Tribesmen of Gor

25 The Second Kasbah Falls; What Was Done to Tarna

“Where is Ibn Saran!” demanded Haroun, in the flowing white of the high Pasha of the Kavars.

The man kneeling before him, wrists bound behind his back, cried out, “I do not know! I do not know!”

“The kasbah is invested,” said another man. “It is ours. He is not within the kasbah. He did not escape.

“He must be still within!” cried another man.

Haroun, or Hassan, as I continued to think of him, with his boot, spurned the bound prisoner.

“He must be still within the kasbah!” cried he who had shouted before.

“Burn the kasbah,” shouted another.

“No,” said Haroun. The kasbah was too valuable to burn. He wanted it, for Kavars.

I looked at the bound prisoners in the great room, kneeling. Ibn Saran was clearly not among them.

Outside, in the shadow of the kasbah wall, there were many other prisoners. Ibn Saran was not among them either. Ibn Saran was not the only man missing. I did not detect, among the prisoners or the fallen” the small Abdul, the water carrier and henchman of the great Abdul, Ibn Saran, the Salt Ubar, nor Hamid, traitor to the Aretai, who had struck Suleiman Pasha.

Haroun spun about, his burnoose swirling, and, angrily, leaped to the dais of the Salt Ubar, and strode upon it, like a frustrated larl.

“Let us assume, Pasha,” said I to Hassan, “that Ibn Saran entered this kasbah.”

“He did,” cried a man.

“Let us assume further that our search has been most thorough and that our lines resisted penetration.”

“These seem reasonable assumptions,” said Haroun, “but how is it possible they can all be true and yet Ibn Saran neither fallen nor in chains?”

“There is another kasbah nearby, that of his confederate, Tama,” I said.

“It could not be reached across the desert,” said a man.

“Yes! Yes!” cried Haroun. “Come with me!” Followed by many men, carrying lamps, be descended to the pits and dungeons and storage areas below the kasbah. An hour later, beneath a trap door, And behind what appeared to be shelving in a small underground storage room, we found the door.

Broken open, it proved to lead to a dark tunnel. This tunnel provided a communication, under the desert, with the neighboring but small kasbah of Tarna, the desert chieftainess.

“Ibn Saran,” said a man, “is doubtless in the kasbah of Tarna.”

“But we have not invested that kasbah,” moaned a man.

“Thus,” cried another, “Ibn Saran has slipped through our lines. He will then flee from the kasbah of Tama. We have lost him.”

“I think not.” smiled Haroun.

The men were silent. Then his vizier, Baram, Sheik of Bezhad, spoke. “How can it be that we have not lost him, Pasha,” he asked.

“Because,” said Haroun, “the kasbah of Tama is invested.”

“That is impossible,” said Suleiman Pasha, leaning on a man, a scimitar still in his hand. “No Aretai are there.” Other pashas, too, spoke. The Char had not invested it, nor the Luraz, nor the Tajuks or the Arani, or the others.

“By whom, Pasha,” asked Suleiman, “if not by Kavars, and not by Aretai, and not by we others, is the kasbah of Tarna invested?”

“By a thousand lances, a thousand riders of the kaiila,” said Haroun.

“And whence did you procure these thousand lances?” asked Suleiman.

Haroun smiled. “Let us discuss these matters over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the day,” he suggested. “There are more important matters to attend to at the moment.”

Suleiman grinned. “Lead on, sleen of a Kavar,” he said. “You have the audacity of Hassan the bandit, to whom you bear a striking resemblance,”

“I have been told that,” said Haroun. “He must be a dashing, handsome fellow.”

“That matter may be discussed over small cups of Bazi tea at the end of the day,” said Suleiman, looking narrowly at Haroun.

“True,” said Haroun.

Hassan then turned and led the way into the tunnel. Hundreds of men, including myself, followed him, many bearing lamps.

It was on the height of the highest tower of the kasbah of Tarna that Hassan, I close behind him, cornered Ibn Saran.

“Comrades!” said Ibn Saran. Then he lifted his scimitar.

“He is mine,” said Hassan.

“Beware,” I said.

Immediately the men engaged. Seldom had I witnessed more brilliant play of the scimitar.

Then the two men stepped back from one another, “You fight well,” said Ibn Saran. He stood unsteadily. “I could always beat you,” he said “ “That was years ago, said Hassan.

“Yes,” said Ibn Saran, “that was years ago.” Ibn Saran lifted his scimitar to me in salute.

“One gains a victory,” I said. “One loses, an enemy.”

Ibn Saran inclined his head to me, in Taharic courtesy. Then his face went white, and he turned, and staggered to the parapet of the tower. He fell to the desert below.

Hassan sheathed his sword. “I had two brothers,” he said. “One fought for Priest-Kings. He died in the desert. The other fought for Kurii. He died on the tower of Tarna’s kasbah.”

“And you?” I asked.

“I thought to remain neutral,” he said. “I discovered I could not do so.”

“There is no neutrality,” I said.

“No,” be said. Then he looked at me. “Once,” he said, “I had two brothers.” He clasped me about the shoulders. There were tears in his eyes. “Now,” he said, “now I have only one.

We had shared salt at Red Rock, on a burning roof.

“My brother,” I said.

“My brother,” he said.

Hassan shook himself. “There is work to do,” he said. We hurried down from the tower, to the wall below. There I saw, from the wall, on the desert below, prisoners being herded back to the kasbah, men who had attempted to flee the walls and escape into the desert.

Herded at the point of a lance, bound, was Abdul, the water carrier. At the point of another lance, too, herded, ropes on his neck, between two kaiila, staggering, bloody, was Hamid, who had been the lieutenant to Shakar, captain of the Aretai. Shakar himself rushed forth from the kasbah to take charge of the miserable Hamid. Hamid, whatever might be his guilt in the matter of the striking of Suleiman Pasha, had obviously fought with the men of the Salt Ubar, and had raised his blade against his own tribe, the Aretai.

Other prisoners, too, were being brought back from the desert. Haroun’s lances had well invested the kasbah.

Hassan and I went down to the yard of the kasbah.

Startled was I to discover in the courtyards, mounted in the high saddle of the kaiila, the leader of Hassan’s mystery lancers, who had invested the kasbah of Tarna. He swept aside his wind veil.

“T`Zshal!” I cried.

He, bearded, grinned down at me from the saddle, a lance in his hand.

“I sent,” said Hassan, Haroun, high Pasha of Kavars, “a thousand kaiila, a thousand lances, supplies, to Klima. I thought such men might prove useful.”

T’Zshal raised the lance. The kaiila reared. “We shall not forget the Kavars, Pasha,” said T’Zshal.

I feared that Hassan had made a terrible mistake. Who would dare to arm such men?

T’Zshal turned the kaiila expertly. He had once been of the Tahari, and then, with a scattering of sand, men following him, returned to the desert, again to supervise his men in their encircling ring of will, steel and kaiila flesh.

Hamid and Abdul knelt in the sand, bound.

Hassan held his blade to the throat of Hamid. “Who struck Suleiman Pasha?” he inquired. Hamid looked up at him. Suleiman and Shakar stood near. “It was I,” said Hamid.

“Take him away,” said Suleiman Pasha. Hamid was dragged away.

“How did you know it was he who struck me?” asked Suleiman.

“I was there,” said Hassan. “I saw it.”

“Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars!” cried Shakar.

Hassan smiled.

“No!” he cried. “There were none there but Aretai, Ibn Saran, Hakim of Tor and”

Shakar stopped.

“And Hassan the bandit.” said Hassan.

“You!” cried Suleiman, laughing.

“Surely you did not think there could be two such handsome, dashing fellows?” asked Hassan.

“Kavar sleen!” laughed Suleiman.

“Do not be too broadcast with my additional identity,” requested Hassan. “It is useful at times, particularly when the duties of the pasha become too oppressive.

“I know what you mean,” said Suleiman. “Your secret is safe with me.”

“I, too, will guard its nature,” said Shakar.

“You are Hakim of Tor, are you not?” asked Suleiman, turning to me.

“Yes, Pasha,” I said, stepping forward.

“Grievously did we wrong you,” he said.

I shrugged. “There are still pockets of resistance to be cleared up in the kasbah,” I said. “I beg your indulgence, that I may be excused.”

“May your eye be keen, your steel swift,” said Suleiman Pasha.

I bowed.

“And what of this small sleen?” asked Shakar, indicating the small Abdul, who knelt, cowering, in the sand.

“He, too,” said Suleiman Pasha, “let him be taken away.

A rope was put on the throat of Abdul and he was dragged whimpering from our presence.

I looked to the central building of the kasbah. Within it, here and there, in rooms, men still fought.

“Find me Tarna,” said Suleiman Pasha. “Bring her to me.” Men rushed from his side. I did not envy the woman. She was free. She had broken wells. Prolonged and hideous tortures awaited her, culminating in her public impalement, nude, upon the walls of the great kasbah at Nine Wells.

The men of the Tahari are not patient with those who break wells. They look not leniently upon this crime.

I slipped to one side, and left the group.

Tarna, in her quarters, spun to face me. She was startled. She had not known I was there. I had touched the ring. A moment later, she turning, saw me, standing in the room.

“You!” she cried.

Her eyes were wild. She was distraught. She wore the mannish garb of the Tahari, save that she did not wear the wind veil nor the kafflyeh and agal. Her face and head, proud and beautiful, were bare. Her hair was wild, long, loose behind her, behind the thrown back hood of the burnoose. The garments she wore were torn and stained. The left trouser leg had been slashed. There were long scimitar slashes at the left sleeve, which hung in tatters. I did not think she had been wounded.

There was dirt at the left side of her face.

“You have come to take me!” she cried. She carried a scimitar.

“Your war is lost,” I told her. “It is done.”

She looked upon me in fury. For an instant there were tears in her eyes, bright and hot. I saw that she was a woman. Then again she was Tarna.

“Never!” she cried.

“It is true,” I told her.

“No!” she cried.

We could bear men fighting in the distance, somewhere in the corridors beyond.

“The kasbah has fallen,” I told her. “Ibn Saran is dead. Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, are already within the walls.”

“I know,” she said, miserably. “I know.”

“You were relieved of your command,” I told her. “You were no longer of use.

Even those men who once served you fight now, decimated, for their lives.” I regarded her. “The kasbah has fallen,” I said.

She looked at me.

“You are alone,” I said. “It is over.”

“I know,” she said. Then she lifted her head, angrily, proudly, “How did you know where to find me?” she asked.

“I am not unfamiliar with the quarters of Tarna,” I said.

“Of course,” she said. She smiled. “And now you have come to take me,” she laughed.

“Yes,” I told her.

“Doubtless for he who brings me in, his rope on my neck, before the noble Pashas Haroun and Suleiman, there will be a high reward,” she said.

“I would suppose that would be the case,” I said.

“Fool!” she said. “Sleen! I am Tarna!” She lifted the scimitar. “I am more than a match for any man!” she cried.

I met her charge. She was not unskillful. I fended her blows. I did not lay the weight of my own steel on hers, that I not tire her arm. I let her strike, and slash, and feint and thrust. Twice she drew back suddenly in fear, almost a wince, or reflex, realizing she had exposed herself to my blade, but I had not struck her.

“You are not a match for a warrior,” I told her. It was true. I had crossed steel with hundreds of men, in practice and in the fierce games of war, who could have finished her, swiftly and with ease, had they chosen to do so.

In fury, again, she attacked.

Again I met her attack, toying with the beauty.

She wept, striking wildly. I was within her guard, the blade at her belly.

She stepped back. Again she fought. This time I moved toward her, letting her feel the weight of the steel, the weight of a man’s arm. Suddenly she found herself backed against a pillar. Her guard was down. She could scarcely lift her arm. My blade was at her breast. I stepped back. She stumbled from the pillar, wild. Again she lifted the scimitar; again she tried to attack. I met her blade, high, forcing it down; she slipped to one knee, looking up, trying to keep the blade away; she wept; she had no leverage, her strength was gone; I thrust her back, and she fell on her back before me on the tiles; my left boot, heavy, was on her right wrist; the small band opened and the scimitar slipped to the tiles; the point of the blade was at her throat.

“Stand up,” I told her.

I broke her scimitar at the hilt and flung it to a corner of the room.

She stood in the center of the room. “Put your rope on my neck,” she said. “You have taken me, Warrior.”

I walked about her, examining her. She stood, angrily, inspected.

With the blade of my scimitar I brushed back the slashed, left leg of her trousers. She had an excellent leg within.

“Please,” she said.

“Remove your boots,” I told her. In fury, she removed them. She then stood, barefoot, on the tiles in the center of the room.

“You will lead me barefoot before the Pashas?” she asked. “Is your vengeance not sweet enough, that you will so degrade me?”

“Are you not my prisoner?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Then I will do with you as I please,” I told her.

“Oh, no!” she wept.

In a moment I told her to kneel. She knelt on the tiles, her head down, her head in her bands. She was stripped completely by my scimitar.

“What have we here?’’ asked Hassan, entering the room. To my interest he had changed his garments. He no longer wore the white of the high Pasha of the Kavars but simpler garments, those which might have befitted Hassan, the outlaw of the Tahari.

“Lift your head Beauty,” said I, gently putting the point of the scimitar beneath her chin, lifting it.

She looked at Hassan, incredibly beautiful, her cheeks stained with tears.

“This is Tarna,” I said.

“So beautiful?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“The capture is yours,” said Hassan. “Put a rope on her neck.

Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, are eager to see her.”

I smiled. From within my sash I found a length of prisoner rope. It was coarse rope.

“Doubtless,” said Hassan, “Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, and Suleiman, high Pasha of the Aretai, will pay a high reward to the man who brings Tarna before them.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

“I have heard them crying out for her,” said Hassan.

I knotted the rope about the beauty’s neck. She was mine.

Hassan looked down upon the stripped, tethered beauty.

“I do not want to die,” she suddenly cried. “I do not want to die!”

She put her head down, in her hands. She wept.

“The punishment for breaking a well,” said Hassan, “is not light.”

Tarna, shuddering, wept, her head to the floor, my rope on her neck.

“Come, Female,” I said. I jerked her head up, by the rope. “We must go to see the Pashas.”

“Is there no escape?” she wept.

“There is no escape for you,” I said. “You have been taken.”

“Yes,” she said, numbly, “I have been taken.”

“Are you thinking, Hassan,” I asked, “what I am? That there might be one hope for her life?”

“Perhaps,” grinned Hassan.

“What?” cried Tama. “What!”

“No,” I said. “It is too horrifying.”

“What!” she cried.

“Forget it,” I said.

“Forget it,” agreed Hassan. “You would never approve. You are too proud, too noble and fine.”

I jerked on the rope, as though to draw Tarna to her feet, in order to lead her to the presence of the Pashas.

“What!” she cried.

“Better torture and impalement on the walls of the kasbah at Nine Wells,” said Hassan.

“What?” wept Tarna.

“It is too horrifying, too terrible, too utterly degrading, too sensual,” I said.

“What?” wept the tethered beauty. “Oh, what?”

“On the lower levels,” said Hassan, “I understand that slave girls are kept.”

“Yes,” said Tarna “for the pleasures of my men.”

“You no longer have men,” I reminded her.

“I see!” cried Tarna. “I might be slipped among them!”

“It is a chance,” admitted Hassan.

“But I am not branded!” wept Tarna.

“That can be arranged,” said Hassan.

She looked at him with horror. “But then,” she said, “I would truly be a slave.”

“I knew you would not approve,” said Hassan.

I jerked at the rope on the beauty’s neck. Her chin was pulled up. The knot was under her jaw on the right, turning her head to the left. “No,” she said. “No!”

We looked at her.

“Make Me a slave,” she whispered. “Please! Please!”

“There will be much risk,” said Hassan. “If Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars, should hear of this, he might skin me alive.”

“Please!” wept Tama.

“It will not be easy,” I said.

“Please, Please!” she wept.

“How should we go about this?” I asked.

“One thing,” said Hassan, “prisoner rope is not appropriate. She must be put on a wrist tether.”

“I see little problem in this,” I said.

“A more serious problem,” be said, “will occur in leading her through the halls.”

“I can walk with my head down, as a slave,” said Tarna.

“Most female slaves,” said Hassan, “walk very proudly. They are proud of their slavery, and their mastery by men, They have learned their womanhood. It has been taught to them. In their way, though imbonded, totally, I suppose they are the truest and freest of women. They are closest, perhaps, to the essentials of the female, those of subservience to the masculine will, obedience, service and pleasure. In being most themselves, utter slave, they are most free. This is paradoxical, to be sure. Most girls, verbally, will object to slavery, but this half-hearted, pouting, ineffectual rhetoric is belied by the joy of their behavior. No girl who has not been a slave can understand the joy of it, the profundity and freedom. The objections of girls to slavery, I have noted, are usually not objections to the institution which, in the sweet heat of their bodies, they love dearly, and fear only to lose, but to a given master. Given the proper master they are quite content, in the proper collar a woman is serene and joyful.”

“Are slave girls truly proud?” asked Tama.

“Most,” said Hassan. “You may think only of have dominated, or seraglio mistresses, presiding over weaklings. But have you seen girls, truly, before men?”

“In a cafe, once,” she said, “I saw a girl dance before men. She was scandalous!

And the girls, too, who served in the cafe! Shameful! Scandalous!”

“Speak with care,” said Hassan, “Girl, for someday you, too, may so dance and serve.”

Tarna turned white.

“Did the girls seem proud?” asked Hassan.

“Yes,” said Tarna, sullenly. “But why should they have been proud?”

“They were proud of their bodies, their feelings, their desirability,” said Hassan, “and proud, too, of their masters, who had the will and power to put them in a collar and keep them there, because it pleased him to do so.”

“How strong such men must be,” whispered Tarna.

“Too,” said Hassan, “undeniable females, secure in their sexuality, it was difficult not for them to be proud. Too, joy can make girls proud.”

“But why, why,” wept Tarna, “should they be proud?”

Hassan shrugged. “Because they knew themselves to be the most perfect and profound of women,” he said. “That is why they are proud.” Hassan laughed.

“Sometimes,” he said, “girls grow so proud it is necessary to whip them, to remind them that they are only slaves.”

“I can walk proudly,” said Tarna. “Lead me through the halls.” She rose to her feet, and stood before us.

“There is a difference,” laughed Hassan, “between the pride of a free woman and the pride of the slave girl, The pride of a free woman is the pride of a woman who feels herself to be the equal of a man. The pride of the slave girl is the pride of the girl who knows that no other woman is the equal of herself.”

Tarna suddenly shuddered, inadvertently, with pleasure. I could see that this insight had thrilled her to the quick.

“You are no longer competing with men,” said Hassan. “You are now something different.”

“Yes, yes!” suddenly whispered Tarna. “I see! I am different! I am not the same!” She looked at us. “Suddenly. “ she said, “for the first time I love the thought of not being the same. “ “It is a start,” said Hassan.

“Do you think she is fit to be led through the halls?” I asked. I could hear men shouting outside. There was singing, the sounds of carousing.

“She cannot yet walk like, or truly seem a slave girl,” said Hassan, “for she is not yet a slave girl, but if little attention is paid, we may have a chance.” He turned to the captive. “How do you look upon men, Wench?” he asked. “How do you meet their eyes?”

Tarna gazed upon him.

Hassan moaned. “We shall lose our heads,” he said.

I dragged Tarna by the rope to her vast couch, and flung her to the yellow cushions. At the head of the couch I tied the rope which was knotted on her neck. She could not rise more than a foot from the cushions. She twisted on the cushions, turning to look at me. “What are you going to do with me?” she asked, horrified.

Hassan grinned. “She is your capture,” he said. “First capture rights are yours.”

Tarna cried out with misery.

In a short time, we led Tarna through the balls of the kasbah. We had taken the prisoner rope from her neck, to conceal the fact that she was a free prisoner. I led her by a wrist tether, her wrists crossed and bound, and the tether running to my hand. Sometimes I pulled her abruptly, making her stumble, or run or fall.

I did this for three reasons; it concealed her awkwardness; I was in a hurry; and it pleased me. The wrist tether was from the cords holding the hangings in her room. The cords were not such that they could be easily identified.

“Are these cords such that they are unique to your quarters?” I had asked her.

“No,” she had said. “No.” I had then bound her with them.

“Is she not much too clean?” asked Hassan.

I looked at the bound girl. “Yes,” I said. Then I said to the girl, “Down, down on the floor, on your belly and back, roll.”

She looked at us angrily, but then complied. When she stood again before us, Hassan took soot from one of the tharlarion-oil lamps and rubbed it, here and there, on her body. He then took some tharlarion-oil and, as she shuddered, poured and rubbed it on her left shoulder.

“Of great danger to us now,” said Hassan, “is her lack of a brand.”

“Unless you have an iron with you,” I said, “there is not much helping that at the moment.”

Still the problem was serious. Girls are branded prominently, usually on the left or right thigh. The brand on a slave girl is not something for which, when the wench is stripped, one must hunt. If it were noted, in our journey to the lower levels, that the woman we led was unmarked, it would be assumed that she was free. This would excite curiosity, and would be sure to be later recalled.

Tarna, of course, would be unmarked. Indeed, she would be likely to be the only unmarked female in the kasbah.

I tore down one of the hangings, a yellow one, and ripped a narrow strip from it. I wound this about the girl’s thighs, low, to reveal her navel. It is called the slave belly. On Gor it is only slave girls who expose, their navels. But the cloth would cover the area, on either hip, which be the likely site of the incised slave mark.

“It might be better,” said Hassan, studying the beauty, “if she were completely stripped.”

“Not without a brand,” I said.

“You are right,” said Hassan. “We cannot risk it.”

“Let them assume,” I suggested, “that we are leading her to someone to whom we are giving her, and that we wish to tear off her last veil, to her horror, only before her new master.”

“Excellent,” said Hassan. “It is at least plausible.”

“It will have to do,” I said.

“Please,” said Tarna. “Lift the cloth to cover my navel.”

I thrust the cloth down, another inch on her hips. She shook with anger, but was silent. She did not much approve either when Hassan cleaned his hands on the cloth about her hips. This dirtied the cloth, making it more fitting to be worn about the hips of a slave; too, of course, it removed the soot from his hands, from the tharlarion-oil lamp.

As we had led her through carousing soldiers, many of them reached for the girl, whom they assumed, as we had intended, was slave. “Oh,” she cried. “Oh!” She found herself much caressed, with the rude familiarity with which a slave girl is handled.

“Hurry, Slave,” I barked at her. She did not even know enough to say, “Yes, Master.” I did not lead her gently. At last, to my relief, we reached the door leading to the lower levels.

“Did you see them look at me?” she asked. “Is this what it is to be a slave girl?”

We did not respond to her. Hassan threw back the heavy door. I removed the bonds from the girl, and threw them aside. I took her by the arm and, Hassan preceding us, I conducted her down the curving, narrow, worn stairs, deep below the kasbah.

We had brought her safely through the halls. This pleased me.

I have little doubt that our success in this matter was largely to be attributed to what Tarna, stripped and roped back by the neck, had learned on her own couch. There is a great deal of difference in the way that various sorts of women relate to men and look upon them. These differences tend often to be functions of what their experiences have been with men. For example, do they regard themselves as the equals of men, or their superiors? Or, have they been taught, forcibly and clearly, that they are not the dominant organism? Have they been put, helpless, beneath the Will of a male? Have they learned their delicious vulnerability, that they are the male’s victim and prey, his pleasure and delight? And have they learned, to their helpless horror and joy, the fantastic things he can do to their body? “How do you look upon men, Wench?” Hassan had asked. “How do you meet their eyes?” he had asked.

And Tarna had gazed upon him.

He had moaned. “We shall lose our heads,” he had said.

I had then dragged her by the neck to her own couch, that swift instruction be administered to her.

She had thousands of pasangs to go, but we had made a start with her, enough to get her through the halls.

I had seen her react as we had dragged her through the soldiers. She was not then the Tarna of old. She was a woman who had been taught what men could do with her.

I heard singing, shouting, from below, too. We descended four levels, until we reached the bottom level. Tarna looked sick.

“The smell,” she said. A drunken soldier, carrying a bottle, brushed against us.

I let her throw up, twice, in the hall. Then I pushed her ahead of me, holding her by the arm, stumbling through the straw and slime down the corridor. She cried out, miserably, as an urt scurried past, brushing her ankle. We looked through one cell door, swung open. It led into a large, long, narrow room.

Against the far wall, chained by the neck, on straw, were more than a hundred slave girls. Soldiers, many drunken, sported with them. Some, holding the slaves in their left arm, forced wine from bottles down their throats. Some of the girls squirmed, eagerly, their hands on the bottles. Others, at the end of their chain and collar, on their knees, held out their hands. “Wine, Master, please!” they cried. They did not bargain, as might have a desperate free woman, “Anything for a sip of wine, Noble Sir!” for they were slave girls. Anything could, and would, be demanded of them, and for nothing. They were slave.

“How horrid men are,” moaned Tarna.

“Speak with care,” warned Hassan, “for soon, as much as any slut at the wall, you will belong to them.”

Tarna threw back her head, and moaned.

“It is here,” said Hassan. He moved back the heavy iron door and we entered the room. I looked about, at the chains and devices. Tarna shrank back. She could not run, for my hand was on her arm. She seemed faint. I steadied her. It was dark in the room, except for a small tharlarion-oil lamp on a chain in one corner, and a brazier, glowing, near the branding rack. Hassan stirred the coals in the brazier. In a large kasbah irons are kept always hot. The slaves know this.

I ripped the bit of cloth away from her hips and threw her against the rack. I swung shut the two heavy bands and with the two twist handles, tightened them on her thigh. She turned; trying to pound at the metal that held her. I took her wrists and pulled them forward, to the two posts, some six inches apart, part of the branding rack, putting them in the snap bracelets, which dangled there, one from each post. These are simple mechanisms. It is quite easy to open and shut them, and it may be done with a snap of the finger, one for each bracelet. As the bracelets are situated, some inches apart, of course, and as the snap is on each bracelet itself, at the wrist, the girl herself cannot get her finger, of either hand, on the mechanism. Others may open them easily; she, on the other hand, is perfectly held. I took again the twist handles. I turned them extremely tightly. “Oh, oh,” she cried. She pulled futilely at the snap bracelets. Then I again turned the twist handles. “Please!” she cried. “Be quiet,” I told her. She bit her lip. I tightened the handles more and put in the locking device, that they might not slip back. Her thigh was absolutely immobile.

“I see you like a left-thigh-branded girl,” said Hassan.

The girl can writhe in the rack or squirm, or scream, but the held thigh will not move. It is held for the kiss of the iron.

With a heavy glove, Hassan pulled an iron from the brazier. “What do you think of this brand?” he asked.

It was the Taharic slave mark.

“It is beautiful,” I said. “But let us assure ourselves that this will be a common slave, one fit to sell north.”

“A good idea,” said Hassan. He returned the one iron to the brazier and reached for another. It glowed red. It was a fine iron, clean and precise. At its tip, bright red, was the common Kajira slave mark of Gor. Tarna looked upon it with horror.

“It is not yet hot enough, my pretty,” said Hassan. He returned it to the brazier.

We heard shouting, as though from far away. Hassan looked at me. “I shall investigate,” I said. I left the room and ascended to the third level. The noise was coming from the level above, the second. A soldier was stumbling by. “What is going on?” I asked. “On the level above?”

“They are searching for Tarna,” he laughed. He then stumbled away.

I saw two slave girls led past me, on wrist chains, in the grip of another soldier.

I returned to the fourth level. I returned to the room where Hassan waited.

“They are searching for Tarna,” I said.

“On what level are they?” asked Hassan.

“The second,” I said.

“Ah,” said Hassan, “then we have plenty of time.” In a few Ehn he removed the iron from the coals, and examined it. He then again replaced it. Shortly thereafter, however, for it must have been almost ready, he drew it-forth again.

It glowed white.

“You may scream and cry out, my pretty,” said Hassan, not unkindly.

She struggled in the bracelets, she watched the iron. Then she screamed. For five long Ihn Hassan held the iron, pressing it in. I saw it sink in her thigh, smoking and hissing. Then he, cleanly, withdrew it. Tarna was marked.

She sobbed, wildly. We did not rebuke her. I freed her thigh of the rack. She fell on her knees at the posts, sobbing. I freed her wrists of the snap bracelets. I lifted her, sobbing, in my arms.

I, Hassan, leading, carried Tarna to an empty cell on the fourth level. Hassan pushed back the door, tying it open. There was dim light in the cell from the hall outside. I put Tarna, still sobbing, on the dank straw at the back wall of the cell.

“I’m a slave girl,” she whispered. “I am a slave girl.”

We found the chain and collar, and I fastened it about the girl’s neck, locking it.

We looked at her.

She was chained to the wall.

“I am a slave girl,” she whispered to us, disbelievingly, through her tears.

We heard sounds, from the level above.

“They are searching the third level, that above us,” said Hassan. “They will soon be here.”

“I am a slave girl,” she said.

“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, “it will not go easy with you.”

She looked at him, numbly, comprehending his import Tarna had been spoken of in the past tense. No longer was she Tarna.

Tarna was gone. Tarna no longer existed. In her place now, there was only a girl slave, nameless as a kaiila or verr.

“If it is discovered that you were Tarna,” said Hassan, sternly, “it will not go easy with you. No longer would you be entitled to certain forms of torture, suitable for free persons, culminating in your honorable impalement. Your death would surely be one of the deaths of a slave girl, who has not been pleasing.”

“What can I do?” she wept. “What can I do?”

“You are a slave,” said Hassan, cruelly. “Please us.”

And in that foul cell, on the stinking straw, in the feeble light of the lamp outside, the once proud Tarna, now only a nameless slave girl, chained by masters, struggled to please us. We were not easy with her. We were harsh, and hard, and cruel. Often she wept and despaired of her ability to please us, but she was cuffed and kicked and set again about her duties.

At last Hassan and I rose to our feet.

“The slave hopes that she has pleased her masters,” whispered the girl.

Hassan looked at me. “She has much to learn,” he said, “but I think, in time, she may be satisfactory.”

I nodded, concurring in his judgment. We then stepped outside. We were encountered in the hall by a soldier, with a lifted lamp. “I search for Tarna,” he said.

“Tarna is not here,” I said. “In the cell there is only a female slave.”

The soldier looked into the cell, and lifted the lamp. The girl lay on the straw, curled up, the collar and chain leading to her throat. She shielded her eyes from the lamp. It was not bright, but, in the dimness of the cell, it hurt her eyes.

She was beautifully curled on the straw. She lifted her head, shielding her eyes.

“Master?” she asked.

“What is your name, Girl?” asked the soldier.

“Whatever master wishes,” she said.

He held the lamp up, examining her beauty. With a sinuous movement, with a rustle of chain, she sat upright, her back straight. She extended her right leg, looking at him over her right shoulder; her toes were pointed; her leg was flexed, revealing to its best, delicious advantage, the curve of her calf.

I felt like raping her.

“What is the name of your master?” asked the soldier.

“I do not know,” she said. “I belonged to Tarna. Now I hear from soldiers that Tarna has fallen, I do not know who will be my master.”

She looked at him. “You seem strong,” she said.

She, sitting, as she was, thrust forward her breasts, accentuating the line of her beauty.

“Slut,” he laughed.

She put her head down, chastened.

He laughed. “Be as you were before,” he said. She obeyed. “More so,” said he.

She obeyed.

“I search for Tarna,” he said.

“Do not search for her,” begged the girl. “Stay with me.”

“You are dirty,” he said. “And you stink.”

“Bring slave perfume,” she said to him. “Rub it on my body.”

He turned from the door. She fled to the length of her chain, kneeling, her hands outstretched to him. “The fourth level is deep,” she said. “I am in a cell to myself. Many men do not even know I am here. The kasbah has fallen and only two soldiers have entered my cell. Stay with me!”

“I must search for Tarna,” said the man.

“When you have finished your search,” said the girl, arms outstretched, “return to me.”

“I will,” said the soldier. He laughed brutally.

“Thank you,” she cried, “beloved Master!”

He turned to go.

“Beloved Master,” she whispered. She knelt. She put her head down. “If I were a bold free woman,” she said, “and not a bond girl, I would ask that you bring with you on your return a bottle of wine for your pleasure, that you would enjoy me more.”

“Little she-sleen!” he laughed. He entered the cell and, putting down his lamp, kicked and cuffed the girl, until she rolled in the straw, tangled in the chain, covering her head, her body half covered with straw, at the wall. He then again took up the lamp, and went to the door. “I shall return,” he said, “ and when I do, I shall bring wine.”

She rolled to a sitting position. “Thank you, Master!” she cried. “And I will bring slave perfume, too,” he said, “to souse you with, You stinking little slut of a slave.”

“Thank you, Master!” she cried.

Laughing he left the cell, to continue his search for Tarna.

“Let us go upstairs,” said Hassan. “Doubtless there are those who wonder as to the whereabouts of Haroun, high Pasha of the Kavars.”

“Doubtless,” I said.

I looked into the girl’s cell. “You are an excellent actress,” I said.

She looked at me, puzzled.

“The soldier,” I said, “I wager he will return.”

She broke a bit of straw between her fingers. “I hope so,” she said.

I looked at her. “You want him to return?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. Her head had lifted, in the chain and collar.

“Why?” I asked.

“Did he not seem strong to your?’’ she asked. “Did you not see the ease, the audacity, the authority with which he handled me?”

“Yes,” I said.

“I want to be had by him,” she said. “I want him to have me.”

“Are you serious?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “I want to serve him as a female slave.”

Hassan stood behind me. “I wish you well, Girl,” he said. “I, too, wish you well, Slave Girl,” I said.

“A slave girl gives you her gratitude,” she said. As we turned and left, she said, “I wish you well, Masters.”