“At the seventeenth Ahn,” she said, “the keeper, it seems, grew weary of our pleas and protestations. Also, I think he was not too pleased with women such as we, who had attempted to do fraud and dupery within his inn.”
“That is understandable,” I said.
“No,” she said. “We are not slaves! We are free women. We may do anything.”
“I see,” I said.
“The keeper,” she said, “is not a gentleman.”
“I am prepared to believe that,” I said.
“It is true!” she said. “Look at me, naked and chained!”
“I have been,” I assured her.
She shook the chain on her wrists, angrily.
“But he did, it seems, give you an opportunity to practice your fraud and dupery,” I said. “Your primary problem would seem to be simply that you were unsuccessful.”
“Perhaps,” she said, irritably.
From what I had seen of the keeper, I supposed that his main interest in these matters would be to obtain his fees, if not in one way, then in another.
“Continue,” I said.
“There is little more to tell,” she said, angrily. “At the seventeenth Ahn, perhaps wearying of our presence there, he had us cleared away from the vicinity of his desk. Five of us were taken outside somewhere, and from what you say, I take it, chained in the court. I myself was shackled, and put here, in the paga room, to serve at tables.”
“Why were you not taken outside?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said.
“There are only five exposition places at the wall,” I said.
She shrugged.
“Still that would not explain why it should be you who are here, and not another.”
“I suppose it had to be someone,” she said.
“Two women might have been chained to one ring,” I said, “or you might have been chained on your knees, nearby, to a sleen ring.”
“Men are lustful beasts,” she said. “They seem to enjoy looking upon women. Doubtless I am here because I am the most beautiful.”
“But you are not,” I said.
“Oh?” she said, angrily.
“No,” I said. “She who was at the first ring and she who was at the fourth ring were both more beautiful than you.”
“Who were they?” she asked, angrily.
“She at the first ring was the Lady Amina,” I said. “I do not know who was at the fourth ring.”
“Was she small, and dark-haired?”
“Yes,” I said.
“That is Rimice,” she said. “She is a small, curvy slut.”
I recalled the girl at the fourth ring. She was sweetly thighed with a marvelous love cradle, made for a man’s loving.
“I am more beautiful than both,” she said.
“You seem vain, for a free woman,” I said.
“Not really,” she said. “I have no interest in such matters.”
“To be sure, all of the women out there,” I said, “including the Lady Amina and the Lady Rimice, are not yet truly beautiful. They are still too rigid, too tense, too tight, too inhibited to be truly beautiful.”
“You see!” she said, triumphantly.
“But none of them so much as you,” I said.
“Sleen!” she said.
“It is interesting to speculate what you women might be like, if you became beautiful,” I said.
“Sleen, sleen!” she said.
“How did the keeper seem when he ordered you shackled and put in the paga room?” I asked.
“Amused,” she said, angrily.
“Perhaps you had earlier failed to be pleasing,” I said.
“‘Pleasing’!” she said. “I am not a slave!”
“Perhaps you had spoken up to him,” I speculated, “though you were only a debtor slut.”
“Such is my right!” she said. “I am a free woman!”
“You dared to protest the treatment you received?” I asked.
“Of course!” she cried. “How is it that I, a free woman, should be stripped, and searched, and put in a cage, and such!”
“Men may do much what they please with women, really,” I said.
Her fists clenched.
“Perhaps you made demands, threatened him, insulted him, that sort of thing?” I asked.
“Perhaps,” she said.
“I can see then,” I said, “why it might have amused him to put you here, to serve as a waitress.”
“Perhaps,” she said, angrily.
“How much do you owe him?” I asked.
“A silver tarsk, five,” she said.
“That might be another reason,” I said. “That is more than is owed by any of the other women.” The amount stated was a silver tarsk, five copper tarsks.
“Perhaps,” she said, thoughtfully. “He may want to keep me where he or his men can keep an eye on me.”
Did she really think they feared her escape, she, within the palisade, shackled and naked?
“They might, too,” I said, “consider that your display here, if you will pardon the expression, might enhance your chances of obtaining a redemption.”
“Yes,” she said, “that, too.”
In the morning, of course, the girls outside, at the wall, might have a better chance. They would, by that time, I speculated, be bedraggled, and piteous, indeed. Still I did not think any of them, the Lady Temione here, or the others, outside, in these times, were likely, really, to get some fellow to redeem them.
“Would you care to order, Sir?” she asked, irritatedly.
I looked at her. Yes, I thought to myself, that was probably the main reason she had been put here, that is it, not because it was an accident, the luck in a lot of six, or even really, mainly, because she owed more than the others, but because she had not been found pleasing by the keeper. In its way, it was a punishment for her. Too, he had doubtless seen that she required informing, as to her nature and status.
“I am waiting, Sir,” she said.
“Do you regard yourself as desirable?” I asked.
She tossed her head, haughtily. “You spoke of beauty earlier, and insultingly of my putative intent to bargain with it,” she said. “Perhaps you can see.”
“That was not my question,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “I regard myself as desirable.” She regarded me, angrily. “Do you not?” she said.
“We might speak of such things as your lack of womanliness, your arrested or stunted femininity, your belligerent self-denial, your paucity of gracefulness, your mannish pretensions, your subtle clumsiness, your subtle awkwardness, your various inhibitions, your tightness, and such,” I said.
“Of course,” she said, angrily.
“But beyond such things,” I said, “your figure requires considerable improvement.”
She looked at me, in fury.
“But such things are common with free women,” I said. “Proper diet and exercise, imposed under suitable disciplines, would doubtless work wonders with you.”
“Would you care to order,” she asked.
“Have you served others?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“And you have not been disciplined?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I am a free woman.” She looked at me, angrily. “Are you ready to order?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Well?” she asked.
“Kneel,” I said.
“Kneel?” she asked.
“That is my first order,” I said.
She regarded me.
“Do you not know how a woman serves at table?” I asked.
“I am a free woman,” she said.
“Shall I send you to fetch a slave whip?” I asked.
She then trembled, and knelt. But, in a moment, she had recovered herself. She looked at me, angrily.
“You may keep your knees together,” I said, “as you are a free woman.”
Swiftly she closed them, furious. “I hate y
ou!” she said.
“You may now lower your head, before a male,” I said.
“Never!” she said.
“Now,” I said.
She lowered her head, angrily. “I have never done that before,” she said, lifting her head.
“You may now put it to the floor, the palms of your hands, too, to the floor,” I said.
Trembling with rage she obeyed. Then she straightened up, and knelt back.
“What do you have?” I asked.
“Paga and bread are two tarsks,” she said. “Other food may be purchased from three to five tarsks.”
“Is the paga cut?” I asked.
“One to five,” she said.
This is not that unusual at an inn. The proportions, then, would be one part paga to five parts water. Commonly, at a paga tavern, the paga would be cut less, or not cut at all. When wine is drunk with Gorean meals, at home, incidentally, it is almost always diluted, mixed with water in a krater. At a party or convivial supper the host, or elected feast master, usually determines the proportions of water to wine. Unmixed wine, of course, may be drunk, for example, at the parties of young men, at which might appear dancers, flute slaves and such. Many Gorean wines, it might be mentioned, if only by way of explanation, are very strong, often having an alcoholic content by volume of forty to fifty percent.
“How much bread?” I asked.
“Two of four,” she said. That would be half a loaf. The bread would be in the form of wedges. Gorean bread is almost always baked in round, flat loaves. The average loaf is cut into either four or eight wedges.
“What is the ‘other food’?” I asked.
“The Ahn is late,” she said. “We have nothing but porridge left.”
“It is three?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“I do not suppose,” I said, “that if one orders the porridge, the bread and paga comes with it?”
“No,” she said.
I had not, of course, expected any such luck, particularly after my conversation with the keeper. To be sure, even if perhaps a bit greedy, he was not a bad fellow. He had, for example, put the Lady Temione naked at the tables.
“Bread, paga, porridge,” I said to her.
“Very well,” she said.
“Very well, what?” I asked.
“Very well, Sir,” she said.
“Head to the floor before you get up,” I said.
She put her head angrily down to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor, and then straightened up.
“From each of your ‘fraud sisters’ outside, chained to their rings,” I said, “I had a kiss.”
“You will get no kiss from me,” she said.
I then gestured her up with a casual motion of my finger and away, that she should hurry to the kitchen.
“Lady Temione,” I called.
She stopped.
“You may move more swiftly,” I said, “if you rise up on your toes and take short steps.”
She cried out with rage, and stumbled, and fell. Then, rising, she hurried, as she could, angrily toward the door of the kitchen and, in a moment, disappeared through it. I watched it swing behind her, until it hung motionless on its hinges. Such doors, single and double, are common in inns and taverns, as they may be negotiated by someone whose hands are occupied, as in bearing a tray. Most often, however, on Gor, curtains, often beaded, are used to separate open from restricted areas in taverns, restaurants, and such. Lady Temione, I had noted, needed discipline. The sooner she received it the better it would probably be for her, and her life.
In a few moments she returned through the door bearing a tray. She knelt near the table, put the tray on the floor, unbidden performed obeisance and then, as though submissively, put the tray on the table, and put the paga, in a small kantharos, and the bread on its trencher, before me. Then she put the bowl of porridge, with a spoon, before me. She then withdrew, taking the tray, put it to the side, on the floor, again performed obeisance, unbidden, and then knelt back, as though in attendance. There had been something false in her subservience.
I looked at her, narrowly. She did not meet my eyes.
I took a sip of paga, and then sopped some bread in it, and then ate it.
As I reached for the spoon I thought she leaned forward a little.
I took a very tiny bit of the porridge. As I had suspected it might be, it was offensively seasoned, salted, almost to the point of inedibility.
“Is anything wrong, Sir?” she asked.
“I will count an Ehn,” I said, “that is, eighty Ihn. You have that long to make good what you have done.”
“I?” she asked, innocently.
“1—2—3—,” I said.
“But what?” she said, alarmed.
“4—5—6—,” I said.
“My ankles are chained!” she cried.
“7—8—9—,” I said.
Swiftly, crying out with misery, stumbling, falling, she tried to scramble to her feet. Then, as swiftly as she could, falling twice more, partly crawling, weeping, she strove to reach the door of the kitchen.
“24—25—26,” I counted. “27—28—29—30—31—32—33—34.”
She appeared through the swinging door, carrying a bowl in her chained hands, desperately moving toward me in short, careful, frightened steps. She could not risk falling.
I let her approach closely. “Hold,” I said.
She stopped, wildly.
“Perhaps in your haste you have forgotten to season that,” I said. “I prefer anyway to season my own porridge. See that you do not dare to present the porridge without the seasonings.”
She cried out with misery.
“Bring condiments as well,” I advised her. “50—51—52.”
In a moment or two she had regained the kitchen, and, an instant or two later, clutching a small, partitioned hand-rack of small vials and pots, each in its place, she again emerged into the public area.
“67,” I said. “68.”
“Please!” she cried. “Have mercy!”
“69—70,” I said.
She hastened toward me, terrified, with quick, small steps.
“75—76,” I said. “Obeisance.”
She cried out with misery, performing obeisance.
“77,” I said. “78—79.”
Then the porridge, with the seasonings and condiments, was on the table.
“80,” I said.
She leaned back. I feared she might faint. Then she again performed obeisance, and shrank back.
“Do not leave,” I told her. “You do not have permission to withdraw. Back on your heels.”
She knelt back on her heels, frightened.
I tasted the porridge. It had not yet been seasoned. Trying it, with one spoonful or another, from one vial or pot, or another, I seasoned it to my taste. I would later, now and then, here or there, in one place or another, mix in condiments. By such devices one obtains variety, or its deceptive surrogate, even in a substance seemingly so initially unpromising as inn porridge.
She looked at me, anxiously.
“I think this will prove satisfactory, free woman,” I said.
She breathed more easily.
I put down the spoon.
“I shall take this other bowl away,” she said.
“Not yet,” I said.
“Sir?” she asked.
I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and ankles, and pulled it up, behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her, at her sides. I then put her again to her knees.
“Sir?” she asked.
“You do have auburn hair, do you not?” I said.
Then I picked up the original bowl of porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right.
“No!” she cried.
I plunged her face downward, fully into th
e porridge.
I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her head firmly, pressing her face down into the bowl. She struggled, unavailingly. Then I let her lift her head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of porridge. “I can’t breathe!” she wept. “I’m choking!”
Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.
“Eat,” I said. “Eat.”
Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she twisted her head to the side. “It is inedible!” she wept. I turned her head again, and pushed it down. “Eat!” I said. I supposed it was possible someone could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could breathe, and she gasped for breath. “Please!” she wept, through the glutinous mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her and put her to her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise. Her face was at the bowl. “Eat,” I said. She put her head down over the bowl and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her back she looked up at me. “Please!” she begged. “Eat,” I said. I then kicked her with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. “I’m on fire!” she wept. “Water! I beg it!”
“Eat,” I said.
Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.
After a time I had finished my own porridge.
When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.
“You are a monster,” she said.
“Lick your bowl,” I said.
Miserably she did so.
“Some porridge has been spilled,” I said. “It doubtless overflowed the sides of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately, more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish. Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn.”
She looked at me, frightened.
“You can see porridge about, here and there,” I said. “Do not let it go to waste.”
Renegades of Gor Page 8