“Of course,” he said.
I complied.
“Please, Master,” I wept, “do not become excited.”
“Your tunic has slipped up a bit,” he said.
“I cannot help it, as I am carried,” I said.
“As I have often thought,” he said, “your flanks are not without interest.”
“A slave is pleased, if her master is pleased,” I said.
“I thought that would be so,” he said, “even in the office, on Earth, when you dared to conceal them from me.”
“It was my lapse, Master,” I said.
“It is unimportant,” he said. “I can now look upon them when, and as, I please.”
There was a crash from within the building.
“The second floor has collapsed!” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“May I be put down?” I asked.
“Surely,” he said.
It would not do to tell my master, but, in his arms, I began to tremble with need. In pleasing another, one not unoften pleases oneself; in arousing another, one often arouses oneself.
I wondered if masters realized what effect they had on slaves.
We are so different from men!
It is little wonder we treasure our bondage, our helplessness, and collars.
I think a beam fell, below, for there was a crash.
“The roof may collapse any moment,” I said.
“I fear you are right,” he said.
“I am certain of it,” I said.
He then lowered me to the floor of the roof, and went himself to the side. He then turned back, to face me. “By now,” he said, “I expect our friends will suppose us perished in the flames.”
I did not respond. His surmise seemed not unjustified.
“But,” he said, “given the fire, the hot ash, the dangers of collapsing wood, it will take some time for them to make their way into the building.”
“I wish you well, Master,” I said, sobbing.
“Where are you going?” he asked.
“Master?” I asked.
“You may precede me, or follow me,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“You cannot see it from where you are,” he said, “but I have fixed a narrow beam in the outside wall, which leads up to the adjacent roof.”
“Master!” I cried, rushing to the wall, then crying out with fear as I almost plunged from the roof to the alley below.
“Where is it?” I asked, drawing back, sick with fear.
“There,” he said, pointing over the edge of the wall, to his right.
“I see it,” I said.
It seemed less a beam than a narrow, springy rod.
“That will not hold my weight,” I said, “let alone yours.”
“Nonsense,” he said, “it is tem wood. In the south it is used for lances, it can bend almost double before snapping.”
“I cannot walk on that,” I said. “It is too narrow.” I was sure it was little more than an inch in width, if that.
“It weighs little,” said Kurik, “and can be handled easily with one hand, as might be a rod.”
“It is black,” I said, “it is hard to see, it is night!”
“All tem wood is black,” he said.
He then, carefully, put one foot on the narrow wood. It was supple. I saw it bend a little beneath the press of his foot.
Meanwhile the fire roared ever more fiercely. I could see flames at the front of the house, where the original blaze must have been set, to seal off the front entrance. The floor of the roof was hot. I heard not only a crackling of flame, nearby, but a snapping sound, almost beneath my feet.
“Carry me!” I begged.
“I thought you wanted to be put down,” he said.
“No, no!” I said.
“A slave is commonly carried over the right shoulder, if one is right-handed,” he said, “but I think that might unbalance me, and the paving stones of the alley are hard, and, I fear, rather far below.”
“You carried me forward upstairs,” I said.
“That is a pleasant way to carry a woman,” he said. “It is often used with naked free women, captured but not yet collared, which preserves their dignity as they are not yet slaves, but also, upon occasion, with slaves whom one wishes to relish in one’s arms.”
“But if I am carried so,” I said, “how can you see the pole?”
“One looks ahead, to the destination,” he said. “Too, one feels it with one’s feet.”
“I am afraid,” I said.
He then approached me, and lifted me in his arms, and I clung to him, and shut my eyes, fiercely.
I heard the roar of the flames behind me.
I cried out, for the pole dipped down, unexpectedly, given our weight, but, after a few terrifying moments, Kurik had trod the pole upward to the higher roof, across the way. On the new roof, he put me down, and I collapsed, shuddering, unable to stand, to the floor of the roof. He then freed the pole, and pulled it up, and over, onto the roof, so that it could not be seen from below.
“What will we do, where will we go?” I asked.
“While our friends are scouting the ashes,” he said, “we shall descend, into this building, and, shortly, exit from its back entrance.”
“Master has essayed the practicality of this?” I said.
“Certainly,” he said. “We will then go to the new rental I arranged, as I anticipated the possibility that a change in lodging might prove advisable.”
“And you made these arrangements,” I said, “when I was familiarizing myself, so to speak, with the city.”
“Of course,” he said.
“How shall we proceed?” I asked.
“You felt well in my arms,” he said.
We could hear men in the street below, for a throng had gathered. “It is a tragedy,” we heard. “The building is done,” said a voice. “Why was the alarm not given sooner?” asked a voice. “The blaze was not discovered in time,” said another. “There was no opportunity to extinguish the flames,” said another voice. “I trust no one was hurt,” said another voice. “We do not know,” said another. “Perhaps the building was unoccupied,” said another. “Let us hope so,” said another. “How did the fire begin?” asked another. “That is not known,” said another.
At this point there was a cry of awe, and alarm, from the throng, for, with a great crash, the roof of the building we had just abandoned collapsed, and a torrent of smoke, sparks, and flame roared upward.
I could not see the features of my master, but only a dark form, a silhouette, behind which the flames raged.
I sensed I was being regarded.
He was immobile.
I was uneasy.
“Let us flee,” I said.
“Be patient,” he said. “The fire continues to burn, fiercely. Our friends will still be about, and doubtless watching, doubtless in both front and back. Our departure is best postponed until they are otherwise occupied, until they begin their examination, thrusting about in the ashes, in the smoking debris.”
“We are to wait,” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
“I cannot well see Master,” I said, “the fire, behind him.”
“I can see you, quite well,” he said.
“It seems Master Decius Albus is in league with the faction of Lord Agamemnon,” I said. “It seems we are without allies in Ar. We know neither the location of, nor the plans of, the three Kurii encountered in the house of Flavius Minor in Brundisium. We do not know the location of the hideous beast, Eve. We do not know what is occurring. We dare not approach Lord Grendel. We are fortunate to be alive. There is nothing more to be done. All is lost. Let us flee!”
“No,” he said.
“What are we to do?” I asked.
“You,” he said, “are to kneel there, facing away from me.”
“I cannot then see Master,” I said.
“It is not necessary that you see me,” he said.
“All is lost,” I said. “What are we to do? I beg to know!”
“I have plans,” he said. “It is not necessary that you be privy to them.”
“I beg to know!” I said.
“Curiosity,” he said, “is not becoming in a kajira.”
“I am not to be told?” I said.
“No,” he said.
“Please, Master!” I begged.
“Now,” he said, “put your head to the floor, as you are kneeling, and clasp your hands together, behind the back of your neck.”
How vulnerable are slaves!
“Who is Master?” he asked.
“Master is Master,” I said.
How owned we are!
Yet who would have it otherwise?
“Ohh!” I cried, grasped and mastered.
Chapter Forty
“What do you want?” demanded the large, gross woman glaring down upon me.
I had knelt, of course, as she was free.
A small pouch, on a string, was slung about my neck, over my collar.
I did not dare meet her eyes. I was very much afraid of free women. I well remembered the free woman, slender, possibly lovely, veiled and robed, on the wharf in Victoria, who had, in her rage, at some conjectured insult, screaming, lashed the bars of my cage, for better than an Ehn, while I shrank back within it. I had made the grievous error of appealing to her as though she might be concerned for a slave. I had even, ignorantly, so haplessly, addressed her as “sister.”
“Well?” she demanded.
The shop of the potter, Epicrates, like most Gorean shops, was open to the street during the day and would be closed at night, usually by means of heavy, folded wooden screens, secured with chains or rods. I could see he whom I took to be Epicrates in the back of the shop, who had looked up from his wheel. Shelves lined the walls of the shop, laden with an assemblage of diverse platters, craters, bowls, dishes, pitchers, and vessels. There were several other larger vessels, amphorae, and such, stacked, inverted, in the corners of the shop, and toward its rear. In the back I could also see the portal that, probably, led to the living quarters of Epicrates and his companion.
“Forgive me, Mistress,” I said. “I am Phyllis. Forgive my unworthiness, and that I should dare to speak, unaddressed by one who is free, but I am on my master’s business.”
The large woman was not clad in the robes of concealment, and was not veiled. She wore a work himation, of Cosian cut, with bare arms. Certain Cosian fashions and manners had tended to linger, even following the withdrawal of the occupation forces of the Cosian alliance. More to the point, perhaps, was the utility and comfort of such garments, and their popularity, which antedated the troubles in Ar, in particular, the occupation of the Cosian alliance and the tyranny of the false Ubara, Talena, brought to an end by the uprising that restored the current Ubar, a man named Marlenus, to the throne of the city. The whereabouts of Talena were unknown. A reward had been posted for her capture and return to the city, ten thousand gold tarn disks, of double weight, a sum that might buy cities and fertile, well-harbored islands. It is difficult to move about, and work, of course, in the cumbersome Robes of Concealment. Lower-caste women not unoften reserved such regalia for festivals and holidays.
“And what is your master’s business?” demanded the large woman. Her hands were moist from kneading clay. In one corner of the shop there was an oven in which, I supposed, materials might be treated, might be fired and glazed. It was open now, and not in use.
He whom I took to be Epicrates was watching us.
“You know of him, I am sure,” I said, as I had been coached, “he is the master potter, Tenrik of Siba, famed throughout the caste of potters, well known from Skjern to Turia. Do you know of him?”
“Of course,” said the woman. “Who of the caste of potters does not know of Tenrik of Siba?”
This response alarmed me. I hoped there was not, by some coincidence, a well-known potter, Tenrik of Siba.
“You are fortunate, girl,” she said, “to belong to so famous a fellow.”
“Yes,” I said, “a slave rejoices.”
At this point he whom I took to be Epicrates rose to his feet, as though curious, and came to the front of the shop, where I knelt.
“Return to the wheel,” she said to the fellow. “There is nothing to see here. Do not dally about. It is only a slave. Return to the wheel.”
He did not move, but, instead, regarded me.
“You need not look upon this slave,” said the woman. “She is nothing, merely another common, worthless kajira. Have you never seen enough of the legs and arms, and curves, of these shameless, vendible, collared beasts? I shall inquire into this business.”
He stepped back a pace, but did not return to the wheel, on which was fastened a vessel, half-formed.
“Surely you are the Lady Delia,” I said to the large woman. Kurik of Victoria, of course, had made certain inquiries.
“I am Lady Delia,” she said.
“I was sure of it,” I said, “for my master informed me that I might recognize you, might you be less than fully veiled, instantly, by your incredible beauty.”
“Oh?” she said.
“Yes, lovely Mistress,” I said.
“Well,” she said, “I am a free woman.”
“And surely amongst the fairest of such,” I said. Free women commonly regard themselves as far more beautiful than slaves, but, if that is the case, I wondered, why are they not all in collars? Perhaps men did not want them that much. If one were truly beautiful, might she not be seized and collared? What man, honestly, does not want a beautiful woman at his feet, in his collar?
And, from the woman’s point of view, how exciting to belong to a man, and be his rightless, helpless slave!
“Delineate, girl,” said the Lady Delia, “your master’s interests.”
“Is Master,” I said, to he whom I took to be Epicrates, “Master Epicrates, Master Potter of Ar?”
“That is he,” said Lady Delia.
“Look at my shop,” he said. “Does it appear to be the shop of a master potter? Where is the yard, the dozen ovens, the jars of pigments and glazes, the slaves and apprentices at their wheels?”
“He will not trust work to menials,” said Lady Delia.
To be sure, I had no illusions as to the standing of Epicrates in his field. He was, by all accounts, a fine potter, and an honest one, but his work, as far as I knew, had never been singled out in the city, nor, say, had it been displayed in, let alone won prizes in, the exhibitions held in the great Sardar fairs. One might mention, in passing, that Goreans commonly view pottery as an art, and, in many cases, as a fine art, as much so as sculpture and painting. There are few things as beautiful as a well-formed, well-painted, well-glazed vase. Indeed, some vase artists are as well-known as artists who work in fresco, or in gold, wood, or canvas. Indeed, several artists work in more than one medium. To be sure, the Goreans do not dissociate utility and beauty, in artifacts no more than in slaves. A spoon or paddle may be well carved; a door frame or chest may be a work of art. Art may be lavished on rooms and buildings, on bedding and clothing, on the saddle or harness of a kaiila, even on cuisine, in its preparation and display. But I saw little evidence in the shop of Epicrates, despite its pleasantness and attractiveness, of the higher reaches and glory of the potter’s art. I saw no vessel there for which might be exchanged a dozen slaves or a tarn.
“We even rent out our second floor,” said Epicrates.
“Times are hard, too, in Siba,” I said.
“Speak your business, girl,” said Lady Delia.
&n
bsp; “Ela, Mistress,” I said, “it has to do with the subtleties and mysteries of glazes, and the exchanges of mixtures, in varying proportions, and my master forbids me to speak to anyone but the great Epicrates, Master Potter of Ar, and to he alone.”
“I am his companion,” said the Lady Delia.
“I am helpless, Mistress,” I said, “my master has spoken.”
This pretext was not in the least far-fetched. There are, in many crafts, trade secrets, which are zealously guarded. Whereas most Gorean cities share in, and respect, Merchant Law, the only common law binding scattered, and often hostile, communities, there are no provisions in such law for securing protections against one party’s appropriation of another party’s methods, processes, formulas, techniques, devices, or such.
“My master has placed something in the pouch about my neck,” I said.
“Doubtless his proposal or petition,” said Lady Delia.
“I fear it must have something to do with his proposal or petition,” I said.
“Why does he not come himself?” she asked, belligerently.
“He wishes, first, for the way to be cleared,” I said.
“Beware,” said Lady Delia to her companion, Epicrates, “he wishes to steal your secrets.”
“No, Mistress,” I said. “He wishes an exchange that would be found mutually satisfactory, mutually profitable.”
“Ah,” said Lady Delia. “I see now why he did not come himself. His proposal is so contrived as to assure him an untoward advantage, and he fears, doubtlessly justifiably, that he would be scorned, and beaten from the shop.”
I did not think it likely that Epicrates, who seemed a gentle, pleasant-enough fellow, would be likely to set upon and beat anyone, let alone a visitor, and fellow caste member, to his shop.
“I do not think so, Mistress,” I said. “I think he was reluctant to present himself directly and brashly before such a renowned master of his craft, as Master Epicrates.”
“Perhaps, dear Delia,” said Epicrates to his companion, “you might withdraw.”
She cast me an angry, suspicious glance, turned about, and went to the portal leading, I assumed, to their private quarters. There, wiping her hands on her himation, she turned about, again. “Beware!” she advised Epicrates. She then disappeared within the portal.
Plunder of Gor Page 43