Quarry of gor, p.25
Quarry of Gor, page 25
A natural, unapologetic, unassuming, unquestioned, taken-for-granted, powerful virility is common with Gorean males, presumably a consequence of the culture, which does not set itself, for political or social reasons, to diminish, undermine, cripple, and poison what otherwise would be a flourishing nature, but, as one would expect, even so, the men of Gor differ considerably amongst themselves, in judgment and appearance, in size and strength, in character and personality, and such, just as do the men of my former world.
“Would I had him for my master,” said Marcia, down the line to my right.
“I, too,” said Marcella.
“He would choose Adraste,” said Ianthe.
“I do not think so,” I said.
“Adraste is gone,” said Lana.
I had no doubt that he had come at last, perhaps unable to help himself, agonized and contrite, to see me, to beg my forgiveness, to apologize for his summary treatment of me weeks ago on the Thieves’ Way South, in the vicinity of Brindlar’s Scroll Shop, and later in the Whip and Chain.
“He is alone,” said Marcia, meaningfully.
“He is approaching,” said Lana.
I stood well, and turned my hip a bit. Then I looked to the side, with indifference. I had still not decided how I would respond to his advances.
I had waited for a long time. Perhaps I should be adamant and severe with him.
We would see.
I sensed he was perusing the line.
“This one,” said Addison Steele.
“Her name is Daphne,” said the Vat Master.
“I will choose a table,” said Addison Steele.
“When I send her,” said the Vat Master, “should I wrap a leather lace about the stem of the goblet?”
“Of course,” said Addison Steele.
Chapter Twenty
The Message
It was early in the day.
I was arranging goblets on the shelves near the paga vat, which was now covered.
The night before Addison Steele had overlooked me in the girl line. I had wept and silently raged in my cage. How helpless one is as a slave! My pride was gone. All my pretensions, all my brave plans, had been shattered. How I was to taunt him, how I was to make him suffer, how I was to bend him to my will, how I was to manipulate him! All these aims and ambitions had vanished; how barren proved such absurd projects and programs; these tactics and formulas had evaporated; did I still think I was a free woman of Earth; did I not know I was now a kajira, a Gorean slave girl, an abject, purchasable animal, at the mercy of the free? Yet, too, though I, through my tears, tried to deny it, I was not dissatisfied with the collapse of my pretensions and plans. I knew that I had wanted to be defeated; in being vanquished, I was freed; in being conquered, I found the reassurance and victory for which I longed.
I wondered if I would ever see Addison Steele again.
Surely it was possible. Might he not come again to the Golden Chain? Perhaps I could see him now and then, if only at a distance.
I knew I was now a slave.
I wanted to belong to him.
But he was not interested in me.
I recalled my former life.
How different it was now.
I was now in a collar.
My pride was gone.
He had despised me as a free woman. How much more then must he despise me as a slave! But I did not care. It was what I was and wanted to be.
My pride was gone.
I wanted to seek him out and throw myself to his feet, covering them with kisses, weeping, begging, to be purchased.
I was no longer a free woman.
I was a slave.
“Zia!” called Euphrosyne.
I turned to face her, a goblet in hand.
“I was called to the door,” she said. “I was given a message, for you.”
“By whom?” I asked.
“I do not know,” she said. “I could not well see his face. He was muchly hooded. I do not think he is known here. I did not know him. He did not identify himself.”
“Surely there is a mistake,” I said.
“No,” said Euphrosyne. “The message was for you.”
“No one gives messages to a paga slave,” I said.
“Shall I give it to a taverner’s man?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“He was clear,” she said. “It was for you, the slender, dark-haired barbarian slave, Zia, floor slave in the Golden Chain, the property of Ho-Tosk, proprietor of the Golden Chain.”
“I do not understand,” I said.
“Have you business outside the tavern?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “Of course not.”
“You had better not,” she said.
I put the goblet with the others on the shelf.
“Tell me the message,” I said.
“It is on paper,” she said. She looked about, and then opened the palm of her hand. In it was a small, folded paper.
“You know I cannot read,” I said. “Read it to me.”
Euphrosyne unfolded the small sheet, and regarded it.
“Well?” I asked.
Euphrosyne was frowning. “I cannot read this,” she said.
“But you can read,” I said.
“Not this,” she said. “It is unintelligible. It is not writing. It is only lines with starts and stops.”
“Let me see,” I said.
I seized the paper and turned away from Euphrosyne. I was shaking. I feared I might tear the paper. “Thank you,” I said.
“It is writing?” she said.
“Yes,” I said. “It is cursive. It is not just lines. It is handwriting. I can read it.”
“It is in code?” she asked.
“No,” I said. “It is in a language.”
“Not Gorean,” she said.
“There are other languages,” I said.
“I know,” she said, “but with an alphabet, languages which can be written down?”
“There are many such,” I said, “elsewhere.”
“What does it say?” she asked.
“I have not read it,” I said.
“Read it,” she said.
“Are there not tunics to be dampened and pressed?” I asked.
“That is quite possible,” she said.
“Curiosity,” I said, “is not becoming to a kajira.”
“I have heard so,” she said.
“Forgive me,” I said.
“You will help me with the tunics?” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“You are forgiven,” she said.
I waited until Euphrosyne had withdrawn, and then I took the note near the door, to read it in the morning light. It was in English, handwritten, in a bold, firm, masculine script. Its contents were as follows:
To the slave Zia,
Paga Girl at the Golden Chain,
Slave of Ho-Tosk, of Port Kar:
You are herewith instructed to be on the Walkway of the Thieves’ Way South, between the Scroll Shop of Brindlar, of Port Kar, and the paga tavern, the Whip and Chain, on this day, that of the delivery of this message, at the Twelfth Ahn. Your absence from the Golden Chain has been arranged with your master, Ho-Tosk, of Port Kar. You will wear a nondescript tunic, suitable for a low slave, one which will not associate you with the Golden Chain. This tunic will be delivered by a messenger to the Golden Chain at the Tenth Ahn. Once tunicked, you will be released from the Golden Chain through a secret door. You are to discuss this matter with no one. After perusal, destroy this message.
A. S.
I understood very little about this message. The Twelfth Ahn is two Ahn past the Gorean noon. I took the message to be from Addison Steele, which thrilled me, but frightened me, as well. Had he recalled my spasmodic surrenders in the Whip and Chain and thought to amuse himself once more with my body, that of a helpless slave in his hands? But if he wished to do so, it would be much easier to avail himself of me at the Golden Chain, in a comfortable alcove where I might, stripped to the collar, serve him wine and snacks, while waiting to see what he would do with me. I wondered if he had actually written the message. Presumably he was not the only one on this world who could write in English. Gorean slavers on Earth doubtless mastered one or more Earth languages. Perhaps someone wished me to think the message was from Addison Steele. Perhaps someone simply had the same initials. At least I knew where to keep the rendezvous. I had often frequented that area. I wondered if Ho-Tosk had actually authorized my absence from the tavern. Even had I wished to escape the tavern, I would not have dared to do so. Where could one go, where could one escape to? I dreaded the marshes, with the sharks, the Rencers, the tharlarion. Were I to strive for passage from Port Kar, it would be merely to be kept, or sold, at the end of the voyage. There was no escape for the Gorean slave girl. And penalties for attempted escape could be not only painful, but grievous. Gorean masters do not care to be inconvenienced by the antics of naive or foolish slaves.
I hurried down to the office of Ho-Tosk, to crave an audience, to inquire into, and confirm, details in the message, but learned, to my dismay, that he was absent from the tavern, and would not return until tomorrow.
“Zia,” called Euphrosyne, up from the laundry room below, which is on the same level as the kitchen.
“I will be with you in a moment,” I said. I went down the stairs from the level of Ho-Tosk’s office to the kitchen. On the way to the laundry room I surreptitiously dropped the note into one of the stoves.
“I will dampen,” said Euphrosyne. “You iron.”
“Why am I to iron?” I asked.
“Because you are a barbarian,” she said. “Also, you did not read your message to me.”
“It was not important,” I said.
Several of the small irons, heated from stoves in the kitchen, were waiting on the iron plate. I grasped the wooden handle which is designed to fit the irons, inserted it into one of the irons, and set to work.
Chapter Twenty-One
I Endeavor to Keep an Appointment;
The Bridge
At a third before the Twelfth Ahn I was on the Thieves’ Way South. My heart was beating rapidly. At the Tenth Ahn, a messenger, a stranger, certainly no one I knew, appeared within the tavern. In the vicinity of the Tenth Ahn, for some Ehn before, I had watched the door to the tavern, but I had not seen him enter. I did not realize he was in the tavern until I became aware of a presence behind me. He carried a small package. He indicated that I should follow him down the stairs, to the long pantry, adjoining the kitchen. There, in the pantry, he opened the package, which contained a small, gray tunic. He handed me the garment and told me to return to the pantry, in the garment, at the Eleventh Ahn. He then placed the wrapping in the wallet slung from his belt, and gestured that I should leave the pantry, which I did. Only a few steps from the pantry, however, distraught and confused, the tunic in my hand, I turned about, wildly, and rushed back to the pantry, to beg him for some intelligence as to what this whole mad business, so curious and mysterious, might be about, but the pantry was empty. Shortly before the Eleventh Ahn I donned the gray tunic, which had an odd feel about it, and returned to the pantry. He was in the pantry, waiting for me. He regarded me in the tunic and seemed satisfied. “Put your arms to your sides,” he said, “and turn away from me.” I complied, and a hood was slipped over my head and buckled about my neck. While I waited, he opened a portal or panel, somewhere in the pantry, one of which I was not aware. Then, his hand on my arm, conducting me, we exited the pantry. I no longer felt the flooring of the pantry or kitchen beneath my feet. The air seemed damp and musty. “There are stairs,” he said, leading me. “Here. Hold the banister. Ascend.” It seemed a long climb. At the end of this climb, we reached a level, floored with bricks. I heard a grating of metal, a creak of hinges, and a sliding of wood. I was conducted forward. The air was fresh. I felt warmth. The hood was removed. A door or paneling behind me closed. I found myself in the alley behind the Golden Chain. I was alone.
It was something like a third before the Twelfth Ahn. I was on the Thieves’ Way South. My heart was beating rapidly.
I would hurry past the shop of Leander the Baker and that of Brindlar, the dealer in scrolls.
I did not wish to be delayed. I was not in a tunic of the Golden Chain. I did not want to be asked about this. Had I been asked, what could I have told them? The tunic had a peculiar feel to it.
I slipped easily past the bakery of Leander as two customers were at his counter. For several yards past I could still smell the fresh bread. Near Brindlar’s scroll shop I waited a little, until a customer entered between the street bins. Then, looking away, toward the canal, I hurried past. Then, the scroll shop some yards behind me, I stopped. The message had told me to be between the scroll shop and the Whip and Chain at the Twelfth Ahn. I had not yet heard the bar sound for the Ahn. I was early. From where I stood I could see the sign for the Whip and Chain, small in the distance. The sign had been repainted. I was uneasy. A loitering slave may be questioned. I could walk a little, back and forth, pretending to be coming or going. There was space enough for that. On the other hand, there seemed few, if any, on the walkway. Two small boats moved past in the canal. I was uncomfortable in the tunic. This was unusual for it is hard to conceive of a garment lighter, freer, and more comfortable than a Gorean slave tunic. A free man passed and I knelt, and then, when he had passed, I rose again to my feet. Behind me was a stone wall, on which were posters and graffiti. One of the posters advertised the Golden Chain. The bar for the Twelfth Ahn rang.
I waited, in place. Of the few passing, to and fro, shopsmen and porters, none spoke to me. Some Ehn passed. Another small boat slipped by, this one moving west on the canal. Far off, ahead, I could see one of the small, narrow, colorful, wooden bridges spanning the canal. Another small boat was passing under it, approaching.
More Ehn passed.
The boat which had been far off, approaching, passing under the bridge, now passed by.
I tried to pull the tunic more away from my body.
I began to be more uneasy. Was the message some sort of hoax or joke? Had it been a ruse to lure me into an unauthorized absence? Even a single-master slave is commonly expected to request the master’s permission to leave the domicile, and is expected to inform him of where she is going, what she will be doing, and when to expect her back. Was this a jest, I wondered, on the part of Addison Steele, to set me on a venture, a venture at the conclusion of which I might expect a hissing whip? Might Ho-Tosk suspect that I had tried to escape? I do not want to be hamstrung or mutilated, perhaps as an example to other slaves.
“I will wait a little longer,” I thought, “then I will hurry back to the Golden Chain.”
At that moment, there was a sudden noise, a bright, loud, unexpected, shocking, jagged flash of sound not a foot from my head, and a handful of stone and dust, and debris, gouged, burst forth from the wall. It was like an invisible hammer or spike had struck the wall, fiercely, and with great velocity. A moment later it seemed I recalled I had experienced a splinter of light flashing past, and then I had become aware of the noise, and the shower of debris flying from the wall, some of which pelted my left shoulder and settled on my arm. I screamed and threw myself to the ground. I did not know what had happened. I lay there in shock for a moment, and then, when I saw it, yards away, almost at the edge of the walkway, by the canal, I realized what had happened. At the edge of the walkway, by the canal, I saw a short, narrow, pointed, metal-finned, metal, cylindrical object, an arrow or missile of some sort. It was a dread, terrible object. There was no mistaking its nature or purpose. I would later learn it was a familiar article of war, a metal bird of death, the quarrel of a crossbow.
I half rose, looking about. I saw no assailant.
Was this some accident? Had I been mistaken for someone else? Who would wish to attack me? Who would wish to kill me, and why, I, a helpless slave? What had I done? Was this some terrible mistake? Was I, unknown to myself, involved in intrigues, plots, or schemes about which I knew nothing? Was I thought to be a cog or principal in some enterprise far beyond my ken?
As I saw no one about, and could discern no sign of danger, I sprang to my feet and began to retrace my steps, to return to the Golden Chain, but I had hardly taken a step when I saw, approaching on the same walkway on which I found myself, an unmistakable figure, large and menacing, hobbling, moving toward me. Had he followed me from the Golden Chain? Had he been waiting for the missile to strike me, that he might be the first to reach the body, perhaps to examine it for messages? Was it a mere happenstance that he was on the walkway? Surely he would not know me, not from long ago, in Brundisium. He was moving quickly, for his handicap. I had no immediate fear of him, as I could move far more swiftly than he, supporting half his weight on that stout crutch or staff. I was afraid to return in such a way that I must pass him. I began to walk east on the Thieves’ Way South, occasionally looking back, trying not to exhibit concern. I would cross the bridge and return to the Golden Chain by means of the other walkway, the Thieves’ Way North. But perhaps his presence on the walkway was a mere coincidence? In the vicinity of the bridge, when I looked again, he was much closer than I had thought he might be. On whatever errand he might be embarked, it was one he was prosecuting with vigor. I thought I would stand to the side, as though not noticing him, and see if he would pass me by. If so, there was no danger. If not, I would have time to flee before he could reach me or strike me with that stout crutch, that formidable aid to his balance and locomotion. He came closer and closer and then suddenly, snarling, turned toward me. At the same instant I darted from the wall and raced to the bridge. I was almost half the way across the bridge when he reached the bridge. I could outdistance him easily, and it would be easy to return to the Golden Chain by means of the opposite walkway, the Thieves’ Way North. I was frightened, but elated. At that point, I heard a cry, “There she is!” I turned about, and saw some five or six men ascending the bridge from the Thieves’ Way North. I recognized he who led them. It was the man I had encountered twice in the Golden Chain, and earlier in Brundisium, he with the tiny, triangular scar on the right side of his face, low and to the right of his mouth. He carried a coil of rope. One of his entourage carried what seemed to be a short rifle, surmounted transversely with a bow of some sort. I did not doubt but what that device might launch a missile of the sort I had seen but moments ago. “Hold!” cried the fellow. “You cannot escape!” I looked back, and the one-legged man, whom I knew as Bruno of Torcadino, was now but yards away. The bridge was narrow. I could not hope to elude him. I ran, wildly, helplessly, to the center of the bridge, facing west, trapped. I did not know what dangers might lurk in the water. I clung to the rail. I looked down.
