“And perhaps you should veil yourself.”
“Nonsense,” she said.
“But you do want to be safe?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Then veil yourself,” I said.
“No,” she said.
“Well, perhaps it does not matter,” I said.
“Why is that?” she asked.
“You are probably right,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“You are probably not pretty enough to interest anyone,” I said.
“Nonsense,” she said. “I am beautiful. And men would pay a high price for me.”
Hurtha roared with laughter.
Boabissia turned about and glared at him. I was pleased she no longer possessed her dagger.
“Do not laugh,” I laughed.
I, too, then, I fear, had she been armed, might have had to defend myself.
“You are stupid, both of you,” she said, “like all men. You simply do not know what to make of free women.”
“I am an Alar,” said Hurtha. “I know what to make of free women.”
“What?” she asked.
“Slaves,” he roared.
“I am pretty, am I not?” asked Boabissia.
“Yes,” I said. “You are. We are teasing you.”
“And I would bring a high price, would I not?” asked Boabissia.
“I would think so,” I said, “at least for a new, untrained slave, for slave meat a master has not yet seasoned and prepared to his taste.”
“You see?” she asked Hurtha.
Hurtha snorted with derision.
“Am I not attractive, Hurtha?” she asked.
“You?” he asked.
“I,” she said, angrily.
“You are of no more interest than a she-tharlarion,” he said, “and if you were a she-tharlarion, I do not even think a male tharlarion would be interested in you.” He threw back his head, laughing.
“If you saw me all soft and naked, at your feet, and perfumed and painted, and in a collar and chains, you would want me,” she said, angrily.
Hurtha stopped laughing. Suddenly he seemed angry. His hand closed on the ax handle over his shoulder. His other hand clenched into a fist.
“Do not fear, Hurtha,” she said, “you big simple beast, that pleasure will never be yours.”
Hurtha did not respond, but glared angrily, fixedly ahead.
We continued on our way.
“He does think I am attractive, does he not?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“And you would like to have me, too, would you not?” she asked.
“Under certain conditions, perhaps,” I said.
“If I were a slave?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Of course!” she laughed.
“Move along,” said a guard, one of several along our route.
Boabissia began to hum an Alar tune. She seemed in fine spirits. I glanced over at her. A great transformation had come over her since the night before last, since she had been put on her back, her wrists tied to the spokes, a copper bowl resting on the dirt beside her. I wondered if she might make a suitable slave. It seemed possible. I imagined what she might look like with a collar on her neck, instead of the familiar thong and disk. I supposed it might be nice to have her. It was not too late, really, I supposed, to enslave her. One could then have her when and as one pleased.
“What is wrong?” she asked.
“Nothing,” I said.
“Move, move along,” said another guard.
“Ah,” said another, regarding Boabissia. She was, of course, not veiled.
“Move,” said another.
“You, too, free wench,” said another, irritably.
Boabissia would walk straightly by these fellows, regally, her head high, seemingly ignoring them, apparently not even deigning to glance at them. To be sure, I was confident she was only too keenly and pleasurably aware of their scrutiny, their appraisal and appreciation. She was now, after her experiences of the night before last, too much of an awakened female not to be aware of, and pleased at, the effects she could exercise upon men.
“Do you think it wise to behave in such fashion?” I asked her.
“In what fashion?” she asked, innocently, smiling.
“Never mind,” I said.
She laughed.
To be sure, what had she to fear from them? She was a free woman. She had nothing to fear from them, absolutely nothing to fear from them, unless perhaps, one day, she should become a slave. Then she might have much to fear from them. In the distance I could see the great gate of Torcadino.
“Slut,” said one of the soldiers.
Boabissia laughed, not looking at him.
“Collar meat,” he called out.
She laughed again, giving him no other notice.
How well, if haughtily, she now walked. I considered the walks of free women, and of slaves. How few free women really walk their beauty. Perhaps they are ashamed of it, or fear it. Few free women walk in such a way as to display their beauty, as, for example, a slave must. I considered the length of garments. The long garments, usually worn by free women, such as that now worn by Boabissia, might cover certain defects of gait perhaps, but when one’s legs are bared, as a slave’s commonly are, one must walk with beauty and grace. Too, given the scantiness of many slave garments, it is sometimes necessary to walk in them with exquisite care. The slave, for example, and this is commonly included in her training, seldom bends over to retrieve a fallen object. Rather she flexes her knees, lowering the body beautifully, and retrieves the object from a graceful and humble crouch. Sometimes, to be sure, commonly in serving at the parties of young men, certain objects, sometimes as part of a game, objects with prearranged significances among the young men, are thrown to the floor, and she must pick them up in a less graceful fashion. Whichever object she first touches determines to whose lusty abuse she must then submit. This game is sometimes played several times in the evening. I considered Boabissia. Her walk now seemed something between that of a free woman and a slave. It was, if haughty, quite good, and it showed, I thought, definite signs of slave promise. There seemed little doubt that, with some tutelage, and perhaps a collar on her neck, the beauty could be kept in it, and considerably improved, and the sullying haughtiness removed. I glanced again at her. Yes, it seemed to me that Boabissia might even be ready to walk in a slave tunic. I had little doubt but what several of the fellows she had passed, her nose in the air, would, with whips, have been more than willing to give her instruction in the matter, with or without the tunic.
“Are you sure you want to go to Ar?” I asked her. “It might be dangerous.”
She touched the copper disk at her neck. “Yes,” she said. “I will learn who I am.”
“And who do you think you are?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “But I was found, as I understand it, in the remains of what had apparently been a large and wealthy caravan. Perhaps it was the caravan of my father.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“At the least, passage in such a caravan would doubtless have to have been purchased, and that suggests affluence.”
“That is true,” I said.
“Presumably no drover, or low person, a mere employee, say, would have had a baby with him,” she said.
“Probably not,” I said.
“It seems likely to me, then,” she said, “that I am of wealthy family.”
“I suppose that is possible,” I granted her. Indeed, it seemed to me to be quite possible. I was uneasy, however. The letter “Tau” on the disk, for some reason I could not place, seemed vaguely familiar to me. I wondered if, somewhere, someplace, I might have seen that particular “Tau,” that is, that particular design of a Tau. “Why is there a number on the disk?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said, “but it must be some sort of an identificatory device, perhaps indexed t
o an address or a passenger list.”
“Or a wagon number,” I said, “if it was a large caravan, or, more likely, that of a merchant or company with many wagons.”
“Yes,” she said. “I never thought of that. That is perhaps it.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“They would want to have some way of knowing where the baby belonged, I suppose,” she said.
“I would suppose so,” I said.
“That must be it,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Would you care to hear my latest poem now,” asked Hurtha, “that which lightly chides those lazy fellows who choose upon occasion to sleep late?”
“Of course,” I said, grimly.
“It is a jolly poem,” Hurtha informed me.
“I am certain of it,” I said.
“‘Awake, abominable sluggards!’” quoth Hurtha. “That is a strong first line, isn’t it?”
“Catchy,” I admitted.
“‘Arise, loathsome miscreants!’” said Hurtha.
“Already you have revised the first line?” I asked.
“Certainly not,” said Hurtha. “One does not tamper with that which is already perfect. That is the second line.”
“You are certain that this is a humorous poem?” I asked.
“Definitely,” said Hurtha, chuckling.
“I did not know you wrote humorous poems,” I said.
“I am versatile,” Hurtha reminded me. “I suppose you thought I spent all my time composing tragic odes.”
“I had not given it that much thought,” I admitted.
“I have a lighter side,” said Hurtha, “though doubtless only those who know me well have detected it. Too, it is not, in my opinion, salutary for poetic growth to be too fixedly despondent.”
“I suppose not,” I said.
“You may believe me in the matter,” said Hurtha.
“Very well,” I said.
“A little despair goes a long way,” he said.
“I am sure of it,” I said.
“I shall begin again,” said Hurtha. “‘Get up, you odious, foul, stinking, dawdling sleen!’” said Hurtha.
“I thought you said you were going to begin again,” I said.
“I am beginning with the third line,” he said. He then turned to the fellow near him, an innocent fellow with a pack on his back. “This poem,” he told the fellow, “is dedicated to my friend, Tarl, there. Indeed, it was he who inspired me to compose it.”
“I see,” said the fellow, looking at me narrowly. He then moved a bit further away.
“‘Up, up, I say, inert tarsks, vile, loathsome, somnolent slimy urts!’” cried Hurtha.
Several folks were looking at me in a strange way. I quickened my pace, staring ahead.
“‘It is noon!’” called out Hurtha. Then he stopped, and began to laugh. Tears rolled down his cheeks.
“What is wrong?” I asked.
Some folks passed us.
“I told you it was funny,” laughed Hurtha, bent over.
“Yes?” I said.
“Surely the humor is not too subtle for you?” he asked suddenly, startled.
“I am not an Alar,” I admitted.
Boabissia laughed merrily, but, I thought, a bit uneasily, uncertainly.
“You see,” explained Hurtha, patiently, “I did not say it was morning. I said it was noon.”
“Yes?” I said.
“So you would expect me to say morning, but, you see, it is already past morning. It is then noon.”
“Oh, yes,” I said, thinking that perhaps I had a glimmer of his point, “excellent, excellent.” Many Goreans arise quite early. Perhaps it is well to keep that in mind. It may help somewhat, though perhaps not significantly. Boabissia made a noise, one I think intended to desperately simulate a laugh. She was, I am sure, merely attempting to improve her claim as to being an Alar. Feiqa, happily, laboring under no such onus, looked aghast.
“We are here,” I said, happily, “at the gate!”
Certain of the folks passed through the great gate of Torcadino were searched rather thoroughly. Some of the women, probably because the guards were interested in seeing them, were stripped stark naked, standing on the stones before the portal and, to their dismay, examined with Gorean efficiency. Certain coins and rings were found. After such a search a woman is sometimes good for nothing more than being a slave. But they were thrust through the gate, their clothes then clutched in their hands. Boabissia, interestingly, though quite comely, was spared this indignity. Some objects were confiscated from various folks, men and women, but little, really, was taken. I began to suspect that the treatment this group was receiving was, on the whole, little more than pro forma. I also suspected, after a few Ehn, that Boabissia’s immunity from Gorean Strip Search, in spite of the promise of pleasure to the guards of such a search, might be due to her party, that she was with us. The letters of the officer were now within my sheath. This tightened the draw, but the hiding place, considering the few options at my disposal, seemed a sensible one. Papers can be easily detected within tunic or cloak linings. To be sure, if one has time, the messages can be written on cloth within the linings, and then should elude search, unless the garment be torn open. There are many possible hiding places for messages or valuables, of course. A few that might be mentioned are false heels or divided soles in sandals, tiny secret compartments in rings, brooches, ornate hair pins, hollow combs, fibulae, studs, and clasps. The pommels of some swords are made, too, in such a way as to unscrew, revealing such a compartment. Similarly walking sticks and staffs often have one or more such compartments in them, reached by unscrewing various sections of the stick or staff. Needless to say, some of these, too, contain, daggers or thrusting swords. Such concealed compartments and weapons, and sometimes even builders’ glasses, sun chronometers, and compasses, and such, are found in such objects. It is cultural for white-clad pilgrims from certain cities to carry such staffs, often entwined with flowers, in pilgrimages to the Sardar. Such folks are not as harmless as they might seem, as various brigands have learned to their sorrow.
“You are together, all of you?” asked a guard.
“Yes,” I said.
“Pass,” he said.
In moments we were past the great gate, and blinking against the sun. I looked back. The walls, from this close to them, the fall sun bright on them, seemed very high and formidable. No common scaling ladders could ascend them. Too, numerous, low, horizontal wall slots, some three or four inches in height, through which metal-shod poles, stout metal crescents at their tips, could be thrust, and maneuvered, marked their bleakness. Such poles, with little danger to the defenders, at sufficient heights, where sufficient leverages can be exerted, address themselves to the enemy’s ladders. Their effects are often devastating. The slots through which the poles are thrust may serve also, of course, as arrow ports. Individuals behind us were still coming through the gate. I then turned my eyes forward. I could see, some two hundred yards or so away, pennons of Cos, marking presumably the first row of siege trenches.
My hand I put inadvertently against the sheath of my sword. It was there that I had concealed the documents I carried.
“You were not searched,” said a small fellow, near me. He had a mustache, like string, and narrow eyes. He had a pack on his back.
“Many were not searched,” I said.
He then continued on his way, toward the pennons in the distance.
“What are we to do?” asked Boabissia, uneasily.
“Keep moving,” said a soldier, outside the gate, pointing toward the pennons.
Boabissia and I, then, followed by Hurtha and Feiqa, she bearing my pack, set out, with others, toward the pennons. “I think there will be little difficulty in clearing the lines of Cos,” I said. “Refugees, I suspect, will be sped on their way. I am not sure what would be the best way to approach Ar. We might reach the Argentum Road and take it east to the Viktel Aria. We would then trek
south to Ar.”
“That is a longer route, is it not?” asked Boabissia.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why take it?” she asked.
“It is not the route we might be expected to take,” I said.
“Are you afraid?” she asked.
“I am uneasy,” I said.
“Could we not trek directly to Ar, across country?” she asked.
“If I were alone, I would,” I said.
“I am not afraid,” she said.
“In the open country, there may be sleen,” I said, “particularly after dark.”
“Oh,” she said.
“Too,” I said, “you are pretty.”
“What has that to do with it?” she asked.
“Would you like to be a naked slave of peasants, a community slave, in a peasant village,” I asked, “and wear a rope collar, and be taught to hoe weeds and pull a plow, and spend your nights in a sunken cage?”
“No!” she said.
“To be sure, they would probably sell you in a town, sooner or later, when they needed drinking money,” I said.
She shuddered.
“I think, however,” I said, “we shall take the most direct civilized route from here to Ar.”
“Why?” she asked.
“To save time,” I said. “Time, I think, is important.”
“As you say,” she said.
“We will take, then, that route called the Eastern Road, or Eastern Way,” I said.
“That is the route called the Treasure Road, is it not?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Why is it called that?” she asked.
“Because of the riches, and slaves, and such, often transported upon it,” I said.
“I see,” she said, uneasily.
“Doubtless you will see many slave caravans,” I said, “and, too, perhaps, the girls of poorer merchants, many women being marched on foot, chained in coffle, usually naked, sometimes with their hands tied behind their backs, sometimes gagged and blindfolded.”
“Oh,” she said, uneasily.
“Splendid!” said Hurtha.
I glanced back at Feiqa, who, bearing my pack, looked quickly down.
I had letters of safety. It seemed to me probably best, all things considered, to take the Treasure Road.
“Single file here,” called a soldier of Cos, near the pennons. “Watch your step.”
Mercenaries of Gor Page 24