Rebels of Gor (9 page)

“It is a matter of time, and not a great deal of time,” said Tyrtaios, “until resistance must end, until the holding must fall. In a few days, or less, your men will be too weak to man the walls and hold the gates.”

“Meanwhile, the holding stands,” said Lord Nishida.

“I warn you,” said Tyrtaios, “the patience of Lord Yamada is not inexhaustible.”

I feared there was much in what Tyrtaios had said. It seemed likely to me that the garrison, both Pani and mercenary, must soon succumb, if not to the enemy, then to hunger. I myself, several days ago, would have preferred a sallying forth from the holding, to charge, however fruitlessly, upon the enemy, that one might at least, enweaponed, facing the enemy, die as befits the warrior. Even the urt will snarl and attack the sleen rather than die of hunger in its den. But now I feared it was too late, even for the flourish of a last, gallant gesture. Now many men, I knew, could not even rise to their feet.

Lord Nishida turned his head to face Lord Temmu, who sat, cross-legged, near the back of the dais.

“We thank great Yamada for his patience,” said Lord Temmu. “Return to your master and tell him that, we, too, are patient.”

“Consider your words carefully,” said Tyrtaios.

Several hands went to the hilts of weapons.

“He is shogun!” whispered Lord Nishida, quickly, reprovingly.

But not a flicker of annoyance could be marked on the visage of Lord Temmu.

“I meant no discourtesy,” said Tyrtaios.

“Cousin,” said Lord Okimoto.

“Speak,” said Lord Temmu.

I recalled that Lord Okimoto had earlier leaned toward Lord Temmu, and said something, and that Lord Temmu had nodded.

I did not know what had passed between them.

I now supposed that it had had to do with expressing an eventual readiness to participate in the proceedings.

This was unusual.

Lord Okimoto seldom spoke publicly. Presumably this was because of his sensitivity to his impairment. Like most high Pani, he was a proud man. Pani are often embarrassed by what they may conceive as exhibiting a difference, or a weakness, or defect.

The ponderous daimyo did not look about himself.

We prepared to attend closely, for his words were commonly weighty and it was not always easy to decode the light, rasping sounds, like hoarse, sibilant whispers, which escaped his scarred throat.

His gaze was fixed on Tyrtaios.

His words were laden with menace.

It was not a pleasant thing, I was sure, to have Lord Okimoto as an enemy.

“I am offended,” said Lord Okimoto to Tyrtaios, “that Lord Yamada would send one such as you to convey his words, a traitor and miscreant. How better could he express his contempt?”

“No insult was intended, great lord,” said Tyrtaios. “Recall that I served you faithfully and well, both as guard and as liaison to mercenaries.”

“No daimyo would agree to address such words to a shogun,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I am a soldier,” said Tyrtaios. “I must do the will of my lord, as best I can, as I am commanded.”

“You are a foreigner here, a stranger, one not of the islands,” said Lord Okimoto. “You do not know our ways.”

“The ways of war are common ways,” said Tyrtaios. “They possess no insignia, they fly no banners. They stop at no rivers and are held within no walls. They are found on the plains and in the mountains. The quarrel and the arrow are akin, as are the glaive and the spear.”

“You will not take this holding,” said Lord Okimoto, “while a single man lives.”

“Then, great lord,” said Tyrtaios, “with all due respect, it must be taken when none live.”

“When none live,” said Lord Okimoto, “it is then that the greatest victory is won.”

“I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios.

“There is one victory of which we cannot be deprived,” said Lord Okimoto.

“I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios, uncertainly.

Lord Okimoto was silent.

“The lifting of the ritual knife,” explained Lord Nishida.

“I do not understand,” said Tyrtaios.

“The performance of a deed whose tale will be told for a thousand years,” said Lord Nishida.

I shuddered, recalling a conversation held long ago, on a parapet damp with fog, early, on a cold morning.

I glanced at some of the officers of Lord Yamada who had accompanied Tyrtaios to the holding. I saw that they understood.

Yes, I thought, ways are different. How hideously strange and unfamiliar are the corridors of culture. How they differ one from another. How strange, I thought, are the wildernesses and labyrinths of propriety. In the vastness and darkness of the forest there are many paths, and it is hard to find one’s way, but one seeks one’s way, one seeks one’s way. I recalled Lord Nishida had asked if Lord Okimoto would be the first to use the knife. “Of course,” had said Lord Okimoto.

Tyrtaios turned to the shogun.

“What answer shall I bear to my lord?” he asked.

“Tell your lord,” said Lord Temmu, “that the holding stands.” He then addressed himself to his men at arms who stood about. “Take that food,” he said, “and carry it to the outer parapets, and cast it to the plains below.”

Tyrtaios and his party, officers and Ashigaru of General Yamada, then turned about, to take their leave.

Tyrtaios turned back, briefly. “Beware the iron dragon,” he said. “It is in its lair. If it is awakened, it will fly.”

I did not understand this.

He and his party then withdrew.

Chapter Seven

A Plan is Conceived

“Why was I not told?” I demanded.

“It was feared you might not approve,” said Lord Nishida.

“I do not,” I said.

“It is as we feared,” he said.

After Tyrtaios and the officers and Ashigaru of Yamada who had accompanied him had withdrawn from the holding, I had made my way to the indoor housing area for slaves, and, to my surprise, found it empty. In the large fire pan were only ashes. The room is large, and there is much freedom of movement within it. It has two narrow windows placed some eight feet above the floor level, and has a single, heavy, timber door. At night, the slaves are chained to the wall, by the neck, an ankle, or, in some cases, by a wrist. Each is given a blanket. The chains were now empty, and there was little indication that the room had been recently occupied. A thought pressed against my mind, but I thrust it away. I supposed that one or more of the slaves might have been less than pleasing and, as a consequence, as a discipline, all might have been moved to the other common holding area, favored in better weather, the kennels under the long shed lining the inner wall of the holding. I had never much approved punishing several for the infraction of, say, one, but I recognized that it was a way of placing considerable stress on the errant individual. Not only is she punished in particular, often whipped, but she is likely to be subjected to the displeasure, ill will, contempt, and abuse of the others, and may even endure additional corporal attentions at their hands. Still, the punishment of several for the mistake of, say, one, seems to me to compromise the very rationale of discipline, which is to link, say, a failure to be fully pleasing, to anticipated, and predictable, consequences. Most slaves are zealous to please their masters. Why then should such a slave suffer for the fault of another? Would this not be likely to dismay, bewilder, and confuse a slave? Similarly, in my view, discipline is not to be arbitrary. Her universe is to be a stable, secure universe, with its well-established borders, expectations, habits, and such. In this respect, her universe is likely to be more secure, livable, and rewarding than that of the free woman, so far above her. Most slaves begin by fearing the master, and strive to be pleasing, fearing not to please him. But then, commonly, as she learns her collar, and realizes it is on her, and locked, she wishes to please him, and fully, with all her heart. Certainly it is pleasant to have a loving slave at one’s feet. Is not love the strongest of her chains? To be sure, one must guard against caring for a mere slave. Occasionally she might be whipped, if it seems appropriate, to remind her that she is a slave, and only a slave. This, too, as she loves her bondage, and would not exchange its freedom for the narrowness and imprisonment of the free woman, can be rewarding and reassuring to her, even in its tears. How better can she be informed that she is a slave, than to know herself subject to the whip of her master?

I was not pleased to find the indoor housing area vacant.

There are many forms of discipline, of course. The switch and whip are but two. Short rations and close chains are others. Nudity in the streets is also unpleasant. Being denied an upright posture or speech are others. One of the most effective disciplines has to do with sex. Once her slave fires have been ignited, and, periodically, rage, in all their suffusive, global might, she finds herself, perhaps at first to her terror, dismay, and misery, their helpless, desperate captive and victim. She then has, in her collar, a need for sex which is not even conceivable, save at the terrifying edges of her consciousness, to the free woman. Indeed, the life of a slave female is a life profoundly imbued with sex, a life of profound and radical sexuality. She joyfully abandons herself to what she now is, a female and a slave. In the collar she finds her joy, her freedom, her meaningfulness, and her identity. She has come home to what she is, radically, anciently, biologically, profoundly, a woman, a slave. It is then obvious what might be the nature of a most effective discipline. One spurns her from one’s feet. She returns, squirming on her belly, pressing her lips to one’s feet and ankles, whimpering, begging to be touched. She is a slave.

I was not pleased to find the indoor housing area vacant.

I fought back against recognizing, or accepting, an intrusive possibility.

More rationally, noting the absence of blankets in the housing area, I conjectured that the slaves, presumably as a discipline, had been moved to the kennels under the roof of the long shed.

My initial reaction to this possibility, aside from my reservations pertaining to mass discipline, as a whole, had been anger, for the weather, for the islands, had been bitter.

I strode toward the long shed.

I fought back an illusive apprehension.

One must be concerned for the welfare of the slave, as for any other form of domestic animal. Though they are likely to bring less than a sleen or kaiila, let alone a tarn, on the market, they do have their value as domestic beasts, much as verr and tarsk. One has an investment in them, as well as in any other form of stock. A tunic and a blanket afforded little enough protection and shelter against the chill of the air, particularly cruel at the height of the holding.

In matters of discipline one must have some sense of proportion, practicality, and fittingness.

The sky was overcast.

The slave is to be treated with the same consideration and solicitude as any other domestic beast; nothing is to be done to her which might reduce or impair her value; you may wish, later, to put her up for sale.

I was angry.

I had now made my way to the long shed, adjacent to the innermost wall of the holding.

“Ho!” I cried.

“Captain?” inquired an Ashigaru, hurrying to me.

I stood beneath the boards of the shed roof, which extended some feet into the courtyard. I was facing the inside of the wall.

“What is this?” I demanded.

“It was deemed appropriate,” he said.

Before me, in their lines, now awry, were better than a hundred kennels. The gates, with their close-set, narrow bars, adequate for holding women, were ajar. Each was empty.

My keenest and most unwelcome suspicions were now confirmed, those I had striven to banish, even from the edges of my mind.

Yet somehow, even as I had denied them, I had known them well warranted.

On the dais I had noted that no slaves were present. To be sure, at so august a gathering, one would not really expect them to be in attendance. Yet, I had been somehow uneasy at their absence. But much was ensuing. Might there not have been one or another, lingering by the wall, or passing on some errand? But I had given this little thought at the time. Much had been ensuing.

But afterwards I was intent on visiting the indoor housing area, that I might ascertain the condition of a slave, a particular slave, Cecily, once Miss Virginia Cecily Jean Pym, whom I had collared faraway, on a steel world, concealed amongst asteroids, and, on behalf of my friend and colleague, Pertinax, another, the slender, flaxen-haired, blue-eyed slave, Saru, once Miss Margaret Wentworth.

“Would you like me to look in on her?” I had asked Pertinax.

“It does not matter,” he had said. “She is only a slave.”

“Do not forget it,” I had told him.

She had been put in her first collar at Tarncamp, though she had been, in a sense, a slave unbeknownst to herself even on Earth. Many women on Earth, in this sense, are slaves, unbeknownst to themselves, having been located, marked out, identified, and registered as such by Gorean slavers. They go about their normal lives, completely unaware that they are now slaves. All that is required then is their harvesting. From the point of view of the slavers, their acquisition, chaining, marking, collaring, and marketing are simply matters of ensuant detail. She had been the slave of Lord Nishida who had, after we had arrived at the World’s End, bestowed her on the shogun, Lord Temmu. Her coloring was unusual for the islands.