John Norman - Magicians of Gor

"Is it truly your intention to call my whereabouts to the attention of Seremides?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"He will rescue me," she said.

"No," I said. "In a sense he, or Myron, or others, will merely be keeping you for me, rather like your being boarded at some commercial slave kennels."

"What a beast you are," she said.

"Indeed," I said, "they will be saving me your upkeep."

"I shall be restored to the honors of the Ubara!" she said.

"No," I said. "You are now a slave. A slave cannot be Ubara. You can do no more now than pretend to be the Ubara. In a sense you will be an impostor. And let us hope that no one detects your deception, for, as you know, the penalties for a slave masquerading as a free woman are quite severe."

She looked at me, in fury.

"To be sure," I said, "few, at least at present, are likely to suspect your bondage. Most, seeing you participate in state ceremonies, holding court, opening games, and such, will think you are truly the Ubara. Only a few will know that you are my slave girl. Among these few, of course, will be yourself, and myself."

"It interests me," she said, "that you will not try to smuggle me now out of the city."

"You are only a slave girl," I said. "You are not that important."

"I see," she said.

"It would be rather pointless to take you now, and I do not find it convenient to do so."

"I see," she said.

"Other projects, you must understand, are of much higher priority."

"Naturally," she said.

"You can wait to be collected."

"Of course!" she said.

"Besides," I said, "it amuses me to think of you in the Central Cylinder."

"Oh?" she asked, angrily.

"Waiting for me to come for you," I said.

"Absurd!" she said.

"Particularly as you grow ever more apprehensive, and more frantic, sensing Ar slipping away from you, and your power collapsing about your ears."

"You are mad!" she said.

"But now I must water you," I said. I lifted up the decanter of water. "There is a good deal of water here," I said, "But I want you to drink it, as you will not have another drink until sometime tomorrow. Put your head back."

I set the opening of the bottle to her mouth, but scarcely had she dampened her lips than she drew back her head.

"What is wrong?" I asked.

"This water has been drawn for days," she said. "Surely it is not fresh!"

"Drink it," I said. "All of it."

She looked at me.

"Your head can be held back by the hair," I said, "and your nostrils can be pinched shut."

"That will not be necessary," she said.

I then gave her of the water.

"Please," she protested.

But I did not see fit to permit her to dally in the downing of it.

I then set the decanter to the side, empty.

"That is a nicely rounded slave belly," said Marcus.

I patted it twice. It sounded not unlike a filled wineskin. Too it bulged out, and reacted not dissimilarly.

She drew back.

"If you were to be sold in a Tahari market," I told her, "you might find yourself forced to drink a large amount of water, like this, shortly before your sale."

She crept back, on her knees, apprehensively, putting a little more distance between us.

"Do not fear," I said. "I have no intention at present of testing you for vitality."

I then picked up the makings of the gag which were to her left, the wadding and the binding.

She eyed them, apprehensively.

"This is not the first time you have been a slave," I said. "Once, I knew, you were owned by Rask of Treve."

She looked up at me.

"Did you serve him well?" I asked.

"He put me often in slave silk, and jewelry, to show me off," she said, "as it amused him, he, of Treve, to have the daughter of Marlenus of Ar for a slave, but he did not make much use of me. Indeed, I served him, by his will, almost entirely in domestic labors, keeping his tent, and such. This he seemed to feel was appropriate, such demeaning, servile labors, for the daughter of Marlenus of Ar. But, too, I do not think he much cared for me. Then, when he got his hands on a meaningless little blond chit, a true slave in ever hort of her body, named El-in-or, he gave me away, to a panther girl named Verna, to be taken to the northern forests. I served panther girls, too, as domestic slave, and was later sold, at the coast, where I came into the collar of Samos, of Port Kar."

"It is difficult to believe that Rask of Treve did not put you to slave use," I said.

"He did, of course," she said.

"And how were you?" I asked.

"He told guests that I was superb," she said.

"And were you?" I asked.

"I had better have been," she said.

"True," I said. I had twice met Rask of Treve, both times in Port Kar. He was the sort of fellow whom women strove to serve unquestioningly to the best of their abilities.

"Surely you learned much of the arts of the slave in his tent," I said.

"No," she said. "I was more of a prize, or a political prisoner. I was more like a free woman in slave silk than a slave, in his camp."

"Then, in effect," I said, "aside from having worn the collar and such, you have never experienced what one might call a full slavery?"

"Like a common slave slut?" she asked.

"Yes," I said.

"No!" she said, angrily.

"That would seem to have been an oversight on the part of Rask of Treve," I said.

"Perhaps," she said, angrily.

"Perhaps other masters can remedy that oversight," I said.

"I am the Ubara of Ar!" she said.

"No," I said. "You are a slave girl." I then gagged her.

I then stood up, and looked down at her. "Tomorrow," I said, "guardsmen will come to free you of your bonds, and return you to the Central Cylinder. You must not forget, of course, even in the Central Cylinder, that you are my slave girl. Too, you must remember that I will come for you. When will it be? You will not know. Will you fear to enter a room alone, or a corridor unescorted, for fear someone may be there, waiting? Will you fear dark places, or shadows? Will you fear high bridges, and roofs, and promenades, because you fear that loop of a tarnsman tightening on your body, dragging you into the sky, his capture? Will you fear even your own chambers, perhaps even to open the portals of your own wardrobe, for fear someone might be waiting? Will you fear to remove your clothing, for fear someone, somehow, somewhere, might see? Will you fear to enter the bath, for fear you might be surprised there? Will you fear to sleep, I wonder, knowing that someone might come to you in the night, that you might waken suddenly to the gag, and helplessness?"

I looked down at her. There were tears in her eyes, over the gag. She looked well in bonds. She was a pretty slave.

"Let us go," I said to Marcus.

We then left the room.

I lay on a blanket, in the small room, in the insula of Torbon, on Demetrios Street, in the Metellan district.

Outside, the city was generally quiet.

I looked up at the darkness of the ceiling.

It must have been in the neighborhood of the twelfth Ahn. By now, Milo and Lavinia must have left the city. Too, Boots Tarsk-Bit, with his troupe, would be on his way north, perhaps on the Viktel Aria. Somewhere, hidden among their belongings, would be an obscure item, a seeming oddity, a stone. To look at it one might not know it from many other stones. And yet it was different from all other stones; it was special. I wondered about the Home Stones of Gor. Many seem small and quite plain. Yet for these stones, and on account of these stones, these seemingly inauspicious, simple objects, cities have been built, and burned, armies have clashed, strong men have wept, empires have risen and fallen. The simplicity of many of these stones has puzzled me. I have wondered sometimes how it is that they have become invested with such import. They may, of course, somewhat simply, be thought of as symbolizing various things, and perhaps different things to different people. They can stand, for example, for a city, and, indeed, are sometimes identified with the city. They, have some affinity, too, surely, with territoriality and community. Even a remote hut, far from the paved avenues of a town or city, may have a Home Stone, and therein, in the place of his Home Stone, is the meanest beggar or the poorest peasant a Ubar. The Home Stone says this place is mine, this is my home. I am here. But I think, often, that it is a mistake to try to translate the Home Stone into meanings. It is not a word, or a sentence. It does not really translate. It is, more like a tree, or the world. It exists, which goes beyond, which surpasses, meaning. In this primitive sense the Home Stone is simply that, and irreducibly, the Home Stone. It is too important, too precious, to mean. And in not meaning, it becomes, of course, the most meaningful of all. It becomes, in a sense, the foundation of meaning, and, for Goreans, it is anterior to meaning, and precedes meaning. Do not ask a Gorean what the Home Stone means because he will not understand your question. It will puzzle him. It is the Home Stone.