“Perhaps,” she said, jerking at her bonds.
“Perhaps?” I inquired.
“Yes,” she said. “I am quite different!”
“I wonder if you understand that,” I said. “That you are radically different, wholly and absolutely different, wonderfully different.”
“Wonderfully different?” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “but you have not yet learned your womanhood.”
“I hate being a woman!” she said.
“That is because you have not yet been put at the feet of men,” I said.
“Untie me,” she said.
“I like you as you are,” I said.
“Untie me!” she said.
“Free yourself,” I said.
“I cannot!” she said.
“Then you will remain as you are,” I said.
“I was not following you,” she said. “I was fetching water, I lost my way.”
“And forgot containers, in which water might be brought?”
She was silent.
“Perhaps, rather,” I said, “you wished merely to look upon the sea, in the early morning, to hear the gulls, and such.”
“Yes,” she said, “that is it!”
“But you feared to be caught, unengaged in labors, lest Pertinax, your master, beat you for dalliance?”
“You have found me out,” she said, sadly. “Please do not inform my master.”
“Your severe master?”
“Yes,” she said, head down, “I do not wish to be beaten.”
“You have never been beaten in your life,” I said.
She looked up, angrily.
“It is hard to know whether there is a man in Pertinax or not,” I said. “If there is, it is hard to see, for the spineless urt.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her countenance.
How she despised him!
Women despise men for weakness, and fear them for strength.
“And I doubt you have ever looked on anything,” I said, “without considering how it might be put to your advantage.”
“That is not true!” she said.
“Perhaps when you were younger,” I said.
“Let me go!” she said.
“You are a mercenary, of sorts,” I said.
“I am a mere, worthless slave,” she said, humbly, “only a Gorean slave girl.”
“We are going to have a talk,” I said.
“Release me!” she demanded.
I stood back, and, for a time, regarded her.
“Do not look at me like that!” she said.
“Why should I not do so?” I inquired.
“It, it makes me uncomfortable!” she said.
To be sure, the tunic was a bit long, and heavy, but her arms, at any rate, were bared.
“Please,” she said.
“A slave,” I said, “should hope that she would be so looked upon, and should hope that she would find favor in a man’s eyes.”
“Beast!” she said.
“You are a slave, are you not?” I asked.
“Certainly!” she said.
“And your master is Pertinax?” I said.
“- Yes!” she said.
“What is your brand?” I asked.
“I am not branded!” she said. “That is a cruel thing to do, and Pertinax, my master, has not had it done to me.”
“A slave should be branded,” I said.
“I am not branded,” she said.
“Do I have your word on that?” I asked.
“Certainly!” she said.
I then went to her tunic, and, on the left side, lifted the tunic to the hip.
“Monster!” she wept, and pulled at the ropes.
The common branding site is the left thigh, just under the hip. The common tunic, of course, covers the brand. A side-slit tunic makes the brand easily detectible, and certain other garments, as well, for example the common camisk.
“Do not!” she said, pulling away.
Some masters, after all, are left-handed.
“Beast, beast!” she said.
I smoothed down the tunic, on both sides, and she pressed back, against the slim trunk of the tree, and turned her head, angrily, and looked to the side.
“You are not branded,” I said, “at least not obviously.”
“I told you that,” she said, angrily.
“I thought you might be lying,” I said.
“I was not,” she said.
“A slave should be branded,” I said. “It is an explicit recommendation of Merchant Law.”
“My master is too kind to brand me,” she said.
“It is not a matter of kindness,” I said. “It is simply something to be done with a slave, routinely.”
“Well, I am not branded,” she said, turning to look at me, angrily.
“You are sure you are a slave?” I asked.
“- Certainly,” she said. “If you look closely, perhaps you can see that I am in a collar!”
“Do you like your collar?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “It is humiliating, degrading, and hateful.”
“Is it uncomfortable?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Most slave girls love their collars,” I said. “Many would not trade them for the world.”
“I see,” she said.
“They are certificates of their attractiveness, that they are of interest to men, that they have been found worth collaring.”
“I see,” she said.
“Collar!” I snapped.
“What?” she said.
She had not lifted her head, exposing her throat and the encircling collar.
I approached her and examined the collar. “This collar is not engraved,” I said. “Should it not identify you as the property of Pertinax, of Port Kar?”
“It is a plain collar,” she said.
“Doubtless it is locked,” I said.
“Certainly,” she said. “I am a slave.”
I turned the collar, and tested the lock, and then turned it, again, so that the lock was at the back of the
