Mariners of Gor

“Yes,” I said, helpless. “She is only a slave.”

A light rain, one such as is common in the islands, began to fall.

“There are lights ahead!” called a fellow, partway up the ratlines to starboard.

“It is the fleet of Lord Yamada,” said a man.

“We will clear the cove,” said Philoctetes. “We will run without lights.”

“I think we have time,” said Aeacus.

“They will not catch us,” said Leros.

I felt the rain on my face, and was aware, too, of the taste of salt.

Chapter Thirty-Three

It is Now Morning in Brundisium

The tharlarion oil had burned low in the lamps, and, outside, we could hear the sounds of the morning, the roll of carts, men calling to one another.

The bar signifying the fifth Ahn had rung.

The Sea Sleen is a small tavern, not particularly well-known, even in Brundisium. Those near the southern piers, however, are likely to be aware of it. It was to this tavern the stranger, haggard, destitute, in his rags, in his soiled mariner’s cap, had come, and regaled us with a story, however far-fetched.

He had been fed, and given paga.

Surely that is payment enough for a story.

“You are a liar,” said the proprietor to the stranger.

“He wheedles paga and a free meal cleverly,” said another fellow.

“Beware of mariners,” laughed another.

The stranger smiled, as though discovered.

“Clever fellow!” laughed another.

The stranger took no offense. The comments of those about the small table were uttered in the way of good-natured raillery, and were not designed to disparage or affront a fellow, but, rather, to let him know they were not the sort to be taken in, not the sort to give credit to the absurd, the wild, and incredible, that they were aware astute fellows, and not fools.

I saw, clearly, that the stranger had not expected to be believed, and was not concerned that he had been found out, had he been found out.

“Have you a place to stay?” I asked him.

“All Brundisium,” he said.

“Do you have money, for food?” I asked.

“I need it not,” he said. “Garbage troughs are at hand.”

“You need not compete with pier urts,” I said. “I will give you a tarsk-bit.”

“For what?” he said.

“For hearing your story,” I said.

“I have been paid for that,” he smiled.

“Are you a liar?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Was there a Cabot, a Tersites, an Alcinoe?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” he said.

To the side, there was a small sound of slave bells. They were fastened, with cord, about her left ankle. She had been brought to the table, last night, to serve the stranger paga. He had then had her reveal herself, removing the thin, clinging, camisk of yellow rep cloth. He had later had her bound, hand and foot, it had been done by the taverner’s man, and it was thus that she had begun to hear the story, as a helpless, kneeling, nude slave, her wrists bound behind her, her ankles crossed and fastened together. In such a way a woman is well apprised that she is bond. Later in the evening, he had permitted her to recline, beside the table, but still bound, hand and foot. She hung upon the story, as did we. And when slaves were mentioned her breath quickened, and she leaned forward a little, that she might the more clearly sense the feelings of women such as she, far away. And how far away must her former reality have seemed, the former reality of this small, luscious barbarian, a brunette, nicely breasted, narrow waisted, and invitingly hipped, with small hands and feet, from her present reality, lying bound on the floor of a tavern, at the side of a table of masters. Although she had reportedly not been long in the collar, her slave fires, following a remark of the proprietor, were already causing her the restlessness and agitation so familiar to the occupants of the collar.

“Is this not an attractive barbarian?” I asked the stranger.

“Lift her up,” he said, “your left arm beneath her knees, your right hand supporting her, behind the back.”

I did as he asked, and turned her, so that he might see her, so held.

Commonly a slave is not so held, but she may be held so, to be the better displayed. Commonly a slave is held on her belly, over the left shoulder, her head to the rear, rather as other goods might be conveyed, sacks of sa-tarna, and such. A free woman, held so, can do little other than squirm, and strike futilely with her small fists, on the back of he who carries her. To be sure, a free woman would not be likely to be so carried, were she not being carried to a slave pen.

She looked down and back at him, helpless, and frightened, and so looked up to me, from my arms, as well.

What a nice bundle a slave makes, so held, so tied.

“Yes,” he said. “She is attractive.” He pointed to a place on the floor, near the table. “Kneel her there,” he said.

And the small barbarian kajira was so knelt.

“I understand,” said the stranger to the slave, “that you have not been named.”

“No, Master,” she said. “I have not been named.”

Sometimes one holds off on the naming of a slave, for the naming of a slave, as of any other animal, is a matter which may call for thought. To be sure, as with any other animal, names may be withheld, or changed, at will, at the master’s will.

“You are a paga slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“That is quite different,” he said, “I take it, from your former reality.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, “I was what is called a graduate student, a student of certain classical languages, Greek, and Latin, languages unfamiliar to you.”

I saw they were indeed unfamiliar to the stranger. “Like archaic Gorean,” I said.

She looked at me, suddenly, startled. “You know of such things?” she asked, eagerly.

“A little,” I said.

“He is a Scribe,” said the stranger. “You can tell from his robes.”

“You know something of Earth!” she cried.

“I am familiar with the second knowledge,” I said. “The languages you refer to are little, if at all, spoken on that world now.”

“No,” she said.

“Why would you concern yourself with them?” I asked. To be sure, this question was a test, as much as anything, to help me ascertain her depth, and worth. One hopes for such things, obviously, in a slave. One does not buy without care, one does not own without circumspection.

“They are beautiful,” she said, “and they speak of distant, different, exciting worlds, worlds in many ways natural and beautiful.”

I was pleased with this answer.

Would not such a one look well, bound before one? Would the lips of such a one, on her belly, not be pleasant