It was not an easy day for them.
I supposed they would be anxious to get to the shade of their housings, and a pan of water.
But one, I saw, seemed frightened; she was looking about, apprehensively. She was backed against the wall, the palms of her hands back, against the stone. She was breathing heavily, this stress marked by the lovely rise and fall of her bosom. I did not think this was entirely from the climb. She seemed apprehensive, even terrified. How appealing a beautiful woman is when helpless and frightened. One desires to reassure and comfort her, before taking her hands and braceleting them behind her back. She remained on her feet, I supposed, that she might the more seem ready, should she be questioned, to return to her kennel. I knew her, of course, even from across the courtyard, some forty yards, or so. One does not easily forget such a slave. One in every ten or so is such a slave. Alcinoe, for example, was such a slave. In any market, on any street, men would have looked after her. Her passage was such as might elicit soft whistles, the smacking of lips, explicit speculations as to her value off the block, or her worth in the furs. A slave is not a free woman. She must expect such things. Too, given the scantiness of her garmenture, such speculations can be more securely grounded than in the case of a free woman, wrapped away somewhere within the layers of her robes of concealment. The slave, of course, is intended to be a source of pleasure. Her collar proclaims her such. She was looking at me. Why, I wondered. Then she sank down, half crouching, half kneeling. Her lips seemed to form the word, “Please!” She stretched her hand out to me, piteously. I did not understand her agitation. I did know she should be soon back in her kennel. Obviously she wished to speak to me. I did not understand this. What had frightened her?
I approached her, and when I had reached her, she knelt, bent muchly over, her head down. Did she fear to be recognized?
“May I speak, Master,” she whispered.
As I did not respond to her, she looked up, frightened.
I pointed to my feet.
She bent down, and, the palms of her hands in the dirt, kissed my feet. “Thank you, Master,” she said. She, a mere slave, had been permitted to kiss the feet of a free man.
“You may speak,” I said.
Her concern, her agitation, her fear, was evident.
“I heard men speak,” she said, “on the wharf. Is it true that there is one named Tarl Cabot here, at the World’s End?”
“Yes,” I said, “though he is not much about, is seldom on the grounds. He is Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry, in the forces of Lords Nishida and Okimoto, and, I suppose, now, of Lord Temmu.”
“A warrior?”
“Yes.”
“A tarnsman?”
“Yes,” I said.
“Of Port Kar?” she whispered, frightened.
“That is my understanding,” I said.
She moaned.
“Do you know him?” I asked.
“I fear so,” she said.
“He was on the ship when I was brought aboard,” I said. “I take it he was on the ship from the beginning. He has, I take it, been with Lords Nishida and Okimoto even from the northern forests.”
“So long?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
She began to tremble.
“You fear he might recognize you?” I said. I supposed that must be the source of her apprehension.
“He could recognize me,” she said.
“I see,” I said.
Surely she had enough to concern her, enough to fear, without learning that there was yet another about, by whom she might be identified as the former Talena of Ar, once the Ubara of Ar, now a tunicked, collared slave.
“You did not realize he was about?” I said.
“No,” she said.
I supposed that this was quite possible. Slaves such as she, muchly controlled, largely sequestered in the keeping areas, not serving at the tables, not being privy to the casual discourse of masters, not being free in a city, to roam the streets, the shops and markets, and such, are likely to know very little of what is going on about them, even on board a ship. Certainly one would not be expected to furnish them with bulletins, crew lists, and such. Seldom would they be in a position to obtain such information. And who, possessing such information, would impart it to them? If they learn of such things, it would presumably be by inadvertence, or in passing, and she, given her keeping, would have had scant opportunity to obtain such intelligence.
“On the ship,” I said, “you were aware of Pani?”
“Yes,” she said, “but I knew nothing of their numbers.”
“On the ship,” I said, “who were the high officers of the Pani?”
“I know now,” she said, “they were Lords Nishida and Okimoto.”
“Did you know that on the ship?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
I recalled that she, as some others, had been hooded when brought to the open deck.
“You fear Tarl Cabot?” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What have you to fear from him?” I asked.
“Everything,” she whispered.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“He would kill me,” she said.
“Surely not,” I said.
“Surely so,” she said.
“You fear,” I said, “that he would return you to Ar, to the justice of Ar, to the impaling spear?”
In the case of one of her importance, the impaling spear might be narrow, greased, and thirty feet in height, and, mounted on the wall, her slow descent, she writhing, trying her best to prevent it, unable to do so, might be visible for pasangs.
“No,” she said, “I fear he would not be so kind.”
“You fear more?” I said.
“Much more,” she said.
“Perhaps your casual skinning, and salting,” I asked, “prolonged for weeks, or months?”
“Perhaps more,” she said.
“You are a well-formed, passable slave,” I said. “Surely Tarl Cabot would have something better to do with such a slave than kill her.”
“I think not,” she said.
“Surely you are not unaware of the inordinate pleasure that a man may derive from a slave?” I said.
“You do not understand,” she said.
“What do I not understand?” I asked.
“There are terrible things between us,” she said.
“From when you were free?”
“Yes.”
“I see,” I said. I supposed there were many, a great many, who owed much to the former Mistress of Ar, who might adjudge the impaling spear an illicit, unwarranted mercy.
If she were one of the most desired, she was also one of the most detested, most hated, women on Gor.
“Do not make me speak further,” she whispered.
“I have served with Tarl Cabot,” I said, “on the ship, but I will not reveal your presence to him.”
She put her head down, gratefully, her dark hair over my boots.
