Quarry of gor, p.37
Quarry of Gor, page 37
I was lifted from the canal boat and felt stone tiles beneath my feet. “There are steps,” said a male voice. “I will carry you.” I was then, in strong male arms, carried up several steps. I wondered what it would be, to be carried so by Addison Steele. How weak I would have felt, how hopeful, how ready. I would hope that he would be kind, and touch me. I would tie the bondage knot in my hair, whimper, and put myself to his feet, kajira. Then I must wait, to see what, if anything, would be done with me. The master is all. I then recalled how despicable he was, and how much I hated him. I was then placed again on my feet and, a hand on my arm, was guided through several doors and down several passages. Four times I was lifted and carried up flights of stairs. I supposed the steps leading up from the landing had brought me to the ground floor of the holding itself. If that is the case I would then be on the fifth floor of the holding, which, in addition to the passages traversed, would testify to the size of the holding. It must belong then to an important person, perhaps even a member of the Council of Captains, the body sovereign in Port Kar. I would later learn that its high porch and parapet were literally one, as was the case with several other large buildings and holdings, with a tiny portion of the city’s walls. This holding, I would discover, was at the delta wall.
“Stand still,” had said the male voice, “I will remove the hood.”
I felt hands at the buckle, at the back of my neck.
The hood was pulled away, and I shook my head, loosening my damp hair. He pulled the hair away from my face, smoothed it, and put it back, behind my shoulders. I did not meet his eyes. Sometimes meeting the eyes of a free person directly is construed as an impertinence, a challenge, an insolence or defiance. Much depends on how it is done, of course, and the master. What master does not like, upon occasion, to look long, and deeply, into the eyes of a lovely slave?
The corridor in which I found myself was well lit, with light streaming in from high, narrow windows.
“Yes,” said he, to himself, musingly, “a Golden-Chain girl.”
I took this to be a compliment. When I had first encountered Addison Steele on this fresh, strange, beautiful world, on the Thieves Way South, I recalled he had expressed skepticism that I might be a girl at the Golden Chain. I trusted he would no longer be surprised.
A tiny key was put into the locks of the slave bracelets, and they were removed.
“Do not kneel,” he said.
The key and bracelets were then placed in his wallet, slung from his belt.
“Remove your tunic,” he said.
I slipped from the tunic, which he then took and placed in his wallet, as he had the key and bracelets.
When a slave is told to remove her clothing, she does not hesitate, protest, or cavil. She obeys without reluctance or reservation. She obeys unquestioningly, instantly.
“You may now kneel,” he said.
I knelt, knees closed, back straight, hands on thighs, looking ahead, down the corridor. He paused, standing behind me for a moment, and then withdrew. I did not break position to look after him.
I remained as I was for perhaps a quarter of an Ahn.
As I was still in the collar of the Golden Chain, I gathered I had not been sold, or given away.
If this is done, the girl is often the last to know.
Then a door opened, several feet down the corridor, to my left, and a young man, blond, brush bearded, of medium height, clad in a house tunic and sandals, emerged, and then stood in the corridor, regarding me.
I kept my eyes ahead.
Clearly he was free.
Too, there was a whip at his belt.
He approached to within some seven or eight feet of me.
“What is your name?” he said.
“Whatever Master pleases,” I said, a common response.
“What have you been called most recently?” he asked.
“‘Zia’, if it pleases Master,” I said.
“Who whips you?” he asked.
“I am the slave of Ho-Tosk, of Port Kar, Master of the Golden Chain,” I said.
“Who whips you?” is a common way of asking a slave girl her master’s name. Slave girls, on the whole, are seldom, if ever, whipped. That is because they strive to be pleasing and there is no reason to whip them. Sometimes they beg to be whipped, to be reassured that they are only slaves. Ho-Tosk, for example, had never whipped me, or had me whipped. Perhaps the inquiry had rather be, “To whose whip are you subject?” One does expect, of course, to be punished, if one is not pleasing. Who could respect a master who does not keep us in our place, at his feet? One soon learns not to test the limits of one’s discipline, as it is quite real, as real as hissing leather and weighty chains. One does not forget one is a slave.
“In this house,” he said, “your use is ours. You will think of our discipline as your discipline, of your collar as our collar. Do you understand?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
In this house, then, I would be full slave, no quarter or concession given.
I did not even know in what house I was.
Something seemed familiar about his voice, but I could not place it.
He removed a bit of cloth from his wallet.
“Do you beg clothing?” he asked.
“Very much so,” I said. Slaves treasure their tunic, perhaps even more than the smug, jaded free women of the high cities their veils, hoods, and robes.
“This is a tunic,” he said, shaking out the bit of cloth in his hand.
That was obvious.
“It is a rather common tunic,” he said. “It lacks the color, texture, and quality of the tunics of the Golden Chain.”
I was silent.
I was now sure I had heard the voice before.
But where?
“It is said,” he said, “that the girls of the Golden Chain think quite well of themselves, that they are proud, that they are haughty, that they look down on other slaves, that they regard themselves as special.”
“We are only slaves,” I said.
To be sure, not every girl was regarded as fit to be put on the floor of the Golden Chain, or, indeed, on certain others of the taverns of Port Kar.
“Perhaps you deign to serve the rabble,” he said.
“If we were not pleasing, we would be well switched,” I said.
“I have had many slaves who were quite as good as those of the Golden Chain,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said. I did not doubt it.
It was not my fault that I had served in the Golden Chain.
“Do you think you are special?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“What had he,” I wondered, “against the Golden Chain?”
“This tunic is of nondescript gray,” he said, dangling it from his right hand. “It is loosely woven, light, thin, and short. It is far from the grade, color, and splendor of the fine tunics of the Golden Chain. It is a common tunic, for a common slave. What is your brand?”
“The Kef,” I said.
“A common brand for a common slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
Kef is the first letter of the most common Gorean expression for a female slave, ‘Kajira’.
“You are thus a common slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“As many others,” he said, angrily, “in the Golden Chain.”
I was silent.
“But you did serve in the Golden Chain,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Perhaps then,” he said, “this tunic is far beneath you. I shall replace it in my wallet.”
“No, Master,” I said. “I beg it!”
“You would be clothed?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“You, such a woman, beg a tunic, a mere tunic?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Do so,” he said.
“I beg a tunic, a mere tunic,” I said.
“What sort of mere tunic?” he asked.
“The mere tunic of a slave,” I said.
“Why?” he asked.
“Because I am a slave,” I said.
He cast me the tiny garment and I hastily, gratefully, slipped it over my head. It was split at both thighs.
“The tunic does not make the woman beautiful,” he said, “it is the woman who makes the tunic beautiful.”
I remained silent.
“Nadu,” he snapped.
Instantly I went to nadu, knees spread, widely, back straight, head up, hands palms down on thighs.
“Now perhaps you understand what sort of slave you are in this house,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Now you do not seem so proud, so lofty, Golden-Chain girl,” he said.
“I am not proud and lofty, Master,” I said. “I am a slave.”
I gathered that he might have had an unsatisfactory experience at the Golden Chain. If this were the case, I was puzzled. It was not our fault if he was defeated at kaissa or lost a game of stones at the Golden Chain. Had one of the girls showed him insufficient deference, or dared to prove less than satisfactory? That was hard to believe. Every alcove was furnished with disciplinary devices. Had he been reluctant, for some reason, to make use of them?
“Now you are as a woman should be, before a man, on your knees,” he said.
I did know it was where I belonged, and other women, too, in whose heart they knew they were, and should be, slaves.
“I will not make the same mistake with you, as I did with another,” he said.
I did not understand these words.
“In this house,” he said, “you are available to any free man who wants you, immediately and unquestioningly, instantly and without the least demur, when, where, and however he might want you. Do you understand, Golden-Chain girl?”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“And there will be no wasting of a tarsk-bit for your use,” he said.
“No, Master,” I said.
I sensed that his hostility had nothing to do with me personally.
I was sure of the voice. Surely I had heard it somewhere, but when, and where?
Then I, kneeling before him, in nadu, uneasy beneath his scowl, aware of his whip, was suddenly no longer sure I had heard it before. How could I truly know? Might I not be mistaken? Perhaps what I had heard was merely a similar voice? Might I then have conflated the two? It is easy to invent fictions which masquerade as memories, often plausibly, even vividly. Memory itself, with its gaps, substitutions, and distortions, is often unreliable. How painful can be its comings and goings, its games, tricks, and jests! And how can one distinguish between an authentic memory and a seeming memory? Falsity would not be falsity did it not hide under the claim of truth.
“And do not think you will not be worked heavily as well,” he said.
“I will try to be pleasing to the masters in all ways,” I said.
“Should you now be whipped?” he asked.
“That is the decision of the master,” I said.
“Later perhaps,” he said. “The tunic might mitigate to some extent the blows of the lash.”
“May I ask the name of Master?” I asked.
“‘Florian’,” he said.
“Master appears to have reservations pertaining to the tavern, the Golden Chain,” I said. “May I ask why?”
“No,” he said.
“Yes, of course,” I thought, suddenly, wildly, it all now so clear, “the Golden Chain!”
“What is it?” he asked.
“Nothing, Master,” I said.
“Speak,” he said.
“It was you who addressed me in the alcove in the Golden Chain, when I knelt before you, chained and hooded!”
“The hood can affect hearing,” he said.
“I am sure it was you,” I said.
“Does Euphrosyne still serve at the Golden Chain?” he asked.
This question startled me.
“To the best of my knowledge,” I said.
“The girls of the Golden Chain,” he said, “should be stripped, shackled, and switch-driven to the steps of the palace of the Council of Captains, there to be publicly whipped, that they may then the better learn that they are slaves.”
I did not deem it judicious for me to dispute the matter.
“And you,” he said, “are a Golden-Chain girl.”
“I was bought by the Golden Chain,” I said.
“Only three slaves in this house,” he said, “are reserved to the Holding Master, those named ‘Vella’, ‘Cecily’, and ‘Adraste’, the latter named slave known to you.”
“The former Lady Julia Leta, of Ar,” I said.
“You will follow me,” he said. “I will take you to your cage and add your name to the rosters.”
“The “rosters,”” I said.
“The work roster and the girl roster,” he said.
“May I ask,” I asked, “in what house I wear my collar?”
“Of course,” he said, “this is the house of Bosk, he of the Council of Captains.”
He then turned about and strode down the hall, and I leapt up, and hurried after him.
Chapter Thirty-Six
I Learn More of the Holding,
In Which I Wear my Collar
“Paga!” called a fellow, and I hurried to him, to replenish his goblet.
“Hold,” he said, and I remained still.
He lifted the hem of my tunic, to the waist.
“A Kef girl,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“I thought you were from the Golden Chain,” he said.
“I am owned by Ho-Tosk, proprietor of the Golden Chain,” I said.
“A Kef girl, a common slave?” he said.
“I was bought for the Golden Chain,” I said, a bit arrogantly I fear.
Most of the girls at the Golden Chain were “Kef girls.” The Kef might be a common brand but that did not entail that the girl who wore it was a common slave. Many preferred slaves and high slaves wore the Kef. As far as I knew, the Kef, the cursive Kef, was the most common brand for a female slave on this world. I was angry. I strove to repress my annoyance. I supposed I was, in some sense, a common slave. That did not make the matter less annoying. If anything, it made the matter more annoying.
His hand did not release my tunic.
“What are you doing here?” he asked.
“Serving paga,” I said.
“Are you insolent?” he asked.
Some heads at the table turned toward us.
“No, Master,” I said, quickly. I feared, suddenly, my cleverness might buy me a lashing. I would not care for that, at all. I think that few would, who had had such an experience. It is one thing to be subject to the whip, and be thrilled and aroused by this subjection, and quite another to be subjected to its explicit attentions. “I do not know why I am here,” I said. “I was brought here. We are taken and done with as masters please. Curiosity is not becoming to a kajira. Please forgive me, Master.”
“We will see if you are insolent in chains,” he said.
“I assure Master I am not insolent,” I said. “I beg Master’s forgiveness.”
“She is on the Girl Roster,” called Florian, from his chair near the head of the table. “Her name is ‘Zia’.” The chair at the literal head of the table, a large, sturdy, armed chair, was empty. The head of the holding, I gathered, was not present. This was a dining hall for crews and various crews were at sea.
The fellow released my tunic. “You will be summoned to my quarters later, at my convenience,” he said.
“And to mine!” said a man.
“And to mine!” said another.
“And she will not cost you a tarsk-bit!” called Florian.
“I must replenish the pitcher, Masters,” I said, and hurried from the room.
There was much laughter behind me.
I knew little of Bosk, of Port Kar. Certainly I had not seen him, at least not to my knowledge. Little seemed to be known of many of this city. I wondered if this were a heritage from the days when there was no Home Stone in Port Kar, when she was known broadly as the “Scourge of Thassa,” a den of thieves, pirates, and cutthroats, rather than as she now chose to speak of herself, as the “Jewel of Gleaming Thassa.” Bosk, I gathered, had come to Port Kar as a stranger from the marshes. His sword had won him a crew and ship, and thus it had begun. Who knew what names were his earlier, or what deeds might have led one such as he to a city with no Home Stone. He was said to be a paga fellow of Samos of Port Kar, who was First Slaver of Port Kar, and First Captain, or High Captain, in the Council of Captains, which body, as earlier noted, was sovereign in Port Kar. His holding, five stories in height, was large and its wide sea wall, with parapet, formed a tiny part, some fifty yards or so, of the long, irregular, sprawling delta wall itself. I did not know how many crews or ships he had. I supposed he had some three to four hundred men and some seven or eight ships. My inquiries into particulars were ignored or rebuffed. I soon desisted, lest it be suspected I was a spy. Cities are often wary of one another, even if they are not actually at war. Agents tend to be multifarious and diverse. And even within a city, rivalries might exist amongst houses and holdings. Who knows what might be heard, even by a slave? Too, it is well known that a jumble of words which is meaningless or of little import might, if joined with other words, be formed into coherent sentences. Sometimes small things, inconsequential things, say, pieces of a puzzle, may be assembled into meaningful wholes, say, pictures, or other things, things intended not to be seen or understood. Tatters of discourse may be woven into tapestries of information. I had no desire to be taken for a spy. Curiosity may not only be “unbecoming to a kajira,” but might, I suspected, particularly if satisfied, be fraught with peril. One of the ships of Bosk of Port Kar, incidentally, was the Dorna. This was the vessel which had engaged, and destroyed, the Cosian raider on the voyage north from Brundisium to Port Kar. I did not know, of course, if there might be any relationship between the name of the ship and the Lady Dorna whom I had encountered so unpleasantly some weeks ago. I still remembered the terrible tunic of pain and the noxious fumes she had inflicted on me in her apartment. It did not seem likely to me, on the whole, that there would be a connection between the two names, that of the woman and the ship. Ships are often given a feminine name, and, for all I knew, ‘Dorna’ might be a familiar woman’s name on this world. Bosk of Port Kar’s smallest ship was the swift Tesephone, it also bearing a woman’s name, though one of a rather Cosian ring.
