The stranger glanced down to the slave, lying at his right knee. “Would you like a tunic?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, Master,” she said, “very much.”
“You,” I said, “as far as I know, do not even have a slave whip.”
“That is true,” he said.
“I assure Master,” said the slave, “he does not need a whip.”
“No,” he said. “One must have a whip.”
“But for what possible purpose?” asked the slave.
“Guess,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “What is Master doing?”
The stranger was removing his dagger belt, from which he removed, as well, the dagger and its sheath. He then buckled the belt, so that it constituted a closed loop.
“Master?” said the slave.
“This will do,” he said, “until I obtain a proper whip.”
“I see,” she said, uneasily.
“And now,” he said, “I think I shall begin your training.”
“My training?” she said.
“Surely you know that slaves, as many other sorts of animals, are trained.”
He then tossed the looped, buckled belt across the room, to the far wall.
“Fetch it,” he said, “on all fours. Do not touch it with your hands. Bring it back in your teeth.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
It pleased me to see the former Lady Flavia of Ar cross the room on all fours, bend down, pick up the belt in her teeth, and then turn about, and return, on all fours, to her master, the belt dangling from her teeth.
He removed the belt from her teeth. “You may now,” he said, “show the belt deference.”
“I do not understand,” she said.
“We do not yet have a whip,” he said. “Lick and kiss it.”
This was an analogy to the simple ceremony of kissing the whip, wherein the slave demonstrates her bondage and submission, acknowledging and accepting her subjection to the mastery, a common symbol of which is the whip. Similar things may be done with rope, the chain, slave bracelets, and such.
The former Lady Flavia of Ar addressed herself to the belt of her master.
“She seems tentative,” I said.
“I think you are right,” he said.
The slave looked at me, angrily, but then her master’s hand was in her hair, twisting it, and she cried out in misery, and his other hand was up, the looped belt in it. “No!” she cried, her head held in place. He then gave her two sharp strokes with the looped belt.
Tears sprang to her eyes.
He then put the belt again to her lips, and she began to kiss and lick the belt more seriously.
“I hate you!” she said to me.
“I think she does not understand what is required,” I said to the stranger.
She then received two more strokes of the looped belt.
Then, fervently, desperately, the frightened slave, Alcinoë, the slave of Callias, of Jad, a Cosian, addressed herself to the belt of her master.
“That is much better,” I said. “I suspect you are beginning to comprehend.”
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“Now,” I said, “with your lips and tongue, as the most helplessly needful of all women, as a slave, make love to the belt of your master. In kissing it, tenderly, you express your gratitude that you, only a slave, have been permitted to touch a belonging of your master. Too, in this way, you express your devotion for the master, your reverence for him, perhaps unnoticed by the master, by tenderly and gratefully kissing even a belt, even a tunic or sandal, of the master. In licking it, slowly, you express yourself, and your bondage, that you submit yourself to him wholly, without reservation. In licking it slowly, and sensuously, you express your passion, and need, your desire, that you would serve him intimately, as the least of slaves, as the readiest of aroused, owned beasts.”
She suddenly looked at me, with recognition, with understanding in her eyes. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “I think I understand! Perhaps I was ready for such things. Perhaps I wanted them, and longed for them! Is that possible? I change! I have changed! Such acts change me! No wonder they are forbidden to free women! How they make us slaves! How right they seem! So right, so right! Inwardly I am different! How can one do such things, and live so, without becoming a slave? How close I am now to myself! In such acts I am changed! They show me to myself! They open doors to my secret heart! How can I understand these emotions, their depth? How happy I am, and how helpless! How helpless I am in their grasp! I feel so slave! I am so slave!”
She turned her head, wildly, to Callias, her master. “I heat, Master,” she said. “I am heated! I flame! Please, please, Master!”
With a great cry, he seized her in his arms, turned her, and flung her beneath him, across the scrap of tunic which had been brought to the room earlier by Captain Nakamura. I thought it well, then, to exit the room. I left the door open, behind me, however, as she was not a free woman, but a slave.
Eventually the eighteenth bar sounded.
I secured one of the public lamps, and reentered the room.
“I do not think,” I said, “that the River Dragon will make the morning tide. Commerce proceeds apace, and ever new Merchants, now even from Market of Semris, arrive each Ahn. The warehouse will be closed soon, to reopen at dawn. I think a day or so more will secure such supplies as Captain Nakamura never anticipated, and would not choose to leave without. Yet I expect him, still, to leave as soon as matters are well concluded.”
“I would see him sail,” said the stranger.
“Perhaps the day after tomorrow,” I said.
“What do you think of my slave?” he asked.
I lifted the lamp.
She was now tunicked, but not in the lengthy tunic of the Pani, but now, rather, in the tunic which had been brought in earlier by Captain Nakamura, that within the folds of which had been the coils of the sirik.
Alcinoë twirled before me.
What a vain thing she was, but are not they all? Surely, given their beauty, their desirability, they are entitled to a little vanity, or, indeed, I suppose, to a large measure of that sometimes annoying, but generally endearing, charming quality. Free women have their vanity, sometimes extravagantly so, so why not a slave, as well? And, indeed, is not a slave even more entitled to vanity than a free woman? She, after all, has been looked upon by men, and found fit for collaring. To be sure, the slave is well advised to conceal her vanity in the presence of a free woman.
“She is quite pretty,” I said. “The tunic is a bit long, is it not.”
“I think so,” said Callias.
This would not be unusual, of course, as few tunics are tailored to an individual slave. Given the common looseness, and drapery, of a tunic, a number of different slaves might wear the same tunic, which would be indifferently fetching on most of them. Many slaves, of course, once they have a tunic, will do their small, mysterious things to the garment in such a way that it seems designed for themselves alone. Some masters, too, of course, will take their slave to one of the Cloth Workers, and have one or more tunics altered to, or even made for, the particular slave.
Alcinoë looked at me, startled. I gathered it had not occurred to her that the tunic might be too long.
“Many Merchants,” I said, “have frequented the warehouse since morning. If I were the harbor master I would put them out. Why should they hold a position that long at a table? Others clamor for their turn. One would think they were doing kaissa, or stones, not buying and selling. In any event, venders of comestibles, biscuits, candy, fruit, and such, with their carts and trays, have been about, and doing their business, too. I suggest we leave this room, if you two can manage that, buy something to eat, I will pay, as you have no money, and then go to my domicile, get some sleep, and return, if you wish, in the morning.”
The stranger rose to his feet.
“What have you two been doing all this time?” I asked.
“Waiting for master,” laughed Alcinoë.
I saw this as an excellent argument not to give a slave a standing permission to speak.
“What do you think?” said Callias.
“One thing, I see,” I said, lifting the lamp higher, to the better view Alcinoë, “she has spent at least some of the time becoming more beautiful.”
“Yes,” said Callias.
The slave looked down, bashfully.
Happiness makes a woman more beautiful. Even a plain woman who is happy is beautiful.
“I think we had better go,” I said. “Gather up the sirik, and I will discard the Pani tunic, wretched garment, in the garbage, as we leave.”
“I would not do so, if I were you,” said Alcinoë, who knelt, understandably enough, as she was addressing a free person.
“You do not like the garment, I hope,” I said.
“I think it is horrid,” she said.
“Good,” I said, and bent down to pick up the tunic.
“Please wait, Masters,” she said. “Perhaps you should examine the tunic.”
I suddenly recalled some puzzles I had had, pertaining to that distressing garment, its thickness, its opacity, its length, long and heavy, even for a Pani tunic, a smile on the face of Captain Nakamura, and a smile on the features of the slave, the sound it had made when it was brushed across the floor by Callias’ boot.
“It is my conjecture,” she said, “that Lord Nishida and Master Tarl Cabot, who commands the tarn cavalry of Lord Temmu, would not have been likely, as an expression of their esteem and gratitude to my master, to send him so negligible a gift as a mere slave, and one untrained, too.”
“No!” said Callias. “You are a thousand times more than enough. They must know that. You are the world to me!”
Beware, Callias, I thought, beware.
“A slave is grateful to be so esteemed by her Master,” she said, “but Alcinoë is well aware that she is only a slave, and that her monetary value is determined only by what masters will pay for her.”
“She is right,” I said.
“I would pay the world for her,” he said.
“You do not have the world,” I told him. “And, unless you have not been candid with me, you do not have even a tarsk-bit.”
“And poor Alcinoë,” she said, “as a gift, may be worth but, say, five silver tarsks.”
“Closer to two,” I conjectured.
“Oh?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“And thus, if such things are so, five, or perhaps two,” she said, “the gift of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, would seem surprisingly modest, particularly for those who have much they might bestow.”
“No matter,” said Callias.
“Thus,” she said, “perhaps masters might examine the tunic, before disposing of it.”
We looked upon the tunic, lying crumpled on the floor, to the side.
“Close the door,” said Callias. “Bring the lamp closer.”
I closed the door, and brought the lamp to where Callias sat, putting it on the floor beside him.
Alcinoë fetched the Pani tunic, knelt before her master, spread the tunic before her, lifted it in two hands, and then, her head down, between her extended arms, proffered it to her master.
“Now a gift of true worth,” she said, “is presented by a slave to her master, with the affection and regard of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry of Lord Temmu.”
“You are the gift of true worth,” said Callias to the slave.
“Yes, yes,” I said, “I am sure of it, but let us examine the tunic.”
“It would be well,” said the slave, “to open the lining carefully, and examine every inch of the tunic.”
“Have no fear,” I said. “Friend Callias, loan me your dagger.”
“What is here?” Callias asked the slave.
“Some coin,” she said, “tiny golden tarsks, almost like beads, which are light and consume little space, but mostly pearls, and jewels.”
“How much is here?” I asked.
“Slaves are not told such things,” she said. “But I do not think masters will be disappointed.”
“Callias,” I said, freeing a pearl from the garment, “I think you are a rich man.”
“Even if it is nothing,” he said, placing a hand on the arm of the slave kneeling beside him, “I am already a rich man.”
The slave kissed his hand.
“Be serious,” I said. “Here is another!”
“How much did you know of this?” asked Callias of the slave.
“I knew, of course, that the garment contained such things,” she said, “but I did not know how many or of what worth.”
“Curiosity is not becoming to a kajira,” I said.
“But not unknown, I assure you,” she said.
“True,” I said.
“I was, of course, to guard it with my life,” she said.
“What if you were taken to Ar, as I suspect you deserve,” I said.
“One supposes,” she said, “that the garment, if handled, would betray its secrets.”
“It might have been cast aside,” I said.
“I prevented that this evening,” she said, “and, in any case, would prevent it.”
“Even were you on your way to Ar?”
“Of course,” she said.
“Why?” I asked.
“I love my master,” she said. “It was intended for him, and it was my charge to see that he received it. I wanted all that was good for him. He might thus add it to a fugitive’s bounty. Of what value is wealth to one on the impaling spear? And if my master does not want me, what matters the manner of our separation? Why not the impaling spear?”
“I want you,” said Callias, “more than all the wealth in the world. I would never let you go. I would die for you!”
“Do not forget I am only a slave,” she said. “That is what I am. And I would be kept as one.”
“And you will be,” he said, “even to the chain and whip!”
“I will try to be pleasing to my master,” she said.
“Fully pleasing,” he said.
“Yes,” she said, kissing him, “fully pleasing.”
“From the first moment I saw you,” he said, “I wanted to own you.”
“And from the first moment I saw you,” she said, “I wanted to belong to you.”
“You do,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Love slave,” he whispered.
“Love master,” she said.
“I could slip half of this into my purse,” I said, “while you two are carrying on, as it is said, dizzy on the heights of desire, wandering on the roads of delight, lost in the forests of rapture, drunk on the wines of love, swimming about in one another’s eyes, and such. Repulsive. Offensive!”
“Perhaps,” said Callias, “you, too, one day, will as gladly lose your way.”
“You are fortunate,” I said, “that my caste codes discourage robbing armed warriors.”
“How does it proceed?” asked Callias.
“I am not of the Street of Coins,” I said, “but I think it is clear that you are a wealthy man. I have a hundred golden tarsks here, a hundred pearls, a hundred jewels, of various sorts and sizes.”
“That is a great deal,” said Callias.
“This one pearl,” I said, “I would estimate at a dozen silver tarsks.”
“So much?” he said.
“It would buy six slaves such as Alcinoë,” I said, “on the open market.”
“She is much better than that,” he said. “Perhaps four,” he speculated.
“Master!” protested the slave.
I spread the tunic on the floor, between myself and Callias, the slave to the side.
“I think that is all,” I said, “as I have opened and removed the lining, shaken it, fingered every square hort of the garment, and bitten and chewed each square hort as well, to make doubly su
re. On the other hand, the tunic is yours, as is she who was its occupant, and if I have missed anything, it should turn up eventually, when it is unraveled into its least threads.”
I thrust the sorted objects across the floor toward Callias, and he scooped them up, and placed them in his wallet.
“I am hungry,” he said.
“Let me buy from the vendors,” I said. “The smallest tarsk here, the smallest pearl or jewel, would attract attention.”
“I think not,” he said, “given the trading.”
“Exchange no more than one,” I said, “and let it be as though it were your last, your only one.”
“Very well,” he said.
“I, too, am hungry,” I said. “What of you, girl?”
“I, too, Master,” she said.
I opened the door. Outside the floor was still crowded.
“What of the slave?” I said. “Are you going to put her in the sirik?”
“No,” he said. Then he turned to the slave. “You will not attempt to escape, will you?” he inquired.
“No, Master,” she said. “And Master well knows,” she said, as she touched her collar, and then her left thigh, and lifted, a little, the hem of her tunic, “there is no escape for the slave girl.”
“True,” he said.
“And she wishes no escape,” she said.
“I am famished,” I said.
We then left the back room, and, a bit later, Callias had exchanged one of the tiny beadlike golden tarsks for nine silver tarsks, ninety-nine copper tarsks, and a hundred tarsk-bits, at one of the changing tables maintained in the warehouse by the harbor administration, to facilitate trading.
I might have been concerned here, but the warehouse seemed filled with bulging purses, and the counting boards on several of the long tables were so filled that coins lay loose, spilled beside them.
At that point the nineteenth bar sounded.
Gor 30 - Mariners of Gor Page 60