Plunder of Gor (22 page)

“Are you frightened?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Do not be frightened,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said. “Thank you, Master.”

“Serve me,” he said.

I, head down, pressed the metal goblet into my lower abdomen, feeling it there. I then, not meeting his eyes, touched it to my left breast, and then to my right breast. I then lifted my head and looked at him, over the rim of the goblet. Then, my eyes on him, I kissed the goblet, submissively, as a slave, hoping to please, and then I lowered my head, between my extended arms, and held the goblet to him.

He took the goblet, sipped the beverage, and placed the goblet on the small table. I knelt before him, my head down.

I was relieved.

I had spilled nothing, not a drop.

To be sure, one is careful, and it is very rarely that anything is spilled, or dropped, or broken.

As I have indicated, it does not do for a slave to be clumsy.

I did not think I would be so afraid in the future.

“Look at me,” he said.

I did so. He was handsome, and I a slave.

He lifted his hand, his eyes on me.

“Master?” I said.

I watched his hand, uneasily.

Suddenly it swept to his left, and the goblet slid, and fell, and rolled, and clattered, and paga ran on the table, and fell to the floor.

I watched this with horror and dismay.

Selena cried out in misery.

“See what you have done,” he said.

“Master!” I said in protest.

“She is not a serving slave!” said Selena. “She is not one of us! She is not trained! She is not skilled! Please, Masters, do not beat the rest of us, for her fault!”

“Be quiet,” said Lysander.

“Did you have something to say?” asked Tullius Quintus of me. “Did you wish to object?”

“No, Master,” I said.

“You were clumsy, were you not?” he said.

“I did not touch the goblet!” I said.

“Are you accusing a free person of lying?” he asked.

“No, Master!” I said.

“You were clumsy, were you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“Surely you know the penalty for lying,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“You saw me strike aside the goblet, did you not?” he said.

“Please be kind to me,” I said. “Tell me what to do, or be. I am trying to be pleasing.”

“Do you think me cruel?”

“No, Master!” I said.

“You are mistaken,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

“Lean more closely,” he said.

I did so.

He then struck me across the face, sharply, on the left cheek. It stung. Tears sprang from my eyes.

“Lean more closely again,” he said.

I did so, fearing to be again struck.

“You may now lick and kiss the hand that struck you,” he said.

I did so, for several moments. I was afraid. I had seldom been so mastered, so dominated. How aware I was then that I was a slave. And I knew, too, I would yield to such a man as the slave I was. I was not a free woman. I wanted him to touch me. I wanted him to take me in his arms and put me to his pleasure, forcefully, as the frightened, eager, meaningless beast I was.

“Kneel back,” he said. “Keep your head up.”

I knelt back on my heels, my head lifted. My back was straight. The palms of my hands were down, on my thighs. My knees were closely together.

I dared not meet his eyes.

“Look at me,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You are Phyllis,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“When you were free,” he said, “your name was Phyllis Rodgers.”

I was startled.

“Yes, Master,” I whispered. How would he know that? He must have, or have had, access to the records of the masters by whom I was first acquired. What could this mean?

“But now,” he said, “you are a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“And simply Phyllis,” he said.

“If Master pleases,” I said. “I have been named variously, but often ‘Phyllis'. The name is now, of course, a slave name, put on me by the will of masters.”

“You were acquainted,” he said, “with an extraordinarily intelligent and beautiful young woman on Earth, your former world, whose name was Paula Prentiss?”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“She is now in a collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

We both, now, had our collars.

“You are far inferior to her,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said. I felt tears in my eyes.

“This work slave, Phyllis, one of my kitchen slaves, is the one?” asked Lysander.

“Clearly,” said Tullius Quintus.

“She is sought?” said Lysander.

“Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

“You know who seeks her?” said Lysander.

“Of course,” said Tullius Quintus.

“He of whom you spoke?” asked Lysander.

“Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

“Then,” said Lysander, “I do not think it wise to keep her in my house.”

“I fear it could be dangerous,” said Tullius Quintus.

“They do not buy with copper; they do not buy with silver; they do not buy with gold; they buy with steel,” said Lysander.

“I have heard so,” said Tullius Quintus.

“And you do not fear to acquire her?” asked Lysander.

“No,” said Tullius Quintus. “Her trail will vanish here. Who knows whence the wind blows? The leaf is lifted, flutters, and is gone. Footprints are not left on clouds. No sleen can follow the tarn road.”

“I would be afraid,” said Lysander.

“I have calculated matters with care,” he said. “I have planned well. She will be nowhere, until I wish it.”

“She is yours,” said Lysander. “She has never been in my house.”

Chapter Fifteen

It was something like the second Ahn, well before dawn.

After the dinner at which I had served, I was not returned to the kitchen, to my housing chain in the pantry, with the other kitchen slaves. Rather I was conducted to the large, velvet-draped, barred-­windowed guest chamber allotted to Tullius Quintus, in the southern wing of the house of Lysander, Administrator of Market of Semris. I was put to the foot of the couch, and chained there, by the neck, to a slave ring. I must wait, to discover what would be done with me. It is only favored slaves who are permitted on the surface of a couch, and, even then, they will commonly be fastened to a slave ring, usually by the left ankle, the “chaining ankle.” There are few things that better convince a woman of her bondage than being chained. I lay there, waiting, for an Ahn, or better, on the furs, my hands on the chain, close to my neck, run from the collar ring to the slave ring.

The portal opened, and Tullius Quintus, bearing a shallow tharlarion­­oil lamp, entered, followed by two of Lysander's men.

I went to the first obeisance position, kneeling, my head down to the furs, my hands, palms down, at the sides of my head.

“Position,” said Tullius Quintus.

As I was not a pleasure slave, I knelt with my knees closely together. I kept my head down, humbly.

“Head up,” he said.

I lifted my head, but did not dare to meet his eyes.

The chain dangled between my breasts. I felt its weight on my collar ring and its links on my body.

“Bara,” said Tullius Quintus.

I went to bara.

I was then bound, hand and foot, my wrists crossed and bound behind me, and my ankles crossed and bound, as well.

This may be conveniently done, as earlier noted, when one is in bara.

I was then relieved of the neck chain. And then one of Lysander's men, in the light of the lamp, above the collar I wore, snapped a new collar about my neck. My former collar, then, that of Lysander of Market of Semris, was removed. There was no moment then when I had not been collared. Both collars were common collars, light, close-­fitting, locked in the back. Nothing about either collar would be likely to be noticed, save that their occupant wore them.

“I am Tullius Quintus,” said Tullius Quintus. “I am your master.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Whose slave are you?” he asked.

“I am the slave of Tullius Quintus,” I said.

“Of Ar,” he said.

“Of Ar,” I said. I knew nothing of Ar, save that it was a large city. I did not even know its direction from Market of Semris. I knew very little of Gorean geography. I had no clear idea of the world, or, really, in a sense, where I was, save for some names and vague notions, and few, it seemed, cared to enlighten me.

“Under whose rod of discipline are you?” he asked.

“I am under the rod of discipline of Tullius Quintus, of Ar, my master,” I said.

I was aware of some large leather object being unfolded, and shaken out, to the side.

“May I speak?” I asked.

“Yes,” said Tullius Quintus.

“Who am I?” I asked.

“The name ‘Lita' will do, for the time,” he said.

“That is a very common slave name,” I said. I had known at least eleven girls in my various slaveries, in the last months, who had borne that name. It is pronounced “Leeta.”

“Yes,” he said.

“And it is a Gorean name,” I said, “not a barbarian name.”

“True,” he said.

“Then my name will not mark me as a barbarian,” I said.

“No,” he said.

“I cannot read,” I said. “May I know what is on my collar?”

“Of course,” he said. “It says, ‘I am the slave of Tullius Quintus, of Ar'.”

“Then my name will not appear on my collar,” I said, “not even the name ‘Lita'?”

“No,” he said.

“Master,” I said.

“You have spoken enough,” he said.

“Master?” I said.

A heavy wadding was thrust into my mouth, and fastened in place by four broad leather loops wound tightly about my face, and then tied behind the back of my neck.

I knew I could utter only the tiniest of sounds, or whimpers, and dared not even do so.

“Turn her on her back,” said Tullius Quintus.

I then lay at the feet of masters, naked, bound hand and foot, gagged.

“She is pretty,” said one of Lysander's men.

“She is only a work slave,” said Tullius Quintus.

“Still, pretty,” said the man.

“All women look well, so,” said Tullius Quintus, “bound, helpless, at one's feet.”

“True,” said the man.

I was angry. At the supper, had not Tullius Quintus averred that he had seen pleasure slaves who were not so attractive as I? Had he now changed his mind? Too, I had been a slave for months, and had worn, in this time, several collars, and it is well known that in bondage a woman grows more beautiful. As a slave, given attention to cleanliness, appearance, deportment, and such, she has little choice other than to do so. More importantly, one supposes, a number of biological and psychological elements contribute to this matter, having to do with nature, sexual dimorphism, the resolution of ambivalences, fulfillment, self-discovery, and such.

“See her squirm,” said one of Lysander's men, amused.

“You cannot free yourself, kajira,” said the other.

I knew that was true. I was helpless. My struggles subsided. I had been thonged by a Gorean male.

“Slip her into the slave sack,” said Tullius Quintus. “I am eager to be away.”

I shook my head negatively, tears in my eyes, mutely pleading. Such a device was unpleasant. Too, such a device was seldom used for slaves, despite its name, for slaves were commonly coffled, chained in wagons, chained to a stirrup, or such. It might be useful, of course, in disciplining slaves, or stealing slaves. But I was not being disciplined, nor was I being stolen. Such a device could be useful, of course, in removing a captured free woman, perhaps one so unwise as to having intruded into a paga tavern, from her own city or town. Perhaps then she might find herself a paga girl elsewhere, given which denouement her presumed curiosity might be well satisfied.

“The information on which I acted,” said Tullius Quintus, “may have been available to others, as well. If not, even so, my venture may have been suspected. I may have been followed to this house.”

“The grounds, and nearby streets, are deserted,” said one of Lysander's men.

“The enemy is not always seen,” said Tullius Quintus.

One of the two men shrugged. Is the unseen enemy not the most dangerous?

“What of watchmen?” asked Tullius Quintus.

“There may be a watchman, or so,” said one of the men.

I whimpered a little, plaintively, as I was thrust, head first, into the sack. The sack is narrow. One could not turn about within its confines. It was of a size made for women, a common slave sack. It was laced shut, some inches behind my feet.

“Carry her downstairs, to the tunnel portal, and thence to the wagon,” said Tullius Quintus. “Then ensconce her, and tie shut the canvas.”

Large Gorean houses are often constructed with more in mind than comfort and convenience, luxury or impressiveness; they are often sturdy and defensible, as well. Too, it is not unusual for them to have secret chambers and passages, at least one of which is likely to lead, by means of a tunnel, to another house, or structure, perhaps a quarter of a pasang distant. The burrow of the sleen, for example, has two, sometimes three, openings. In this way an animal might escape a larger, more formidable animal entering its burrow, or, more frequently, utilize the additional opening to withdraw from its lair unnoticed, which may be of advantage in deceiving watchful prey, in surprising an enemy, and so on.

I had not known, until then, that there was a tunnel portal. I did know that a large Gorean house usually had a number of possible entrances and exits, not always obvious.

Somewhere a wagon was to be waiting.

I did not know if the wagon was to be drawn by bosk, tharlarion, or kaiila. The wagons of Raymond of Ti, which had transported me, and others, from the Vosk to Torcadino had been drawn by bosk. They were the first bosk I had seen, broad horned and shaggy. I knew that tharlarion, at least of certain varieties, also served as draft beasts, but I had never, as yet, seen one. I did know something about them, and their varieties, from one or another of the dealer's men in Victoria. I had also heard from them of kaiila. The latter beast, I had gathered, in its varieties, was less likely to be utilized as a draft beast than as a mount. It is apparently less common in the northern hemisphere than in the southern hemisphere. One of the dealer's men, interestingly, had never seen one. Another form of draft beast is the draft slave, male or female. Several males may draw a rubble wagon or a wagon of cut stones in the quarries, or an ore wagon in a mining district, such things. Lighter labors might be assigned to females used as draft slaves. They are often used, for example, to draw the cart of a peddler. Some free women enjoy using harnessed female slaves to draw their carriages, or, chained to their poles, to carry their palanquins.

Little love is lost between free women and kajirae.

I was lifted in the arms of someone, presumably one of Lysander's men, and carried from the room and down the stairs, and, after a time, down another flight of stairs. Later, from the sound of it, a trap was lifted. I felt myself handed downward from one fellow to another. I heard the trap, as I supposed it to be, dropped behind me. At the foot of some more stairs, I was carried on a level for some time, at least for seven or eight minutes. I heard the sandals of the men occasionally scuff pebbles, and, twice, splash a little, as if wading through some shallow expanse of water. Even within the sack I had a sense of coolness, and that the air might be damp and clammy.

“Let us hurry,” said Tullius Quintus.

“You will be off well before dawn,” said the fellow not carrying me. “Too, the streets for a pasang about are deserted, save perhaps for a watchman.”

“The wagon has been concealed,” said Tullius Quintus.

“It is in the stable's wagon yard,” said the man. “It was brought there yesterday. The walls are high.”

“Is it far yet?” asked Tullius Quintus.

“No,” said one of the men.

“The tharlarion?” inquired Tullius Quintus.

“From the stable, itself,” said the man.

“All is well,” said the fellow carrying me.

“Hurry,” said Tullius Quintus.

Shortly thereafter the men stopped, and there were more stairs, these ascending, and then, again, I was on a level, and sandals were treading planks and crushing straw. I smelled what must be dung. Then a door was swung open and it became cooler, chilling the moisture and sweat in the sack, and I was sure they had emerged into the night air. I heard a grunting noise, as of large animals, and, from the conversation in the tunnel, I knew these heavy, bestial sounds must have been emitted from tharlarion. I heard no new voices, either masculine or feminine, so I supposed the grooms must have retired for the night, and the stable slaves, if there were such, would be on their chains until dawn. The slavery of the stable slave is not one hoped for by girls in the presale exposition cages or waiting at the foot of a block, for their turn to be shown to men. Stable slaves often have their heads shaved, for purposes of cleanliness. They are, of course, at the disposal of the grooms.

I heard the unlatching of a wagon gate and then I was lifted and thrust, head first, onto the floor of the wagon bed, near the gate, and the gate was closed. The wagon moved a fraction, as its draw beasts stirred.

“Has a curfew been imposed?” asked Tullius Quintus.

“No,” said one of Lysander's men. “It was thought that would arouse suspicion.”

“The streets have been cleared, save for an occasional watchman,” said the other.

“There may be other wagons about then?” said Tullius Quintus.

“At night,” said one of Lysander's men. “By law, heavy drayage is confined to the hours of darkness.”

“Surely you are familiar with that, as you are of Ar,” said the other fellow.

“Of course,” said Tullius Quintus, I thought uneasily.

I had the sense, then, he had climbed to the wagon bench.

“Should another wagon pass this way, we will detain it, on some pretext or another, for a time,” said one of Lysander's men.

“My thanks,” said Tullius Quintus.

I heard the creaking of what must have been two leaves of a gate, a large gate.

“On!” called Tullius Quintus.

I heard the grunting, and hissing, of one large beast, and then that of another, and the sound of a blow, striking on a massive body, and the wagon lurched forward, and I was shaken on the boards of the wagon bed.

“On, on!” called Tullius Quintus.

I heard another such blow.

A whip is used with bosk or kaiila, but it serves little purpose with tharlarion, given the thickness of their hide, and their comparative lack of responsiveness. In their case a long, supple drive wand, or baton, is normally used, which device may be used either to strike or prod the beast.

The wagon turned, almost immediately, and we were doubtless in the street. I heard metal-rimmed wheels rolling over stones. I knew the sound. The wagons of Raymond of Ti had had wheels rimmed with iron.

We had scarcely made our turn when we, perhaps no more than twenty yards from the gate, from behind us, heard Lysander's men, perhaps rushed out into the street, crying out, “Hold! Hold up your beasts! Hold! Inspection, inspection, in the name of the Administrator!”

Their futile, frustrated cursing then fell behind us.

Tullius Quintus began, desperately, to urge his beasts on, with cries and blows.

The wagon rattled onward.

It took me only moments to realize that something was surely amiss, from the frenzy of Tullius Quintus. Something unexpected, but perhaps feared, must have occurred.