Quarry of gor, p.22
Quarry of Gor, page 22
“Why do you hate me?” I asked.
“I do not hate you,” she said. “You are not important enough to hate. I merely despise you.”
I had now had enough of the haughty Adraste. Did she think she was still free? Moreover, I did not regard myself as inferior to Gorean women, at least to those who were in collars. We sell quite well in Gorean markets, sometimes outselling our Gorean sisters, much to their chagrin. It was not our fault if Gorean men often found us of interest. To be sure, in the presence of Gorean men, we often strove to be found of interest. If you knew Gorean men, you would understand this. Before such men we hoped to be permitted to kneel. Before such men a woman begs to kneel. I had an end to achieve. How might one do so? If I could not win the confidence of Adraste by a feigned friendship, to achieve some measure of proximity, to further my small mission of espionage, perhaps I might alarm her, or intimidate her, to the point that she might feel it wise to endure my company, my occasional nearness or intrusiveness, however unwillingly. Under the circumstances I did not think that my interlocutor in the alcove, or his mysterious principal, would object.
“You might be interested,” I said, “in something I heard, something which might be of interest to you.”
“I am not interested,” said Adraste.
“A sought fugitive,” I said, “is rumored to be in Port Kar.”
“A fugitive?” said Adraste, lightly.
“One of importance, one muchly sought, one for whose recovery money would be paid, one from Ar,” I said.
Instantly Adraste stiffened, staring at the wall before her. She clenched a plate. Then she thrust it from her. It settled into the water.
“I see now,” said Adraste, “why you are beside me.”
“I was simply put here,” I said.
“You she-tarsk,” she whispered, not facing me. “You have been waiting for this opportunity.”
“Do not be afraid,” I said.
“What do you want?” she whispered.
“Your secret is safe with me,” I said.
Adraste began to tremble. She grasped the sides of the basin, her head down, presumably to steady herself, to keep from falling.
“Perhaps you will now be more pleasant with me,” I said.
“How did you find out who I am?” she asked.
“I was told,” I said.
“Then another, or others, know, as well,” she moaned.
“Few, I am sure,” I said.
“Why should one tell you?” she asked.
“Do not concern yourself,” I said.
“What do you want?” said Adraste, tensely.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You see the collar on my neck,” said Adraste. “I am a slave. I am helpless. I can offer you nothing for your silence, neither riches nor your freedom. You, too, are a slave. Be merciful.”
“Your airs annoyed me,” I said. “You were never of high caste. You were only of the Merchants and, I suspect, not the high Merchants.”
“The Merchants?” said Adraste, puzzled.
“Perhaps you have heard of the Lady Julia Leta,” I said.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said, “you have never heard of the Claudian Marcelliani, a banking family, or of its house on Ar’s Street of Coins.”
“No,” she said, “I have not.”
“I see,” I smiled. “Let us continue our work, lest we attract the attention of the kitchen master.”
Adraste turned to face me. “Who do you think I am?” she asked.
“Surely it is not necessary for me to tell you,” I said.
“Who?” she said.
“Perhaps you have heard of a slave named ‘Luta’?” I said.
“I have heard of many Lutas, and Litas, and Ranas and Dinas, and others,” she said.
“I shall speak more clearly,” I said. “You were once the Lady Julia Leta, of the coin house of the Claudian Marcelliani, guilty of peculation and flight, sought for public display and punishment in Ar’s Street of Coins.”
A sudden transformation of relief shook Adraste, and she gasped and threw back her head, covering her mouth, fighting to repress laughter.
“What is going on?” called the kitchen master.
“Nothing, Master!” called Adraste, controlling her mirth.
“I see nothing funny in this,” I whispered to Adraste.
Adraste was now again the mistress of her emotions.
“Dear Zia, sweet barbarian,” she said, “forgive me. I nursed my secret for so long, so well, that pent-up emotions must burst forth. I might have cried, wept, groaned, or wailed, but I dared not, for fear of the masters, for a cry of misery would surely call forth inquiry, and so, almost without thinking, my surprise, consternation, and terror, in some unusual accommodation, which must find expression, rushed forth, transformed, concealed, as laughter.”
“An inadvertent substitution,” I said, “mirth for dismay, laughter for distress.”
“Precisely,” she said.
“I find that hard to believe,” I said.
“Dear Zia,” she said, “tell no one that I am discovered, that I was once the Lady Julia Leta. Coin Masters are intolerant of embezzlement. They are not easily satisfied. They understand little, and conjecture much. You do not know them. They can be cruelly vengeful. What do they understand of the feelings, hopes, needs, and desires of a lowly agent, an obscure, neglected, unimportant hireling, one afflicted with want, one impoverished, one deprived, one lonely and miserable, one laboring in the midst of gold she cannot touch, one encircled by the wealth of others, wealth she is forbidden to grasp? Ela, I weakened. Who might not? I surrendered to temptation. I erred. I am contrite. Blame me not. Understand me. Be merciful, protect me, keep my secret, I beg it of you.”
“Do not be afraid,” I said.
“I think the kitchen master is watching,” said Adraste, handing me a plate.
“Shall I call you ‘Luta’?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“In private, of course,” I said.
“Even so,” she said.
“Very well,” I said.
We then continued our work.
I was muchly dissatisfied with our exchange. When I had confronted the proud Adraste, who had at the time seemed much agitated, with the announcement that she was the former Lady Julia Leta, she had not responded as I would have expected, perhaps collapsing in terror, shuddering in dismay, weeping uncontrollably, moaning in despair, hysterically denying the claim, or such, but had, apparently, been amused. Indeed, she had nearly broken into laughter. Then, a moment later, it seemed she had acknowledged my claim, and wished little of me but compassion and silence. Her mirth had seemed anomalous; certainly it suggested that she might not be the Lady Julia Leta; then, a bit thereafter, too readily in my view, she had confessed to having been the Lady Julia Leta, admitted her guilt, sought my understanding, professed contrition, and begged my silence. It seemed to me reasonably clear that she could not be my interlocutor’s Lady Julia Leta of Ar’s Street of Coins, unless she was an actress of unusual skill and subtlety who, while actually being the Lady Julia Leta, chose to claim that identity in such a way that I would be unlikely to believe the claim. It seemed more likely that she was not the Lady Julia Leta but was pretending to be so, to amuse herself at my expense, taking pleasure in deluding a despised, ignorant barbarian. Certainly her conciliatory tone and her lavished endearments had been unconvincing. I supposed, given my interview in the alcove, there must have been a Lady Julia Leta, but I did not think Adraste was she. Rather, it seemed clear I had been misled. My interlocutor in the alcove had been mistaken. He was wrong. Adraste was not she. Given the fundamental nature of this error, I saw little reason in worrying about a Lady Julia Leta. On the other hand, it was clear that an attempt, an understandable attempt, given Adraste’s beauty, had been made in Brundisium to steal her. But that was in the past, and faraway. We were now in Port Kar. I would, however, if only to avoid being thrown to the urts in one canal or another, try to remain alert to any plots or potential plots, suspicious allusions, or such, which might involve Adraste. She might not be the Lady Julia Leta but she was beautiful, and strikingly beautiful slaves are more likely to tempt thieves than plainer slaves. But, too, of course, they are likely to be more closely watched. Too, a thief in Brundisium is not likely to be a thief in Port Kar, nor a thief in Port Kar to be one in Brundisium. Strangers on Gor, particularly in smaller communities, tend to be viewed with suspicion. Indeed, in Gorean, as I noted earlier, the same word is used for “stranger” and “enemy.” Incidentally, slave theft on Gor is very rare, certainly within particular communities. It is regarded as dishonorable to steal from one with whom one shares a Home Stone.
“Tonight,” said the kitchen master, “the six of you, those tunicked, and not shackled, will be returned to the floor.”
We would be washed, fed, rested, brushed and combed, and given fresh tunics.
As we left the kitchen, Adraste and I did not look at one another.
Chapter Fifteen
What Occurred on the Walkway
“Down on your knees, slut,” said the master of the scroll shop on the Thieves’ Way South. “Too often you have loitered about! I know your sort, sneaking about, sent forth by some scoundrel to steal a scroll, doubtless some client of the Golden Chain whom you hope to please. What was to be your reward, a candy, a taste of ka-la-na? Or were you merely to be whipped the next time he alcoved you, if you did not do this? Do you think I have not noticed you hovering in the vicinity? You have no business here. I am tempted to tie your hands behind your back and fasten a note to your collar that your indiscretion come to the attention of the Golden Chain! Scrolls cost coins, thief.”
I trembled before him, on my knees, my knees clenched together. I had seen his frown on other days. But this was the first time he had stormed forth from the shop, between the street bins, to speak to me.
“I am not a thief, Master,” I said. “Look upon a slave! I am not so bold! I would not dare to steal anything, even an olive or grape!”
“There are crumbs about your mouth,” he said, wiping a finger across my lips and then running the finger over his tongue. “You stole a pastry from the baker,” he said, “with honey!”
“No, Master,” I said, “I was given the pastry by Master Leander. He is not far from here. He may be asked.”
This was true, but I trusted that Master Leander would not in fact be asked. He was a jolly fellow, and I feared he might think it a delightful joke to feign ignorance of the entire matter.
There was no doubt that I was a girl of the Golden Chain. One needed not examine my collar. Some days ago we had been issued street tunics with advertising. Concurrently our outside privileges, our opportunities to leave the tavern, which had always been generous, had been further broadened. This lenience had been motivated, we gathered, in virtue of the opening of a new tavern on Palace Street, The Silken Rope, and, possibly, the renovation and enlargement of the Whip and Chain, which was not far from the scroll shop itself. Ho-Tosk had not been pleased to have girls wandering about the Golden Chain whose tunics bore inviting messages from the Silken Rope. Indeed, various altercations had taken place amongst the slaves of these competitive establishments. Ho-Tosk had even hired a brace of free women with switches to keep the paga slaves of competitive establishments at a distance. Our crimson street tunics bore the small image of a golden chain at the left shoulder, and, elsewhere, in cursive script, one or more provocative snippets designed to appeal to potential customers, such as, I was told, “Find me at the Golden Chain,” “I await you at the Golden Chain,” “I hope to please you at the Golden Chain,” and so on. I was told the message on the back of my tunic read, “At the Golden Chain, I am your slave.” Interestingly, Adraste was not utilized in this way. I supposed this was in accord with some directive from her mysterious master.
“And why,” asked the master of the scroll shop, “would Leander give you a roll?”
“He is fond of me,” I said. “He is kind. And I tell him the news. A girl hears much at the Golden Chain.”
“Rumors and gossip,” he said.
“It is hard to know what is true and what is false,” I said.
“It is all false,” he said.
“I trust not, Master,” I said.
“You have an accent,” he said suddenly.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“It is not Cosian,” he said.
“No, Master,” I said.
“If it were,” he said, “I would switch you.”
“Master?” I asked.
“We are at war with Cos,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You are from Ti,” he said, “or from west, on the Vosk.”
“Ela,” I said, “I am a barbarian.”
“Very few barbarians can read,” he said.
“We are seldom taught,” I said.
“Can you read?” he said sharply.
“No,” I said.
“Then he on behalf of whom you act is a fool,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“Only a fool would send an illiterate slave to steal a scroll,” he said. “She would not know the difference between the Songs of Andreas of Tor and the Tactics of Dietrich of Tarnburg.”
“No one sent me,” I said.
“You are illiterate?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Which are the most valuable scrolls?” he asked.
“Surely Master means the most expensive,” I said.
“Speak,” he said.
“The more expensive scrolls,” I said, “are on finer rence, with knobbed or ornamented spindles, commonly stained or varnished. Some of the most expensive are kept behind the counter; the most expensive of those have a purple ribbon tied to the spindle.”
“I thought so,” said the master of the scroll shop. “You were merely waiting for me to turn my back or be distracted, dealing with a customer, and then any one of them would do.”
“I am not a thief,” I said.
By this time I was aware that a small throng had gathered about, consisting, it seemed, of seven or eight men and three or four women.
“You stole a roll from Leander,” said the master of the scroll shop, “one with honey.”
“No,” I said. “It was given to me.”
It had not only been given to me, but it had been literally handed to me by Leander, while I had knelt before him. No longer did he cast a bun or roll to the walkway, and I must eat it, head down, on all fours, and only when given permission. A slave appreciates an occasional softening or lenience in discipline but is not well advised to confuse an act of kindness or a token of affection with weakness. The slave should take nothing for granted other than the fact that she is a slave.
“She is lying,” said one of the women.
“Master Leander is kind,” I said. “He enjoys what I tell him, the little things I hear at the Golden Chain.”
“On whose behalf do you act?” asked the master of the scroll shop.
“I act on behalf of no one,” I said.
“Beat her,” said another woman.
A slave girl hovered for a moment, curious and apprehensive, at the periphery of the group but, frowned upon by one of the women, she hurried away. I knelt alone at the feet of the free.
“I have often seen you about,” said the master of the scroll shop. “Why do you linger near my shop?”
“I walk, I often pass by,” I said.
“You loiter,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” I said.
“Thief!” he said.
“Am I to understand, noble Brindlar,” said a male voice, “that this comely slave sometimes dawdles in the vicinity of your shop?”
I caught my breath.
“Too frequently, noble Addison,” said the master of the scroll shop.
“Interesting,” said the male voice. “Do you not find that interesting, Lady Dorna?”
“Not particularly,” said a woman’s voice, as cold as the blade of a knife.
“What could explain such a thing?” asked the male voice.
I dared not turn about. My heart was racing.
“Watching, waiting for a chance to make off with a scroll,” said Brindlar, master of the scroll shop.
“And where in that tunic,” asked the male voice, “would you suggest she might attempt to conceal a scroll?”
This brought a burst of laughter from the men about.
“What is she doing here then?” asked Brindlar.
“It is clear,” said the voice. “The vicinity of your shop, or, say, one close by, offers some coign of vantage, to lure one fellow or another, or, more likely, constitutes some agreed-upon point of rendezvous. The arsenal is close by, not even a pasang away. Perhaps she waits for some sawyer or sail maker. These collar sluts are not above clandestine assignations, even of the most casual kind.”
“They are all shameless beasts,” said a woman.
“How I despise them,” said another.
“She-tarsks in heat,” said the first.
“Report her to her master,” said the second. “If the fellow wants her, let him go to the tavern and pay out his tarsk-bit.”
“There is something in that,” said a fellow.
“But not much,” said another.
“Let her master find out, and he will beat her pretty hide off her bones,” said another.
“She is not so pretty,” said a woman.
“She will do,” said a fellow.
“The Golden Chain,” whispered another.
I dared not turn about. But he was here, Addison Steele! Tears ran down my cheeks. I wanted to leap up, and throw myself, sobbing, to his feet.
“Come, Addison,” said she who had been addressed as Lady Dorna. “There is nothing here of interest.”
