Several of the newcomers fanned out to flank the caravan, at large intervals. A cluster of them rode toward its head, another cluster toward its rear. Some twenty of them, with Farouk, and certain guards, began to work their way down the caravan, beast by beast, checking the drovers and kaiila tenders.
“What are they doing?” I asked a nearby drover.
“They are looking for Kavars,” he said.
“What will they do with them if they find them?” I asked.
“Kill them,” said the man.
I watched the men, on their kaiila, accompanied by Farouk, the caravan master, moving, man by man, towards us.
“They are the men of Suleiman,” said the drover, standing nearby, the rein of his kaiila in his hand. “They have come to give us escort to the Oasis of Nine Wells.”
Closer came the men, stopping, starting, moving from one man to the next, down the long line. They were led by a captain, with a red-bordered burnoose. Several of them held their scimitars, unsheathed, across the leather of their saddles.
“You are not a Kavar, are you?” asked the drover.
“No,” I said.
The riders were before us.
The drover threw back the hood of his burnoose, and pulled down the veil about his face. Beneath the burnoose he wore a skullcap. The rep-cloth veil was red; it had been soaked in a primitive dye, mixed from water and the mashed roots of the telekint; when he perspired, it had run; his face was stained. He thrust back the sleeve of his trail shirt.
The captain looked at me. “Sleeve,” he said. I thrust back the sleeve of my shirt, revealing my left forearm. It did not bear the blue scimitar, tattooed on the forearm of a Kavar boy at puberty.
“He is not Kavar,” said Farouk. He made as though to urge his mount further down the line.
The captain did not turn his mount. He continued to look at me. “Who are you?” he asked.
“I am not a Kavar,” I told him.
“He calls himself Hakim, of Tor,” said Farouk.
“Near the north gate of Tor,” said the captain, “there is a well. What is its name?”
“There is no well near the north gate of Tor,” I told him.
“What is the name of the well near the stalls of the saddlemakers?” asked the captain.
“The well of the fourth passage hand,” I told him. Water, more than a century ago, had been struck there, during the fourth passage hand, in the third year of the Administrator Shiraz, then Bey of Tor.
I was pleased that I had spent some days in Tor, before engaging in the lessons of the scimitar, learning the city. It is not wise to assume an identity which one cannot cognitively substantiate.
“Your accent,” said the captain, “is not of Tor.
“I was not always of Tor,” I told him. “Originally I was from the north.”
“He is a Kavar spy,” said one of the lieutenants, at the side of the captain.
“Why are you bound for the Oasis of Nine Wells?” asked the captain.
“I have gems to sell Suleiman, your master,” said I, “for bricks of pressed dates.”
“Let us kill him,” urged the lieutenant.
“Is this your kurdah?” asked the captain, gesturing to the kurdah on the nearby kaiila.
“Yes,” I said.
In making their examination of the caravan they had, with their scimitars, opened the curtains of the kurdahs, for there might have been Kavars concealed therein. They had found, however, only girls, slaves, their right wrists and left ankles locked in five-link slave hobbles.
“What is in it?” he asked.
“Only a slave girl,” I told him.
He pressed his kaiila to the kurdah, and, with the tip of his scimitar, prepared to lift back the curtain to his right.
My scimitar, blade to blade, blocked his.
The men tensed. Fists clenched on the hilts of scimitars.
Lances were lowered.
“Perhaps you conceal within a Kavar?” asked the captain.
With my own scimitar tip I brushed back the curtain. In the kurdah, kneeling, frightened, naked save for collar and veil, the girl shrank back.
“Thigh,” said the captain.
The girl turned her left thigh to him, showing her brand. “It is only a slave girl,” said the lieutenant, disappointed.
The captain smiled. He regarded the sweet, small, luscious, exposed slave curves of the girl. “But a pretty little one,” he said.
“Face-strip yourself,” I ordered her.
The girl, fingers behind the back of her head, at the golden string, lowered her veil. Her body had lifted beautifully when her hands had sought the string behind her head. I noted how she had done it. I grinned to myself. She was a slave girl and did not know it.
“Yes,” said the captain, “a pretty slave.” His eyes lingered on her unveiled mouth, then he drank in the rest of her, then the whole of her. He looked at me.
“I congratulate you on your slave,” he said.
I acknowledged his compliment, inclining and lifting my head.
“Perhaps, tonight,” he suggested, “she may dance for us.”
“She does not know how to dance,” I said. Then, to the girl, in English, I said, “You are not yet ready to dance for the pleasure of men.” She shrank back. “Of course not,” she said, in English. But I could see that, in spite of her anger, her denial, her eyes had been excited, curious. Doubtless she had, from time to time, wondered what it would be like, a collared slave girl, to dance naked in the sand, in the light of the campfire, laboring vulnerably under whip-threat to please Gorean warriors. It would be a long time, I thought, before the cool, white-skinned Alyena would beg, “Dance me! Dance me for the pleasure of men!”
“She is barbarian,” said I to the captain. “She speaks little Gorean. I told her she was not yet ready to dance for the pleasure of men.”
“A pity,” said he. In Gorean female dance the girl is expected, often, to satisfy, fully, whatever passions she succeeds in arousing in her audience. She is not permitted merely to excite, and flee away: when, at the conclusion of the swirling music, she flings herself to the floor at the mercy of free men, her dance is but half finished; she has yet to pay the price of her beauty.
“You must have her taught to dance,” said the captain.
“It is my intention,” I said.
“The whip,” said the captain. “can teach a girl many things.”
“Truly have you spoken,” I agreed.
“A pretty slave,” he said, and then turned his kaiila away, his men following, to continue his examination of the men of the caravan. As he turned his kaiila, the lieutenant, who had accompanied him, he who had asserted that I was a Kavar spy, he who had urged them to slay me, cast me a dark look. Then he, too, was with the rest, and Farouk, down the caravan line.
“It will not be necessary, Master,” said Alyena, loftily, in Gorean, “to use the whip on me, to make me dance.”
“I know,” I laughed, “Slave!”
Her fists clenched.
“Veil yourself, “I said.
She did so.
“Remain within,” I said, “and do not peer out.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I saw her eyes, blue, angry, over the yellow veil, and then I, laughing, with my scimitar, brushed down the right-hand curtain of the kurdah, it dropping, concealing her within, a slave girl.
Gradually, as a girl begins to realize she is a slave, truly, in a society in which there are slaves, and in which one can truly be just that, and without an escape, a fantastic transformation takes place in her. I could already see the beginnings of this transformation in Alyena. She was already becoming excited about her collar, and her ownership by men. She was becoming curious about them.
She was becoming brazen, and shameless, as befits an article of property. She was now permitting herself thoughts and dreams that might have scandalized a free woman, but were for her, only a slave, quite appropriate. She was becoming petty, and pretty, and provocative. She was becoming sensual. She was becoming sly, clever, owned. Recently she had stooped to stealing a date. Though I had, of course, punished her for this, I was, secretly, quite pleased. It meant she was becoming a slave girl. Now I had seen her lift her body, beautifully, in removing her veil before men. I had seen her curiosity about what it would be to dance before them. She had informed me that it would not be necessary for me to use the leather on her, before she would apply herself to the lessons of the dances of slave girls. She thought herself, in herself, quite free, a slave only in name and collar, but in this she was deceiving herself. Let her keep that bit of pride, I thought, until some master takes it from her, and she, shattered, prone on the tiles, or submission mat, knows then, truly, she is only slave.
The lovely Alyena, though she did not know it, and would have refused to believe it, was coming along quite well.
She was becoming a slave girl.
5 What Occurred in the Palace of Suleiman Pasha
