“I see,” I said. It seemed that nothing less would do for Boabissia.
“The caravan in which I was found was by all accounts,” she said, “one of immense size, and presumably of great wealth.”
“Very well,” I said.
“And so,” said she, “I speculate its origins were in Ar.”
“Possibly,” I said. It was, at any rate, a plausible conjecture.
“In any event,” she said, “surely Ar is the place to begin my search. There may be records, memories amongst merchants, and so on.”
“I suppose so,” I said.
Whereas Boabissia’s vanity may well have been involved in this, clearly she did not seem to be of Alar blood, and, as I had heard, the caravan in which she had been discovered as an infant had indeed been one of size and presumed opulence.
It thus seemed to me, as well as to Boabissia, though I had not expressed this view to her, that Ar was the most likely point of origin for the caravan in question. Her search then, it seemed to me, might judiciously begin in Ar, even if it might not end there.
“I think I may have a great inheritance,” she said. “Perhaps I shall find I own vast estates, that funds in trust have been left for me, that I am of noble family, that I am one of the richest and most powerful women in Ar!”
“Why should you think such things?” I asked.
“Do you think them impossible?” she asked, turning to me.
“No,” I said. “I do not think they would be impossible.”
“I was traveling, though only a baby, with a great caravan,” she said. “Does that not bespeak station and wealth?”
I shrugged. “I do not know,” I said.
“I think it possible,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “It is possible, surely.”
“Look at those poor women,” said Boabissia. We were now passing, they had been coming towards us, three sturdy lasses under the herd stick of a brawny male. They were bent almost double under towering burdens of branches and sticks, bound together in fagots. They were moving single file. They were tied together, a rope on their necks. They looked up as the fee cart passed them. The male waved to our driver, who returned the salute.
“Such a fate might have been yours,” I said, “had we attempted to reach Ar across country.”
“They are slaves?” she asked.
“Of course,” I said.
“Oh,” she said, “then it does not matter.”
“I had not anticipated the possibility of buying passage on a fee cart,” I said. “I did not know any would still be running. Else I would not even have considered traveling across country, at least with a free woman.”
“We are making excellent time,” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “In a few days we should reach Ar.”
“Is it a beautiful city?” she asked.
“Yes,” I told her.
“I am certain,” said Boabissia, happily, fingering the small copper disk at her neck, “that I am of lofty birth, and high station. I cannot wait until I get to Ar, to claim my glory and wealth!”
I did not respond.
“There is no telling, what with interest rates on the Street of Coins, the maturation of notes, and such, to what heights my fortune, in these several years, may have soared.”
I did not respond.
“I may be one of the noblest, richest and most powerful women in Ar,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
We then passed a cage wagon. There were some five female slaves within it, in rag tunics. Two of them held the bars of the cage, watching us, as we passed.
“They are probably on their way to a market, somewhere,” I said.
“Feiqa is looking well lately,” said Boabissia, somewhat critically.
“Yes, I think so,” I said.
“What are you doing with her at night?” asked Boabissia.
“I do not know,” I said. “I suppose the usual things masters do with slaves.”
“I see,” said Boabissia. “I spoke to her this morning.”
“Oh?” I said.
“Yes,” said Boabissia. “She seems frightened of me.”
“You are a free woman,” I told her.
“She did not dare even to look into my eyes,” she said.
“Perhaps she feared to be thought too forward or bold, looking into the eyes of a free woman,” I said.
“Perhaps,” said Boabissia. “Is she so timid with you?”
“Sometimes,” I said.
“I do not think you have beaten her much lately,” said Boabissia.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” asked Boabissia.
“She is now pretty well trained,” I said.
“‘Trained,’” said Boabissia.
“Yes,” I said, “ideally, once a girl is trained, suitably trained, of course, there is not likely to be much call for beating her. She may also, of course,” I said, “be beaten at the master’s pleasure, for any reason or for no reason.”
“Of course,” said Boabissia. “She is a slave.”
“Too, some masters feel that a girl should be whipped once in a while, if only to help her keep clearly in mind that she is still a slave. Such whippings, occasionally administered, are thought by many to have a salutary effect on her.”
“Of course,” said Boabissia. “One must be strict with slaves.”
“To be sure,” I said, “a skilled, diligent slave is seldom beaten. There is usually little need to do so. Too, given her arduous labors, her intimate performances, her total service, her absolute obligations, her distinctive clothing, or lack of clothing, her collar, her brand, her entire mode of life, there is little danger that she will forget that she is a slave.”
“Perhaps,” said Boabissia, “but I think it is still good for them to feel the whip once in a while.”
“Perhaps you are right,” I said.
“They deserve it, and should receive it,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“If I were a man,” she said, “I would be merciless with them.”
I was silent.
“I would teach them their sex, and quickly, and no two ways about it,” she said.
“It is perhaps fortunate for them that you are not a man,” I said.
“Perhaps,” she laughed.
“You are not a man,” I said.
“I know,” she said.
“Do you?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“You are a beautiful young woman,” I said.
She blushed, even with the wind against her face.
“Perhaps you should hope, and desperately,” I said, “that you never fall slave.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Because perhaps you might fall into the hands of a fellow who might be as rigorous and strict with you, as you would be, or as you seem to claim you would be, had you a female such as yourself in your power, and you were a man.”
“But I am a free woman.”
“That is true,” I said.
“That makes me different,” she said.
“Does it?” I asked.
“Of course,” she said. “I am not like Feiqa.”
“Feiqa was once free,” I said.
“Not really,” she said.
“Oh?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “I spoke to Feiqa the other day. I asked her if she was a natural slave. Do you know what she said?”
“No,” I said.
“She said, ‘Yes.’”
“I think it is true,” I said.
“Is it true that she begged bondage,” asked Boabissia, “that she chose slavery of her own free will?”
“Yes,” I said.
“What a fool,” said Boabissia.
“Perhaps,” I said. To be sure, such a decision should not be made lightly. Such a decision may be made of one’s own free will, but it cannot be revoked by one’s own free will, for, after it is made, one is then help
less to alter or influence one’s new condition in any way. That is because one is then, you see, a slave.
“You do not think so?” asked Boabissia.
“No,” I said.
“Why not?” asked Boabissia.
“Suppose some women were natural slaves,” I said.
“Some wicked, low women?” asked Boabissia.
“If you like,” I said.
“Continue,” she said.
“If some women are natural slaves, and know this in their hearts,” I said, “would you prefer that they conceal this from the world? Do such lies please you? Do you commend them, truly? Would you advise these women to indulge in deceit, to rejoice in the practice of hypocrisy? What do you say to their needs? Are these of no importance, because they may not appeal to you, personally? Do you encourage them to deprivation? Do you really prescribe for them in their tumult and yearning larger and larger, and more and more bitter, doses of frustration? Must everyone be as you think perhaps you yourself should be, as you desperately command yourself to be? What do you fear? What accounts for your hostility, your venomous resentment? Would you truly keep them from their natural fulfillment?”
“I suppose not,” said Boabissia, “if they are truly such things.”
“Yet, there are some I have heard of,” I said, “who might deny a natural slave her bondage, even by law, no matter what might be the mental, emotional, and physical damage of this.”
“That is absurd,” said Boabissia. “Slavery is fitting, morally and legally, for the natural slave, of course. No one in their right mind could conceive of denying that.”
“For natural slaves?” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“A wench such as Feiqa?” I said.
“Of course,” said Boabissia.
“In such a case then,” I said, “if Feiqa is a natural slave, it might be fitting, don’t you think, that she acknowledged this, and then entered humbly upon her authentic reality.”
“Yes,” said Boabissia, “as she is such a slut.”
“Perhaps you think it was even morally incumbent upon her, given what she was, to have done so?” I asked.
“I think it was fitting, that it was fully appropriate,” said Boabissia, uneasily, “but I do not think it was her actual duty to have done so.”
“Then you might see her act, considering all that is involved, the bold confession, the loss of status, the stern nature of bondage, the now belonging helplessly and totally to a master, how free women will now treat her and look upon her, as the act of a very brave woman,” I said.
“Or of a very desperate one,” said Boabissia, “perhaps one who has fought with herself for so long and so painfully that at last she can stand it no longer, and in piteous surrender and relief flings herself to the feet of a man, where she belongs.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Such a fate is appropriate for natural slaves,” said Boabissia scornfully. “The sooner they get the collars on their necks the better.”
“The better?” I asked.
“The better for themselves, the better for men, the beasts, and the better for noble free women, whom they can then no longer pretend to be like.”
“I am glad to hear you say that,” I said.
“Oh?” asked Boabissia.
“Yes,” I said, “for all women are natural slaves.”
“No!” cried Boabissia. “No!”
“And no woman,” I said, “can be completely fulfilled unless she understands this, accepts it and behaves accordingly.”
“No!” said Boabissia. “No! No!”
“It is just a theory,” I said.
Boabissia clung to the rail, gasping. Her hands were white on the rail. She was trembling.
“Are you all right?” I asked.
“Yes,” she whispered, her head down, clinging to the rail. I could not help thinking how lovely a collar would look on her throat.
She looked up. “It is only a theory, is it not?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She shook, clinging to the rail.
“To be sure,” I said, “it may be a true theory.”
She did not respond. I then, seeing that she was distressed, returned to my seat. After a time, she returned, too, to her place on the bench. She did not meet my eyes, then, nor those of Hurtha, nor, I think, of any of the other men in the cart.
19
The Checkpoint;
We Continue On, Toward Ar
“They are gone!” I whispered, tensely.
“What are gone?” asked Hurtha, sitting up in the furs, a few feet from me.
The camp had been stirring now for better than an Ahn.
“The letters of safety,” I said, “those of safe conduct for our party.”
“What is wrong?” asked Boabissia, her hair wet and loose, come from the nearby stream, where she had washed it.
“Our letters of safety,” I said, “are gone. I had them here, in the sheath.”
“Perhaps they have fallen out,” she said.
“No,” I said. “They were firmly lodged within. They could be withdrawn only purposefully.”
“There is supposedly a checkpoint down the road,” said Boabissia. “I heard of it last night.”
“So, too, doubtless,” said I, “did the thief.”
“We were all about,” said Boabissia. “How could anyone have done it?”
“Presumably it could have been done only by one practiced in stealth, who knew for what he was searching, and where it might be found. He might even have had a tool for the extraction of the papers.”
“The blade was in the sheath, was it not,” asked Boabissia, “and the sheath beside you?”
“Yes,” I said, “and the sheath was on its strap, slung about my shoulder. The blade would have had to be removed, I assume, and then replaced, after the extraction of the papers.”
“Why would it be replaced?” asked Hurtha.
“That the absence of the papers not be immediately noticed,” I said. “I would not have noticed the matter had I not, as a matter of habit, this morning, tested the draw of the blade.” This habit, unnecessary and trivial though it may seem, is one inculcated in warriors, in many cities. The theory is not only that it is well to practice the draw frequently, as the first to draw may be the first to strike, but also to be familiar with it on a daily basis lest its parameters alter from time to time, due to such things as contractions and swellings of the leather, these having to do with temperature and moisture. Less obviously, but more deviously, the blade could be tightened, or even fastened, in the sheath by an enemy, by such means as a tiny wooden shim or plug, or a fine wire looped below the hilt. The practicing of the draw, and the associated testing of sheath resistance, is a small, but seldom neglected detail, in the practice of arms.
“Such skill seems impossible,” said Boabissia. “Who is there who could have done such a thing?”
“Some warriors could have done it,” I said. “Many red savages could have done it.”
“But who is about here?” asked Boabissia.
“Some thief,” I said, “one who is highly skillful, one worthy even of the thief’s scar of Port Kar, though I doubt he wears it.” The thief’s scar in Port Kar is a tiny, three-pronged brand, burned into the face over the right cheekbone. It marks the members of the Caste of Thieves in Port Kar. That is the only city in which, as far as I know, there is a recognized caste for thieves. They tend to be quite proud of their calling, it being handed down often from father to son. There are various perquisites connected with membership in this caste, among them, if one is a professional thief, protection from being hunted down and killed by caste members, who tend to be quite jealous of their various territories and prerogatives. Because of the caste of thieves there is probably much less thievery in Port Kar than in most cities of comparable size. They regulate their numbers and craft in much the same way that, in many cities, the various castes, such as those of the metal workers or clo
th workers, do theirs.
“Feiqa,” said Boabissia.
“Yes, Mistress?” said Feiqa, frightened. The lovely slave had knelt immediately, being addressed by a free person.
“Did you see anything?” asked Boabissia.
“No, Mistress,” said Feiqa, putting her head down.
“Stupid slave,” said Boabissia.
“Yes, Mistress,” whispered Feiqa, not looking up.
“Are such papers needed at the checkpoint?” asked Hurtha.
“Quite possibly,” I said. “We are near Ar. I do not know.”
“In this camp,” said Boabissia, “it seems unlikely that there could have been so skilled a thief.”
“Not necessarily,” I said.
“I think Feiqa took them,” said Boabissia.
“No, Mistress!” cried Feiqa.
“Let her be tortured for the truth,” said Boabissia. It is legal in Gorean courts for the testimony of slaves to be taken under torture. Indeed, it is commonly done.
“Please, no, Mistress,” wept Feiqa.
“It would have been difficult for her to have done so,” I told Boabissia, “for last night her hands were chained behind her, that she might awaken me intimately, not using her hands, at dawn.”
“Disgusting,” said Boabissia.
“I then put her to her back and caressed her, while recovering, until she begged to be put to further use, to which plea I acceded. I then, when pleased to do so, a time or so later, released her.”
“Disgusting,” said Boabissia.
“But she is only a slave,” I said.
“That is true,” granted Boabissia.
“Such things may be done to slaves, and it is part of what they are for,” I said.
“True,” said Boabissia. Then she looked at Feiqa. “Slut,” she said.
“Yes, Mistress,” said Feiqa, not meeting her eyes.
How Boabissia hated Feiqa! Did she really think it was wrong, or improper, for Feiqa to give her master such incredible pleasure? I did not think so. Feiqa, after all, was a slave. It was one of her purposes. I think it was rather that she was intensely jealous of Feiqa, that she keenly resented that she, the proud Boabissia, being free, was not subject to the same imperious enforcements.
Mercenaries of Gor Page 27