Plunder of Gor (45 page)

“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.

“
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.

“Now,” said Epicrates, smiling, looking down on me, “what is all this about?”

“Master?” I said.

“I have never heard of a potter, let alone a master potter, named ‘Tenrik of Siba',” he said. “I doubt there is such a fellow. Also, I am not a master potter, and I am no authority on pigments and glazes, at least no more than most in my caste.”

I remembered last night, when our former dwelling place had been set afire, and we had made our escape. Before we had descended into the interior of the building that we had reached by means of the narrow tem-wood bridge, and while the fire was still raging, and while we were waiting for it to subside, when, we anticipated, those of the faction of Lord Agamemnon would proceed to investigate the smoldering debris, to determine the success of their assignment, I had been put to use, as a slave. Later, I had lain beside him, gratefully, my lips pressed to this thigh.

I felt his hand, roughly, but affectionately, in my hair, as one might hold an animal. “You are well subjugated,” he said. “Yes, Master,” I had whispered, kissing his thigh. How subdued, and well subjugated I was! I was owned. He was my master! How his I was. I would have it no other way. I had no choice but to yield the submission I was born to yield, and had longed to yield. I feared only he might tire of me, and sell me. How vulnerable, and yet loving, I felt. I wanted so to be a slave, and the slave of such a man. I was happy. What terror there is in the collar, what joy there is in the collar! I loved him, but dared not tell him. He was my master.

“I had hoped,” he had said, musingly, “for the assistance of adherents in Ar, for that, given the contact made by the slave, Paula, of Decius Albus, but clearly he is our foe. No other contacts were made. We must now proceed alone. We know nothing, as yet, of the Kurii from Brundisium, nor of their prisoner. They may not, as yet, have put their plan into effect. In any event, we will have to make contact with Lord Grendel.”

“Let us give up the matter,” I said.

“No,” he said, “we must essay the matter.”

“The fire burns but yards away,” I said. “It seems clear that desperate, unscrupulous men are about.”

“Undoubtedly,” he said.

“Withdraw,” I said. “Abandon these terrible games.”

“Never,” he said. “Can you not sense the exhilaration of the play?”

“Men are mad,” I said.

“A larl is a larl,” he said, “a man is a man.”

“Do not mix in these things,” I said. “There are Kurii, and there is even Lord Grendel himself.”

“Lord Grendel is to be contacted,” he said.

“Might not danger attend such an effort?” I said.

“That is quite possible,” he said. “Lord Grendel is part Kur, and the Kur tends to be violent, short-tempered, and unpredictable, easily provoked, easily excited to attack. They are very dangerous, even to one another.”

“Do not approach Lord Grendel,” I urged.

“I will not do so,” he said.

“Good,” I said.

“You will do so,” he said.

“I?” I said.

I was not cheered to receive this intelligence.

“Yes,” he said. “You are a woman, and a slave. Even a Kur knows the value of a woman, and a slave. Where a man might be summarily bitten to death and eaten, a woman would be seized and bartered for food or coin. Where a blade or quarrel might await a man only a new pen or chain awaits a woman, or at least one who is a slave. A free woman might be slain, mayhap, for she is free, but who would destroy a domestic beast, a kaiila, or a domestic beast as vital, as silken and soft, as helplessly inflammable, as a kajira?”

“Yes, Master,” I whispered.

“Too,” he said, “a slave is less likely to be suspected.”

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“You did not even suspect a slave, if he were a slave,” he said.

“No, Master,” I said.

“You will go to the pottery shop of Epicrates,” he had said. “It is on Emerald. His companion is the Lady Delia. The upper floor of the building is occupied by a free woman, whose name is Bina. With her you will find Lord Grendel.”

“Yes, Master,” I had said. I recalled the shop, and the woman, and the beast, for I, long ago, had seen these things. I had not known, of course, that the beast, so large, agile, and wary, was Lord Grendel.

“So,” said Epicrates, kindly, “what is this all about, lovely kajira?”

“I may not touch the pouch, on its string, about my neck,” I said, “but Master may open it.”

At least Kurik of Victoria had not braceleted my hands behind my back, before sending me on his errand. I would not, on any account, however, have touched, let alone opened, the pouch, for I had been forbidden to do so. Sometimes a stain is put on the pouch and, if the girl dares to touch, or open it, the residue of this stain, which may last for days, will betray her. She is then likely to be subjected, and well, to the attentions of the slave whip. Back-braceleted slaves are often used for conveying messages, transferring coins, and such. Too, it is not that unusual for unattended slaves to be back-braceleted. In this way they are much less likely to seize up a tospit or small larma from a vendor's cart. If apprehended, of course, she may expect a generous switching. As their arms are pinned back, this arrangement does tend to accentuate their figure. When back-braceleted, incidentally, a girl is more likely to be subjected to the attentions of passing masters met on the streets, being lip-raped and fondled. Whereas this is frowned upon in theory the girl is, it must be remembered, only a slave. On the other hand, a back-braceleted slave is less likely to be stopped and switched by a free woman. I suppose that is because she is obviously so helpless. Free women, on the other hand, might not realize how attractive a back-braceleted slave can be.