Nomads of Gor (74 page)

 
"I shall try to keep it in mind," she said.

 
"Do so," I said.

 
"Do I make you nervous?" she asked.

 
"Yes," I said.

She had now picked up the yellow sheet and, with a pin or

two, booty from Turia probably, fastened it gracefully about

her.

 
I considered raping her.

 
It would not do, of course.

 
"Have you eaten?" she asked.

 
"Yes," I said.

 
"There is some roast bosk left," she said. "It is cold. It

       
would be a bother to warm it up, so I will not do so. I am

         
not a slave girl, you know."

       
I began to regret my decision in freeing her.

         
She looked at me, her eyes bright. "It certainly took you a

         
long time to come by the wagon."

           
"I was busy," I said.

           
"Fighting and such, I suppose," she said.

           
"I suppose," I said.

         
"Why did you come to the wagon tonight?" she asked. I

         
didn't care precisely for the tone of voice with which she

         
asked the question.

           
"For wine," I said.

           
"Oh," she said.

         
I went to the chest by the side of the wagon and pulled out

         
a small bottle, one of several, of Ka-la-na wine which reposed there.

         
"Let us celebrate your freedom," I said, pouring her a

         
small bowl of wine.

         
She took the bowl of wine and smiled, waiting for me to

         
fill one for myself.

  
       
When I had done so, I faced her and said, "To a free

         
woman, one who has been strong, one who has been brave,

         
to Elizabeth Cardwell, to a woman who is both beautiful and

         
free."

           
We touched the bowls and drank.

             
"Thank you, Tart Cabot," she said.

        
I drained my bowl. I

         
"We shall, of course," Elizabeth was saying, "have to make

         
some different arrangements about the wagon." She was ?

         
glancing about, her lips pursed. "We shall have to divide it

         
somehow. I do not know if it would be proper to share a

         
wagon with a man who is not my master."

          
I was puzzled. "I am sure," I muttered, "we can figure out

          
something." I refilled my wine bowl. Elizabeth did not wish

          
more. I noted she had scarcely sipped what she had been

          
given. I tossed down a swallow of Ka-la-na, thinking perhaps

          
that it was a night for Paga after all.

            
"A wall of some sort," she was saying.

          
"Drink your wine," I said, pushing the bowl in her hands

          
toward her.

           
She took a sip, absently. "It is not really bad wine," she

          
said.

            
"It is superb!" I said.

 
"A wall of heavy planks would be best, I think," she

 
mused.

 
"You could always wear Robes of Concealment," I ven-

 
tured, "and carry about your person an unsheathed quiva."

  
"That is true," she said.

 
Her eyes were looking at me over the rim of her bowl as

 
she drank. "It is said," she remarked, her eyes mischievous,

 
"that any man who frees a slave girl is a fool."

  
"It is probably true," I said.

  
"You are nice, Tarl Cabot," she said.

 
She seemed to me very beautiful. Again I considered

 
raping her, but now that she was free, no longer a simple

 
slave, I supposed that it would be improper. I did, however,

 
measure the distance between us, an experiment in specula-

 
tion, and decided I could reach her in one bound and in one

 
motion, with luck, land her on the rug.

  
"What are you thinking?" she asked.

  
"Nothing that I care to inform you of," I said.

 
"Oh," she said, looking down into her bowl of wine,

 
smiling.

  
"Drink more wine," I prompted.

  
"Really"" she said.

  
"It's quite good," I said. "Superb."

  
"You are trying to get me drunk," she said.

  
"The thought did cross my mind," I admitted.

 
She laughed. "After I am drunk," she asked, "what are you

 
Being to do with me?"

  
"I think I will stuff you in the dung sack," I said.

  
"Unimaginative," she remarked.

  
"What do you suggest?" I asked.

 
"I am in your wagon," she sniffed. "I am alone, quite

 
defenseless, completely at your mercy."

  
"Please," I said.

 
"If you wished," she pointed out, "I could in an instant be

 
returned to slave steel simply be reenslaved and would

 
then again be yours to do with precisely as you pleased."

  
"That does not sound to me like a bad idea," I said.

 
"Can it be," she asked, "that the commander of a Tuchuk

 
Thousand does not know what to do with a girl such as I?"

 
I reached toward her, to take her into my arms, but I

 
found the bowl of wine in my way, deftly so.

  
"Please, Mr. Cabot," she said.

  
I stepped back, angry.

       
"By the Priest-Kings," I cried, "you are one woman who

       
looking for trouble"

       
Elizabeth laughed over the wine. Her eyes sparkled. "I am

       
free," she said.

         
"I am well aware of that," I snapped.

         
She laughed.

       
"You spoke of arrangements," I said. "There are some.

       
Free or not, you are the woman in my wagon. I expect to

       
have food, I expect the wagon to be clean, the axles to be

       
greased, the bosk to be groomed."

       
"Do not fear," she said, "when I prepare my meals I will

       
make enough for two."

         
"I am pleased to hear it," I muttered.

       
"Moreover," she said, "I myself would not wish to stay in

       
a wagon that was not clean, nor one whose axles were not

       
greased nor whose bask were not properly groomed."

         
"No," I said, "I suppose not."

       
"But it does seem to me," she said, "that you might share

       
in such chores."

         
"I am the commander of a Thousand," I said.

         
"What difference does that make?" she asked.

         
"It makes a great deal of difference!" I shouted.

         
"You needn't shout," she said.

         
My eye glanced at the slave chains under the slave ring.

       
"Of course," said Elizabeth, "we could regard it as a

       
division of labor of sorts."

         
'Good," I said.

       
"On the other hand," she mused, "you might rent a slave:

       
for such work."

         
"All right," I said, looking at her. "I will rent a slave."

         
"But you can't trust slaves," said Elizabeth.

         
With a cry of rage I nearly spilled my wine.

         
"You nearly spilled your wine," said Elizabeth.

       
The institution of freedom for women, I decided, as many

       
Goreans believed, was a mistake.

       
Elizabeth winked at me, conspiratorially. "I will take care

       
of the wagon," she said.

         
"Good," I said. "Good!"

       
I sat down beside the fire bowl, and stared at the floor.

       
Elizabeth knelt down a few feet from me, and took another

   
    
sip of the wine.

       
"I heard," said the girl, seriously, "from a slave whose

       
name was Hereena that tomorrow there will be great

       
fighting."

I looked up. "Yes," I said. "I think it is true."
    

 
"If there is to be fighting tomorrow," she asked, "will you

 
take part in it?"

  
"Yes," I said, "I suppose so."

  
"Why did you come to the wagon tonight?" she asked.

 
"For wine," I said, "as I told you."

 
- She looked down.

 
Neither of us said anything for a time. Then she spoke. "I

 
am happy," she said, "that this is your wagon."

 
I looked at her and smiled, then looked down again, lost in

 
thought.

 
I wondered what would become of Miss Cardwell. She

 
was, I forcibly reminded myself, not a Gorean girl, but one

 
of Barth. She was not natively Turian nor Tuchuk. She could

 
not even read the language. To almost anyone who would
 

 
come upon her she might seem but a beautiful barbarian, fit
    

 
presumably by birth and blood only for the collar of a
    

 
master. She would be vulnerable. She, without a defender,

 
would be helpless. Indeed, even the Gorean woman, outside

 
her city, without a defender, should she escape the dangers of

 
the wild, is not likely long to elude the iron, the chain and

 
collar. Even peasants pick up such women, using them in the

 
fields, until they can be sold to the first passing slaver. Miss

 
Cardwell would need a protector, a defender. And yet on the
    

 
very morrow it seemed I might die on the walls of Saphrar's