"She is not ugly,” said Cabot. “Indeed, if you were both exhibited naked on a slave block, I would suppose you would go for a similar price."
"I have blonde hair!” she said.
"That is common in certain areas on Gor,” said Cabot, “for example, in the north, in Torvaldsland."
"I am the most beautiful of all women!” she said.
"I do not think even Lord Grendel would believe that,” said Cabot.
"But surely I am very beautiful!” she said.
"True,” said Cabot. “But there are thousands in the Gorean markets who are as beautiful."
"Surely not!” she said.
"It is true,” said Cabot.
"But I am a free woman!” she said.
"True,” said Cabot.
"And that makes me special!” she said.
"It makes you very special,” he said.
"Free women are priceless,” she said.
"True,” said Cabot. “But as soon as you put them in a collar, they are no longer priceless. They are then priced at what men will pay for them, some priced higher than others, as worth more coins, some priced lower than others, as worth fewer coins."
"I am a free woman, am I not?” she demanded.
"Certainly,” said Cabot.
"Why then,” she said, “am I dressed like this!"
"Officially,” said Cabot, “with our Kur friends, in order that you not be able to conceal weapons, but unofficially, from the point of view of our human allies, because we enjoy seeing you so."
"I might as well be a slave,” she said.
"Precisely,” said Cabot.
It may be recalled that the Lady Bina, before leaving the area of the slaughter bench, had demanded, and received, the garment of Lita, the slave, in order that she not be unclothed. Lita, now, again, had her simple tunic. On the other hand, a similar garment, sleeveless and brief, had been fashioned for the Lady Bina. Indeed, it may have been a bit shorter than even that of the slave, which was already scandalously brief, or, as the saying is, “slave short,” and, in addition, its light fabric, unshaped and loose on her body, was split at both hips, to the waist.
Cabot found it difficult to look at her and not think “slave,” but that, of course, is a feature of such garments.
Indeed, it is, as I understand it, natural for any human male who sees a woman in such a garment to think of her as “slave,” what she would be like in one's arms, how much she would cost, what she would look like at one's feet, and so on.
Such garments can be a terror or a joy, a shame or an excitement, a misery or an exquisite pleasure, to those females who have no choice but to wear them, and have learned to be grateful, for even so little.
Sometimes a new slave, not daring to appear on the street so clad, must be whipped from the house, shuddering and cringing, to be set upon her errands.
But soon she puts such misery and shame behind her, realizing that it is now what she is, a slave.
And some things which would be wholly shocking and inappropriate for a free woman are not only prescribed for a slave, but are fitting for her.
And slaves understand this.
And so her deportment is rapidly transformed. She soon begins to stand well, to kneel well, to walk well, and such. Indeed, she will be whipped if she does not. The slave, you see, must move beautifully and gracefully. Slovenly carriage is not permitted to her. She is not a free woman. She is in a collar. And she soon begins to take delight not only in the attractiveness of her garment, but in its lightness and softness, and in the freedom it grants her. How different it is from the gross, constricting, layered bundlings of the free woman's many robes and veils! And she surely cannot fail to be aware, and acutely, sometimes shyly, but surely happily, and soon even gratefully, though she might at first be reluctant to admit this, of the blatant public exhibition of her beauty. After all, what beautiful woman, however sweet, gentle, tender and modest, does not want her beauty recognized, noted, honored, and admired, even celebrated? And what beautiful woman, too, however sweet, gentle, tender, and modest, does not want to be looked upon by males with interest, and avid, keen desire? Let them wonder what she would be like in their arms, how she would be at their feet, in their collar! And then, as she better learns her collar, she becomes unapologetic, even bold, in the garment, and wears it, naturally, even thoughtlessly, with verve and pride, thinking nothing of it, accepting, understanding, and rejoicing in its rightfulness on her, she now well aware of, and excited by, its meaning, that she is beautiful and purchasable, that she is slave. So she now wears it with assurance, with grace, with vitality, and contentment, and joy. She may even wear it with an almost insolent, brazen pleasure, though she understands that she may be quickly put to her knees.
She now understands, you see, that she has been found to be the most desirable of women, the female slave.
In her considerable bareness, in her tiny tunic and collar, she now has little to fear, unless she should be in the least displeasing to masters, or, to be sure, unless she comes within the purview of a free female.
Surely they know how exciting and marvelous they are in such garments. In them they know they are dressed for the pleasure of men, and, in this, they find much pleasure themselves.
They, too, you see, are human.
Too, such garments, as is well known, are a badge of beauty, an emblem of desirability, of beguiling allure, of fascination and excitement, an evidence of an attractiveness so exquisite that it not only warrants interest but collaring.
Such a garment proclaims that its wearer has been found “slave beautiful,” beautiful enough to be a slave.
And what woman would not be proud to be found to be “as beautiful as a slave"?
And at the feet of a master, wholly dominated, uncompromisingly owned, they learn their womanhood, and love.
"Outside,” said the Lady Bina, “I saw some cattle humans. I did not like the way they looked at me."
"They probably remember you from the slaughter house,” said Cabot.
"They frighten me,” she said.
"They are taken to be stupid and harmless,” said Cabot. “Let us hope that they are so."
"I do not like them,” she said.
"Few people do,” said Cabot.
"Their eyes were like those of tarsks,” she said. “Small, in all that flesh."
"Lord Grendel turned them away, did he not?” asked Cabot.
"Yes,” she said.
"Look,” said Cabot, getting up. “Here comes Lord Grendel."
"I hate him,” she said.
"Kneel,” said Cabot, “and put your head to the ground."
"Never!” she said.
"You are his prisoner,” said Cabot.
"Prisoner?"
"Yes,” said Cabot. “Surely you know that you are his prisoner, little traitress. And it is only that which keeps you alive. If it were not for his protection, and his intervention, you would have been slain long ago."
"I cannot do such a thing,” she said. “I will not do it!"
"Do it now,” said Cabot.
Swiftly the Lady Bina knelt, and put her head to the ground.
"Tal,” said Cabot, to his friend, Lord Grendel.
"Tal,” responded Lord Grendel.
"You have been in converse with Lord Flavion?” said Cabot.
"Yes,” said Lord Grendel.
Lord Flavion was chief amongst the scouts in the camp, and stood high, though not in the rings.
"He is going out, again, tonight,” said Lord Grendel.
"He should rest,” said Cabot.
"He does not rest,” said Lord Grendel. “Had we a hundred like him I would attempt the palace of Agamemnon itself."
"I wish him well,” said Cabot.
Some days ago Flavion had made his way through the enemy lines, to join the insurrection.
His contributions had proved numerous and invaluable.
"May the Nameless One be with him,” said Grendel.