John Norman - Nomads of Gor

It then occurred to me that it might have been for just this purpose that she had been sent to the Tuchuks, to single out the one man from among all the thousands with the wagons who could understand her and speak with her, thus identifying and marking him.

“Excellent,” said Kamchak, grinning at me.

“Please,” cried the girl to me. “Help me!”

Kamchak said to me. “Tell her to be silent.”

I did so, and the girl looked at me, dumbfounded, but remained silent.

I discovered that I was now an interpreter.

Kamchak was now, curiously, fingering her yellow garment. Then, swiftly, he tore it from her.

She cried out.

“Be silent,” I said to her.

I knew what must now pass, and it was what would have passed in any city or on any road or trail or path in Gor. She was a captive female, and must, naturally, submit to her assessment as prize; she must also be, incidentally, examined for weapons; a dagger or poisoned needle is often concealed in the clothing of free women.

There were interested murmurs from the crowd when, to the Gorean’s thinking, the unusual garments underlying her yellow shift were revealed.

“Please,” she wept, turning to me.

“Be silent,” I cautioned her.

Kamchak then removed her remaining garments, even the shreds of nylon stockings that had hung about her ankles.

There was a murmur of approval from the crowd; even some of the enslaved Turian beauties, in spite of themselves, cried out in admiration.

Elizabeth Cardwell, I decided, would indeed bring a high price.

She stood held in place by the lance, her throat bound to it with the wood behind her neck, her wrists thonged behind her back. Other than her bonds she now wore only the thick leather collar which had been sewn about her neck.

Kamchak picked up the clothing which lay near her on the grass. He also took the shoes. He wadded it all up together in a soiled bundle. He threw it to a nearby woman. “Burn it,” said Kamchak.

The bound girl watched helplessly as the woman carried her clothing, all that she had of her old world, to a cooking fire some yards away, near the edge of the wagons.

The crowd had opened a passage for the woman and the girl saw the clothing cast on the open fire.

“No, no!” she screamed. “No!”

Then she tried once more to free herself.

“Tell her,” said Kamchak, “that she must learn Gorean quickly — that she will be slain if she does not.”

I translated this for the girl.

She shook her head wildly. “Tell them my name is Elizabeth Cardwell,” she said. “I don’t know where I am — or how I got here — I want to get back to America — I’m an American citizen — my home is in New York City — take me back there — I will pay you anything!”

“Tell her,” repeated Kamchak, “that she must learn Gorean quickly — and that if she does not she will be slain.”

I translated this once more for the girl.

“I will pay you anything,” she pleaded. “Anything!”

“You have nothing,” I informed her, and she blushed. “Further,” I said, “we do not have the means of returning you to your home.”

“Why not?” she demanded.

“Have you not,” I pressed, “noted the difference in the gravitational field of this place — have you not noted the slight difference in the appearance of the sun?”

“It’s not true!” she screamed.

“This is not Earth,” I told her. “This is Gor — another earth perhaps — but not yours.” I looked at her fixedly. She must understand. “You are on another planet.”

She closed her eyes and moaned.

“I know,” she said. “I know — I know — but how — how — how?”

“I do not know the answer to your question,” I said. I did not tell her that I was, incidentally, keenly interested — for my own reasons — in learning the answer to her question.

Kamchak seemed impatient.

“What does she say?” he asked.

“She is naturally disturbed,” I said. “She wishes to return to her city.”

“What is her city?” asked Kamchak.

“It is called New York,” I said.

“I have never heard of it,” said Kamchak.

“It is far away,” I said.

“How is it that you speak her language?” he asked.

“I once lived in lands where her language is spoken,” I said.

“Is there grass for the bosk in her lands?” asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I said, “but they are far away.”

“Farther even than Thentis?” asked Kamchak.

“Yes,” I said.

“Farther even than the islands of Cos and-Tyros?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

Kamchak whistled. “That is far,” he said.

I smiled. “It is too far to take the bosk,” I said.

Kamchak grinned at me.

One of the warriors on the kaiila spoke. “She was with no one,” he said. “We searched. She was with no one.”

Kamchak nodded at me, and then at the girl.

“Were you alone?” I asked.

The girl nodded weakly.

“She says she was alone,” I told Kamchak.

“How came she here?” asked Kamchak.

I translated his question, and the girl looked at me, and then closed her eyes and shook her head. “I don’t know,” she said.

“She says she does not know,” I told Kamchak.

“It is strange,” said Kamchak. “But we will question her further later.”

He signalled to a boy who carried a skin of Ka-la-na wine over his shoulder. He took the skin of wine from the boy and bit out the horn plug; he then, with the wineskin on his shoulder, held back the head of Elizabeth Cardwell with one hand and with the other shoved the bone nozzle of the skin between her teeth; he tipped the skin and the girl, half choking, swallowed wine; some of the red fluid ran from her mouth and over her body.

When Kamchak thought she had drunk enough he pulled the nozzle from her mouth, pushed back the plug and returned the skin to the boy.

Dazed, exhausted, covered with sweat, dust on her face and legs, wine on her body, Elizabeth Cardwell, her wrists thonged behind her and her throat bound to a lance, stood captive before Kamchak of the Tuchuks.

He must be merciful. He must be kind.

“She must learn Gorean,” said Kamchak to me. “Teach her ‘La Kajira’.”

“You must learn Gorean,” I told the girl.

She tried to protest, but I would not permit it.

“Say ‘La Kajira’,” I told her.

She looked at me, helplessly. Then she repeated, “La Kajira.”

“Again,” I commanded.

“La Kajira,” said the girl clearly, “La Kajira.”

Elizabeth Cardwell had learned her first Gorean.

“What does it mean?” she asked.

“It means,” I told her, “I am a slave girl.”

“No!” she screamed. “No, no, no!”

Kamchak nodded to the two riders mounted on kaiila. “Take her to the wagon of Kutaituchik.”

The two riders turned their kaiila and in a moment, moving rapidly, the girl running between them, had turned from the grassy lane and disappeared between the wagons.

Kamchak and I regarded one another.

“Did you note the collar she wore?” I asked.

He had not seemed to show much interest in the high, thick leather collar that the girl had had sewn about her neck.

“Of course,” he said.

“I myself,” I said, “have never seen such a collar.”

“It is a message collar,” said Kamchak. “Inside the leather, sewn within, will be a message.”

My look of amazement must have amused him, for he laughed. “Come,” he said, “let us go to the wagon of Kutaituchik.”

The wagon of Kutaituchik, called Ubar of the Tuchuks, was drawn up on a large, flat-topped grassy hill, the highest land in the camp.