“You may kneel up,” I told her.
“Master?” she said.
“You are beautiful, and you did well,” I said. “It is my hope that you will be permitted to live.”
“Surely you are not leaving,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But you sought me out!” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“Did you not want my body?” she asked.
I smiled. How much like a foolish free woman was she still, who so often so little understood men. The Gorean master possesses the whole slave, and the slave understands she is wholly possessed. He will have everything out of her, her feelings and thoughts, her imaginings, her hopes, her dreams, her fears, everything, and, if necessary, he will have this out of her by the whip. And soon the slave desires, too, desperately, to convey the wholeness of her to the master. She knows her beauty is to be placed at his feet, his to do with as he pleases, but she learns that he will have, too, if it pleases him, as it may or may not, spilled at his feet like her tresses, the treasures of her inner life. It is a miserable slave who is kept as a mere body.
Much, of course, depends on the master and the slave.
Bondages are plentiful, and various.
A slave may be kept in contempt, as nothing. She may grovel in fear at her master’s presence. She may crawl to him, not knowing if she is to be struck or not.
She may be a delight to him, and be much as a companion, but at a mere word be naked before him, on her belly.
There are the slaves of great houses, those ornamenting pleasure gardens, those chained behind palanquins for display, those sold to brothels and taverns, those of the fields, and mines, and laundries and mills, those of the stables and barracks, and inns, those belonging to regiments, to shipping lines, to caravan masters, and so on. Many and various are the countries of bondage.
The master may have many slaves, but the slave may, by law, have but one master, even if it be the state, or some corporate entity.
Most slaves desire a private master, and they hope to be his only slave.
The most personal and intimate relationship possible between a man and a woman, is that she is his slave. What greater intimacy can there be between a man and a woman than that the woman is wholly his, that she is literally owned, that she is his possession, his slave?
“Your body is well worth wanting,” I said, “but if it were not animated, not living, not whole with feelings, emotions, and thoughts, it would not be worth wanting. It would be only meat, not slave.”
“All of me is wanted?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said, “and do not forget, it is the whole of you which is in the collar.”
“In my heart and mind,” she said, “I want to yield!”
“Of course,” I said, “all of you is in the collar.”
“But you are leaving?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, turning away.
“Wait!” she begged.
I turned, again, lifting the taper, to face her. Tears had coursed her cheeks.
“Why did you come here?” she asked.
“To question you,” I said, “as a former high woman of Ar, of an important house, one who might know aught of the Ubara.”
“But, why, Master?” she asked. “What is the Ubara, and her fate, to you?”
“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“Do not go!” she wept.
I paused.
She put the chain over her left shoulder, behind her.
Tears were in her eyes, her lips trembled. “I beg to be found pleasing,” she said.
“Do you have a name?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
I put the taper in the stand near the mat.
Chapter Fourteen
TAJIMA AND I HOLD CONVERSE
“You are quick,” said Tajima, lowering the wooden blade in the dojo.
“So, too, are you,” I said.
Several of the Pani sat about, cross-legged, at the interior wall of the open-walled, wooden-floored structure. It was, as might be recalled, at the far edge of the plaza of training.
Tajima and I bowed to one another, and then sat, side by side, cross-legged, toward the back wall.
Eight of the Pani then rose from their places and four of them, unarmed, faced the other four, similarly unarmed. They then bowed to one another, warily squared off and, shortly, engaged. Another of the Pani, an umpire or referee, or, better, I suppose, an adjudicator, began to observe and supervise the practice. He occasionally commented, even scolded. In this engagement no mortal blows were to be dealt, of course, and when a stroke which would have spelled death or disablement was held up short, the adjudicator pronounced his verdict, and one of the fellows would politely withdraw from the contest, in effect having been ruled dead or, one supposes, disabled. One-on-one combat can be stylized amongst the Pani, and may proceed rather formally, for all its sudden swiftness and violence, alternating with an almost unnatural stillness, reminiscent of a larl or panther, intent, immobile, subtly quivering, before its attack. Interestingly, although four were engaged on a side, when one was removed from the contest, his opponent did not then join with his fellows to overwhelm the survivors, but stood back. In effect, then, one had what seemed to amount to four one-on-one contests. In actual warfare, I trusted this civility would not be respected. Courtesy is one thing, but courtesy at the expense of victory seemed to me a dubious tactical election. Finally one fellow held the floor from one team, so to speak, and he was faced by three of the other group. He defeated two and was defeated by the third. The eight fellows then stood, exchanged bows, and resumed their places.
“May we speak?” I asked Tajima.
“Not now,” said Tajima, softly.
A large number of contests, of various sorts, took place in the dojo, most with weapons of wood. These were surrogates for several weapons, in particular the short sword, or companion sword, and the long sword. Some glaives without blades were used. An interesting variation on these surrogate weapons was supple poles, long, light, peeled, whiplike branches which might flash about, scarcely visible. These, I gathered, were less surrogate weapons than training devices, to quicken reflexes, and enhance skills. Occasionally steel was used, but, again, of course, the strokes were held up short. Sometimes one surrogate weapon was put against a different surrogate weapon. Sometimes an unarmed individual was to engage an individual armed, say, with a sheathed dagger. Understandably, a reasonable amount of care was taken in the dojo to reduce injury and, certainly, to prevent death, the holding of strokes, and such, but, nonetheless, bloodshed was not infrequent, and broken limbs, wrists, and arms, were not unknown. These injuries seemed to be accepted with equanimity, save where it was suspected that intent was involved. The Pani seemed to feel in such a case that something was out of balance, however slightly, and an adjustment was in order. A disharmony was in need of correction. In such case one slash reddening a wooden blade might be used to pay for another.
“Now?” I asked Tajima.
“No,” said Tajima.
The exercises and contests within the dojo were obviously intended to provide serious and detailed martial training, and I am sure they had great value in this regard. Why should they not? Indeed, had I not, long ago, in Ko-ro-ba, the Towers of the Morning, engaged in similar exercises, though commonly with actual weapons? But one can do only so much in such training, of course, whether with wood or steel. It is one thing to face a fellow with a wooden sword, say, who will hold his stroke, or try to do so, and quite another to face a fellow armed with finely edged steel who has every intention of killing you. In the latter case every corpuscle comes alive, and the whole business is commonly done within a flash or two of steel. There is no training, as it is said, which can compare with the dojo of blood.