt as to who owns you. You will be collared.”

She looked at him, angrily.

He still retained the whip I had tossed to him when I had first brought the slave into the hut.

“Do you wish to be displeasing?” he asked.

He shook out the blades of the whip. It was a simple five-stranded slave whip, designed for use on female slaves, designed to punish, and well, but not mark.

“No, Master,” she said, hastily.

“Perhaps you should beg to be collared,” I said.

“Please, Master,” she said, “collar me.”

“Who begs?” I inquired.

“Jane,” she said, “Jane, the slave of Pertinax of Tarncamp, begs to be collared.”

“It will be done,” said Pertinax.

She sobbed.

“You may thank your master,” I told her.

“Thank you, Master,” she said. “Jane, your slave, thanks you for having her collared, for permitting her to wear your collar, for deigning to grant her the honor of wearing your collar.”

“To his feet,” I said.

The slave then went to the feet of Pertinax.

When I thought she had performed sufficiently I freed her of the bracelets and leash.

She knelt then, naked, but free of bonds, at our feet. She put her arms about herself, and trembled.

I then reminded Cecily that we might think of supper.

“Come, Jane,” said Cecily. “I will find you something to wrap about your body. We must gather wood. We must make supper. We have work to do.”

Soon the girls had exited the hut.

“Pertinax,” said I, “how do your lessons proceed?”

He had been studying for some weeks now with the warrior in the forest, a master of the sword, who was known as Nodachi. I had never seen this person. The arrangements had been made through the thoughtful offices of Tajima. I had given Tajima one of the rubies I had retained from the Steel World, that Nodachi might be compensated for his services, but Tajima had returned the stone to me. Food might be brought to the swordsman that he might live, but he was unwilling to set a price on his instruction. “One does not sell life and death,” he had informed Tajima. “No price is to be set on such things.”

“I do not know,” said Pertinax.

“How is that?” I asked.

“How can one see what cannot be seen?” he asked.