Conspirators of Gor

Chapter Six

In the small room, with the panel bolted on the outside, where we were commonly housed when not serving in the large outer room, the Gorean girl, well collared, had accosted me, demanding that I, a mere barbarian, should kneel before her. I had refused. She, with her beauty, her marked thigh, her encircled neck, was no more than I!

“How then did they recognize you as a slave?” she had asked.

“I have no idea,” I had said, though, in truth, I had an idea of such matters.

“You must have been assessed,” she had said.

“Doubtless,” I had said.

Suddenly the door had been unbolted from the outside, and Tela, first girl, entered. All of us in the small room immediately went to our knees, and put our heads to the floor, the palms of our hands on the floor beside our heads.

“I am frightened,” said Tela. “Something is wrong.”

We dared not change position, as we had not received permission to do so.

“Be as you would,” said Tela.

We looked up.

Usually Tela’s switch dangled from her wrist.

It was not there now.

She was clearly frightened, and her alarm spread to the rest of us, not now serving. I was the only barbarian in the room. We feared Tela, for she was first girl, our switch mistress. I had never seen Tela frightened before, except before the masters. There were two of us in the outer room, who would be, as far as I knew, serving.

“What is wrong, Mistress?” asked Midice.

“The guests have fled,” she said.

I did not understand this, for the tables, the games, did not close until the early morning.

“I fear the masters are undone,” she said. “They have departed.”

“What is going on, Mistress?” asked Midice.

“Listen!” said Tela.

“Oh!” whispered Lucia.

“The drums of guardsmen,” said Daphne.

“They are coming closer,” said Cara.

“Closer!” wept Portia. I gathered she had had dealings with guardsmen before. She seemed very much afraid.

“What of the masters?” said Dina. She wore the tiny Dina brand, “the slave flower.” The Dina is a familiar slave brand, but not nearly as common as the cursive Kef. The girls who wear that brand are often called “Dina,” doubtless from the mark.

“I do not think they will escape the city,” said Tela.

Our house was one of several on the Street of Chance in Ar.

Outside the drums had stopped, and we heard shouting, and pounding, from the sound of it, the pounding of spear butts, on the door.

“You know nothing!” said Tela.

I sensed that Faia and Tirza, in the outer room, must have hastened to the door, and, struggling, removed the long, heavy beam which secured it. I would later learn that the masters, as they departed, had instructed them to set the beam in place. In this, they may have been hoping to gain time.

The doors burst open and there were heavy footsteps, as of high, military sandals. I heard Faia and Tirza scream. There were shouts, and a crashing, and piling, of furniture.

In a moment I sensed fire, and, through the door, saw wild shadows cast on the walls, of armed men, breaking tables, hurling them to the center of the room. I smelled smoke.

“Run, run!” said Tela, hastening back, into the larger room.

We, in our serving tunics, crying out with fear, hurried out, into the larger room. Smoke was now billowing from the flaming heap in the center of the room, the tables, the wheels, the boards, the boxes of gaming pieces. We fled toward the welcome of the opened door, but our passage was blocked by a lowered spear.

“Where is your master?” said a voice.

“Masters!” said Tela. “But we do not know!”

Addressed by a man, we all knelt.

My eyes stung.

I began to cough.

“Who is first girl?” asked the man.

“I am,” said Tela, “if it pleases Master.” She was trembling.

“How many are there?” asked the man.

“Eleven, including myself,” wept Tela.

The soldiers, or guardsmen, despite the fire, were pulling down hangings, and prying loose panels from the wall. Two inspected our holding room, and two others rushed to the kitchen, and storage rooms. Then they, and the others, their work done, the premises rummaged through, the decor torn, scratched, and ravaged, exited behind he before whom we knelt, who barred our way.

“We are slaves,” wept Tela. “Have mercy on us! Let us out!”

An officer appeared behind the fellow who barred the door. “Close them inside, and block the door,” said the officer. “They are not stupid. They know what was transpiring here.”

“No, Masters!” cried Tela, from her knees. “We know nothing!”

“We are ignorant!” cried Faia.

“Who knows what transpires with masters?” cried Midice.

“We are only slaves!” cried Tirza.

“Slaves!” wept Lucia.

“We dared not inquire, Master,” said Daphne. “Curiosity is not becoming in a slave!”

The heavy door was swung shut before us. We rose to our feet, coughing, and weeping, and screaming, struck at it, pulled at it, tried to open it.

“The back is chained shut,” cried Cara.

We sank down, behind the door, scratching at it.

I was blinded with smoke, half strangled, with a lack of air. We could not help who had bought us.

I slipped to my belly before the door.

I put out my fingers, and touched the wood.

Then suddenly the doors swung back, and I saw light, and smoke billowed into the street.

My lungs drew in the bright, clean air of Gor.

A hand seized me by the hair and drew me forth on all fours, and then thrust me down to the street, on my belly.

“Fasten your hands in your hair,” said a man.

We lay prone, in a line, side by side. Midice was to my left, and Luta, who had spoken to me so contemptuously in the holding room, was to my right. I thought to myself, “See, Luta, we are not so different.”

I was aware of sandaled feet stepping about, amongst us.

We did not look up.

After a time, a voice said, “A silver tarsk, for the lot.”

“Very well,” said the officer, “but see that they are sold in the Tarsk Market.”

“A stipulation?” said a voice.

“Yes,” said the officer.

“Done,” said the voice.

I heard a clink of coins, and, shortly thereafter, I felt a rope looped about my left ankle, snugly, and knotted, tightly, and then passed to Midice, on my left, and thence to those beyond her.

“A silver tarsk!” I thought. “We have been given away!”

“Keep your hands fastened in your hair,” said a fellow.

Then another said, “Kajirae, up!”

We rose to our feet.

I stole a glance at he who seemed to have completed the purchase, in which I was an item. He was a small man, in a dirty white tunic, with a yellow sash.

I kept my hands in my hair, while the tunic was cut from me. We were then, in ankle coffle, herded through the lower streets of Ar, to the Tarsk Market.

The first step is made with the left foot.