Norman, John - Gor 23 - Renegades of Gor.txt

by Renegades of Gor [lit]

  can keep an eye on me.”

  Did she really think they feared her escape, she, within the palisade, shackled

  and naked?

  “They might, too,” I said, “consider that your display here, if you will pardon

  the expression, might enhance your chances of obtaining a redemption.”

  “Yes,” she said, “that, too.”

  In the morning, of course, the girls outside, at the wall, might have a better

  chance. They would, by that time, I speculated, be bedraggled and piteous,

  indeed. Still I did not think any of them, the Lady Temione here, or the others

  outside, in these times, were likely, really, to get some fellow to redeem them.

  “Would you care to order, Sir?” she asked, irritatedly.

  I looked at her. Yes, I thought to myself, that was probably (pg.69) the main

  reason she had been put here, that is it, not because it was an accident, the

  luck in a lot of six, or even really, mainly, because she owed more than the

  others, but because she had not been found pleasing by the keeper. In its way,

  it was a punishment for her. Too, he had doubtless seen that she required

  informing, as to her nature and status.

  “I am waiting, Sir,” she said.

  “Do you regard yourself as desirable?” I asked.

  She tossed her head, haughtily. “You spoke of beauty earlier, and insultingly of

  my putative intent to bargain with it,” she said. “Perhaps you can see.”

  “That was not my question,” I said.

  “Yes,” she said. “I regard myself as desirable.” She regarded me, angrily.

  “Don’t you?” she said.

  I said, “Proper diet and exercise, imposed under suitable disciplines, would

  doubtless work wonders with you.”

  “Would you care to order,” she asked.

  “Have you served others?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “And you have not been disciplined?” I asked.

  “No,” she said. “I am a free woman.” She looked at me, angrily. “Are you ready

  to order?”

  “Yes,” I said.

  “Well?” she asked.

  “Kneel,” I said.

  “Kneel?” she asked.

  “That is my first order,” I said.

  She regarded me.

  “Do you not know how a woman serves at table?” I asked.

  “I am a free woman,” she said.

  “Shall I send you to fetch a slave whip?’ I asked.

  She then trembled, and knelt. But, in a moment, she had recovered herself. She

  looked at me, angrily.

  “You may keep your knees together,” I said, “as you are a free woman.”

  Swiftly she closed them, furious. “I hate you!” she said.

  “You may now lower your head, before a male,” I said.

  “Never!” she said.

  “Now,” I said.

  (pg.70) She lowered her head, angrily. “I have never done that before,” she

  said, lifting her head.

  “You may now put it to the floor, the palms of your hands, too, to the floor,” I

  said.

  Trembling with rage she obeyed. Then she straightened up, and knelt back.

  “What do you have?” I asked.

  “Paga and bread are two tarsks,” she said. “Other food may be purchased from

  three to five tarsks.”

  “Is the paga cut?” I asked.

  “One to five,” she said.

  This is not that unusual at an inn. The proportions, then, would be one part

  paga to five parts water. Commonly, at a paga tavern, the paga would be cut

  less, or not cut at all. When wine is drunk with Gorean meals, at home,

  incidentally, it is almost always diluted, mixed with water in a krater. At a

  party or convivial supper the host, or elected feast master, usually determines

  the proportions of water to wine. Unmixed wine, of course, may be drunk, for

  example, at the parties of young men, at which might appear dancers, flute

  slaves and such. Many Gorean wines, it might be mentioned, if only by way of

  explanation, are very strong, often having an alcoholic content by volume of

  forty to fifty percent.

  “How much bread?” I asked.

  “Two of four,” she said. That would be half a loaf. The bread would be in the

  form of wedges. Gorean bread is most always baked in round, flat loaves. The

  average loaf is cut into either four or eight wedges.

  “What is the other food?” I asked.

  The Ahn is late,” she said. “We have nothing but porridge left.”

  “It is three?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “I do not suppose,” I said, “that if one orders the porridge, the bread and paga

  comes with it?”

  “No,” she said.

  I had not, of course, expected any such luck, particularly after my conversation

  with the keeper. To be sure, even if perhaps a bit greedy, he was not a bad

  fellow. He had, for example, put the Lady Temione naked at the tables.

  “Bread, paga, porridge,” I said to her.

  (pg.71) “Very well,” she said.

  “Very well, what?” I asked.

  “Very well, Sir,” she said.

  “Head to the floor before you get up,” I said.

  She put her head angrily down to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor,

  and then straightened up.

  “From each of your fraud sisters outside, chained to their rings,” I said. “I

  had a kiss.”

  “You will get no kiss from me,” she said.

  I then gestured her up with a casual motion of my finger and away, that she

  should hurry to the kitchen.

  “Lady Temione,” I called.

  She stopped.

  “You may move more swiftly,” I said, “if you rise up on your toes and take short

  steps.”

  She cried out with rage, and stumbled, and fell. Then, rising, she hurried, as

  she could, angrily toward the door of the kitchen and, in a moment, disappeared

  through it. I watched it swing behind her, until it hung motionless on its

  hinges. Such doors, single and double, are common in inns and taverns, as they

  may be negotiated by someone whose hands are occupied, as in bearing a tray.

  Most often, however, on Gor, curtains, often beaded, are used to separate open

  from restricted areas in taverns, restaurants, and such. Lady Temione, I had

  noted, needed discipline. The sooner she received it the better it would

  probably be for her, and her lift.

  In a few moments she returned through the door bearing a tray. She knelt near

  the table, put the tray on the floor, unbidden performed obeisance and then, as

  though submissively, put to the tray on the table, and put the paga, in a small

  kantharos, and the bread on its trencher, before me. Then she put the bowl of

  porridge, with a spoon, before me. She then withdrew, taking the tray, put it to

  the side, on the floor, again performed obeisance, unbidden, and then knelt

  back, as though in attendance. There had been
something false in her

  subservience.

  I looked at her, narrowly. She did not meet my eyes.

  I took a sip of paga, and then sopped some bread in it, and then ate it.

  (pg.72) As I reached for the spoon I thought she leaned forward a little.

  I took a very tiny bit of the porridge. As I had suspected it might be, it was

  offensively seasoned, salted, almost to the point of inedibility.

  “Is anything wrong, Sir?” she asked.

  “I will count an Ehn,” I said, “that is, eighty Ihn. You have that long to make

  good what you have done.”

  “I?” she asked, innocently.

  “1—2—3--,” I said.

  “But what?” she said, alarmed.

  “4—5—6--,” I said.

  “My ankles are chained!” she cried.

  “7—8—9--.” I said.

  Swiftly, crying out with misery, stumbling, falling, she tried to scramble to

  her feet. Then, as swiftly as she could, falling twice more, partly crawling,

  weeping, she strove to reach the door of the kitchen.

  “24—25—26--,” I counted. “27—28—29—30—31—32—33—34--.”

  She appeared through the swinging door, carrying a bowl in her chained hands,

  desperately moving toward me in short, careful, frightened steps. She could not

  risk falling.

  I let her approach closely. “Hold,” I said.

  She stopped, wildly.

  “Perhaps in your haste you have forgotten to season that,” I said. “I prefer

  anyway to season my own porridge. See that you do not dare to present the

  porridge without the seasonings.”

  She cried out with misery.

  “Bring condiments as well,” I advised her. “50—51—51.”

  In a moment or two she had regained the kitchen, and, an instant or two later,

  clutching a small, partitioned hand-rack of small vials and pots, each in its

  place, she again emerged into the public area.

  “67,” I said. “68.”

  “Please!” she cried. “have mercy!”

  “69—70,” I said.

  She hastened toward me, terrified, with quick, small steps.

  “75—76.” I said. “Obeisance.”

  She cried out with misery, performing obeisance.

  “77,” I said. “78—79.”

  (pg.73) Then the porridge, with the seasonings and condiments was on the table.

  “80,” I said.

  She leaned back. I feared she might faint. Then she again performed obeisance,

  and shrank back.

  “Do not leave,” I told her. “You do not have permission to withdraw. Back on

  your heels.”

  She knelt back on her heels, frightened.

  I tasted the porridge. It had not yet been seasoned. Trying it, with one

  spoonful or another, from one vial or pot, or another, I seasoned it to my

  taste. I would later, now and then, here and there, in one place or another, mix

  in condiments. By such devices one obtains variety, or its deceptive surrogate,

  even in a substance seemingly so initially unpromising as inn porridge.

  She looked at me, anxiously.

  “I think this will prove satisfactory, free woman,” I said.

  She breathed more easily.

  I put down the spoon.

  “I shall take this other bowl away,” she said.

  “Not yet,” I said.

  “Sir?” she asked.

  I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain

  down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and

  ankles, and pulled it up behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her,

  at the sides. I then put her again to her knees.

  “Sir?” she asked.

  “You do have auburn hair, don’t you?” I said.

  Then I picked up the original porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand

  and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right.

  “No!” she cried.

  I plunged her face downward, fully into the porridge.

  I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her hands firmly, pressing her

  face down into the bowl. She struggled unavailingly. Then I let her lift her

  head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of

  porridge. “I can’t breath!” she wept. “I’m choking!”

  Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.

  “Eat,” I said. “Eat.”

  (pg. 74) Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she

  twisted her head to the side. “It’s inedible!” she wept. I turned her head

  again, and pushed it down. “Eat!” I said. I supposed it was possible someone

  could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could

  breathe, and she gasped for breath. “Please!” she wept, through the glutinous

  mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the

  stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her, and put her to

  her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise.

  Her face was at the bowl. “Eat,” I said. She put her head down over the bowl

  and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her

  back, she looked up at me. “Please!” she begged. “Eat,” I said, then kicked her

  with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of

  the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my

  own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of

  porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. “I’m on fire!” she wept.

  “Water! I beg it!”

  “Eat,” I said.

  Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.

  After a time I had finished my own porridge.

  When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying

  on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.

  “You are a monster,” she said.

  “Lick your bowl,” I said.

  Miserably she did so.

  “Some porridge has been spilled,” I said. “It doubtlessly overflowed that sides

  of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds

  too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately,

  more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish.

  Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like

  that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn.”

  She looked at me, frightened.

  “You can see porridge about, here and there,” I said. “ Do not let it go to

  waste.”

  She moaned, and, on her belly, lowered her face to the (pg.75) floor. Her tongue

  was small, and lovely. Trained, it might do well on a man’s body.

  “Are you finished?” I asked her, after a time.

  “Yes,” she whispered, in
her chains, on her belly, looking up at me.

  “Rejoice that you are a free woman, and not a slave,” I said. “Had you been a

  slave, you might have been killed for what you did earlier.”

  She was silent.

  “Do you understand?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Approach me, on your belly,” I said.

  She squirmed to the table, her hands still behind her.

  I then reached behind her and drew the wrist chain down and, forcing her legs

  tightly back against her body, put it back in front of her legs. It was then as

  it had been before. I let her straighten her legs.

  “When you bring the check,” I said, “do so in your teeth.”

  She looked at me, angrily.

  “Do you understand?” I asked.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “The check is to be paid, or put on the bill, I gather, at the keeper’s desk,” I

  said. One had to pass the keeper’s desk after leaving the paga room. That

  arrangement, I supposed, was no accident. For example, it would save posting of

  one employee, which was perhaps a calculated economy on the part of the

  proprietor. I would not have put it past him, at any rate. Too, in virtue of

  this arrangement, one need not entrust coins to debtor sluts, slaves, and such.

  In this house I suspected that they would not be permitted to so much as touch a

  coin. They would be kept coinless, absolutely.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “Do you wish to say anything?” I asked.

  “I hate you! I hate you!” she said.

  “You may, after performing obeisance, withdraw,” I said.

  Swiftly she performed obeisance, and then rose to her feet, and, moving

  carefully, with small steps, as she could, hurried to the kitchen.

  I would finish my bread, and nurse the paga for a time, and then retire to my

  space. It was in the south wing, on the third (pg.76) level, space 97. I would

  pick up my ostrakan, with the blankets, at the keeper’s desk. I wondered how I

  might approach Ar’s Station and deliver the message of Gnieus Lelius, the regent

  of Ar, to the commander at Ar’s Station, Aemilianus. If I appeared to be of Ar,

  I might fall afoul of Cosians. If I appeared to be with Cos I might have

  considerable difficulty in approaching the defenders of Ar’s Station. Still I

  must do something soon. The siege at Ar’s Station, I had gathered, might be