John Norman - Beasts of Gor

The load was thus balanced on the tarn, the weight of the two beauties on one side, that of Ram on the other.

I had placed Constance’s bound wrists over those of the new slave for Constance was first girl. She would be first to be lifted from the pommel.

“You are first girl,” I told Constance.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Constance is first girl,” I told her who had been the Lady Tina of Lydius.

“Yes, Master,” said she who had been the Lady Tina of Lydius.

“Address her as Mistress,” I told the former free girl. “Mistress,” said she who had been the former Lady Tina of Lydius, frightened, to Constance.

“Slave,” responded Constance to her confirming the former free woman as second girl.

“Now, on to Lydius!” I said.

“Yes, Master,” said the two girls, the blond and the brunet, first girl and second girl, yet both really new slaves, neither of whom had as yet even been branded.

I kicked in the door. It splintered inward. I was through the door, sword drawn.

The man at the desk leaped up.

“Where is Bertram of Lydius?” I asked.

“I am he,” said the man, in fur jacket. “What do you want? Are you an assassin? You do not wear the dagger. What have I done?”

I laughed. “You are not the man I seek,” I said. “One in the south who meant me harm, who seemed a sleen master, had assumed your identity. I thought perhaps ho might truly have been Bertram of Lydius.”

“I do not know you,” said the man.

“Nor I you,” I said.

I described to him the man who had called himself Bertram of Lydius. But he could not identify him for me. I wondered at who he might truly be.

“You have an excellent name in sleen training,” I said. “It is known even in the south. Else I would not have permitted the man to my house.”

“I am pleased I am not he whom you seek,” said Bertram of Lydius. “I do not envy him.”

“The one I seek,” I said, “is skilled with the knife. He is, I suspect, of the assassins.”

I threw a tarsk bit to the desk. “Your door will need repairing,” I said.

Then I turned and left the place. I had not thought the man at my house, he, too, whom I had seen in the tent of the curio dealer, had been truly Bertram of Lydius, but I had wished to clarify that. Too, I had thought he might be one known to Bertram of Lydius, if it were not he. It is easier to assume an identity where one knows a subject reasonably well. Yet one, to assume that identity, would have to know little more than the streets of Lydius and the training of sleen. I hoped to renew my acquaintance with the fellow. Little love is lost betwixt the castes of warriors and assassins. Each deems himself the superior of, and the natural foe, of the other. The sword of the warrior, commonly, is pledged to a Home Stone, that of the assassin to gold and the knife.

I walked through the streets of Lydius until I came to the small metal worker’s shop, one out of the main ways of the city.

I entered the shop.

“Are you still crying?” I asked Constance.

She sat in the straw beside an anvil. A chain ran from the anvil and was padlocked about her neck.

“My brand hurts, Master,” she said.

“Very well,” I said, “cry.”

“There,” said the metal worker. He eased the heavy iron collar, with the short, dangling chain, from Ram’s neck.

“Ah,” said Ram.

Beside him, on the floor, knelt Tina, which was now her slave name.

Ram directed the metal worker to saw away an inch and a half of the opened collar. He put it in a vise on his workbench and did so.

“Did you find Bertram of Lydius?” asked Ram.

“Yes,” I said.

“You slew him?” asked Ram.

“No,” I said. “He was not the man I sought.”

“Oh,” said Ram.

“I did not think he would be,” I said.

I looked down at Tina. “Show me your thigh, Girl,” I said. She did so.

“How did she take the iron?” I asked.

“She screamed like a she-sleen,” he said, “but she is quiet now.”

“The brands,” I said, “are excellent, both of them.”

“Thank you, Master,” said Constance, smiling. Tina, too, I noted, straightened herself a bit.

I threw the metal worker a silver tarsk.

“My thanks, Warrior!” he said.

Both of the girls had been beautifully branded. I was pleased.

The metal worker finished sawing the portion off the heavy collar Ram had worn.

Ram then pulled Tina to the feet by her hair and forced her head down on the anvil.

The metal worker looked at him.

“Put it on her neck,” he said.

I watched while the heavy collar, shortened now to fit a woman, was curved expertly about her neck by blows of the hammer, and then, decisively, struck shut.

“Lift your head, Slave Girl,” said Ram.

She did so, tears in her eyes. The chain on the collar dangled between her breasts.

I signaled the metal worker to free Constance of the chain on her neck. I tossed both girls a light, white rep-cloth slave tunic which I had purchased in the city.

Gratefully, half sobbing, they drew them on. I smiled. Did they not know, to a man’s eye, they were almost more naked in such a garment than without it? Garments are an additional way, incidentally, in which to control slave girls. Knowing that the master may not permit her even such a rag if he chooses tends to make her more eager to please him, that she not be sent into the streets without it.

“I will march her barefoot, clad so, through the streets of Lydius,” said Ram.

“Excellent,” I said. It would be a rich joke. Who would recognize in her the former lofty lady of Lydius, the rich Lady Tina, who had often trod these streets aloof and hidden, probably escorted, in her several veils and multitudinous robes of concealment? Looking upon her, and look they would, they would see only a bond girl, only a lovely, half-naked slave at the heels of her master.

“I will have her serve me paga, publicly, in her own city,” said Ram.

“Let us go to the tavern of Sarpedon,” I said. “It is a fine tavern.” I had been there before, some years earlier. I remembered a girl who had once been wench there, named Tana. It was I who had informed Sarpedon, her master, of her skill in dancing. She had been danced that very night for the patrons, but I had had business, and had not dallied to see her perform.

In less than a quarter of an Ahn we had come to the tavern of Sarpedon.

It was, however, in an angry mood. On the wharves leading to the tavern, in many places, I had seen bales of hide. It was hide of the northern tabuk.

“I must leave Lydius tonight,” I said. ‘There is much here I do not understand. It must be investigated.”

“I shall accompany you,” said Ram.

“I am a tarnsman,” I said. “It is better that you remain.”

“The reins of a tarn are not unfamiliar to me,” said Ram.

“You are a tarnsman?” I asked.

“I have done many things,” he said. “In Hunjer I worked with tarn keepers.”

“Do you know the spear, the bow, the sword?” I asked.

“I am not a warrior,” he shrugged.

“Remain behind,” I said.

“Do masters desire aught?” asked the proprietor, a paunchy man, in leather apron.

Ram and I sat behind one of the small tables. Our girls knelt by us.

“Where is Sarpedon?” I asked.

“He visits in Ar,” said the man. “I am Sarpelius, who is managing the tavern in his absence.” He regarded the girls. “Lovely,” he said. “Would masters care to sell them? I can always use such wenches in the alcoves.”

“No,” I said.

The girls seemed then less tense.