Quarry of gor, p.3
Quarry of Gor, page 3
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And you will remain so, head down, bound by the master’s will until you ascend the block.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I heard the ringing of a gong, from somewhere above, and to the left. I wondered what the merchandise had gone for.
I did not think that the patrons of such a market, many of them mariners, artisans, and dock workers, would be burdened with heavy purses.
The line moved up, a little, toward the top of the ramp.
There were four girls ahead of me now, and some six behind me, including the head-lowered, bound-by-a-man’s-will, green-eyed, dark-haired beauty, Adraste.
The fellow who had removed the straps from the dark-haired slave’s wrists ascended the ramp to stand beside the fellow who had freed my wrists.
“That one,” said he who had discomfited the dark-haired beauty, gesturing toward her with a nod of his head, “does not yet know there is a collar on her neck.”
“She will learn soon enough,” said the fellow who had freed my wrists.
“I do not understand why she is being sold in this market,” said the first man. “Our clientele is a copper-tarsk clientele, most often come here after work. Why was she not sold to a more expensive house?”
“There is doubtless a reason,” said the second. “Clearly she has recently been free. You can see it in her carriage and attitudes. She has not yet learned she is a slave. She has not yet learned to grovel in terror on her belly, a master’s foot on her back. She has not learned to squirm gratefully toward a bowl of gruel on the floor. She is not yet the victim of slave fires, hoping for, and begging for, the least caress of even a hated master.”
“Keep your head down, Adraste,” said the first man, sharply.
“Yes, Master,” she said, lowering her head.
I heard the gong ring once more.
“I think,” said the second man, “she was a woman of position and power, perhaps well known, say, the daughter of an administrator, high merchant, or judge, stolen by a disgruntled petitioner, a dissatisfied customer, an unsuccessful litigant, to be disposed of discreetly, as an act of vengeance, or for personal amusement, in a slave market, a lesser market, an obscure market, in which she would be unlikely to be recognized.”
“No,” said the first man. “She was an import, with others, from the World’s End.”
“Her accent suggests Ar,” said the second man.
“That means nothing,” said the first man. “Following the defeat of Ar by Cos, Tyros, and their allies, mercenaries and others, and before the restoration of Marlenus, thousands of women of Ar were taken as spoils and distributed throughout hundreds of markets.”
“Why does the house not postpone her sale, and sell her to a great house, such as that of Tenalion of Ar?” said the second man. “Such a woman is worthy the central block in the Curulean.”
I saw the slave, Adraste, look up, briefly, before hastily lowering her head again. In her eyes I saw, for a moment, stark terror. The men did not notice this tiny breach of discipline. Why, I wondered, should she fear being sold in Ar, and from such a famous block as the central block in the Curulean? Might not thousands of slaves dream of such a sale? Too, I had gathered that the wealth of Ar, hub of trade in the northern hemisphere of this world, was being recouped. Merchants came from as far away as remote Turia in the south to buy and sell in Ar.
“Arrangements were doubtless made,” said the first man, “probably as a condition of her sale.”
“Who sold her?” asked the second man.
“It seems,” said the first, “the agent of a warrior.”
“Why would he not keep her?” asked the second. “She would look well, stripped, collared, at his feet.”
“Perhaps she is a cold tasta,” said the first. “You observe her mien. She seems less a slave than a free woman in a collar.”
“Any woman can be taught the collar,” said the second.
“If I owned her,” said the first, “she would soon beg to press her lips to my boots.”
The gong rang again.
I trembled.
“Steady, slut,” said he who had unbound my wrists.
There were now two girls before me.
“What is wrong with her?” asked his fellow.
“It is her first sale,” said the other.
I suddenly realized, viscerally, in my belly, in every cell in my body, waiting on the ramp, that I was going to be sold, actually sold, really sold, as an object, as much so as a mirror or scrap of cloth! I had known, of course, that such a moment would come. I had long had an intellectual understanding of this eventuality. Did I not know I was a slave? Was it not clear enough, when I was released from the cage, and knelt, my head to the floor, my crossed wrists lifted high behind me for binding? Could there be any doubt about the matter when I knelt, bound, before the master, and, my head lifted, the whip was put to my lips? Did I not understand these things well enough when my hands were freed, and I took my place in the line on the ramp? Surely! But now, suddenly, I was on the brink of being sold, literally sold, like a shoe or belt, a dog or pig! It was impossible! It could not be! I could not be sold! I was free, free! It was a nightmare! I must awaken, I must awaken! I was overcome with terror. The room began to swirl about me.
“What name has been put on you, slut?” asked he who had unbound me. His hand on my left, upper arm kept me standing. When addressed by a free person, it is common for a slave, recognized, to kneel. It is appropriate. It shows respect for the free, and that one is a slave.
“‘Zia’, Master,” I said, held upright. I was frightened to be on my feet, even held so, before a free person.
I shook my head, to retain consciousness.
“Let me go,” I said, suddenly, blurting it out. “This is all a terrible mistake! Clothe me! Take this collar off my neck! I should not be here! This is not my world! I do not belong here! I cannot be sold! I am a woman of Earth! Of Earth! I cannot be sold! I am free, free!”
He looked at me, puzzled.
I suddenly realized, I had foolishly blurted out my words in English. My Gorean, in which I was moderately adept, given my time on this world, vanished. I could think of nothing in Gorean.
The gong then sounded again.
There was then one girl ahead of me.
“I am afraid,” I said, finally, in Gorean. “I think I am going to be sick.”
“Do not vomit,” said the other man. “Or, if you must, wait for the sawdust on the block. If you soil the ramp, or the stairs, you will lick up and feed on your own discharge, and the residue you will mop with your hair. You will then, your stomach empty, be washed, whipped, and brought again to the ramp. With this understanding in place, you will not vomit, not now, will you?”
“No, Master,” I said.
I knew I would not vomit, not now, or later.
“Good,” he said. “Too, you do not want the other slaves to hold you in contempt, do you?”
“No, Master,” I said.
Interestingly, I feared not only the views of the free, but those of my sister slaves.
“Similarly,” he said, “you will hold your urine, at least until you are on the block.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“The female slave,” said the other man, “is not a free woman. She is to be clean, neat, attractive, presentable, lovely.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Masters want them that way,” said the first man.
“Sales are to be well-staged, and attractive, not sordid, or disgusting,” said the second.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I heard the gong ring again.
I shuddered.
I was at the head of the ramp.
“This may be hard on you, particularly the first time,” said he, kindly, he who had unbound my wrists, “but try to do well. If you present yourself well, you are unlikely to be beaten by the auctioneer, and you would be likely to obtain a better-placed master, one with more coin to waste on a worthless slave.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You are very pretty and you have pleasant slave curves,” said the other man. “Further, you are clearly a natural-born slave, that is clear, and such as you can find fulfillment only in the collar.”
I was silent, but suspected he was right.
“It was clever of the house master to put this one, a plainer girl, and a barbarian, before Adraste,” said the fellow who had relieved Adraste of her bonds. “In that way, by contrast one accentuates the beauty of Adraste.”
I was not pleased to hear this.
I did know that much thought, however, even in a lesser house, goes into the display of slaves. What merchant is not aware of such things? It is not unusual to display a plainer woman first, in order to dramatize the greater value of the subsequent merchandise. I did not regard myself as plain, of course, and I doubted that many masters would have done so.
In any event, angrily, I resolved to do better than well, and show the tiers goods for which bids would be fierce, goods which could be removed from the block only dearly.
I heard Adraste laugh behind me.
Perhaps she had sensed my resolve.
I was angry.
I was thrust forward, up the ramp, and, stumbling, saw the stairs leading up to the block. A slaver’s man was at the foot of the stairs. He carried a whip. The auditorium was largely in shadows. The block was lit by torches. I heard the murmur of the crowd, but I did not think it was large. It was night. There were many empty places in the tiers. I did not know how many bidders were in such a place. Some men come merely to watch the sales. Some of the men sitting on the tiers had slaves with them, kneeling at their feet.
Chapter Three
I am Sold
“Do not dally,” said the slaver’s man, gesturing upward, toward the surface of the block, with the whip. “Ascend the stairs. Up, pretty beast. They are waiting to buy you.”
There were six steps leading to the surface of the block, as there are six letters in the Gorean expression ‘Kajira’, the most common word in Gorean for a female slave. There was no railing or bannister. The steps were broad, but I was afraid to stand on them. My legs seemed weak. I crawled upward, to the surface of the block, and then, on all fours, my hands and knees were in the large, concave depression in the block. The sawdust was clean, or, perhaps, had been changed or replenished.
I heard the slaver’s scribe, at his desk before the block, reading, droning, describing the next offering, my hair and eye color, my height and weight, my current name, my collar size, wrist-and-ankle-ring sizes, my training, of some weeks, which was largely restricted to what were regarded as essentials, an estimate of my fluency in Gorean, and such. I was, of course, illiterate. Too, naturally, it was made clear that I was a barbarian. A house can be burned if it misrepresents its merchandise. Goreans dislike deceit. If a girl’s hair color is not natural, that must be made clear. Often a girl is whipped, and her head is shaved, that the hair may grow back in its natural color.
“Here, noble masters, at my feet,” said the auctioneer, standing to my left, his whip in his right hand, “we have, as noted, a medium-heighted barbarian, imported recently from the slave world, for there is such a world, as many of you know, picked like fruit for your delectation. You can see that she is fresh and luscious. She has also been administered, as is done routinely, the stabilization serums, which preclude the onslaught of the drying, withering disease, age, so prevalent on her barbarous world. Accordingly she will remain indefinitely as you see her now, vital and soft, shapely and lovely, vulnerable and helpless, a dream of pleasure in her collar! Would you not like to have her at your feet?”
I had heard of the stabilization serums, but did not fully understand them. Supposedly they prevented ageing. I found this hard to believe, but I had never seen a Gorean who seemed to me old. If what I had heard was true, age, understood as a disease, had been conquered on Gor. These stabilization serums were not limited to free persons, but were administered to slaves, as well, that they might retain their value. I supposed there must be Earth women who would prefer to be free and gradually grow weak, decrepit, haggard, miserable, and die, but I supposed that there might be some who would not mind retaining their youth and beauty indefinitely, even at the cost of a collar on their neck. I did not personally have to deal with this decision, as I had had no choice in the matter. I had been simply, without my consent, acquired, branded, and collared, and then given the serums, that I might not cease to be pleasing to masters. Had I been given the choice, however, I would have chosen the retention of youth and beauty. I would have been vain enough to make that decision. Too, as I knew myself to be a natural slave, it being what I wanted to be, the decision would have been appropriate. Would I not then be more pleasing to a master? Let each person decide as they wish. The stabilization serums, of course, do not guarantee invulnerability or confer immortality. In a thousand ways one may bleed and die. Such serums provide no protection from the thrust of a knife or spear, from a strangling bowstring, from the subtleties of poison, from the claws and fangs of beasts.
“Too,” continued the auctioneer, “this lovely toy, which for a few tarsk-bits could be your possession, has been administered, as is our practice, slave wine. Accordingly, she will not conceive unless administered a releaser, that in case you wish to hood her and cross her with a male slave in the breeding stalls.”
I shuddered, remembering the slave wine. My hands had been tied behind me, and I had been knelt down, my head held far back by the hair. My nostrils had been pinched shut and my mouth forced open, and the spout of a metal container was thrust in my mouth, and the foul brew, like a hideous, polluted lake, flooded my oral cavity. I could not believe the horror of this. I could not close my mouth for the spout between my teeth. I tried to shake my head negatively. My eyes begged mercy. I would be shown none. I tried not to breathe. The spout was removed from my mouth. I looked up at him. I struggled not to breathe. He smiled. Then I must breathe! But I could not breathe until I swallowed the dreadful concoction. “Good Kajira,” said the man, soothingly. “Every bit of it now, do not lose a drop.” I then gasped for breath. “Good, pretty beast,” he said. I was thrust to the side, and fell on my left shoulder. “Next,” said the man. My hands were left tied behind me for a time so I could not disgorge the noxious fluid. I am told the releaser is delicious. Our breeding, like other aspects of our being, as we are slaves, is at the discretion of our masters.
“As you were informed, noble masters,” said the auctioneer, “this item is a barbarian, extracted from the polluted world, a world where few slaves are in their collars.”
There was laughter from the tiers.
“As they should be,” said the auctioneer.
There was more laughter.
“But this one,” he said, “is now in her collar.”
“Where she belongs,” called a man from somewhere in the tiers.
“Yes!” called more than one man from the tiers.
“That world from which she has been removed,” said the auctioneer, “is a world without a Home Stone.”
Several in the audience reacted in surprise.
“It is a world which is not loved,” said the auctioneer. “It is a world which is soiled, and neglected. Selfishness and greed abound. Men sacrifice the air and sky, the land and sea, as it were, for tarsk-bits. Coin is supreme; honor is scorned. Rulers do not rule, but enrich themselves while pandering to mobs. Each man would subvert and outdo his fellow. Treason is rewarded and praised, whilst loyalty is scorned and mocked. And these betrayers and despoilers of a world commend rapacity as growth, and ruination as achievement. And their shameless women, their faces as naked as those of slaves, abet these crimes, and, fearing only that they might not profit in their turn, barter, as the shallow mercenaries they are, their smiles and favors for gain.”
There were cries of rage from several in the tiers.
“And here, at my feet now,” said the auctioneer, “is such a woman, guilty of such crimes! What should be her fate?”
“Feed her to sleen!” cried a man.
Sleen, I had learned, are large, sinuous, vicious, six-legged carnivores. In the wild, they are commonly burrowing animals and nocturnal. Domesticated and trained, they commonly serve as guard beasts and hunting beasts. They are Gor’s keenest and most tenacious trackers.
“Throw her to leech plants!” cried another.
No animals graze on leech plants. Leech plants grow in thick, matted patches and bristle with hollow, fanglike thorns. These plants, triggered, can strike like a snake, and suck blood into distendable pods. In a matter of Ehn even a large animal can be drained of blood.
“No,” cried a man. “For such a slut, the collar, the collar!”
“Yes, the collar!” cried more than one man.
“And it seems to be on her neck,” said the auctioneer.
There was laughter, and cries of approval.
“On her world she was worthless,” said the auctioneer, “but here, on this world, for the first time in her life, she will be worth something, if only a handful of tarsk-bits.”
“Yes,” cried a fellow. “Yes!”
“Behold then,” said the auctioneer, “here, at my feet, a comely barbarian slave, naked, on all fours before you, new to her collar, ready to be trained to your tastes. Yes, ela, she is a barbarian, only that, forgive the House of Anesidemus, for daring to offer such inferior, shabby goods to such discerning discriminating buyers, but perhaps some of you have heard rumors of the nature of these barbarians, of how they crawl to the whip, of how they beg, perhaps have heard rumors of their needs, their helplessness, and their responsiveness. Why should that be? There is a simple explanation. Great numbers of the men on their world have been taught to betray their blood, to repudiate it, and fear it. Many of the men of her dismal world have been crippled, tamed, reduced, subdued, and conquered, taught to prize themselves in direct proportion to the extent they do treason to their manhood. They are taught to ignore their might, judgment, strength, and agility, taught to be ashamed of the promptings of their blood. Would not their sick society collapse and their miserable world perish if even a hint of manhood were suspected? And so we have an unnatural, artificial world, a shallow, petty world in which men are to be punished for being men and women are mocked and scorned for being women. But one wonders. Could it be that under all the pretenses and lies, under all the conventions and cloaks, there might lurk the hereditary coils of a form of being which, in an honest world, need not be denied and suppressed, but might thrive and flourish, might lift its head, look about, and find itself once more in the kind of world for which, in a thousand generations, it was bred, a world of men and a world of women?”
