Plunder of Gor (46 page)

“Please, Master,” I said, “that which is in the pouch is for you.”

Epicrates reached down and lifted the loop of string, with its pouch, over my head.

I saw it dangle before me.

I watched him open the pouch.

“There is nothing here,” he said, “no note, no letter, no proposal, only a silver tarsk.”

“It is for you, Master,” I said.

A potter such as Epicrates, as many in the lower castes, would usually deal in tarsk-bits, or copper tarsks. Indeed, much transaction amongst the lower castes was done in terms of barter. A member of some of the lower castes might seldom see a silver tarsk. Even amongst the lower orders of the high castes some of the Builders and Scribes might see a year's wages in terms of a handful of silver tarsks.

“I do not understand,” said Epicrates. “I am not an Assassin, I have no secrets to sell. I do not wish to sell the shop.”

“To rent from you,” I said, “a lovely lady, and another, her fearsome pet or creature. My master asks only that you, who will be known to them, who are presumably in no danger from them, and will not fear them, intercede on his behalf, and permit me, on his behalf, to speak with them.”

“The lady,” said he, “is a strange, imperious little thing, whose Home Stone I do not know, but her pet, though large, is pleasant, sweet, and gentle. My companion helped her learn to read, if you can imagine that. She is not a slave, but could not even read Gorean. They had a slave, but not now. They pay their rent on time.”

“I am instructed to assure you, by my master,” I said, “that the silver tarsk is yours, and agreeably so, whether you approach the couple on his behalf, or not.”

“Your master is generous, quite generous,” he said. “Your accent is barbarian. I wonder if you know the value of a silver tarsk. Possibly you have never seen one hitherto. In any event, you needed only ask. No tarsk is necessary. I would be pleased to inquire on behalf of your master.”

“A slave is grateful,” I said.

“What is going on?” inquired Lady Delia, thrusting her head through the portal leading, I supposed, to their living quarters.

“It is a petition from the master potter, Tenrik of Siba,” he said, “he whom you well know by reputation, that I refrain from marketing my purple-and-white craters in the Vosk markets for at least one year.”

“The sleen!” she cried. “He wants to duplicate your work, and flood the river markets with his own cheap trash while you sit like a dolt at your wheel, doing nothing!”

“I fear so,” said Epicrates.

“How much did he give you?” she asked.

“A silver tarsk,” said Epicrates, lifting the coin.

“Demand two, five!” she said.

“I wonder how he heard of my purple-and-white craters,” said Epicrates.

“Spies,” she said. “Give me the coin!”

Epicrates surrendered the coin and Lady Delia examined it, carefully.

“I have never sold anything in the Vosk markets,” he said. “I have no intention of doing so. They are far away. The goods might never reach there. I do not think I could afford the shipping. Roads are precarious.”

“Tenrik of Siba does not know that,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” said Epicrates, thoughtfully.

“It seems silver,” she said.

“Take it to the Street of Coins,” he said. “See if they will give you a hundred Brundisium copper-tarsks for it.”

“A single silver tarsk is not enough,” said the Lady Delia. “Demand ten silver tarsks, a gold tarsk!”

“
Ela
, dear companion,” he said. “I have already accepted the arrangement.”

“For but a single silver tarsk?” she asked.

“I fear so,” he said.

“I shudder,” she said, “to think what it is for a shrewd woman like myself, one of acumen, one with hard business sense, to be companioned to so simple, naive, innocent, and gullible a fellow as you.”

“Yet we have renewed the companionship forty times,” he said.

“Someone must look out for you,” she said.

Epicrates then replaced the empty pouch on its string about my neck.

“I am off to the Street of Coins,” said Lady Delia.

“There is more clay to be kneaded,” said Epicrates.

“It can wait,” she said, hastening out into the street.

“Should you not veil yourself?” he called after her.

But she was already well down the street.

“Master?” I said.

“I cannot return the coin to you now,” he said. “You see the difficulties. I am sorry.”

“The coin is yours,” I said.

“Wait here, a bit,” he said. “The tenants upstairs are congenial, and affable, if unusual, and they are both home. They seldom go out until evening. I will return in a moment.”

“Thank you, Master,” I said.

A short while later, Epicrates returned. He seemed slightly troubled.

“May I ask, Master,” I said, “how the matter went?”

“Well enough, it seems,” he said. “But they seemed surprised, uncertain, and circumspect. I have not hitherto seen them so. Perhaps it is because they have so few visitors. Surely they were not expecting this business, this new business. I know little about them, really. I am unsure of their background and antecedents. I do not think they are of Ar. I do not know the source of their coins. Too, they know no Tenrik, of Siba.”

“Were they alarmed?” I asked.

“Rather, puzzled, I think,” he said.

The nature of their response suggested to me that they were, as least as of yet, unaware of anything that might have to do with the recent events in Brundisium.

“May I go upstairs now?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “You are to return at the eighth Ahn tomorrow.”

“My master did not anticipate a delay,” I said, distressed.

“They may wish to think, to talk,” he said, “to inquire, to consult, to prepare.”

“My master,” I said, “I am sure, will not welcome the delay.”

“I am sorry,” he said.

“Time may be crucial,” I said. I feared this might be true.

“You are not the first to seek such an audience,” he said.

“There is another?” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “and that perhaps accounts for their puzzlement, their possible apprehension.”

“When is this first audience to take place?” I asked.

“It is scheduled for the seventh Ahn tomorrow.”

“An Ahn before mine,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“A coin was rendered?” I asked.

“No,” he said. “But, as with your master, the party, or her principal, seemed reluctant to approach our tenants abruptly, to approach them unexpectedly, or uninvited. They, no more than your master, it seems, understood the lady's pet to be as harmless and placid as it is. To be sure, it has a fierce, dangerous mien.”

“This earlier interview was also arranged by a slave?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Might you describe her?” I asked.

“Like yourself,” he said, “she has brown hair and brown eyes.”

“Anything else?” I asked.

“Well,” he said, “she was very beautiful, even for a kajira.”

Chapter Forty-One

The seventh bar had rung. I had heard it even before I had slipped from my master's new rental on Hermadius. From Hermadius I had gone to Clive, and, after a few blocks, turned south, from Clive, at the Fountain of Aiakos, onto Emerald. It was now near the eighth Ahn.

“I fear,” had said Kurik, my master, “we will not make the first contact with Lord Grendel. That is unfortunate. In this way he will not be warned. He will not have had time to reflect, will not have had time to prepare. He will be taken unawares. Who knows what his mood may be once he is contacted by the agents of Kurii.”

“Perhaps I should have rushed up the stairs, despite Master Epicrates, and intruded upon Lord Grendel,” I said.

“So precipitously?” he smiled.

“Perhaps,” I said.

“I think not,” he said. “Even your collar might not protect you from so indiscreet and rash an act. As the ancient joke has it, many a track leads into the den of the larl but few lead out.”

“Master Epicrates assured me that Lord Grendel is a gentle creature,” I said.

“So, too, is the larl,” said Kurik, “until it is hungry, or needful, or surprised or annoyed, or suspects its territory is transgressed.”

“Master Epicrates seemed clear on the matter,” I said.

“Lord Grendel knows Epicrates,” said Kurik. “He does not know you, or whom you might represent.”

“Could I not go earlier,” I asked, “before the seventh Ahn?”

“No,” he said. “The matter has been arranged. The time was set. One does not tamper with the plans of the larl. We shall make the best of it.”

“What could the Kurii want with Lord Grendel?” I asked.

“We do not know,” said Kurik. “But when you arrive, at the Eighth Ahn, Lord Grendel might know.”

“I fear so,” I said.

“If the eyes blaze, the breathing quickens, the paws tremble, the claws extrude, the ears lie back against the head, the jaws open, and the fangs are moist, do not dally, but withdraw, politely, and respectfully, with all expedition.”

“Master?” I said.

“There is always a moment, however fleeting, before the Kur charges,” he said.

“I trust Master jests,” I said.

“If you read the signs aright,” he said, “there will be no danger, even were you a male.”

“I shall withdraw promptly,” I said.

“I recommend it,” he said. “A more auspicious meeting time may be arranged later.”

“Yes, Master,” I said, uncertainly.

“Do not be concerned,” he said. “Your sex will protect you. That is doubtless why the Kurii are making their own contact by means of another kajira. Just do not make any sudden moves, and, if you sense impending danger, a readiness to attack, withdraw.”

“Master Epicrates informs me that his tenant, whom we know as Lord Grendel, is harmless.”

“Lord Grendel is part Kur,” said Kurik.

“I shall leave shortly after the seventh Ahn, in the morning,” I had said.

“Beware of being followed,” he said.

“I shall be careful,” I said.

“Beware of anyone,” he said, “even one who might seem innocuous.”

“I understand,” I said.

I remembered the strong, handsome fellow, with long, powerful arms, a kajirus, or one seemingly a kajirus. His name, I recalled, or what he had proffered as his name, had been ‘Drusus'. A woman who is a slave is not likely to forget such a fellow. Were he not in a collar, and clad kajir, it would have been easy to think of him owning slaves. How women might tremble when he entered the slave quarters, carrying his whip!

The seventh bar had rung. I had heard it even before I had slipped from my master's new rental on Hermadius. From Hermadius I had gone to Clive, and, after a few blocks, turned south, from Clive, at the Fountain of Aiakos, onto Emerald. It was now near the eighth Ahn.

I looked about myself.

As nearly as I could determine, I had not been followed. Certainly I had seen none about in my journey whom I deemed suspicious, nor did I see any about now, here in the vicinity of the shop of Epicrates, who seemed other than what one might expect at such an Ahn on such a street. No one seemed to pause, or linger. No one seemed to feign, perhaps too studiously, a lack of interest in a mere kajira, one doubtless bound on some trivial errand for her master. I think my master's new rental was unknown to those who might be his foes. Those who had set the fire, and perhaps waited outside to strike us, if we fled the building, would by now have determined, presumably to their chagrin, that no charred bodies lay amongst the debris. I thought it even possible that they might have reported to their superiors that their mission had been successfully completed, or, more likely, more judiciously, that we had not been in the building. I supposed that a fellow might think carefully before he chose to acknowledge that he had failed to carry out a task set to him by creatures such as I had seen in Brundisium, in the house of Flavius Minor.

I had crossed the street, to be less conspicuous when I had passed the shop of Epicrates, which was now open, the wooden screen folded back and secured. I did see Epicrates at his wheel. I did not see the Lady Delia. The screen may have been folded back and the shop opened as early as the Fifth Ahn, for the shops of craftsmen commonly open early, and commonly close in the late afternoon, which economy conserves on candles and lamp oil. Breakfast and lunch, by the craftsmen, are often taken in the shop itself. The markets commonly keep similar hours, produce brought in early from the fields. On the other hand, there are many avenues and boulevards in Ar where more aristocratic or expensive tastes may be satisfied, for example, those for Tharnan silver and Turian silk, even carved jade from the World's End. In such districts it was not unusual to note the veiled palanquins and upholstered sedan chairs of women of the higher castes.

I had come early.

I had stationed myself in such a way that I could see the stairwell at the side of the shop of Epicrates, which would lead upstairs to the dwelling quarters on the second floor. I was curious to see who might, if anyone, descend those stairs. Indeed, I had come early with just this in mind. I had also taken care to position myself in such a way that I could not be seen from the shop itself unless one went to its fronting and surveyed the street.

I had been waiting for some time.

I felt the ringing of the bar for the eighth Ahn must be imminent.

I sensed a movement to my left, turned my head, and immediately knelt, humbly, submissively, head down, for it was a free woman. I kept my head down, waiting for her to pass. But, to my dismay, she stopped, before me.

“Mistress?” I said, keeping my head down. One must be careful of meeting the eyes of free persons, particularly free women, lest one be deemed insolent.

“Look up,” she said.

I raised my head.

Her raiment was unusual for this district, for it was of shimmering white and yellow, colors of the Merchants. She wore golden sandals. Her veil was yellow, and the hooding of her robes was white. She carried a small yellow parasol, which was opened against the late-­morning sun. Such parasols are occasionally carried by women of fashion, largely as an accessory. From the utilitarian point of view they have less to do with sheltering the bit of a woman's face that might be unveiled as to keep much of the robes of concealment shaded, this lessening the build-up of heat within the raiment. Interesting, as well, the parasol, in its opening and closing, in its lifting and lowering, its playful twirling, its coy movements, its modest interventions, revelations, and such, often functions, rather as a fan, as a flirtation device, hinting, teasing, promising, refusing, suggesting, denying, and so on. Indeed, its use, as that of the fan, may convey boredom, invitation, mystery, impatience, annoyance, rage, and so on. In the case of some free women, too, the parasol may have another attribute, one more sinister, an attribute of which I was not aware at the time.

I did note the switch that, like many free women, she carried at her belt.

“Do I not know you?” she asked.

“I trust not, Mistress,” I said.

It is easy for the veiled to regard the unveiled, less easy, by far, for the unveiled to regard the veiled.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“Waiting for my master,” I said.

“Why are you not chained to a ring?” she asked.

“I do not know, Mistress,” I said.

“You should be chained to a ring!” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

In many public places, particularly in the high cities, provided as a public convenience, there are slave rings to which a slave might be fastened while her master busies himself elsewhere. Indeed, in many public buildings slaves are not allowed, no more than other domestic animals.

“One should keep meaningless sluts, she-urts like you, on a chain,” she said. “How else to keep you from roving about, gossiping, lapping water from the fountains, perhaps even from the higher levels, from stealing from carts and stalls?”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” I whispered. I did not dare meet her eyes. I feared I knew her.

She turned away, and continued on, but, a moment later, she turned about, again, and abruptly.

“The wharf!” she said, suddenly. “Victoria!”

“Forgive me, Mistress!” I said. “I have not now, unaddressed, dared to speak to you. I have not accosted you.”

“So,” she said, “am I not your sister?”

“No, no, Mistress!” I said, hastily, plaintively. “That cannot be! You are free. I am a beast, a slave! I was ignorant before, stupid, a fool! Forgive me! I am kajira, only kajira! I am unworthy to tie your sandals, unworthy to perfume and garland your couch, unworthy even to cast petals in your path!”

“And a barbarian, too!” she said.

“Yes, a barbarian, too!” I said. “Forgive me, Mistress!”

She then, to my relief, turned away, and departed, continuing down the street.

I then rose, again, to my feet, shaken, miserable.

I saw a figure hurrying down the stairs across the way. It was not a man. It was a slave, a slave! I ran toward her, and, as she, not seeing me, was hurrying away, to my left, I ran after her, and called out, “Paula!”

She did not stop.

I seized her by the arm, and turned her about. “Paula!” I said.

She was white-faced, trembling. I thought her legs might give way beneath her. I had never seen her so frightened.

I steadied her, my hands on her arms.

“Phyllis!” she said, eyes wide.

“What is wrong?” I said.

“What I have seen!” she said. “It is hideous, dangerous, terrible! I did not know such things could exist! I saw only the woman at first. How wise she was! She lashed my ankles together so that I could not rise. Then it entered the room, and I screamed, and tried to rise, and run, but, my ankles tied, I fell. I tried to crawl to the door, the stairs, but the woman blocked my way, and ordered me to position, facing the monstrous thing!”

Clearly Paula had never seen a Kur before, or anything Kurlike. I had, of course, months ago, seen the beast, whom I had later learned was Lord Grendel, on Emerald, when I was in the company of Lita, my friend, the slave of Camillus, the Leather Worker. At that time I, too, was to be known, at least publicly, by the name ‘Lita'. It is, as I have indicated, a common slave name.

“What are you doing here?” I demanded.

“I was to deliver a message to a personage named Grendel, Lord Grendel,” she said, “but I never saw him, only the woman, who is seemingly free, and her gigantic beast.”

I removed my hands from her arms. She stood, unsteadily, still shaken.

“The beast,” I said, “is Lord Grendel.”

“No,” she said, “it is a beast.”

“Lord Grendel,” I said.

“It never spoke,” she said.

“It listened,” I said. “It could understand you. And, in its way, it can speak. You might not understand its speech.”

“No,” she said. “It is a simple beast.”

“The human is a beast, too,” I said. “Rational life is not confined to a single vessel, or form. What we term ‘beasts' might, clearly, not expect to find rational life in our form, which might be unfamiliar to them. The commonality for rationality is not determined by shape and size, by fur or skin, by hands or claws, but by cunning, by thought, by planning, by awareness.”

“I am afraid,” she said, trembling.

“Be afraid,” I said.

“What are you doing here?” she asked.

“What message did you deliver to the woman, the beast?” I asked.

“I dare not say,” she said. “The slave master might kill me.”

“Speak!” I demanded.

“No!” she said. “What are you doing here?”

“What slave master?” I said.

“The slave master in the house of Decius Albus,” she said, “he who is in charge of the slaves of Decius Albus.”

“Tell me!” I demanded.

“No,” she said, shaking her head, fearfully.

“You fear this slave master,” I said.

“He is slave master,” she said.

“It must be pleasant to be slave master in a house such as that of Decius Albus,” I said.

“It is a great house,” she said.

“Doubtless he has access to all the slaves in the house,” I said.

“Not to the high slaves, the preferred slaves,” she said. “They are reserved for the master, Decius Albus.”

“But to such as you?” I said.

“Yes,” she said. “I am helpless in his arms. I yield to him, helplessly.”

“You must,” I said, “you are a slave.”

“There is more,” she said. “I yield to him wholly, helplessly. He permits no reservations nor could I attempt any, even if I wished.”

“You are a slave,” I said.

“We are both slaves,” she said. “We are no longer on Earth, trying to live its lies. Here we are women. Here we are domestic animals, animals who belong to men.”