I did not know why I had awakened.
Perhaps it was the rain, or the spillage from the gutters to the street below. Then I heard it, or thought I heard it, again.
Was it not a scrape, or a tiny scratching sound?
Surely not.
What could be heard in the storm? The rain would mask out a thousand noises.
I lay awake.
I had heard nothing. One could have heard nothing.
As I lay there, after a time, as it would, the storm gentled; no longer was it some lashing, frenzied assault on the walls and roof; no longer was it beating and savage; it had now become a sustained susurration, and then in time it became less, no more than a soft, quiet, persistent patter. There was now moonlight outside. The yellow moon was no longer obscured by clouds. I could hear the water move in the gutters.
Then I heard it clearly.
Something was outside the house, somehow on the wall, outside, how was it possible, near the barred window?
The house, as I may have mentioned, was on Venaticus. As many of the small houses in this district, it had two floors. We were on the second floor, and the sound came clearly from the wall, outside, near the window. It was a scratching sound, as if some clawed thing were climbing the wall. I listened, frightened. I heard bars grasped, and tested, shaken, quietly. For a moment I could not move. Then I dared not move. I did not know what I might see. Then, slowly, frightened, I forced myself to turn to the window. In the dampness, water dripping at the sill, and the moonlight, from the yellow moon, I saw, framed in the window, outside its bars, a broad, dark shape, or presence. I thought it might be a head but it was surely too broad for a head. I screamed, and it disappeared.
“Ho!” cried Tullius Quintus, leaping from the couch.
Clouds then obscured the moon again, and once more the room was in darkness.
I heard the rain, soft, outside.
How reassuring, and gentle, it seemed.
But something fearful, something large and alive, had been at the window.
In the darkness I heard the snap of a fire maker, and, a moment later, by means of its tiny flame, the tharlarion-oil lamp was alight, and I saw the room about, flickering, yellow, eerie, and empty. Tullius Quintus stood beside the couch. He held the lamp, lifted, in his left hand. In his right hand he held a dagger.
“The window,” I said, half pointing, my voice scarcely audible so frightened I was.
He went to the window, and looked out, for a time, down into the street, and then lowered the dagger, and turned back to me.
“It is nothing,” he said.
“I saw it,” I said, “outside the window, something fearful, something large.”
“You were dreaming,” he said. “A nightmare.”
“I saw it,” I repeated, now kneeling, the blanket down, about my thighs.
“There was nothing there,” he said. “The night has been foul. Nothing would be abroad in such a storm.”
“Master,” I protested, weakly.
“The window,” he said, “is high above the street. Nothing could be at the window.”
“Yet Master took a drawn dagger to the window,” I said.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“I was not dreaming,” I said.
“The storm,” he said, “the height of the window.”
“Forgive me, Master,” I said, “but I was not dreaming.”
He looked down at me.
The lamp light fell upon me, at the foot of his couch.
“I was not dreaming,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” he said.
“No?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Please enlighten your slave,” I begged. “What does it mean?”
“You wish to know?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Please, Master.”
“I think I have made contact,” he said. “It is as I have planned.”
“I do not understand!” I said.
“You are involved in this,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“Doubtless you think you have value,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said, “forgive me, but perhaps a silver tarsk, perhaps more.”
“Vain slut,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“But you do have value, shapely barbarian slut,” he said, “through no virtue, nor any fault, of your own, value unknown to you.”
“Master?” I said.
“—value well beyond what you would bring off a block, as collar-
meat.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You are an investment,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“I plan to sell you,” he said.
“Master will not keep me?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Have I been displeasing?” I asked.
“Not particularly,” he said. “You are not hard to look at, and I approve your uncontrollable slave reflexes. Such reflexes improve a girl’s price.”
I feared I was helpless in a man’s arms, in any man’s arms.
“But you have more in mind,” I said, “than the common things that go into a girl’s block price?”
“Yes,” he said.
“Master has a buyer in mind?” I asked.
“Of course,” he said.
“I have been sold frequently,” I said.
“Many feared to keep you,” he said.
“Why?” I asked.
“Because of those who seek you,” he said.
“Who seeks me?” I asked.
“I think I will soon learn,” he said.
“And why am I sought?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said.
“You are not afraid to keep me?” I said.
“One calculates,” he said. “One considers profit, one considers risk.”
“I understand nothing of this,” I said.
“Did I not tell you to go to sleep?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Must a command be repeated?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. The repetition of a command is often cause for discipline.
I then lay down, again, at the foot of the couch, on my chain, and drew my blanket about me.
I was muchly uneasy.
How could I be sold for more than one or two silver tarsks, at best? How could I, one such as I, even a barbarian, have greater value than my likely block price?
How could that be?
I recalled Paula. On Earth I had dismissed her, even pitied her, poor, plain Paula, and considered myself far superior to her in beauty. Then I had heard it said that she was the beauty of our shipment, and had heard it speculated that she might bring as many as five silver pieces, presumably silver tarsks, in a first sale, that she might be marketed on a high block in the Curulean, perhaps even from the Central Block. And what then of me, poor thing that I might be, assessed as a copper-tarsk girl, a pot girl, a kettle-and-mat girl?
What had I to hope for, on this beautiful, perilous world?
How subject we are to our masters! The whip is theirs.
Who would bid more for me than perhaps two silver tarsks?
How could I, a slave, be of more value than that, if that?
I was to be sold.
My master had a buyer in mind.
I did not know who it might be.
And, oddly, I do not think he knew either. One, or those, who sought me, doubtless, but why?
I lay there, warm and dry, wrapped in my blanket, on the floor, on my mat, at the foot of my master’s couch, on my chain.
At one time, certainly for me, it would have been
a strange feeling, knowing that one can belong to anyone who can buy you. But now, it was no longer a strange feeling. I wore a Gorean slave collar.
I listened to the rain.
I could now see, once more, moonlight at the barred window.
Chapter Twenty
“Lita,” she said, smiling, and motioning for me to join her in a doorway near the fountain.
“Lita,” I said, recognizing her. We both bore the same name. Her master’s name, she had informed me, some days past, was Camillus. We had frequently met at the Teiban market, shopping. Her master had a shop on Emerald, which dealt largely with harnessing, harnessing for tharlarion, for kaiila, for slaves. There are many variations, incidentally, in slave harnessing. I think I may have mentioned that slaves often draw small carts, for their masters, commonly peddlers, and that some free women utilize female slaves to draw their carriages. Too female slaves are sometimes harnessed to, or chained to, poles, by means of which they carry their mistress’s palanquin. Similarly, male slaves are occasionally used as draft beasts for purposes of heavier haulage. Much harnessing for slaves, of course, is primarily concerned with restraint, for fastening, say, to poles, stanchions, slave rings, and such. There is a particularly rich assortment of restraint harnessings designed for female slaves, most notably display harnessings. Twice I had seen Lita on her leash, attractively, and helplessly, harnessed, preceding he whom I supposed was her master. On her back was a sign which, I supposed, must advertise his goods and shop. Seeing her so, of course, I dared not speak to her. Once she saw me, and smiled. She was rather proud of her harnessing. Certainly it set her off, nicely. Such arrangements usually have, as well, the capacity to keep a slave in place, for example, to fasten her to a stanchion, say, by her tethered wrists behind her back, or to render her, for most practical purposes, incapable of movement, fastening her hand and foot. Such changes are easily brought about with a few simple adjustments, a few snaps or bucklings. In a lovely variation of such harnessing, the slave is knelt, with her hands fastened before her body, close to her waist, by the waist belt, and then, behind her back, by short, stout straps run from the waist belt, and ankle cuffs, she is held on her knees. It might be mentioned in passing, that metal workers have often devised varieties of chain harnessing for slaves, as well. I had never worn such devices, leather or metal, since the house of training. The leather of harnessing comes in various degrees of quality, and is often available, like slave cords, in different colors. Most slaves, of course, are not harnessed. They are more likely, if abroad, and waiting, say, pending the return of a master, to be chained to public rings, these frequently found in public places, supplied by the municipality as a convenience.
I had not seen Lita in days.
She spit a coin or two into the palm of her hand, for she was obviously on an errand of some sort for her master. Goreans, both slave and free, at least the free of the lower castes, sometimes carry coins so. This frees the hands, and it is not obvious that coins are being carried. The upper castes commonly carry coins in a purse or wallet. This provides a public target, of course, for thieves. The usual theft takes place by cutting the strings of the purse or wallet, commonly in a seemingly inadvertent contact or in the press of a throng. Some thieves are trained in this skill from childhood. There is only one city I am aware of in which the caste of thieves is explicitly recognized, which is a port on the Tamber Gulf, bordering Thassa, the sea. Its governance is in the hands of a Council of Captains. It is north of the great port of Brundisium. It is famous for its canals and “Arsenal,” which is actually a depot and naval yard. Its name is Port Kar. Few Gorean garments, incidentally, save those of artisans, have pockets, which tend to mar the lines, the fall, of the garment. I did not care, personally, to carry coins in my mouth, and, when shopping for my master, would clutch them tightly in my hand.
“What are you doing here?” she asked. “Surely there is a closer fountain to Venaticus.”
“I am wandering about,” I said.
“With a bucket?” she asked.
“It will not be heavy,” I said. “It is small.”
When out of the house, following the night of the storm, I had rearranged the nature of my peregrinations. I even took a different route to the Teiban market. I would vary my comings and goings, both with respect to times and routes. This was less to further acquaint myself with the city, of course, than to evade possible surveillance. I supposed this was rather futile, but it seemed to me, however naive or inept this stratagem might prove, that some such activity might prove to be in my best interest, and, possibly, in that of my master, if anything dangerous might be involved, which possibility, I hoped, of course, was not the case. I remembered, clearly, however, the escape from Market of Semris. This memory did not soothe my apprehensions. Too, if I had some value, of which I was unaware, I knew I might be stolen. Slave theft, as that of kaiila and tharlarion, and such, is not unknown. On the other hand, such would be highly unlikely during daylight hours in any public place, and certainly so in a “high city,” such as Ar. It is much less hazardous to buy a slave than steal her. I supposed my apprehensions might be ill-founded, and hoped so, but then, again, I did not know. Precaution then might not be necessary, but, on the other hand, surely no harm would be likely to come from trying to be careful. If an observer failed to note me, I reasoned, he might suppose that I was no longer in the city, for example, that Tullius Quintus had already sold me. Too, by such actions, altering routes, and such, might I not prove a more elusive quarry, if I were a quarry? Frequent changes in itinerary, I trusted, might make me more difficult to trace. I had never asked Lita to read my collar for me. I thought I might be safer, as my master had seemed to think, if I remained in ignorance of its legend.
“I have not seen you since the last passage hand,” she said.
“I have been about,” I assured her.
“Have you not come far for water?” she asked.
“Not so far,” I said.
“I know,” she said, conspiratorially, “you have come to see it.”
“What?” I said.
“I heard about it, at the laundry troughs,” she said. “I wager you did, as well.”
“What are you doing in the doorway?” I asked.
“Waiting,” she said. “Join me. It is nearly dusk.”
“What are you waiting for?” I asked.
“To see it,” she said.
“What?” I asked.
“You will see,” she said. “It is nearly time.”
“What?” I asked. “Is it permitted? We are collared.”
“Watch that doorway,” she said. “It leads upstairs, to the rooms over the shop of Epicrates, the pottery vender.”
“I should fetch water,” I said, “and return to the house, surely before the fall of darkness.”
We were near the fountain of Aiakos. It is at the intersection of Clive and Emerald. We were on Emerald.
“There!” whispered Lita. “See her?”
“She is lovely,” I whispered. “Why is she not veiled? I have seldom seen a woman so beautiful. Surely she is a slave. But she is clad in the Robes of Concealment, save for veils. Would she not be punished for that? The law!”
“That is no slave,” whispered Lita. “She is a free woman. But I know not her caste nor Home Stone. I know not from whence she derives.”
“She looks about, warily,” I said.
“No,” said Lita. “Not warily, but idly, merely to survey the street.”
“Surely she is a slave,” I said. “She is not veiled. But how would she dare risk the wearing of the robes of the free? What of guardsmen?”
“She is not a slave,” said Lita. “She is the Lady Bina.”
“She is not veiled,” I said.
“She may not be Gorean,” said Lita.
“How dare she so outrage proprieties?” I said. As much is expected of slav
es so, too, much is expected of the free.
“It is not unknown for some women of the lower castes to slacken, or omit, veils,” said Lita.
“Her robes do not suggest penury,” I said.
“I think she is vain,” said Lita. “It pleases her to startle, and arouse, men.”
“And,” I said, “she may soon find herself on a slaver’s rope.”
“That is unlikely,” said Lita, quietly, backing further into the doorway.
“You have detained me here,” I said, “merely to look upon an unveiled free woman?”
“Scarcely,” she said.
“Why then?” I asked.
Near us a shopkeeper drew down a screen of boards, closing his shop. I noted two men hurrying away.
“I am uneasy,” I said. “I should fetch water, and return to the house.”
“Just a moment more,” said Lita, watching, intently.
“She lingers by the door,” I said. “Does she not understand the danger in which she stands, unveiled, dusk about, the street nearly deserted?”
“I think she is in little danger,” said Lita.
“Why?” I said.
“You will see,” she said.
“She seems to be waiting,” I said.
“Yes,” said Lita.
“For what is she waiting?” I asked.
“Her pet,” said Lita.
I then saw something large, and dark, in the doorway, hunched down, a shadow, a shape. I could not make it out.
“There is something in the doorway,” I said.
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