by John Norman
She then was kneeling before him, looking up at him, in the half darkness, sobbing, shaking with humiliation.
“You may speak,” he said, amused.
“I hate you! I hate you!” she cried.
“You might be easily used,” said he, “on the straw of your stall.”
She shrank back.
“Are you a creature of ice?” he asked.
“Yes,” she wept. “Where you are concerned!”
“So you will still pretend to be the little figurine of ice, carved in the semblance of a slave girl?”
“I am ice,” she cried. “I am ice!”
“I see,” said he. “You are a cold slave?”
“Yes,” she said. “I am cold! I am a cold slave!”
“I see,” he said.
“What are you doing?” she cried.
He had put her to her belly on the straw.
“Have no fear, little icicle,” he said.
He then, with two thongs, bound her, hand and foot. As she struggled, helpless, he lifted her in his arms.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?”
“Portus wants me to go below, and see what is occurring in the streets,” he said.
“Put me down!” she cried.
“In a moment,” he assured her.
“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”
He opened the heavy door of the ice room, and, in a moment, as she protested weakly, and struggled, and moaned in dismay, and begged mercy, he placed her in the room, bound as she was, on blocks of ice, half hidden by the sawdust.
“This is a good place for little icicles,” he said.
“Don’t leave me here!” she begged. But, in a moment he had left, swinging shut, and latching, the heavy, timbered, reinforced door, and she found herself, to her consternation and misery, plunged into darkness.
She cried out, but it seemed that Portus and the others were unconcerned, or did not hear her.
Serious matters of some sort were afoot. Surely haste was being made. It was not surprising then that the comfort of a she-thrall, the comfort of a curvaceous little bondmaid, particularly one being disciplined, was less than uppermost on their minds.
“Please Masters, free me!” she wept. “I will be a good slave! I will be a good slave!”
She twisted, and squirmed, on the ice. Cold sawdust was on her face and in her hair. Her back ached with cold. She tried to change her position but the ice was even more merciless to her bosom, to her belly, the front of her thighs. She put her feet up, trying to keep them from the ice. Then she was again weeping on her back, and then on her sides, and then on her back again, in the darkness. “I will be a good slave!” she wept. “I will be a good slave!” She feared she would lose her mind from the cold and darkness. She was doubtless not there long, but, in the darkness, and in her misery, she lost all sense of time. It seemed she had never been so cold as now. The metal of the collar absorbed the cold and seemed like a flat ring of ice on her neck. Even the thongs that bound her seemed stiff with cold, and she feared they might cut her like frozen knives.
In what might have been some half of an Ahn, or so, the door to the ice pantry, or ice room, opened and there stood therein, silhouetted in the light behind it, the figure of Selius Arconious.
“Master!” cried out Ellen, beggingly, piteously.
“Are you prepared to be a good slave?” he inquired.
“Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” cried Ellen.
He then entered the ice room, picked her up, threw her over his left shoulder, steadying her there with his left hand, and left the ice room, she carried as a slave, as would be expected, her head to the rear. One advantage of this carry is that the slave cannot see to what device, or accommodation, or destination, she is being borne. He closed and latched the door to the ice room behind him, with his right hand. Too, it is difficult for a slave to be carried thusly, and she not to understand herself clearly as what she is, goods.
What men can do to us! What men can do with us, thought Ellen. They can do whatever they want with us!
How fortunate, she thought, that this fact has been concealed from the men of Earth, that they, perhaps in their simplicity, perhaps in their lack of imagination, perhaps in their naively uncritical acceptance of imposed conditioning programs, are unaware of it! Woe to us, should they decide to exercise their prerogatives, their rights in the order of nature! For would they not then again make us their slaves?
He carried her to the kitchen and there put her on her knees before him, she still bound hand and foot.
She knelt there, before him, shuddering, trembling with cold.
“So,” he asked, “are you a cold slave?”
“I am freezing!” she wept.
“Are you a cold slave?” he asked, amused.
“No,” she cried out, suddenly, comprehendingly. “I am a hot slave! I am a hot slave!”
“Perhaps then,” he said, “you are prepared to beg to serve me — as a hot slave?”
“Yes, Master!” she wept.
He smiled.
“I beg to serve you as a hot slave!” she wept. “I beg to serve you as a hot slave!”
“Remember,” said he, “in future slaveries, that you so begged. Remember that you begged to serve Selius Arconious, of Ar, begged piteously, and helplessly, to serve him, as a hot slave.”
“Master?” she asked.
“And that he refused to permit you to do so,” said he. “That he scorned you. That he regarded you as inadequate, and dismissed you as poor slave meat.”
She looked at him, wildly, disbelievingly.
He then took her tunic from the table, to which he had apparently brought it somewhat earlier, before fetching her from the ice room, and carefully folded it, several times, into a small, thick rectangle of cloth. He then thrust the tunic, so folded, now this small, soft thick rectangle of cloth, between her teeth. “I would not drop this if I were you,” he said.
He then carried her out to the general loft area, and put her, bound as she was, on her back, on the boards.
“The slave has been fed and watered, as you wished, Portus,” said Selius Arconious. “And I watched her relieve herself.”
“Good,” said Portus. “Harness tarns.”
Fel Doron, carrying a crate, passed Ellen. He put the crate in a tarn basket.
“Where is Tersius?” asked Portus.
“I am here,” said Tersius. He was entering the loft area from the exterior platform. He carried a lamp.
“What have you been doing?” asked Portus.
“Watching,” said Tersius.
“We will soon take wing,” said Portus.
“I am ready,” said Tersius.
“Assist Selius,” said Portus, looking about, as though he feared to hear at any moment the cries of men and the rushing of footsteps on the stairs, the rude, insistent smiting of spears against the inner door.
Tersius set the lamp, a small, shallow, panlike tharlarion-oil lamp, on a shelf bracket and hurried to gather up an armful of harnesses from pegs on the loft wall.
Portus, taking his concealed tarn goad from its hiding place to one side, behind the loose board, entered the tarn cage in which he had placed the oblong, mysterious package before the arrival of the Cosian soldiers, and retrieved it from under the straw. He brought it to the loft area, and put it on the floor, not far from Ellen, and unrolled it. Within, clattering out, there were several swords, two war axes, some crossbows, and some wired bundles of short, metal-finned quarrels.
Such things, Ellen gathered, were not permitted by the laws of the Cosian occupation.
A tyrant state always attempts to disarm its citizens, invariably on the pretext of doing this for their own good. And thus are the necks of men bent to the yoke of the state.
Fel Doron passed her again, this time carrying supplies from the kitchen, bread, biscuits, dried fruit, a bulging sack of meal, which supplies he placed in a nearby tarn basket.
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“Arm yourselves,” said Portus.
Tersius and Fel Doron came to the sprawl of weapons on the floor. Each took a sword and a crossbow, and a bundle of quarrels.
“Seven tarns are ready harnessed for cargo,” said Selius Arconious, emerging from the tarn cage, and two others are haltered, ready for tandem, trailing flight. What is this all about?”
Two tarns, it seemed, were to be left behind.
“Do you care to arm yourself?” asked Portus.
“Surely you know such things are forbidden,” said Arconious.
Portus rerolled the bundle, tied it shut and placed it in one of the tarn baskets, one of seven taken from the nearby stacks and put near the great, lofty exit from the loft.
“You are leaving?” said Arconious. “What is going on?”
“You have heard of the Delta Brigade,” said Portus.
“It is a myth,” said Arconious.
“What do you know of it?” asked Portus.
“Little, if anything,” said Arconious.
“It is an organization,” said Portus, “formed largely, but not entirely, from veterans of the great disaster of the Vosk delta, where they were betrayed by treason in high places, denied supplies, abandoned, left to die, who muchly suffered in their retreat from the delta, and found themselves despised and humiliated when they returned to their city, held in contempt, and spat upon, despite their sharing of its Home Stone. Later, as you know, the gates of Ar were opened to the Cosians and their mercenary allies, again by insufferable treason in high places, under delusory pretenses of friendship and alliance.”
“Such could never have occurred,” said Selius Arconious, bitterly, “had Marlenus, our Ubar, he, the Ubar of Ubars, been in the city.”
“We must do what we can without him,” said Portus.
“I do not understand,” said Arconious.
“The Delta Brigade is not a myth, as you may have supposed,” said Portus. “I assure you of that. I, and Tersius, and Fel Doron, have been of the brigade. But we have now left it. It is too small, it is dilatory, it is unready to act. There are things that can be done now. We must do them. We will take independent action.”
“What can you do, alone?” asked Arconious. “Ambush and kill a Cosian sentry, precipitate the taking of hostages and reprisals by Cos? They could burn districts, slay thousands.”
“Some things can be done, and must be done,” said Portus. “We are not alone in these matters. There are others, too, who were of the Brigade, who feel similarly. Tonight, though we are less than ready, we will begin to act.”
“The city,” said Arconious, “must rise as a whole.”
“There is no rallying point,” said Portus.
“What can you do?” asked Arconious.
“The forces of occupation are not all Cosian,” said Portus. “Indeed, the greater portion of these forces are mercenaries in the pay of Cos. Their loyalty is not to the Home Stones of Jad or Temos but to the purse of their paymaster, gross Lurius of Jad. They have been supported largely by the routine, methodological looting of Ar, but the mercenaries are many and impatient and Ar grows poorer, and there is only so much silver, so much gold, so many women, only so much wealth which can be seized and distributed.”
“So?” said Arconious.
“Cos, in consort with Tyros, she under the Ubarate of Chenbar, the Sea-Sleen, extend their hegemonies, and lay tribute on more than a dozen cities.”
“Yes?” said Arconious.
“Portions of this wealth will come to Ar, to content the mercenaries,” said Portus.
“Cosians themselves could hold the city,” said Arconious. “They no longer need their mercenary allies. Their war is won.”
“Do you think the mercenaries, and their captains, will simply submit to being dismissed?” asked Portus. “That would be like turning larls loose in the streets. Denied their pay who knows what they will do. They might turn their weapons against Cos and Tyros.”
“That is a problem I am pleased to leave to Cos,” said Arconious.
“A caravan of gold is on its way to Ar,” said Portus. “It left Brundisium the last passage hand. It is pay for the mercenaries, and it is intended that it will be delivered to them on the feast of the accession of Lurius of Jad to the throne of Cos.”
“That is better than fifty days from now,” said Arconious.
“But already,” said Fel Doron, bitterly, “banners have been hung proclaiming the imminence of this joyous festival.”
“Your plan, I take it,” said Arconious, “is to interfere with, or delay, the arrival of the pay caravan.”
Portus grinned.
“Do not attempt this, I beg of you,” said Arconious. “The caravan will be well-guarded.”
“Are you with us?” asked Portus.
“It is foolish,” said Arconious.
“Are you with us?” asked Portus, again.
“No,” said Arconious.
“I wish you well,” said Portus. He extended his hand and the two men clasped wrists, each the wrist of the other. This is the strongest of grips, for otherwise hands may be pulled apart. In this fashion each has his own grip, and if one hand should slip, the other will hold. It is a grip common to mariners, it seems, and may have been derived from maritime practice. It is useful, it seems, in their dangerous work, where a lost grip might be the prelude to catastrophe, a fall from a yard, a plunge into cold, stormy seas. It has its value, too, of course, among tarnsmen, tarnkeepers, tarnsters, and such, who must occasionally move from saddle to saddle, or from basket to basket, and such, while in flight. The normal Gorean handshake, it seems, at least those which this slave has seen commonly exchanged amongst free men, is the same as, or rather like, that of Earth, from which world it is doubtless derived, the clasping of two right hands, thus the giving of the expected weapon hand to the other, a grant indicative of respect, trust and friendship, one supposes.
“I urge you to reconsider,” said Arconious.
“We do not,” said Portus, smiling.
“You are brave fools,” said Selius Arconious. “I wish you well.”
The tarns, interestingly, were arranged in order within the loft area, rather than outside, on the platform. Portus would lead, controlling the first tarn with its basket. Fel Doron would follow with the second tarn and basket. Tersius Major would come third, with the third basket, but, from his tarn’s harness, a long line extended to the fourth tarn and basket, and from the harness of that tarn, with its basket, there ran another line to the fifth tarn, and so, too, to the sixth and seventh tarn, this forming a string of tarns with their cargo baskets. The eighth and ninth tarns were in harness but bore no baskets. They did form, as they too were joined to the others by a line, a part of the tandem progress of attached tarns. There were thus two free tarns, so to speak, with baskets, and then a line of seven tarns, strung together, five with baskets, two without. This left behind, in their barred housing, two of the eleven tarns which had been originally in the loft. These two tarns were left in the care of Selius Arconious, who had chosen to remain behind.
Cosians would presumably be less suspicious if some tarns remained in the loft. Business, presumably, might have taken the others on their various ways. There might be problems, of course, when a slaver, or slaver’s man, came to collect a slave. Selius Arconious, of course, a lowly employee, could not be expected to be of much help in such matters. Too, what would the slaver, or slaver’s man, when he arrived with his whip and leash, know? Orders might have been countermanded. Or perhaps Portus might have been ordered to deliver the slave himself to some designated location. It was hard to know about such things. The important thing was to be courteous, and as helpful as possible.
Ellen had lain on the floor amidst this bustle, naked there, on the straw-strewn boards, bound hand and foot, neglected, the small, now-damp, folded tunic clenched between her teeth.
Portus entered the first basket, and Fel Doron and Tersius Major entered the second and third bas
kets, respectively. Draft tarns are usually controlled from the basket. They may, however, be controlled from the saddle. Ellen supposed that a tarn progress of this sort, tarnsters abasket, might attract less attention than one in which tarnsters might be in the saddle. Might that not be a disguise for roving tarnsmen, who might then jettison the baskets and wing their way free to whatever mischief they might portend?
“Untie the slave,” Portus called to Selius, “and put her in the last basket.” Selius turned Ellen to her belly and bent to free her of her several-times-looped, narrow pinions. He unbound her ankles first and then, kneeling across the backs of her thighs, undid the thongs which confined her wrists. She continued to clench the folded tunic between her teeth, not having been permitted to release it. It touched the floor, as she lay. Then she turned her head to the right, the left side of her face then on the boards. She could feel straw beneath the side of her face. “Ellen!” called Portus. She turned, as she could, lifting her head, rising a bit on the palms of her hands, to view her master, her body still pinned in place by Selius, who was kneeling across the back of her legs. “Though your hands are free,” said Portus to Ellen, “you will retain your gag until we have passed, if we pass, over the walls of the city.”
Ellen nodded, tears in her eyes.
Ellen did not understand Portus’s qualification ‘if we pass’. What could he have meant by that?
It frightened her.
“Put her in the last basket,” said Portus.
Ellen, her mouth stuffed with her own tunic, serving as a gag, moaned in dismay. She was terrified of tarns, and frightened of heights. And what if the narrow ropes by which the basket was suspended from the harness should break? She would not have dared to protest, of course, even if she had been permitted speech. She did not wish to be beaten. She knew it would be done with her as masters wished, as it would be with a verr or a sack of sa-tarna flour.
Selius picked her up and put her on his left shoulder, her head to the rear.
Well she knew the meaning of that carry.
“When Portus addressed you,” said Selius Arconious, “you merely shook your head in understanding, and affirmation.”