He, now outside, closed its door, or gate, and tied it shut. Save for looking upward, to the sky, fastened as I was, I could see very little. Ropes were at the corners of this holding device. I did not understand what their role might be. In one corner of my tiny wickerwork prison, the security of which, save for my bonds, seemed dubious, was a ragged blanket. I could not reach it.
As we had stopped, and I had been incarcerated in this small, unlikely wickerwork cell, I gathered that we had eluded our pursuer, or pursuers.
Tullius Quintus, outside, seemed to be looking about. Then he turned, and regarded me, I sitting, below him, bound and tethered. “I am victorious,” he said. “All is as planned.”
“I beg to speak,” I said.
“You are refused permission to speak,” he said.
My cheeks still stung, from his earlier ministrations.
Why was I now his? I did not think I had been purchased. Lysander, the Administrator of Market of Semris, had apparently surrendered me to him, and readily. “She has never been in my house,” he had said. Surely this sort of transaction, if it were a transaction, was unusual. What slave could anticipate it? It made no sense. What was to be done with me? When a girl is purchased off a shelf, or a block, she will normally have a very clear idea of why she has been purchased, and what will be done with her. Can she not see it in the eager eyes of the brute who has spent his coins on her, and expects to obtain a thousand times his money’s worth? But why had I been obtained? Could I truly believe that Tullius Quintus was smitten with my charms, those of a work slave, those of a cheap kitchen slave? And my name had been of importance for some reason, and then it had been quickly changed. I was now “Lita.” There were doubtless hundreds, if not thousands, of girls on Gor named ‘Lita’. I had encountered several in the past few months. And why was I surreptitiously removed from Market of Semris? I was not a free woman, selected for a collar in some distant town or city, whose abduction might involve considerable risk. And who was it from whom Tullius Quintus fled? How desperate he had been to escape! Whom did he so fear? Who had been our pursuer? Where was that pursuer now? Surely, by now, he was more than aware of my master’s ruse, and the falsity of the track on which he had been set. And what was the meaning of my present situation? What temporary prison was this sturdy device in which I found myself? Why the slack corner ropes? What were they for? Were they to tether me further? They were much too large, too coarse and bulky, for that. What was the point of the black strap on my belly? Did my master really think I might easily, bound as I was, hand and foot, climb out, and flee away, from this open-ceilinged cell, this temporary slave-holding device? Its walls were not even metal. It was of mere wicker, even if of sturdy wicker. Too, it was light. Should a holding device not be formed of sterner, weightier stuff?
I then, again, heard the scratching, or drawing, on wood, as though it were being raked by heavy knives.
How clear much of this would have been to me had I been natively Gorean, or even longer on this strange, green, beautiful, fresh, unspoiled, perilous orb!
I looked about, listening intently, straining to see, but I could see nothing but now-manifest threads of morning light glittering amongst the fibers of the wicker walls.
I did not know the whereabouts of my master.
Suddenly, I heard, for the first time, a mighty sound, deafening, but feet away, shrill and sustained, annunciatory, the long, shrieking, readiness cry of an awesome, dangerous, incredible form of life. Doubtless the sound might be familiar to some but it was not to me. It might have rung out in the mountains of Thentis, reflected from peak to peak, causing all who heard it to pause, and tremble, and raise their eyes apprehensively to the sky. My blood froze. For a moment I could neither move nor breathe. Had I seen its source, given its proximity, and understood its meaning, I know not what my response might have been. Can one die of such things? How frightening, and amazing, it would seem to me, later, to understand that men, some rare, few men, dare to share the sky with such things.
But a moment after this startling sound, I heard a human voice, from some yards away. “Hold!” it cried. “Hold! Gold or steel! Hold!”
“Gold!” cried Tullius Quintus, “as and when it pleases me!”
“Sleen!” cried the other voice.
There was suddenly a great crack, as of the smiting of wind, like the crack of sails, like the snapping of a mighty banner, or whip, and the very basket in which I was held shook, and then, suddenly, the ropes were taut, and the basket, as I screamed in fear, thrown back, helpless in my bonds and strap, slid rapidly across the wooden platform, and, a moment later, it seemed to leap from the planks and it swung free, how far above the land I did not know.
Then I screamed, again, for suddenly, with a ripping of fiber, an object, short, narrow, cylindrical, pointed, metal-finned, had burst up through the floor of the basket in which I lay.
It was the first quarrel I had ever seen, and it had introduced itself not more than a foot from my side.
“Kajira,” called Tullius Quintus back and down to me, I thought from yards away, “do you live?”
“I live, Master,” I called back.
I then heard Tullius Quintus, my master, laugh. “Things proceed,” he said, “as I have planned.”
I turned to my side.
It was now morning.
I found a narrow aperture in the floor of the container, through which I might peer, and saw the shadow below, of a great winged shape, coursing across the green fields of Gor.
I recalled that footprints are not left on clouds, nor, I gathered, do sleen, a tracking beast, tread the tarn road.
Chapter Sixteen
I had knelt before him, head down, as was appropriate.
“Beat me,” I had said, “if I am not pleasing.”
“Lie here, to my side,” he had said, “the bara position will do.”
I had then lain beside him, in bara.
“Lita,” said he.
I had not realized he had risen to his feet. His foot nudged me. I was still in bara.
“Master?” I said.
“You seem lost in reverie,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“Position,” he said.
I went to position.
My knees, as was customary, were closed.
“What were you thinking of?” he asked.
“Of many things,” I said, “of my former world, of friends I knew, of various slaveries, of your mastery.”
“Have I been cruel to you?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said, carefully.
“But I have been a master,” he said.
“Very much so, Master,” I said.
“You are very responsive in your collar,” he said.
“I am a slave,” I said.
“Would you like to be sold to a woman?” he asked.
“No,” I said, “but it will be done with me as Master pleases.”
“In the past few months,” he said, “I fear your leash has been too short.”
“A slave may not question,” I said. I understood what he meant, of course, that the discipline imposed upon me might have been excessively severe. That was a judgment with which I could scarcely disagree. In the literal sense, as I have suggested, earlier, I had seldom been leashed, at least publicly. He had usually had me follow him, even in the streets, naked, my wrists bound behind me. This had brought me more than my share of abuse from annoyed free women, many of whom carried switches. Occasionally he would leash me in the house, either fastening me to one ring or another, or having me perform, as the animal I was, on the leash. In the training house I had been taught to perform on a leash, give a master pleasure on a leash, and such. A slave comes to love her leash. On a leash, usually naked, a woman is in little doubt of her slavery. Leashes are usually of chain or leather.
“I have decided,” he said, “to give you a tunic.”
“It will be as Master pleases,” I said.
As I have mentioned, I had once made the mistake of begging clothing too zealously, even that of a slave. “You have not yet earned clothing,” I had been informed, and then I had been switched.
I had never been subjected, interestingly, to the Gorean slave lash. I was not eager for the experience.
“You will be less conspicuous in a tunic,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. In some cities, even camisks and ta-teeras were outlawed on the streets. To be sure, slaves are to be clad as slaves. The usual garb of a slave is a brief tunic.
“And, if I were to keep you housed,” he said, “that might provoke even greater curiosity.”
I was silent.
“And if I were to house you remotely,” he said, “in the countryside, that might arouse even greater interest.”
I understood very little of this, if any.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“‘Lita’,” I said.
“And what is the name of your master?” he asked.
“Tullius Quintus, of Ar,” I said. “It is on my collar.”
“How does your collar read?” he inquired.
I did not know why he was asking me such things.
Was I to be beaten, if I could not recall? What slave does not know her master? What slave does not know what is on her collar?
“‘I am the slave of Tullius Quintus, of Ar’,” I said.
“Good,” he said.
These questions seemed to me strange.
“In more than one tavern,” he said, “and twice in the Plaza of Tarns, I have encountered inquiries pertaining to you.”
“Offers to buy?” I asked. Such things were not unknown. It can be flattering, of course, for a girl to know that men might be interested in buying her, in owning her.
“No,” he said, “or not usually. Rather there seems to be curiosity as to your antecedents, to the manner of my keeping of you, and such.”
“Perhaps they think I am a runaway free woman,” I said, “a free lover, concealing herself as a slave?”
“Do not be absurd,” he said. “You are clearly a slave. Just as it is impossible for a free woman to impersonate a slave, so it is impossible for a woman, once she has learned her collar, to impersonate a free woman. Her bondage is manifest in every fiber of her body, in her every expression and movement.”
“Yes, Master,” I said. I had little doubt that I had muchly changed since Earth.
“I do not wish you to appear different, or mysterious,” he said.
“I am a barbarian,” I said.
“Many notice,” he said, “but not all. Your Gorean is excellent.”
“Thank you, Master,” I said.
“That you are a barbarian does not make you that different,” he said. “There are many barbarians. They are cheaply acquired and they sell well. Many are ecstatic, to be rescued from Earth, to be brought to a fresh, untainted, beautiful world, and to find themselves in the collars of true men.”
“How, then, am I mysterious?” I asked.
“I do not think you are mysterious, in yourself,” he said. “No. I see you much as a presentable, common slave, one nicely vendible amongst others. Indeed, in the past months you have become more appetitious and more lovely, which commonly happens in the collar.”
“Am I as attractive as a pleasure slave?” I asked.
“Vain slave,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“More attractive than many,” he said.
This answer muchly pleased me. I supposed I was vain, but are not all slaves vain, all women vain?
“Surely I am not mysterious,” I said.
“It is not that you are mysterious, in yourself,” he said, “so much as that some sense me to be mysterious, and this mystery then attaches to you. I think that is it.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“I have not been keeping you as a common slave,” he said. “And men wonder why. You are naked in public, which suggests I am afraid you may be stolen, or will try to flee. Are you so special? What is different about you? See? And you do not leave the house alone. You do not run errands. You are not visible at the public laundry troughs. You do not consort with other slaves. You have no friends. Why are you not, amongst the porticoes and colonnades, chatting and gossiping with your collar sisters, seeking news, a word dropped in the tiers of the Central Cylinder becoming common knowledge by nightfall, not comparing collars and masters, not complaining about the recent quality of the tunic cloth, not whispering delightedly of the intrigues and doings of free women, and so on.”
Much in my bondage was mysterious, and much in my master seemed to me mysterious. For example, I was not at all sure that his Home Stone was truly that of Ar. Months ago he had seemed unaware that heavy traffic on the streets of Ar was prohibited during daylight hours. Also, he had occasionally asked questions, and inquired directions, of passers-by, on the streets and in the squares, the answers to which I would have supposed would be well known to a native of the city. Some of his interlocutors had surely taken him for a guest or visitor. I did not even know his caste, a matter concerning which Goreans are not likely to be reticent. One may be the most easily traced by means of caste, and city, and Home Stone. I did not even know if my master had a Home Stone, and, if so, what Home Stone it might be. And Ar was a large and populous city, one in which, possibly, one individual might not be known to others, and in which an isolated individual might attract little notice, might even, so to speak, vanish from sight. Might not one then, possibly cultivating obscurity, or concerned with secrecy, think of choosing such a concealment? Who, on a beach, would be likely to attend to a single grain of sand? And yet it seemed notice had been taken of such an individual, for those of Ar, following seasons of invasion and occupation, of intrigue and espionage, of treachery and betrayal, of politics, proscriptions, and terror, were more wary than many of those of my former world would have been, of strangers in the streets.
“We will be best concealed, by being least concealed,” said Tullius Quintus.
“Then we are mysterious, it seems,” I said.
“But must not seem so,” he said. “So tomorrow you will be clothed, and allowed to run in the city, and such.”
“Do you not fear I will escape?” I said.
“Tunicked,” he said, “collared, and branded? Surely you are not serious.”
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“Too,” he said, “Ar is walled, gates are guarded, and a slave, unaccompanied, is not permitted outside the walls.”
I nodded. Doubtless it was true.
“Moreover,” he said, “the world will see to it that you are kept in your collar.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Do you object?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I am a slave,” I said.
“And wish to be a slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I whispered, head down.
“I despise you,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, “but I must be what I am.”
On this world I had come to realize that even on Earth I had longed to be a slave, had yearned to be a slave, and now, the matter wholly out of my control, I was on Gor, and whether I wished it or not, I was a belonging, a property, helplessly collared.
“Suppose I am asked my master’s caste,” I said, “or from whence he derives his coins. How shall I make answer?”
“Say the Builders,” he said. “That will do.”
I wondered if he might not be of the Builders. As far as I could tell, he had related well to Lysander, who was of tha
t caste. Had he not been an unquestioned, accepted, and welcomed guest at the supper I had helped serve in the house of Lysander, Administrator of Market of Semris? Not all members of a caste, of course, are active in the crafts or professions associated with the caste.
“From whence, should I be asked,” I asked, “shall I say my master derives his coins?”
“Say,” said he, “he does business, engaging now and then in speculations.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
Perhaps then, his caste was that of the Merchants. Surely one particularly associated business with that caste, the risks and hazards of economic venturing, the exciting, harrowing matters of profit and loss, of investment and speculation.
“Master,” I said.
“Yes?” he said.
“Am I truly only a work slave, a pot girl, a kettle-and-mat girl?”
“Certainly,” he said. “Why do you ask?”
“I fear I have a greater value to you than would be suggested by that,” I said.
“Dismiss the thought,” said he.
“Am I truly only a copper-tarsk girl?” I asked.
“Certainly,” he said. “Look at yourself. Find a pool of still water and examine your reflection. Find a public bronze mirror and, when no free woman is about, regard yourself.”
“I thought Master suggested that I might be more attractive than at least some pleasure slaves,” I said.
“More attractive than many,” he said.
“Perhaps then I am of interest to Master,” I said.
“I find you of some interest,” he said.
“Of slave interest?” I said.
“Possibly,” he said.
“A slave is pleased,” I said.
I tried to kneel better in “position.” I was back on my heels, my hands, palms down, on my thighs, my back straight, my head up. My knees were closed.
“You look well on your knees,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” I said. It thrilled me to be on my knees before a man. I was of the sex that belonged to his sex.
I saw his eyes, and trembled. He regarded me, fiercely. I was before him.
“Split your knees,” he said.
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