“Beware,” I whispered, “a free woman approaches.” She walked regally, and carried a switch.
“Keep your eyes down,” my companion whispered. “Do not make eye contact. You do not see her. She does not see you.”
“Let us go to the side of the street, and kneel, head down,” I said. I had no wish to feel a switch.
“Now look up,” she said, a moment later, merrily.
I did so.
“She is gone,” I said, looking about. “The free woman is gone.”
“Not really,” said my companion. “She merely went to the other side of the street.”
“Why?” I asked.
“We wear the black tunic, the black collar,” she laughed.
As we continued on our way, even men tended to avoid us. We did receive, as some passed us by, closely, dark looks, and we noted sneers of contempt, but no one seemed interested in interacting with us, neither free men nor free women.
“The men do not seem to regard us with appetition, frankly and appraisingly,” I said, puzzled. Certainly this was muchly different from my former experiences on open streets, as in Ar, and was muchly different from the common experiences of slave girls on open streets. One of the pleasures of being a Gorean male, I had gathered, was the inspective perusal of frequently encountered kajirae, in markets, in the plazas, on the boulevards and in lesser thoroughfares, kajirae running errands, chained to public slave rings, conveniently located, awaiting the return of masters, and so on. Do not such slaves dress up a city? Indeed, when visiting dignitaries are about, citizens are encouraged to set their girls, attractively tunicked, wandering about the city, that a suitable impression may be conveyed to the visitors. Surely these lovely slaves contribute, like parks and well-designed, colorful buildings, to the beauty of a city. Indeed, the number and quality of slave girls is taken as evidence of a city’s taste, success, power, wealth, and prowess in warfare. Some of the girls so displayed may even have been obtained from the dignitary’s own city. But that matters not, for, once collared, a slave is a slave.
“No,” said my companion. “They are uneasy with the black court, and many fear it.”
“I do not like being ignored,” I said.
“Vain slave,” she said.
What slave is not pleased to be the object of interest and regard, to know that she is looked upon and desired, that she stirs and heats the blood of men, that they would like to have her at their slave ring?
“Surely we are not sent forth commonly as we are now,” I said.
“Not at all,” she said, turning left.
I recalled there was nothing on my collar, but that it would be recognized, for its black enamel, and that I would be returned to the court. I would be left, helplessly bound, by the court, presumably at the edge of the moat, before the then-raised drawbridge. Apparently no reward would be expected, or proffered. On the other hand, court slaves, when sent forth from the court, were commonly tunicked nondescriptly and opaquely, and put in a collar that did bear a legend. That legend, I was informed, would return me to an address unlikely to be recognized as having anything to do with the black court, from which address I would then be, in due time, returned to the court.
“Why now?” I asked.
“Our first girl,” she said, “was not pleased to have been switched by Porus, the salt merchant.”
“We are seldom pleased to be switched,” I said.
“He is not even a desirable master,” she said.
“Oh,” I said.
“It is not far,” she said.
The salt in the local markets is obtained from the sea. Large pans are set forth with a thin film of sea water, which, as it evaporates, leaves the salt behind, which is then scraped together, and sent to the markets of the city.
“We are here,” she said.
The fellow looked up, quickly, shrewdly, from amongst the kegs of salt, amidst which he sat, and turned white.
“Tal, noble Master,” said my companion, kneeling. “We would like a stone of salt.”
I knelt, too.
“That is four tarsk-bits,” he said, cautiously.
“It is to be weighed out, carefully,” said my companion.
“Four tarsk-bits,” he said.
“Give the noble master the sack, that he may weigh out the salt,” said my companion.
I made to hand the sack to the fellow who was, I gathered, Porus, but he thrust it away.
“Four tarsk-bits,” he said.
My companion then rose and I, decidedly uneasy, for we had not been given permission to rise, rose to my feet, as well. I knew nothing else to do.
“Come, Phyllis,” she said. “There is nothing for us to do now but return to the court, and inform the masters that Porus, the salt merchant, he who deals near the east gate, declined to weigh salt for us.”
She then backed away, a step or two, as did I, and turned to leave. We had scarcely gone three steps when Porus called out to us, “Wait, sweet kajirae,” he said, “I did but jest.”
Shortly thereafter we left his impromptu place of business, amongst the kegs, I bearing a bulging bag of salt, one which, we noted, bore well over a stone’s weight of the sparkling mineral, sometimes called the diamond of the sea.
“The first girl will be pleased,” said my companion. “Her switching cost him four tarsk-bits.”
“She was not recognized as being of the court,” I said.
“Of course not,” she said. “Even free women are unlikely to strike a girl in the black tunic.”
“Surely,” I said, “those of the black caste, as others, purchase goods.”
“Commonly,” she said, “but when they are in the dark habiliments, it is not unknown for merchants, and others, unrequested, to force goods upon them, as gifts.”
We continued on.
“The salt is growing heavy,” I said.
“It is not far now,” she said, “no more than a pasang.”
As my master continued his watch, or prolonged his inquiries, I was occasionally allowed out of the court, usually to fetch water from the stone steps under the Cloth Maker’s Bridge, which, with other bridges, spanned the Lena, one of the two streams that flowed through the city and debouched into Thassa. The other was the Dacia, to the south. Although I never saw them I also understood that at various points about the city there were large underground cisterns, designed to supply water for months in case of a siege, in which case it was supposed that the Lena and Dacia would be dammed, diverted, or fouled, and the harbor blockaded.
In a typical tunic and my neck encircled with a common collar, bearing its legend, I was soon reassured as to certain particulars. Any doubts I might have hitherto been tempted to entertain with respect to my possible attractions or the gusto and lust of the men of Brundisium were dispelled. As with many slaves, particularly when unattended, I was frequently exposed to the rowdy gauntlet of male regard. Such attentions, coupled with the very clear knowledge that one is a property, and may be bought and sold, gives one a sense of self very different from that likely to be entertained by the free woman, protected by her robes and dignity. Often I must retie my tunic, and often, as I was held, it was lifted, to ascertain my brand. Sometimes bets are made on such things. My master, when he chained me to the ring in his quarters, was often amused at the marks on my body. And sometimes when I was seized, I must struggle, squirming, to resist the passion welling up within me. They were a man’s arms. But moments and I might have begged use. But then I would be released, and turned, and, with a stinging, humiliating slap below the small of the back, sped on my way. “A helpless, hot one,” laughed a man. “Two tarsk-bits!” called another, “No, three,” cried another, as I fled away. How I longed for a private master, a normal master, at whose feet I might kneel, whom I might serve humbly, heatedly, passionately, in the way of the slave! Too, in a common tunic
and collar, I found myself more than once berated and twice switched by free women. I was once leaned toward a wall, the palms of my hands on the wall, to keep my balance, and switched across the back of the thighs. It was not my fault if I may have fallen favorably beneath the gaze of her free companion! That was not my doing! I had not even been aware of his regard. In the case of the other, we were drawing water, and I had not noticed her waiting. “Are you mad?” she asked. “Do you expect me to dip my flask behind the bucket of a filthy slave, where she has sullied the water?” I was then liberally switched until I was crying, and, I think, her arm grew tired. And then, my body stinging, she had me dip her own flask, and then proffer it to her, as though I might have been a woman’s slave, her own serving slave. She then spat on me, and left. I did not tell her I was housed in the black court, nor was I permitted to do so.
Then one morning my kennel was unlocked, and I was summoned forth. He wore a tunic that gave no hint of his caste. In his hand were various objects, three of which I recognized, and two whose purpose was uncertain to me. The three I was familiar with were a common tunic and collar, such as the slaves would most often wear outside the court, and a belly chain with attached bracelets. The other two, the purpose of which I was uncertain, were a wooden rod terminating in a collar, and what seemed to be a dark, narrow, bandage.
“I am informed,” he said, “that the shipment has been transmitted. It may now be in Brundisium. That is possible. If so, it is presumably on one of the wharves or in one of the wharf warehouses. Its intended recipient, whom I understand is in Brundisium, he to whose care it will be consigned, will lead us to it.”
“He to whose care it is to be consigned?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Kurik, of Victoria?” I said.
“Of course,” he said.
“You do not know him,” I said.
“It does not matter,” he said. “You will indicate him for me.”
“That you will tender him riches, and such?” I said.
“You are an intelligent woman,” he said. “You are now familiar with the black court, and my caste. Surely that transparent subterfuge, that ruse of fond benignity, is no longer viable.”
“No,” I said. “It is no longer viable, not since the black court.”
“Surely one of the dark caste would be a strange agent for one to choose,” he said, “to deliver to another prestige, power, glory, honor, and wealth, such things.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“More likely one to deliver the intrusion of steel,” he said.
“The shipment emanates from a steel world?” I said. I recall he had told me this before, even in Ar.
“Yes,” he said, “that of Lord Arcesilaus, Twelfth Face of the Nameless One.”
“I understand little of this,” I said.
“You need not do so,” he said.
“Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira,” I said.
“Precisely,” he said.
“How are you to deal with Kurik of Victoria?” I asked.
“You will locate him for me,” he said. “He will then, unwittingly, lead us to the shipment. That done, the shipment discovered, I will dispose of him. Having done so, I will obtain his credentials and assume his identity. I, and others, who choose not to appear publicly, will then see that the shipment itself is diverted to our principal, who will put it to his own purpose.”
“I bear Kurik of Victoria no ill will,” I said.
“You need not,” he said. “It is only necessary that you identify him for me.”
“But what,” I asked, “if I am unable to do so?”
“You will be unable to help yourself,” he said.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
My legs ached.
It was the fourth day of our search.
We were now in the vicinity of the southern wharves, or piers.
The wharves of Brundisium curl about its harbor. The greater wharves are the central and northern wharves. That is also where the larger warehouses are found. The lesser wharves, or piers, are the southern wharves or piers, where they are divided by the Dacia, as it feeds into Thassa. The southern piers, I had been told, are farther from the oversight of the harbor authority. I suspect, however, that the comparatively lax standards of inspection and monitoring, if such is the case, have less to do with the danger or remoteness of the district than with the surreptitious movement of silver between parties, some of whom were rumored to be high personages in the harbor authority itself. Be this as it may, the southern piers were supposedly a haven for unauthorized, unlicensed vessels, those lacking recognition by the authority, those somehow not appearing in the carefully kept registration lists.
I preceded my master.
Many are the markets of Gor, and some are supplied by contraband merchandise, of dubious origins, and evasive of taxes and harbor fees, such as rogue silver from the mines of Tharna, to be exported to Cos and Tyros, and the Farther Islands, even to the World’s End; the beans from which Black Wine is brewed, so carefully guarded by those of Thentis, famed for its tarn flocks, to be shipped as far south as Schendi, as far north as Torvaldsland; purple, dyed cloth from Tabor; dates from the Tahari; hides from the Barrens; ivory from the massive, aquatic brutes of the Ice Seas; and coffles of stolen slaves, sometimes with their brands altered.
“I am sore, I am weary,” I said. “May we not pause, may we not rest, Master?”
“Do you wish to be denied speech?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“On,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
I moved forward once more. At least the street would soon begin to lead downward toward the wharves. I could see the masts of galleys, round ships, in the distance. The masts of round ships, or cargo ships, are commonly fixed. Those of war galleys, the long ships or knife ships, are commonly raised and lowered, depending on wind, and battle conditions. Both forms of ship, usually lateen-rigged, make use of a variety of sails, depending on the wind, ranging from the billowing fair-weather sail to the narrow, tightly rigged storm sail, suitable for running before blasting wind. Both forms of ship, too, are usually double helmed. The northern long ship, or “dragon ship,” on the other hand, seldom seen this far south, has a fixed mast and a fixed, square sail, and is single-ruddered, the steering board, or starboard, on the right side.
I continued to move forward, the guide stick at the back of my neck.
I was determined not to reveal the identity of Kurik of Victoria to my master. That, I supposed, would be easy enough to do. I need only refuse to recognize him. I trusted he would not make himself known to me. Surely, if he were engaged in some sensitive, dangerous mission, he would be wary. Would he not be aware that others might seek to compromise or frustrate his intentions? Too, he might not even recognize me. Was I not only another slave? What was different about me, different from thousands of others? And what if he should recognize me? My very appearance in Brundisium might suggest danger to him. I would hope so. What was I doing here? Could it be a simple coincidence? That did not seem likely. What I did not understand was why my master had said I would be unable to help myself, why he thought that I could not help but identify Kurik of Victoria. Surely I need only pretend I had not recognized him. I hoped, but did not hope, that Kurik of Victoria was not even in Brundisium. Were he not here he would be safe, at least for a time, from the steel of my master, Tyrtaios, he of the dark caste. But, too, my heart ached for the sight of him, his proud, splendid form, his easy carriage, the narrowness of his waist, the strength of his arms, the width of his chest, the breadth of his shoulders, his frank, piercing gaze before which, now, I feared I could not remain standing, even had I desired to do so. Were he not in danger, I would have cast myself to my belly before him, and kissed and licked his feet and ankles, begging forgiveness for not having been sufficient
ly pleasing. I recalled I had, in Victoria, cried out my love for him, a slave’s love for her master. Then he had rid himself of me.
Should I not have hated him? But I wanted his collar, his lash on my flesh, showing he owned me.
We passed two seeming ruffians, sitting at the side of the street, cross-legged. Both perused me, and my master. One was whittling on a stick. I did not care for their gaze.
“I think we may be in danger, Master,” I said.
“No,” he said. “It is they who are in danger.”
Surely we seemed a vulnerable pair.
I wore a brief, yellow tunic, which would be likely to catch the eye of any we might pass. Thus, as we might be looked upon, so, too, those who looked upon us could be looked upon, as well, their faces raised, their features revealed. I wore, too, a locked belly chain, tight on my waist. The lock was at my waist. My hands, then, were held behind my back, fastened in the attached bracelets. If the chain is locked in the back, then one’s hands are fastened before one, at one’s waist. I now understood better, though, as it later became clear, did not understand well enough, the purpose of the collar-and-stick arrangement that had puzzled me that morning, four days ago, in the black court. I was to be taken as a “guide slave.” The collar is locked about one’s neck, and the stick, rigid, and more than a yard long, is held by the individual supposedly being guided. My master followed me, as though a bit uncertainly, the dark, narrow bandage wrapped about his face, over his eyes. He would appear to the casual observer one who was blind, being led by his guide slave. On the other hand, as he had demonstrated in the court, the bandage was a prepared, magician’s bandage, and one could see through it quite easily. Despite its apparent opacity, wearing it, one could move about naturally, and swiftly, well aware of one’s environment. In it one could thread one’s way amongst obstacles, note subtleties in one’s milieu, see small things, even read a scroll.
“Hold,” he said.
I stopped, instantly.
“It would not do,” he said, “for me to turn about, but you may turn about, in the guide collar, as though you had been addressed. In doing so, without being obvious, see if the two fellows we passed, to the left, the one whittling the stick, are following us.”
Plunder of Gor Page 29