by John Norman
“Perhaps this will cause the troops of Lara to return,” said another, “to protect their own holdings.”
“No,” said another, “they are committed.”
“They are to be sold in the river markets,” said someone, as I went past.
I did not understand the meaning of his remark. It did not, I gathered, pertain to the women of Vonda. It would be difficult to get them to the river markets, which lay beyond Lara, down the Vosk, and higher prices, presumably, could be obtained for them in the markets of the south. Most of them, I assumed, women of the enemy, would be sold from the slave blocks of Ar herself.
As I went through the opening of the tent I was jostled by a large man. He wore a mask. “Watch where you are going!” he said, angrily. I stepped back, but did not respond to him. I was angry. It had been he, it seemed to me, who had struck against me. Suddenly, for a moment, he stopped and looked at me, closely. It seemed as though he might have thought he knew me. Too, it seemed to me that I might, in spite of the mask, somehow have found him familiar. Then, saying nothing more, he brushed past me and entered the tent. He was alone. I could not place him. Then I left the food tent and went to the tarn cots. I hoped to be able to arrange for transportation to the vicinity of Lara. I retained five silver tarsks. This is a considerable sum. I felt reasonably certain I could find some tarnsman, perhaps from a neutral city, who might, by a suitably circuitous route, get me into the neighborhood of Lara.
Some tarns had apparently recently arrived from the west. Some of them had apparently been carrying refugees. I saw some wounded men. Here and there small groups of men huddled about, dismally. I saw no women in these groups, even slaves. Some of them wore the white and gold of merchants. Some of them wore masks. They crouched about fires.
“Who are these people?” I asked one of the fellows near the cots.
“Mostly merchants,” said he. “These are the victims of the predations of river pirates in Lara.”
“Some wear masks,” I said.
“Yet most are known to us,” said the man, “Even masked. There, not masked, is Splenius, and Zarto. You know Zarto, the iron merchant?”
“No,” I said.
“He lost his wagons of ingots,” said the man. “Beside him, masked, is Horemius. Eight stone of perfumes ware taken from him. There, farther to the left, in the brown mask, is Zadron, the dealer in silver. He lost almost everything. In the red mask is Publius, also of the silver merchants. He retains only the belt of silver on his shoulder.”
“I see no women with them, no slaves,” I said.
“They were embattled,” said the man. “For their lives they bartered their goods and slaves.”
“These were all from Lara or her vicinity?” I asked.
“Yes,” said he. “They had not realized that the troops of Lara would be moving east, or that the brigands and pirates would move so boldly.”
“Are these all of them?” I asked, apprehensively.
“No,” said the fellow. “Some of them have gone to the food tent.”
“Was one called Oneander, a salt and leather merchant, among them?” I asked.
“Yes,” said the fellow.
Chapter 4 - THE CITY OF LARA; I RENEW AN ACQUAINTANCE
The girl stirred uneasy. Her legs were drawn up. She wore the Ta-Teera, the slave rag, and a collar. She lay in the corner of the main room of the inn. She lay on a slave mat. I had put her there.
I sat, cross-legged, behind one of the low tables in the room. I chewed on a crust of bread. The inn, now, was deserted. It had been evacuated early this morning.
“That is ten copper tarsks,” had said the man last night, had placing before me a bowl of sul porridge. I had not argued. I had paid him.
“You cannot put me out!” a free woman had been crying to the proprietor of the inn, at his counter to the side.
“You did not pay me for your last nights lodging,” he told her. “Pay me now for that, and for tonight, or you may not remain within the inn.”
“A silver tarsk for a night’s lodging!” she cried. “That is unheard of. It is outrageous. You have no right to charge such prices!”
Others, too, about the counter, uttered such cries. The inn was that of Strobius, in Lara, at the confluence of the Olni and Vosk. It was crowded with refugees from Vonda. Many hundreds had fled from Vonda, and most had taken the river southward, paying highly for their fares on the varieties of river craft, barges, skiffs, river galleys, and even coracles, which had brought them to Lara.
“Those are my prices,” said Strobius.
“Sleen!” cried more than one man.
“Whatever the traffic will bear,” had grinned a fellow near me at my table.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter was crying.
I lifted the sul porridge to my lips. The mask I wore, like those of some others in the room, covered only the upper portions of my face.
There was pounding at the inn door. Guards, sliding back a panel in the door, looked through. Then they admitted another small group of refugees. There would be no rooms for them, as there were none for many of the guests, but they, too, albeit only for a space in a corridor, would be charged a full silver tarsk for their lodging. The Inn of Strobius was not thought to be a good inn, but it was a large inn, and a stout one. Too, it was one of the few inns remaining open in Lara. Many of the refugees, destitute, who had come to Lara had not been permitted to land at the quays, but had been driven further downriver. Too, here and there in the city, river pirates, with impunity, sought women and plundered.
Several of the men in the room, other than myself, wore masks. I lowered the sul porridge to the table. It was not good, but it was hot.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter was crying. “You cannot put me out!”
Oneander of Ar, the salt and leather merchant, and some others, had worn masks at the loot camp outside the city of Vonda. He had been, perhaps, well advised to do so. He had intended to trade with Lara, a member of the Salerian Confederation. This would not make him popular in Ar, or in the strongholds of Ar. Too, he had been, as I had ascertained, attacked by river pirates on the south bank of the Olni and, embattled, had bargained for his life and those of his men by delivering his goods and slaves to the assailants. It was little wonder that he had chosen to mask his features. He did not wish to encounter the wrath of those of Ar, and he wished, doubtless, to conceal his chagrin and shame over the embarrassing termination of his business venture in the north.
I had waited outside the food tent in the loot camp. The sky to the west was lit with the flames of Vonda.
“Are you Oneander of Ar?” I asked the fellow who emerged from the tent.
“No,” he said.
“I think you are Oneander of Ar,” I said to him.
“Do not speak so loudly,” had said he, looking about, “you fool!”
I had then reached to his tunic and seized him, dragging him toward me.
“Remove your mask,” I told him.
“Is there no one to protect me?” he called.
“What is going on here?” inquired a guardsman.
“I think this is Oneander of Ar,” I said.
“I had heard he was in the camp,” said the guardsman. “Are you he?”
“Yes,” said the man, hesitantly, angrily.
“Remove the mask,” I said. “Or I shall.”
Angrily he drew away the mask.
“It is Oneander,” said the guardsman, not pleased.
“Do not leave me here with him!” called Oneander of Ar.
But the guardsman had turned his back and left.
“Who are you?” asked Oneander of Ar, apprehensively.
“I was once a silk slave,” I said. “You may recall me, from the streets of Ar, some months ago, in the neighborhood of the shop of Philebus. You set two slaves upon me.”
“Do not kill me,” he whispered.
“I have heard,” said I, “that you
were embattled near Lara and surrendered slaves and goods.”
“On the south bank of the Olni,” he said, “yes, it is true.”
“You did well,” I said, “to save the lives of your men, and yourself.”
“I have lost much,” he said.
“What do you conjecture,” I asked, “to be the fate of your goods and slaves?”
“They are no longer mine,” he said. “They are now the property of the river pirates, theirs by the rights of sword and power.”
“That is true,” I said. “But what do you conjecture is to be their fate?”
“It is not likely they could be sold in Lara, or northward,” he said. “Usually the river pirates sell their goods and captures somewhere along the river, in one of the numerous river towns.”
“What towns?” I asked.
“There are dozens,” he said. “Perhaps Ven, Port Cos, Iskander, Tafa, who knows?”
“He who attacked you, the pirate chieftain,” I said, “who was he?”
“There are many bands of river pirates,” he said.
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Kliomenes, a lieutenant to Policrates,” he said.
“In what town does he sell his wares?” I asked.
“It could be any one of a dozen towns,” said Oneander. “I do not know.”
I seized him by the tunic, and shook him.
“I do not know!” he said. “I do not know!”
I held him.
“Please do not kill me,” he whispered.
“Very well,” I had said, and released him. I had then turned about and went toward the tarn cots of the loot camp, that I might arrange with some bold tarnsman to provide me with transportation, by a suitably circuitous route, to the vicinity of Lara.
***
The girl again stirred in the corner of the room. She rolled to her back. One knee was raised. She was luscious in the slave rag and collar. She turned her head from side to side. She made a small noise. She opened and closed one small hand. I wondered if she were aware, dimly, of the coarse fibers of the slave mat beneath her back. I did not think so, not yet.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter had been crying out last night. “You cannot put me out!”
“You will pay or be ejected,” Strobius had told her.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she said.
I had taken another sip of the sul porridge.
The woman at the counter had been veiled, as is common with Gorean women, particularly those of high caste and of the high cities. Many Gorean women, in their haughtiness and pride, do not choose to have their features exposed to the common view. They are too fine and noble to be looked upon by the casual rabble. Similarly the robes of concealment worn by many Gorean women are doubtless dictated by similar sentiments.
On the other hand, veiling is a not impractical modesty in a culture in which capture, and the chain and the whip are not unknown. One justification for the veiling and for the robes of concealment, which is not regarded as inconsiderable, is that it is supposed to provide something of a protection against abduction and predation. Who would wish to risk his life, it is said, to carry off a woman who might, when roped to a tree and stripped, turn out to be as ugly as a tharlarion?
Slave girls, by contrast, are almost never permitted veils. Similarly they are usually clad in such a way that their charms are manifest and obvious to even the casual onlooker. This, aside from having such utilities as reminding the girls that they are total slaves and giving pleasure to the men who look upon them, is supposed to make them, rather than free women, the desiderated objects of capture and rapine. I think there is something to this theory for, statistically, it is almost always the female slave and not her free sister who finds herself abducted and struggling in the lashings of captors or slavers.
On the other hand, in spite of the theories pertaining to such matters, free women are certainly not immune to the fates of capture and enslavement. Many men, despite the theories pertaining to such matters, and accepting the risks involved, enjoy taking them. Some slavers specialize in the capture of free women. Indeed, it is thought by some, perhaps largely because of the additional risks involved, and the interest in seeing what one has caught, that there is a special spice and flavor about taking them. Similarly it is said to be pleasant, if one has the time and patience, first to their horror and then to their joy, training them to the collar.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” had cried the free woman.
“I can,” he informed her soberly.
“I am a free woman of Vonda,” she said, “a member of the Confederation.”
“I am an innkeeper,” said he. “My politics are those of the ledger and silver.”
I had sipped the sul porridge while listening to this conversation.
There are various reasons why Gorean men, upon occasion, resort to masks. Oneander had worn a mask, as had others in the loot camp, because of his fear of the anger of the men of Ar, concerning his trading venture with Lara, and, doubtless, because of his shame at his failure in that venture. Several men in the main room of the inn wore masks now presumably to conceal their identity for various reasons. Times were troubled. It might not well serve their purposes to be recognized, as perhaps men of wealth or position, now in difficult straits. Some might have been seized or held for ransom. Others, perhaps, shamed by the fall of Vonda, or the necessity for their flight from the city, did not wish to be recognized in Lara. Masks, too, are sometimes worn by men in disgrace, or who wish to travel incognito.
I recalled the Lady Florence. Doubtless the young men of Vonda, and the estates about Vonda, who would attend her secret auction might wear masks. She might not know who had purchased her until she knelt his slave, before him, at the foot of his couch. I wore a mask because I had not wished to be recognized in Lara. In Lara there were many refugees from Vonda and its vicinity. Some might have watched me in the stable bouts.
I did not think my tasks would be either expedited or facilitated by being recognized as a former fighting slave. Now, however, for an independent reason, I was pleased to have worn the mask. Sometimes, incidentally, free young men wear masks and capture a free woman, taking away her clothing and forcing her to perform as a slave for them. She is then commonly released. Afterwards, of course, in meeting young men she does not know for which of them, if any of them, she was forced to perform as a slave. Such a woman commonly begins to take risks inappropriate for a free woman. She is, sooner or later, caught and enslaved. She is then, as she has wished, sold, and will truly wear the collar. Perhaps one of the young men will buy her, and keep her as his own.
“I am a free woman!” the woman at the counter cried.
“That condition,” said the innkeeper, “could prove temporary.”
“I have nowhere to go,” she said. “I am safe here. River pirates may still be within the city. It is not safe for me to be put out.”
“You owe me a silver tarsk,” said he, “for your last night’s lodging. Too, if you would stay here this night, you must pay me another tarsk.”
“I do not have them,” she wept.
“Then you must be ejected,” said he.
“Take my baggage,” she said, “my trunks!”
“I do not want them,” he said.
It was my plan to arrange transportation downriver in the morning. My business lay not in Lara but further west on the river. Many refugees, incidentally, had not remained in Lara. It was too close, for them, to the war zone. It lay well within the striking distance of a tarn cavalry, such as that which had been employed so devastatingly on the fields and hills south of Vonda. Small ships, coming and going, made their trips between Lara and the nearer downriver towns, such as White Water and Tancred’s Landing.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she cried.
Strobius, the innkeeper, then, in irritation, motioned to one of his assistants. The fellow came up behind the free woma
n and took her by the upper arms, holding her from behind. She was helpless.
“Eject her,” said Strobius.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she cried.
“Rejoice,” said Strobius, “that I do not strip you and sell you into slavery.”
“What is going on here?” I had asked, rising to my feet and going to the counter.
“We are putting her out,” said Strobius. “She owes me money. She cannot pay.”
“But she is a free woman,” I said.
“She cannot pay,” he said.
“What does she owe?” I asked.
“A silver tarsk for last night,” he said, “and, if she would stay here this night, another tarsk, and in advance.”
“I believe this is the proper sum,” I said. I placed two silver tarsks on the counter.
“Indeed it is,” said Strobius. He swept the coins from the counter into his hand, and put them in his apron.
“There is your money, Fellow,” said the free woman to Strobius, haughtily, as haughtily as she could manage, still the helpless prisoner of his assistant’s grip.
“Yes, Lady,” said he, bowing deferentially to her.
“Perhaps, now,” she said, squirming in the assistant’s grip, “you will have this ruffian unhand me.”
He regarded her.
She shuddered. Her Home Stone was not that of Lara, times were troubled, and Strobius was master in his own inn. Too, she had, for a time, owed him money. Would he like to see her stripped, and collared?
“Please, Kind Sir,” she said. Gorean men are sometimes slow to release their grip on the bodies of females. They enjoy holding them. They are men.
“Of course, Lady,” said Strobius, smiling, again bowing. He then signaled the fellow to release the woman, which he did. She then drew back, angrily, and smoothed down her garments. Then, straightening herself, she came regally to where I stood.