Out from my scabbard leaped the sword and I splashed across the cold stream, making for the grove of trees across the way.
Once more the terrified scream rang out.
Now I was among the trees, moving rapidly, but cautiously.
Then the smell of a cooking fire came to my nostrils. I heard the hum of unhurried conversation. Through the trees I could see tent canvas, a tharlarion wagon, the strap-masters unharnessing a brace of low tharlarions, the huge, herbivorous draft lizards of Gor. For all I could tell neither of them had heard the scream, or paid it any attention. I slowed to a walk and entered the clearing among the tents. One or two guardsmen eyed me curiously. One arose and went to check the woods behind me, to see if I were alone. I glanced about myself. It was a peaceful scene, the cooking fires, the domed tents, the unharnessing of the animals, one I remembered from the caravan of Mintar, of the Merchant Caste. But this was a small camp, not like the pasangs of wagons that constituted the entourage of the wealthy Mintar. I heard the scream once again. I saw that the cover of the tharlarion wagon, which had been rolled back, was of blue and yellow silk.
It was the camp of a slaver.
I thrust my sword back in the scabbard and took off my helmet. 'Tal,' I said to two guardsmen who crouched at the side of a fire, playing Stones, a guessing game in which one person must guess whether the number of stones held in the fist of another is odd or even.
'Tal,' said one guardsman. The other, attempting to guess the stones, did not even look up.
I walked between the tents and saw the girl.
She was a blond girl with golden hair that fell behind her to the small of her back. Her eyes were blue. She was of dazzling beauty. She trembled like a frantic animal. She knelt, her back against a slender, white birchlike tree to which she was chained naked. Her hands were joined over her head and behind the tree by slave bracelets. Her ankles were similarly fastened by a short slave chain which encircled the tree.
Her eyes had turned to me, begging, pleading, as though I might deliver her from her predicament, but when she looked upon me, those fear-glazed eyes, if possible, seemed even more terrified. She uttered a hopeless cry. She began to shake uncontrollably and her head fell forward in despair. I gathered she had taken me for another slaver.
There was an iron brazier near the tree, which was filled with glowing coals. I could feel its heat ten yards away. From the brazier protruded the handles of three irons.
There was a man beside the irons, stripped to the waist, wearing thick leather gloves, one of the minions of the slaver. He was a grizzled man, rather heavy, sweating, blind in one eye. He regarded me without too much interest, as he waited for the irons to heat.
I noted the thigh of the girl.
It had not yet been branded.
When an individual captures a girl for his own uses, he does not always mark her, though it is commonly done. On the other hand, the professional slaver, as a business practice, almost always brands his chattels, and it is seldom that an unbranded girl ascends the block.
The brand is to be distinguished from the collar, though both are a designation of slavery. The primary significance of the collar is that it identifies the master and his city. The collar of a given girl may be changed countless times, but the brand continues throughout to bespeak her status. The brand is normally concealed by the briefly skirted slave livery of Gor but, of course, when the camisk is worn, it is always clearly visible, reminding the girl and others of her station.
The brand itself, in the case of girls, is a rather graceful mark, being the initial letter of the Gorean expression for slave in cursive script. If a male is branded, the same initial is used, but rendered in a block letter.
Noting my interest in the girl, the man beside the irons went to her side, and, taking her by the hair, threw back her face for my inspection. 'She' s a beauty, isn' t she?' he said.
I nodded agreement.
I wondered why those piteous eyes looked upon me with such fear. 'Perhaps you want to buy her?' asked the man.
'No,' I said.
The heavy-set man winked his sightless eye in my direction. His voice lowered to a conspiratorial whisper. 'She' s not trained,' he said. 'And she is as hard to manage as a sleen.'
I smiled.
'But,' said the man, 'the iron will take that out of her.' I wondered if it would.
He withdrew one of the irons from the fire. It glowed a fiery red. At the sight of the glowing metal the girl uncontrollably screamed, pulling at the slave bracelets, at the shackles that held her to the tree. The heavy-set man thrust the iron back into the brazier.
'She' s a loud one,' he said, shamefacedly. Then, with a shrug in my direction, as if to ask my pardon, he went to the girl and took a handful of her long hair. He wadded it into a small, tight ball and suddenly shoved it in her mouth. It immediately expanded, and before she could spit the hair out, he had looped more of her hair about her head and tied it, in such a way as to keep the expanded ball of hair in her mouth. The girl choked silently, trying to spit the ball of hair from her mouth, but of course she could not. It was an old slaver' s trick. I knew tarnsmen sometimes silenced their captives in the same way.
'Sorry, Sweet Wench,' said the grizzled man, giving the girl' s head a friendly shake, 'but we don' t want Targo coming over here with his whip and beating the tharlarion oil out of us both, do we?'
Sobbing silently the girl' s head fell down again in her breast. The grizzled man absent-mindedly hummed a caravan tune while waiting for the irons to heat.
My emotions were mixed. I had rushed to the scene to free the girl, to protect her. Yet when I arrived, I found that she was merely a slave, and that her owner, quite properly from Gor' s point of view, was attending to the routine business of marking his property. Had I attempted to free her, it would have been as much an act of theft as if I had driven off the tharlarion wagon.
Moreover, these men bore the girl no animosity. To them she was just another wench on her chain, perhaps more poorly trained and less docile than most. If anything they were merely impatient with her, and thought she made too much of a fuss about things. They would not comprehend her feelings, her humiliation, her shame, her terror.
I supposed even other girls, the other freight of the caravan, might think she made a bit too much of things. After all, did a slave not expect the iron? And the whip?
I saw the other girls some thirty yards away, in camisks, the cheapest of slave garments, laughing and talking to one another, disporting themselves as pleasurably as free maidens might have. I almost did not notice the chain that lay hidden in the grass. It passed through the ankle ring of each and, at each end, encircled a tree to which it was padlocked. The irons would soon be hot.
The girl before me, so helpless in her chains, would soon be marked. I have wondered upon occasion why brands are used on Gorean slaves. Surely Goreans have at their disposal means for indelibly but painlessly marking the human body. My conjecture, confirmed to some extent by the speculations of the Older Tarl, who had taught me the craft of arms in Ko-ro- ba years ago, is that the brand is used primarily, oddly enough, because of its reputed psychological effect.
In theory, if not in practice, when the girl finds herself branded like an animal, finds her fair skin marked by the iron of a master, she cannot fail, somehow, in the deepest levels of her thought, to regard herself as something which is owned, as mere property, as something belonging to the brute who has put the burning iron to her thigh.
Most simply the brand is supposed to convince the girl that she is truly owned; it is supposed to make her feel owned. When the iron is pulled away and she knows the pain and degradation and smells the odour of her burned flesh, she is supposed to tell herself, understanding its full and terrible import, I AM HIS.
Actually I suppose the effect of the brand depends greatly on the girl. In many girls I would suppose the brand has little effect besides contributing to their shame, their misery and humiliation. With other girls it might well increase their intractability, their hostility. On the other hand, I have known of several cases in which a proud, insolent woman, even one of great intelligence, who resisted a master to the very touch of the iron, once branded became instantly a passionate and obedient Pleasure Slave. But all in all I do not know if the brand is used primarily for its psychological effect or not. Perhaps it is merely a device for merchants who must have some such means for tracing runaway slaves, which would otherwise constitute a costly hazard to their trade. Sometimes I think the iron is simply an anachronistic survival from a more technologically backward age.
One thing was clear. The poor creature before me did not wish the iron. I felt sorry for her.
The minion of the slaver withdrew another iron from the fire. His one eye regarded it appraisingly. It was white hot. He was satisfied.
The girl shrank against the tree, her back against its white, rough bark. Her wrists and ankles pulled at the chains that fastened them behind the tree. Her breathing was spasmodic; she trembled. There was terror in her blue eyes. She whimpered. Any other sound she might have uttered was stifled by the gag of hair.
The slaver' s minion locked his left arm about her right thigh, holding it motionless. 'Don' t wiggle, Sweet Wench,' he said, not without kindness. 'You might spoil the brand.' He spoke to the girl soothingly, as if to calm her. 'You want a clean, pretty brand, don' t you? It will improve your price and you' ll get a better master.'
The iron was now poised for the sudden, firm imprint.
I noted that some of the delicate golden hair on her thigh, from the very proximity of the iron, curled and blackened.
She closed her eyes and tensed herself for the sudden, inevitable, searing flash of pain.
'Don' t brand her,' I said.
The man looked up, puzzled. The terror-filled eyes of the girl opened, regarded me questioningly.
'Why not?' asked the man.
'I' ll buy her,' I said.
The minion of the slaver stood up and regarded me curiously. He turned to the domed tents. 'Targo!' he called. Then he thrust the iron back into the brazier. The girl' s body sagged in the chains. She had fainted. From among the domed tents, wearing a swirling robe of broadly striped blue and yellow silk, with a headband of the same material, there approached a short, fat man, Targo the Slaver, he who was master of this small caravan. Targo wore purple sandals, the straps of which were set with pearls. His thick fingers were covered with rings, which glittered as he moved his hands. About his neck, in the manner of a steward, he wore a set of pierced coins threaded on a silver wire. From the lobe of each small, round ear there hung an enormous earring, a sapphire pendant on a golden stalk. His body had been recently oiled, and I gathered he may have been washed in his tent but moments ago, a pleasure of which caravan masters are fond at the end of a day' s hot, dusty trek. His hair, long and black beneath the band of blue and yellow silk, was combed and glossy. It reminded me of the groomed, shining pelt of a pet urt.
'Good day, Master,' smiled Targo, bowing as well as he could from the waist, hastily taking account of the unlikely stranger who stood before him. Then he turned to the man who watched the irons. His voice was now sharp and unpleasant. 'What' s going on here?'
The grizzled fellow pointed to me. 'He doesn' t want me to mark the girl,' he said.
