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.
Targo looked at me, not quite understanding. 'But why?' he asked. I felt foolish. What could I tell this merchant, this specialist in the traffic of flesh, this businessman who stood well within the ancient traditions and practices of his trade? Could I tell him that I did not wish the girl to be hurt? He would have thought me a mad man. Yet what other reason was there?
Feeling stupid, I told him the truth. 'I do not wish the see her hurt.' Targo and the grizzled master of the irons exchanged glances.
'But she is only a slave,' said Targo.
'I know,' I said.
The grizzled man spoke up. 'He said he' d buy her.'
'Ah!' said Targo, and his tiny eyes gleamed. 'That' s different.' Then an expression of great sadness transformed his fat ball of a face. 'But it is sad she is so expensive.'
'I have no money,' I said.
Targo stared at me, uncomprehendingly. His fat small body contracted like a pudgy fist. He was angry. He turned to the grizzled man, and looked no more at me. 'Brand the girl,' he said.
The grizzled man knelt to pull one of the irons from the brazier. My sword pushed a quarter of an inch into the belly of the merchant. 'Don' t brand the girl,' said Targo.
Obediently the man thrust the iron back into the fire. He noted that my sword was at the belly of his master, but did not seem unduly disturbed. 'Shall I call the guardsmen?' he asked.
'I doubt they could arrive in time,' I said evenly.
'Don' t call the guardsmen,' said Targo, who was now sweating.
'I have no money,' I said, 'but I have this scabbard.'
Targo' s eyes darted to the scabbard and moved from one emerald to the other. His lips moved silently. Six of them he counted.
'Perhaps,' said Targo, 'we can make an arrangement.'
I resheathed the sword.
Targo spoke sharply to the grizzled man. 'Awaken the slave.'
Grumbling, the man went to fetch a leather bucket of water from the small stream near the camp. Targo and I regarded one another until the man returned, the leather bucket hung over his shoulder by its straps. He hurled the bucket of cold water, from the melted snow in the Sardar, on the chained girl, who sputtering and shivering opened her eyes. Targo, with his short, rolling steps, went to the girl and placed one thumb, wearing a large ruby ring, under her chin, pushing her head up. 'A true beauty,' said Targo. 'And perfectly trained for months in the slave pens of Ar.'
Behind Targo I could see the grizzled man shaking his head negatively. 'And,' said Targo, 'she is eager to please.'
Behind him the man winked his sightless eye and stifled a snort. 'As gentle as a dove, as docile as a kitten,' continued Targo. I slipped the blade of my sword between the girl' s cheek and the hair that was bound across her mouth. I moved it, and the hair, as lightly as though it had been air floated from the blade.
