the crusts. “Men would kill you for it,” he said.
T`Zshal looked about himself. Slave girls, in coffle, shrank back.
“We will need taverns, cafes, at Klima,” he said. “The men have been too long without recreation.”
“With control of much salt,” I said, “you may have much what you wish.”
“We shall confederate the salt districts,” said T`Zshal.
“You are indeed ambitious,” I said. T’Zshal, I saw, was a leader.
Haroun, sitting in court, in what had been the audience room of the kasbah of Ibn Saran, had invited T’Zshal, and his lances, to join his service. T`Zshal and the others had refused. “We will return to Klima, said he, “Master.” T’Zshal, I knew, would serve under no man. “I would rather be first at Klima than second in Tor,” he had said. He was a slave, true, but of no man, only of the salt, and the desert.
“I wish you well,” said T`Zshal.
“I wish you well,” I said.
His kaiila, with a scattering of sand, sped from me. He was followed by a thousand riders.
I rode, slowly, toward the head of the columns, across the desert between the two kasbahs.
Some two hundred yards from the head of the, column, I passed the small Abdul, who had been a water carrier in Tor, and an agent of Ibn Saran. It was not impossible, through his work with Ibn Saran, that he knew matters of importance pertaining to the wars of Priest-Kings and Kurii. Two chains ran to his metal collar, on opposite sides, leading, respectively, to the stirrup of a mounted rider on each side of him. His hands were manacled to a loop of chain about his waist. He did not raise his head. He feared to look me in the face. “Let him be sent to Tor,” I had suggested. “I will have agents of Samos, of Port Kar, sent to that city.” It will be done,” had said Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars. The agents of Samos have interesting techniques of interrogation. I had no doubt that they would learn all that small Abdul had to tell them. After that, no longer of use to the agents of Priest-Kings, he could be sold south, into the Tahari.
Some hundred yards from the bead of the column, I passed a large white kurdah, on a large, black kaiila. I did not brush aside the curtain. It did not contain a girl I owned. It contained a slave girl, an exquisitely feminine girl, blond-haired and blue-eyed; she was richly veiled and bejeweled; it was said she was the preferred slave of the great Haroun himself, high Pasha of the Kavars; it was said her name was Alyena; she was of high station; she wore silks, and veils, and jewels; but the collar on her throat was of steel.
In what had been the kasbah of Ibn Saran she had been thrown naked to the foot of the dais on which, cross-legged, sat the great Haroun himself. She had not dared to raise her head. “I will keep this slave,” he had said. She had been dragged away, weeping. “I am the slave of Hassan,” she had wept. “I love only him!” That night, sent to his quarters; she had knelt before her veiled master.
“Do you love another, Girl?” he had asked, sternly.
“Yes,” she said, “Master. Forgive me. Slay me, if you must.”
“And who is he?” asked her veiled master.
“Hassan,” she wept. “Hassan, the bandit.”
“A most splendid fellow,” said her master.
The girl looked up, startled. His veil was about his shoulders.
“Hassan!” she wept. “Hassan!” She threw herself to his feet, covering them with kisses as a slave girl.
When she looked up, he commanded her to the couch. She ran eagerly to it, tearing the slave silks with which she had been adorned from her body, and knelt upon it, small, her head down, awaiting her master. He joined her, discarding his robes. Then he seized her by the hair and pulled her head up and flung her on her back to the depth of the luscious silk, and then, with the cruel exploitativeness of the Tahari master, he claimed her as his own.
Toward morning he reminded her that she must be whipped three times. First, she had called out his name at Red Rock, among the flames, during the raid of Tarna’s men; secondly, she had fled from his riders, to return to Red Rock, to seek him out, when she had been captured; third, she had, that very evening, upon discovering who might be her master, cried out his name, “Hassan! Hassan!”
“Whip me, Master,” she said, lying in his arms. “I love you.
“Am I forgiven, Tarl?” Vella had begged. “Am I forgiven?”
“Fetch the whip,” I had told her.
She looked at me, dumbfounded. Women of Earth are always forgiven. They are never punished, no matter what they do. They, of course, are not slave girls.
They lack the legalities, and the collar.
“You cannot be serious,” she said.
“Did I not speak of this to you when I first bound you as a slave girl?” I asked. I referred to our conversation in the room of preparation, when I had first surprised and captured her, making her mine.
“I asked when you would whip me,” she said, numbly. “You responded, when it was to your convenience.” She looked at me, miserably.
“It is now convenient,” I told her.
She sprang wildly to her feet. “I hate you!” she cried. “I hate you!”
Her small fists were clenched. She was, wild with rage, quite beautiful in the brief, stained rag I had given her to wear.
“I hate you!” she cried. “I hate all of you!’’ she cried, turning to look at the many warriors in the great room. “I hate men!” she cried. She was barefoot on the tiles. She was the only woman in the room, and she was slave. “I hate all men!” she cried. “I hate them! I hate them!” She spun to face me. “And I hate Priest-Kings, too!” she cried. “I hate you all!”
No one responded to her, but gazed impassively upon her.
“I betrayed Priest-Kings!” she cried. “Yes! I served Kurii! Yes! And I am glad I did, glad! Yes, glad! Glad! Glad!” Her eyes blazed. “Punish me!” she demanded.
“You are not to be punished because you betrayed Priest-Kings,” I told her.
“You left me in a paga tavern in Lydius,” she cried out, “a chained paga slave!”
“You chose to flee the Sardar,” I told her. “It was a brave act. It did not turn out well for you. You fell slave. On Gor, as not on Earth, a girl bears the consequences of her actions.”
“You could have purchased me”‘ she cried.
“Yes,” I said, “you were within my means.”
“But you did not do so!” she cried.
“It did seem convenient to me, at that time,” I said, “to purchase you, to keep you as a slave.”
“As a slave!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”
“As I recall,” I said, “you begged to be freed.”
“Yes!” she cried.
The men in the room looked at one another.
“I had not known, until that time,” I said, “that you were, in the belly of you, a true slave girl.”
She looked at me, angrily. She turned red.
On Gor it is said that only a true slave begs to be freed. That act, incontrovertibly, on Gor, more deeply than a brand and a collar, marks the individual as a true slave. Who but such a true slave would beg to be freed?
Such individuals, of course, are never freed, but, commonly, their nature now being made undeniably clear, are put under heavier restraints and treated more harshly. When Talena, the daughter of Marlenus of Ar, Ubar of Ar, had, in a missive to him, begged her freedom, he had, on his sword and on the medallion of Ar, sworn against her the oath of disownment. As a consequence, she was no longer of high birth, no longer his daughter. I had had Samos free her and transmit her to Ar. There she lived, free but of no status; she was no longer recognized, in the sight of its Home Stone, as a citizen of Ar; she had not even the collar of a slave girl for her identity; she was kept sequestered by Marlenus in the central cylinder, that his shame not be publicly displayed upon the high bridges of the city.
“No!” cried the girl. “You should have freed me!”
I looked at her, in her rage. I did not suppose she had acted much differently than would have many women. The Goreans believe, of course, that in the belly of every woman there is a slave girl, waiting to be revealed by the right master.
“You should have freed me!” she cried. “You should have freed me!”
I looked at her, in her rage, her beauty, her clenched fists, the brief, revealing rag.
“You are too beautiful to be free,” I told her.
She reacted as though struck.
She looked about, at the men in the room, clad in the garb of the Tahari. They looked upon her. She shuddered, knowing that among them she was too beautiful to be free.
She turned again to face me. She drew herself up. “I am pleased I identified you for Ibn Saran,” she said. “I am pleased that I testified against you at Nine Wells. Punish me.”
“You are not to be punished because you identified me for Ibn Saran,” I said, “nor because you testified against me at Nine Wells.”
She looked at me, furious.
“Were you not commanded by your Master, Ibn Saran, to so testify?” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“You were a good slave girl. You are to be commended,” I said.
“Throw her a candy,” I said to one of the men.
He did so.
“Eat it,” I told Vella.
She did so.
“You are to be punished,” I said, “and punished only, because you, a slave girl, have not been found pleasing.”
She looked at me with horror.
