Kur of Gor

Chapter, the Fiftieth: THE HAND OF AGAMEMNON IS PLAYED, BUT PERHAPS NOT WISELY

"I am thinking,” said Cabot to Lita, “of having you conducted to the theater of amnesty, in the habitats, where you might be spared, as the goods you are, later with others to be distributed or sold."

"Please, no, Master!” she cried, falling to her knees before him, and pressing her head to his feet.

Through her hair he glimpsed the collar on her neck, his collar. It is interesting, he thought, how one can grow fond of them, though they are only slaves, no more than domestic animals.

"You might then live,” he said.

"I would remain with you,” she wept.

"It is highly unlikely you would be slain,” he said, “as you are nicely curved, and would have value in the markets of Gor."

"Keep me!” she begged.

"It is only a matter of time until we are located and destroyed,” said Cabot. “I see no need for you to die, too."

"You care for me!” she cried.

His body tightened with anger.

How dare she so speak? What arrant presumption!

"Impudent, impertinent, presumptuous slut!” he cried.

"Master!” she cried.

With his foot he spurned her suddenly, angrily, violently, to the ground.

"Forgive me, Master,” she whispered, frightened, tears in her eyes, from her side on the earth.

How dare she, a slave, an article of goods, think that her master might care for her?

Did she not know what she was?

Or, more judiciously, more carefully put, how dare she suggest such a thing? Many a woman has been bound, hooded, and leashed, and conducted weeping to a market for such an indiscretion.

This is not to deny, of course, that many a slave is well aware of her place in a master's heart, even that he might die for her. Doubtless neither, neither slave nor master, have planned it so, but so it not unoften comes about. Is it so strange? That a slave might love her master, that a master might care for his slave? Might she not, to some extent, have brought this about, perhaps lamentably, by her beauty, her helplessness, her heat, her love, her devotion, her selfless service? Too, is she not, after all, a perfection of a female for a man, a slave, what he most desires and wants, something far beyond what he might obtain from a free woman? In a collar she is, after all, a creature of love. Is the collar itself not a symbol of this? That she exists for love? So, kneeling, needful, submitted, her own love opened like a flower, she begins to hope that something of her own feelings, so deep, so profound, so overwhelming, might be reciprocated, if only to a tiny extent, by her master. Scarcely had she dared hope for this that night when, to the double stroke of a whip, she was dragged in chains from the auction block. And as time passes she begins, fearfully, trying to conceal her joy, to suspect it may be so. Has her master not, for example, of late become less patient and more strict with her, as though he might be fighting something within himself, something unwelcome, which he was unwilling to acknowledge? Surely she must now strive to do nothing which might cause him to rid himself of her. She is well aware that he would be subjected to the scorn of his peers, did they, in amusement, suspect that he might care for a slave. But might they not, some of them, in the secrecy of their own domiciles, be as deplorably guilty in this regard? Certainly the joy, the radiance, of many slaves, encountered in the markets and streets, suggested that. But she is well aware that, given the man he is, she has much more to fear from his own possible self reproach than from the jibes of others. His sense of himself, of what is proper for him, might be her greatest danger. She feels vulnerable. She may be sold on a whim. She redoubles her efforts to be his humble, pleasing slave. Surely she strives to be acceptable to him, and wholly, as she must, and desires, in the way of the slave. And of course there is no diminishment in her slave fires. Does she not, eagerly and piteously, driven by her aroused needs, as before, crawl to his slave ring, soliciting his least touch? Even were he a cruel and hated master, even of an enemy city, she could not help but behave so. Men had seen to it. But, now, even well away from the slave ring, when he returns from his labors and she welcomes him, kneeling, looking up at him, to his domicile, when she serves his supper or wine, when he observes her polishing his leather, when he orders her to light the lamp of love, has there not been something different about him, perhaps a slightly different light in his eyes? So she suspects now, as she moves before him, subtly provoking his desire, as though unintentionally, as before, as the slave she is, as she serves, that he may have begun to care for her, despite the fact that she is only a submitted, vanquished property, a slave. It is one thing, of course, in all of this, for a slave, scarcely daring to hope, grateful and rejoicing, to understand, to suspect, how she may have now come to be regarded by her master, and quite another to speak of it. Is this not a secret, not to be spoken, though possibly shared, however reluctantly on the part of the master? She will, of course, continue to kneel and serve, and please. And if she does not please, she knows she will feel the lash, as any other girl, and she would have it no other way, for she is proud of her master and his strength, proud to be owned by such a man. He is her master.

"Do not forget yourself,” he said. “You are not a free woman. You are an animal, a branded domestic animal, a meaningless work and love beast, purchasable, a thing to be set to labors, a passion toy, a sexual plaything, something to be exploited at the master's will, for his pleasure."

"Yes, Master,” she wept.

"If spared, some others might get some good from you."

"Yes, Master,” she whispered. And then she cried out with misery, and crawled to his feet, her head down. “Keep me!” she sobbed. “Keep me, please, Master!"

"I have decided the matter,” said Cabot. “You will be bound, and leashed, and taken from the camp. If necessary, you will be whipped from the camp."

"Master has never whipped me!” she said.

"I am prepared to do so,” said Cabot.

"Surely not, Master!” she said.

Cabot turned to Archon, and another. “Strip and tie her,” he said. “And bring me a whip."

"Master!” she protested.

In moments the slave, stripped, her wrists crossed and bound, and fastened over her head, to a stout, overhanging branch, that her beauty might be protected, that she might not be dashed against a post or tree trunk, was in whip position.

She looked wildly back at Cabot. “Have I not been pleasing?” she asked. “I have tried to be pleasing, my Master!"

"The whip has been uncoiled,” he said.

She moaned.

"Hark!” said a Kur, suddenly, lifting his paw.

Lord Grendel sprang to his feet.

"Someone is coming!” said a Kur.

Cabot cast the whip to the dirt.

All eyes turned toward the gate of the small camp.

A voice came through the palings. It was registered on Cabot's translator. “For Lord Arcesilaus,” it said.

"It is Lord Flavion,” said Grendel. “Open the gate!"

Flavion, armed, staggered into the camp. Behind him straggled a dozen or more humans, some helmeted, all garmented in cloth.

"Peisistratus!” exclaimed Cabot.

The two men embraced.

"You are injured,” said Cabot.

"Death, power weapons, fire, the screaming,” said Peisistratus.

Cabot put his arms about him, and lowered him to the ground. The other humans entered the camp, haggard, pale, filthy, with torn clothing, some bloodied, and bandaged, two supported by their fellows. With them were four female slaves, including Peisistratus’ Corinna.

"The pleasure cylinder has been breached,” said Peisistratus. “We emerged, four hundred of us, surrendered, to avail ourselves of the amnesty."

"Wise,” said Cabot.

"No, no,” whispered Peisistratus. “We gave up our weapons and were directed toward the theater of amnesty, but we delayed our entry. We did not wish to do so, but we were weak, starving, and several amongst us were wounded. We were on the hill overlooking the theater. In it must have been two thousand, or more, Kurii, humans."

"Yes,” said Cabot. “Joined, for the pledging of blood and honor to Agamemnon."

"Then the weapons began to fire,” said Peisistratus. “The theater itself seemed a furnace of flames. They were cut down, burned alive, from all sides. We could see the blackened bodies, crowded together, bursting and smoking, smell the flesh."

"It is enough,” said Lord Grendel. “It is enough."

"That is the amnesty of Agamemnon,” said a Kur.

"In that cauldron,” said a Kur, “would have been brethren, folk of our camp, who fought with us, our brothers, who trusted the word of Agamemnon."

"Now,” said a Kur, “I am no longer afraid to die."

"There were four hundred with you?” said Cabot.

"Some such number,” said Peisistratus, his head down.

"There are few here,” said Cabot.

"We fled, unarmed,” said Peisistratus. “We knew we would be sought. In the forest we encountered noble Flavion, who brought us here."

"There were four hundred?” said Cabot.

"Flavion rallied us, and reassured us,” said Peisistratus. “He bade us wait until he had scouted a passage which might be traversed with security. We waited."

"How long?” asked Cabot.

Persistratus shrugged. “I do not know,” he said. “Four ahn, five, I do not know."

"What then?"

"Noble Flavion, our rescuer and guide, returned, and we began our trek."

"There were four hundred,” pressed Cabot.

"Alas,” said Flavion, in Kur distress, though the voice emerged quietly enough, precisely, as always, on Cabot's translator. “We were ambushed in a defile, cut to pieces. Only the head of the column, I fear, I and some others, these, who had already exited the defile, survived."

"You were fortunate,” said Cabot.

"Surely more so than others,” came from Cabot's translator.

"Welcome to our camp,” said Lord Grendel to Peisistratus and his fellows, and beasts. “Rest, and feed."

"In the theater,” said Cabot, to Peisistratus, “all were slain?"

"Yes,” said Peisistratus. “Kur, male and female, and human, male and female."

"Even your beasts, your female slaves?” asked Cabot.

"All,” said Peisistratus, dismally.

"It would be the way of Agamemnon,” said a Kur.

"He is thorough,” said another.

Cabot turned slowly about, and went to where his own beast, the girl, Lita, was fastened, her wrists crossed, and bound, over her head.

"You heard?” he asked.

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"It seems I will not return you to the habitats,” said Cabot.

"A girl rejoices,” she whispered.

"It would be a waste of beast,” he said.

"Yes, Master,” she said. “Master."

"Yes?” he said.

"Your whip was uncoiled."

Cabot reached down and retrieved the whip, and then, slowly folding its blades back, against the staff, he touched it, gently, to her back.

"My Master has beaten me,” she said.

"Yes,” said Cabot, wearily.

She turned her head, and pursed her lips, pleadingly, and Cabot held the whip to her lips, and she kissed it, gratefully, fervently.

He then untied her and, retrieving her tunic, tossed it to her. “Help with the food,” he said. “And prepare places of repose. Our guests must eat, and will then wish to rest."

"Yes, Master,” she said.

"I would speak to you,” said Lord Grendel to Tarl Cabot.

Cabot joined him, to the side.

"Do you not find it surprising,” asked Lord Grendel, “that the route of the fugitives was so accurately and promptly descried?"

"Doubtless a tragic fortuity,” said Cabot.

"Do you believe that?” asked Lord Grendel.

"No,” said Cabot.

"Nor do I,” said Lord Grendel. “My friend."

"Yes?” said Cabot.

"I believe Lord Agamemnon has made his first, and greatest, mistake,” said Grendel.

"How is that?” asked Cabot.

"The profession of the amnesty,” said Grendel, “and then the massacres."

"Was it not clever?” asked Cabot.

"No,” said Lord Grendel. “For it is not Kur."

"Many would suppose it was very Kur,” said Cabot.

"No,” said Grendel. “It was not Kur."