"I am not bargaining," I said.
The leader brought forward the pouch and put it down on the stones. He then signaled to the lad with the veil. That fellow then brought the veil forward, too, and put it on the stones. Both of them then backed away. I then released the hand of the other lad, Decius, it seemed, and he scrambled away, holding his wrist.
"Give me my veil!" demanded the woman, coming forward.
I handed it to her.
She turned about, adjusting it.
"Pick up my pouch," she said, her back to us. "Give it to me."
I picked up the pouch. The lads had now withdrawn some forty yards or so away. They were gathered about the fellow whom I had had down on his knees, his arm behind him, the wrist bent. He was still undoubtedly in pain.
"Give me my pouch!" she demanded.
I looked at the group of youths.
The fellow's wrist had not been broken. I had not chosen to do that.
One or another of the lads, from time to time, looked back at us. I did not think they would return, however. To be sure, Marcus might have welcomed that. His sword was still unsheathed. Too, I did not think they would be interested in causing the lady further inconvenience.
I felt the woman's hand snatch at the pouch and my own hand, almost reflexively, closed on the pouch.
Her eyes flashed angrily over the veil, an opaque street veil, now readjusted. "Give it to me!" she said.
"It was our mistake to interfere," said Marcus, dryly. He resheathed his blade. "Give it to me!" said the woman.
"You are rude," I said.
She tugged at the pouch.
"Are you not grateful?" I asked.
"It demeans a free woman to express gratitude," she said.
"I do not think so," I said.
"Are you not paid for your work?" she asked.
"Are you not grateful? I asked.
"I am not a slave!" she asked.
"Are you not grateful?" I asked, again.
"Yes," she said. "I am grateful! Now, give it to me!"
"Ah," I said. "Perhaps you are a slave."
"No!" she said.
"What do you think of this free woman?" I asked Marcus.
She reacted angrily, but did not release the pouch.
"Do you think she might be more civil," I asked, "if she were stripped?"
"Yes," he said, "particularly if she were also branded and collared."
"She would then learn softness, as opposed to hardness," I said.
"It would be in her best interest to do so," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
She released the pouch and stepped back a little.
Her eyes were now wide, over the veil.
"Perhaps she is the sort of woman who is best kept in a kennel," I said, "to be brought forth when one wishes, for various labors."
"Such women are all haughty wenches," he said. "But they quickly lose their haughtiness in bondage."
"Please," she said. "Give me the coins."
I did not release them.
"Give them to me!" she said, angrily.
"Would you not like to learn softness, as opposed to hardness? I asked. She looked at me, angrily.
"Women learn it quickly in bondage," I said.
"It is in their best interest to do so," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said.
"Surely you have wondered what it would be, to be a slave?" inquired Marcus. She gasped. Only too obviously had she considered such matters.
"But then," I said, "you may not be attractive enough to be a slave."
She did not speak.
I put the pouch inside my tunic.
"Oh!" she said, for I had then reached up and taken her hood in my hands. "We shall see," I said.
"Oh!" she said, startled.
Marcus held her from behind, by the arms.
I pushed back her hood and thrust it down. I then jerked away the veil, and surveyed her features.
"I think you, like most women, would make an adequate slave," I said.
She squirmed.
"Hold her wrists together," I said. I then tied them together, behind her back, with her veil.
She moaned.
She could not now readjust the veil.
"Please," she begged. "Let me veil myself. Slavers might see me!"
"You were not pleasing," I said.
I then took the pouch of coins in my hands and lofted it to the group of lads some forty yards away. Their leader caught it. They then turned about, and ran. The woman looked at me, astonished, aghast.
"Your lips are pretty," I said. "They could possibly be trained to kiss well." Tears sprang to her eyes.
"And lest you return home too quickly," I said, "we shall do this." I then crouched down and tore off a bit of the hem of her robes, but not enough to offend her modesty, for example, revealing her ankles, and, using the cloth as a bond, fastened her ankles together, leaving her some four or five inches of slack, rather like a slave girl's hobble chains.
"She might even bring a good price in a market," said Marcus.
"I am sure of it," I said.
"Sleen!" said a free woman, bundled in the robes of concealment, heavily veiled, hurrying by. Doubtless she had witnessed, from a distance, the fate of her compatriot.
"The woman of Ar should be slaves," said Marcus.
"Yes," I said. I could think of one in particular.
"It would much improve them," he said.
"Yes," I said. Slavery, of course, much improves any woman. this is because of the psychological dimorphism of the human species, that the female's fulfillment lies in her subjection to, and subjugation by, a strong male.
"But do not confuse the men of Ar with the women of Ar," I said.
"I do not feel sorry for them," he said.
"I do," I said. "They have been confused, misled and robbed."
"And not only of their goods," said Marcus.
"No," I said, "but of their pride, as well."
"And their manhood," said Marcus, bitterly.
"I do not know," I said. "I do not know."
"Their women belong at the feet of men," said Marcus.
"So, too, do all women," I said.
"True," said Marcus.
Women taken in a given city, incidentally, are usually sold out of the city, to wear their collars elsewhere. In this fashion the transition from their former to their subsequent condition is made particularly clear to them. They must begin anew, as a new form of being, that of a lovely animal, the female slave. Also, given the xenophobia common on Gor, often obtaining among cities, the distrust of a stranger, the contempt for the outsider, and such, there is a special ease in a master's relating to a foreign slave, one with whom he has never shared a Home Stone. Similarly, of course, there is a special urgency and terror on the part of the slave, in finding that she now belongs helplessly to one of a different polity. She understands that it may be difficult to please such a master, one likely to be harsh and demanding, who may despise her, who may think nothing of subjecting her to cruel punishments, and that she must accordingly, if she would even live, strive desperately to be pleasing to him. They can thus, the girl's antecedents, like her name and clothing, stripped away, and his unknown to her, begin as pure master and slave. What, if anything, will then, from this basic fiat of their relationship, develop between them? Will she, in and of herself, alone, aside from the trivia of her now-irrelevant history, become his special, unique slave? Will he, on his part, in and of himself, alone, aside from his antecedents, his station, caste, and such, become to her a very special, very individual master, perhaps even her master of masters?
We then continued on.
"You are still troubled," said Marcus.
"It is like seeing a larl tricked into destroying himself," I said, "as though he were told that the only good larl is a sick, apologetic, self-suspecting, guilt-ridden larl. It is like vulos legislating for tarns, the end of which legislation is the death of the tarn, or is transformation into something new, something reduced, pathological and sick, celebrated then as the true tarn."
"I do not even understand what you are saying," said Marcus.
"That is because you are Gorean," I said.
"Perhaps," he shrugged.
"But you see such things occurring in Ar," I said.
"Yes," he said.