by John Norman
As I gazed on this strange assemblage of creatures in the tiered cases it seemed clear to me that I must be gazing upon one of the vivaria of which I had heard Sarm speak.
Such a complex might ideally serve my purpose of the moment.
I heard a groan from Vika and I turned to face her.
She lay on her side against the wall of the shaft, some seven or eight feet back from the grille.
The light pouring through the grille formed a reticulated pattern of shadows on her body.
I stood to one side, back a bit from the grille so as not to be observed from the outside, and watched her.
Her wrists of course were still bound.
She was very beautiful and the brief rags that were all that remained of her once long and lovely garment left little of her beauty to conjecture.
She struggled to her hands and knees, her head hanging down, her hair falling over her head to the floor of the shaft. Slowly she lifted her head and shook it, a small beautiful movement that threw her hair back from her face. Her eyes fell on me and opened wide in disbelief. Her lips trembled but no word escaped them.
“Is it the custom of the proud women of Treve,” I asked, “to appear so scantily clad before men?”
She looked down at the brief rags she wore, insufficient even for a slave girl, and at her bound wrists.
She looked up and her eyes were wide and her words were scarcely a whisper. “You brought me,” she said, “from the tunnels of the Golden Beetle.”
“Yes,” I said.
Now that Vika was recovering I suddenly became aware of the difficulties that might ensue. The last time I had seen this woman conscious had been in the chamber where she had tried with the snares of her beauty to capture and conquer me for my archenemey, Sarm the Priest-King. I knew that she was faithless, vicious, treacherous and because of her glorious beauty a thousand times more dangerous than a foe armed only with the reed of a Gorean spear and the innocence of sword steel.
As she gazed upon me her eyes held a strange light which I did not understand.
Her lips trembled. “I am pleased to see that you live,” she whispered.
“And I,” I said sternly, “am pleased to see that you live.”
She smiled ruefully.
“You have risked a great deal,” she said, “to thong the wrists of a girl.”
She lifted her bound wrists.
“Your vengeance must be very precious to you,” she said.
I said nothing.
“I see,” she said, “that even though I was once a proud woman of the high city of Treve you have not honoured me with binding fibre but have bound my limbs only with the thong of your sandal, as though I might be the lowest tavern slave in Ar – carried off on a wager, a whim or caprice.”
“Are you, Vika of Treve,” I asked, “higher than she of whom you speak, the lowest tavern slave in Ar?”
Her astounded me. She lowered her head. “No,” she said, “I am not.”
“Is it your intention to slay me?” she asked.
I laughed.
“I see,” she said.
“I have saved your life,” I said.
“I will be obedient,” she said.
I extended my hands to her and her eyes met mine, blue and beautiful and calm, and she lifted her bound wrists and placed them in my hands and kneeling before me lowered her head between her arms and said softly, very clearly, “I the girl Vika of Treve submit myself – completely – to the man Tarl Cabot of Ko-ro-ba.”
She looked up at me.
“Now, Tarl Cabot,” she said, “I am you slave girl and I must do whatever you wish.”
I smiled at her. If I had had a collar I would then have locked it on her beautiful throat.
“I have no collar,” I said.
To my amazement her eyes as they looked up into mine were tender, moist, submissive, yielding. “Nonetheless, Tarl Cabot,” she said, “I wear your collar.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
She dropped her head.
“Speak, Slave Girl,” I said.
She had no choice but to obey.
The words were spoken very softly, very slowly, haltingly, painfully, and it must have cost the proud girl of Treve much to speak them. “I have dreamed,” she said, “since first I mey you, Tarl Cabot, of wearing – your collar and your chains. I have dreamed since first I met you of sleeping beneath the slave ring – chained at the foot of your couch.”
It seemed to me incomprehensible what she had said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
She shook her head sadly. “It means nothing,” she said.
My hand fixed itself in her hair and gently turned her face up to mine.
“– Master?” she asked.
My stern gaze demanded an answer.
She smiled, my hand in her hair. Her eyes were moist. “It means only,” she said, “that I am your slave girl – forever.”
I released her head and she dropped it again.
To my surprise I saw her lips gently kiss the cruel leather thong which so tightly bound her wrists.
She looked up. “It means, Tarl Cabot,” she said, her eyes wet with tears, “that I love you.”
I untied her wrists and kissed her.
Chapter Twenty-Six
THE SAFEKEEPING OF VIKA OF TREVE
It was hard to believe that the gentle, obedient girl who nestled in my arms, who had so leaped and sobbed with pleasure, was the proud Vika of Treve.
I still had not determined to my satisfaction that she might be fully trusted, much to her distress, and I would take no chances with her for I knew who she was, the bandit princess of the lofty plundering Treve of the Voltai Range. No, I would take no chances with this girl, whom I knew to be as treacherous and vicious as the nocturnal, sinuous, predatory sleen.
“Cabot,” she begged, “what must I do that you will trust me?”
“I know you,” I said.
“No, dear Cabot,” she said, “you do not know me.” She shook her head sadly.
I began to move the grille at one corner to allow us to drop to the floor beneath in the vivarium chamber. Fortunately this grille was not charged, and I had not supposed it would be.
“I love you,” she said, touching my shoulder.
I pushed her back roughly.
It seemed to me I now understood her treacherous plan and something of the same bitterness with which I had earlier regarded this woman tended to fill my breast.
“But I do,” she said.
I turned and regarded her coldly. “You play your role well,” I said, “and nearly was I fooled, Vika of Treve.”
“I don’t understand,” she stammered.
I was irritated. How convincing she had been in her role of the enamoured slave girl, hopelessly, desperately mine, undoubtedly waiting her chance to betray me.
“Be silent, Slave,” I told her.
She blushed with shame and hung her head, her hands before her face, and sank to her knees weeping softly, her body shaken with sobs.
For a moment I almost yielded, but I steeled myself against her trickery and continued my work.
She would be treated with the coldness and harshness which she deserved as what she was, a beautiful and treacherous slave girl.
At last I moved the corner of the large grille sufficiently to allow me to slip through to the floor beneath and then Vika followed me and I helped her to the floor.
The grille snapped back into place.
I was rather pleased with the discovery of the network of ventilator shafts for it suggested to me almost a private and extensive highway to any place in the Nest I might wish to reach.
Vika was still crying a bit, but I took her hair and wiped her face and told her to stop her noise. She bit her lip and choked back a sob and stopped crying, though her eyes still brimmed with tears.
I regarded her garment which, however soiled and torn, was still recognisably that of a Chamber Slave.
> It would never do. It would be a clue to her identity. It would surely provoke curiosity, perhaps even suspicion.
My plan was a bold one.
I looked at Vika sternly. “You must do whatever I say,” I said, “and quickly, without question.”
She hung her head. “I will be obedient,” she said softly, “– Master.”
“You will be a girl brought from the surface,” I said, “for you are still unshaved, and you are to be delivered to the vivarium on the orders of Sarm, the Priest-King.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“But you will obey,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“I will be your keeper,” I said, “and I am bringing you as a new female Mul to the breeding cases.”
“A Mul?” she asked. “Breeding cases?”
“Remove your clothing,” I commanded, “and place your hands behind your back.”
Vika looked at me with surprise.
“Quickly!” I said.
She did as I commanded and I thonged her wrists behind her back.
I then took the handful of rags she had worn and discarded them in a nearby waste container, a convenience with which the Nest was, to my mind, excessively provided.
In a few moments, putting on something of an air of authority, I presented Vika to the Chief Attendant of the Vivarium.
He looked at her unshaved head and long, beautiful hair with disgust. “How ugly she is,” he said.
I gathered he had been bred in the Nest and therein had formed his concepts of female beauty.
Vika, I was pleased to note, was considerably shaken by his appraisal, and I supposed it was the first time a man had ever looked upon her with disfavour.
“Surely there is some mistake?” asked the Attendant.
“None,” I said. “Here is a new female Mul from the surface. On the orders of Sarm shave her and clothe her suitably and place her in a breeding case, alone and locked. You will receive further orders later.”
It was a most miserable and bewildered Vika of Treve whom I bundled into a small but comfortable plastic case on the fourth tier of the Vivarium. She wore the brief tunic of purple plastic allotted to female Muls in the nest and save for her eyelashes her hair had been completely removed.
She saw her reflection in the side of her plastic case and screamedm throwing her hands before her face.
Actually she was not unattractive and she had a well-shaped head.
It must have been a great shock for Vika to see herself as she now was.
She moaned and leaned against the side of the case, her eyes closed.
I took her briefly in my arms.
This seemed to surprise her.
She looked up at me. “What have you done to me?” she whispered.
I felt that I might tell her what I had done was perhaps to save her life, at least for a time, but I did not say this to her. Rather I looked sternly down into her eyes and said simply, “What I wished.”
“Of course,” she said, looking away bitterly, “for I am only a slave girl.”
But then she looked up at me and there was no bitterness in her eyes, no reproach, only a question. “But how can I please my Master,” she asked, “– like this?”
“It pleases me,” I said.
She stepped back. “Ah yes,” she said, “I forgot – your vengeance.” She looked at me. “Earlier,” she said, “I thought-” but she did not finish her sentence and her eyes clouded briefly with tears. “My Master is clever,” she said, straightening herself proudly. “He well knows how to punish a treacherous slave.”
She turned away.
I heard her voice from over her shoulder and I could see her reflection in the side of the plastic case before which she stood. “Am I now to be abandoned?” she asked. “Or are you not yet done with me?”
I would have responded, in spite of my better judgment, to reassure her of my intentions to free her as soon as practicable, and to tell her that I believed her greatest chance of safety lay in the anonymity of a specimen in the Vivarium, but it would have been foolish to inform her, treacherous as she was, of my plans, and fortunately there was no opportunity to do so because the Chief Attendant at that moment approached the case and handed me a leather loop on which dangled the key to Vika’s case.
“I will keep her well fed and watered,” said the Attendant.
At these words Vika suddenly turned to face me, desperately, her back against the plastic side of the case, the palms of her hand against it.
“I beg of you, Cabot,” she said, “please do not leave me here.”
“It is here you will stay,” I said.
In my hand she saw the key to her case.
She shook her head slowly, numbly. “No, Cabot,” she said, “– please.”
I had made my decision and I was now in no mood to debate the matter with the slave girl, so I did not respond.
“Cabot,” she said, “– what if my request were on the lips of a woman of High Caste and of one of the high cities of all Gor – could you refuse it then?”
“I don’t understand,” I said.
She looked about herself at the plastic walls, and shivered. Her eyes met mine. I could see that not only did she not wish to stay in this place but that she was terrified to do so.
Suddenly she fell on her knees, her eyes filled with tears, and extended her hands to me. “Look, Warrior of Ko-ro-ba,” she said, “a woman of High Caste of the lofty city of Treve kneels before you and begs you that you will not leave her here.”
“I see at my feet,” I said, “only a slave girl.” And I added, “And it is here that she will stay.”
“No, no,” said Vika.
Her eyes were fixed on the key that dangled from the leather loop in my hand.
“Please-” she said.
“I have made mu decision,” I said.
Vika fell to her hands and slumped to the floor moaning, unable to stand.
“She is actually quite beautiful,” said the Attendant, appraisingly.
Vika looked up at him dully as though she could not comprehend what he had said.
“Yes,” I said, “she is quite beautiful.”
“It is amazing how proper clothing and a removal of the threadlike growths improve a female Mul,” observed the Attendant.
“Yes,” I agreed, “it is truly amazing.”
Vika lowered her head to the floor again and moaned.
“Is there another key?” I asked the Attendant.
“No,” he said.
“What if I should lose this?” I asked.
“The plastic of the case,” said the Attendant, “is cage plastic and the lock is a cage lock, so it would be better not to lose it.”
“But if I should?” I asked.
“In time I think we could cut through with heat torches,” said the Attendant.
“I see,” I said. “Has it ever been done?” I asked.
“Once,” said the Attendant, “and it took several months but there is no danger because we feed and water them from the outside.”
“Very well,” I said.
“Besides,” said the Attendant, “a key is never lost. Nothing in the Nest is ever lost.” He laughed. “Not even a Mul.”
I smiled, but rather grimly.
Entering the case I checked the containers of fungus.
Vika had now regained her feet and was wiping her eyes with her arm in one corner of the case.
“You can’t leave me her, Cabot,” she said, quite simply as though very sure of it.”
“Why not?” I asked.
She looked at me. “For one thing,” she said, “I belong to you.”
“I think my property will be safe here,” I said.
“You’re joking,” she said, sniffing.
She watched me lift the lids of the fungus containers. The materials in the containers seemed fresh and of good sort.
“What is in the containers?” she asked.
“Fungu
s,” I said.
“What for?” she asked.
“You eat it,” I said.
“Never,” she said. “I’ll starve first.”
“You will eat it,” I said, “when you are hungry enough.”
Vika looked at me with horror for a moment and then, to my astonishment, she laughed. She stood back against the rear of the case scarcely able to stand. “Oh Cabot,” she cried with relief, reproachingly, “how frightened I was!” She stepped to my side and lifted her eyes to mine and gently placed her hand on my arm. “I understand now,” she said, almost weeping with relief, “but you frightened me so.”
“What do you mean?” I asked.
She laughed. “Fungus indeed!” she sniffed.
“It’s not bad when you get used to it,” I said, “but on the other hand it is not really particularly good either.”
She shook her head. “Please, Cabot,” she said, “your joke has gone far enough.” She smiled. “Have pity,” she said, “if not on Vika of Treve – on a poor girl who is only your slave.”
“I’m not joking,” I told her.
She did not believe me.
I checked the tube of Mul-Pellets and the inverted jar of water. “We do not have the luxuries in the Nest that you had in your chamber,” I said, “but I think you will manage quite well.”
“Cabot,” she laughed, “please!”
I turned to the Attendant. “She is to have a double salt ration each evening,” I told him.
“Very well,” he said.
“You will explain to her the washings?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, “and the exercises.”
“Exercises?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said, “it is important to exercise in confinement.”
“Of course,” I admitted.
Vika came up behind me and placed her arms around me. She kissed me on the back of the neck. She laughed softly. “You have had your joke, Cabot,” she said, “now let us leave this place for I do not like it.”
There was no scarlet moss in the case but there was a straw mat on one side. It was better than the one she had had in her own chamber.