Quarry of gor, p.38
Quarry of Gor, page 38
“You had best return to the tables,” said Portia. “If the men must call for you, you may be beaten.”
“What is the master like, this Bosk of Port Kar?” I asked.
“You have never seen him?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
“You are a Golden-Chain girl?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“What are you doing here?” she asked.
“I do not know,” I said. “I think I am here that I be protected, or employed somehow. I saw strange things in the delta.”
“What?” asked Portia.
“Nothing,” I said.
“You do not wish to speak?” she said.
“It is nothing,” I said. I wanted to speak, but I suspected I had said too much already.
“Much is strange now,” she said. “There is the problem of the Delta Gate. How could it have been damaged, so twisted and torn, with no siege, no attack? Why has it not been repaired?”
“Strange traffic is abroad,” said Renata. “Night voyages into the marshes.”
“The masters seem different, of late,” said Ina. “I fear something may soon take place. We hear little. They tell us nothing.”
“They seem rowdy enough now,” I said.
I smoothed down the hem of my tunic.
“Tell me of the master,” I said.
“If you are not owned here, are you free of the attentions of the men?” asked Sophia.
“I gather not,” I said.
“She is on the girl roster,” said Portia.
“He is a large man,” said Renata, “but there are many larger. He is clear of eye and keen of ear. He has the boldness of the larl and the agility, tenacity, and reflexes of the sleen.”
I had never seen a larl or sleen, but I had acquired a vicarious knowledge of such animals, and others, from various chain sisters, overheard conversations in the tavern, and such.
“He may be of the scarlet caste,” said Ina. “It is said he is adept in the kaissa of the sword.”
“It is said,” said Renata, “that the point of his blade conceals itself within its own movements, until, like the ost, it chooses to strike.”
The ost, I had heard, was a serpent, one whose bite was commonly fatal.
“He is a mariner,” I said.
“He has ships,” said Ina.
“He has favored slaves,” I said.
“Cecily,” said Renata, “and sometimes Vella, when he calls for her.”
“And Adraste,” I said.
“As far as I know, he has never laid eyes on Adraste, nor so much as touched her,” said Portia.
“She is not on the girl roster,” said Ina.
“There is something different and special about her, but I do not know what,” said Sophia.
I was not now as sure of the former identity of Adraste as I had been, some days earlier.
“Certainly she is worked well enough,” said Portia.
I had no doubt but what that was true. Yesterday, when I was bringing Florian’s list of, and inventory of, ka-la-nas of Market of Semris upstairs from one of the wine cellars to the office of Luma, a free woman, the only free woman in the holding as far as I knew, who was seemingly the accountant and business manager of the holding, I had encountered Adraste. She was in a hallway on the third floor, naked, on her hands and knees, shackled, scrubbing tiles under the supervision of a guard. She threw me a look of unbridled fury. How humiliated must have been the lofty Adraste, to find herself put to so miserable a servile task. Was it not far more fit for one such as I? I was even a barbarian. Yet, why should she object? Did she think she was a free woman? She was a slave. I would not stop to speak with her. I was afoot and she was on her hands and knees. Her mood was one of shame and rage. It would have been very difficult to speak to her under those conditions. Too, I had my errand to run and the guard was present. I hurried past.
“Are the slaves here allowed into the city, to wander about freely?” I asked Portia.
This was common enough with the girls of the Golden Chain, though, to be sure, advertising often seemed to be involved.
“Surely, frequently,” she said.
“And Adraste?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Adraste is confined to the holding.”
“I think I am to be confined to the holding, as well,” I said.
“Do not be too sure,” she said.
“Paga, paga!” we heard cry, from the dining area.
“Your vessel is replenished,” said Portia.
“Coming, Masters!” I called, and, vessel steadied in two hands, hastened back to the dining area.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
I Prove to be of Service to Masters
The smooth tiles of the walkway, one of many in Port Kar, somewhere in the city, were warm to my feet.
I was in the short gray tunic I had been given in the house of Bosk. My neck was still encircled with the collar of the Golden Chain.
“I do not understand, Masters,” I said.
“You will walk in this area,” said Florian, “past that entrance way, as though on an errand, and then return similarly. You will do this, back and forth, again and again, until summoned to our feet or until you deem it wise to run toward us.”
“That I understand, but why am I to do this, what is the point of this?” I asked.
“Are you asking a master for the rationale of a command or an explanation?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”
“You wanted to be free of the holding, to have an opportunity to enjoy the sights, the wind and sunlight, of the city, did you not?” asked Miles, colleague of Florian, a guardsman from the holding.
“Yes, Master,” I said. “Forgive me, Master.”
I had seen little of Florian’s colleague, Miles, in the holding of Bosk of Port Kar. I did have the sense, occasionally, that I had seen him, or might have seen him, or someone much like him, somewhere before.
At this point, the bar began to sound the Tenth Ahn, the Gorean noon.
Both Florian and Miles were in street robes, seemingly two gentlemen at leisure.
“You do not even know where you are, do you?” asked Florian.
A worker in the livery of the arsenal passed.
I raised my voice, the bar ringing its reverberating, measured notes, that it might be easier for the masters to hear.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Golden-Chain girls are so stupid,” said Florian.
“I do not think so, Master,” I said, trying to make myself heard, wisely or not.
“They are all worthless,” said Florian.
“But some, I hear,” said Miles, “are troubling.”
“That will do,” said Florian.
It was not easy to talk or hear, with the strokes of the great bar.
“You have been here before,” said Florian.
“Not to my knowledge,” I said.
“She is a Golden-Chain girl,” said Florian, “—stupid.”
“Certainly,” I think Miles said, as the sound of the bar made it hard to hear. Certainly he could speak more clearly or raise his voice, or at least wait for the interval between the strokes of the bar.
How should I know where I was? I had been brought here, hooded, in a canal boat and only relieved of the hood on the walkway. As far as I knew, I had never been here before. I did not recognize the area. It could have been any one of a hundred walkways bordered by canals in any one of the numerous districts of the city.
I was not braceleted or shackled. What did they mean ‘until I might deem it wise to run toward them’?
We waited until the bar had stopped ringing.
The sound of the ringing seemed to continue, even past the last stroke, ringing in my memory, seemingly unwilling to vanish.
“If our surveillance is accurate,” said Florian, “it should be nearly time.”
“There is variation,” said Miles. “Sometimes it does not occur at all.”
“If necessary,” said Florian, “we could come back tomorrow, and the next day, and so on.”
“Masters?” I asked.
“Start walking,” said Florian.
I had trodden the appointed course, as directed, back and forth, several times. I was now well ready to be relieved of this burdensome, pointless task, but the two fellows down the walkway gave me scant attention. Only occasionally did they seem to so much as notice me. I resisted the temptation to call out to them when near them. I sensed that that would be very unwise. I walked briskly enough for a time, but gradually, wearying, I slowed my pace. Even the lofty kaiila or a sturdy saddle tharlarion can tire.
“Have I not seen you here earlier?” asked a free woman.
I dropped to my knees. “I trust not, noble and beautiful Mistress,” I said.
“Perhaps not,” she said, and continued on her way.
Gratefully, I rose and continued to perform my assigned task.
I was pleased that I wore a nondescript tunic. Had I been in that of the Golden Chain, I think that her curiosity would have been piqued, and she might have looked into the matter further. Kajirae are seldom interested in coming to the attention of free women. The switch hurts.
There was not much traffic here, even in the bordering canal. This may have had to do with the time of day in this particular district, as the busy times in a district can vary with the occupations and interests of the locale, for example, with the change of shifts in the great arsenal, the deliveries to markets, the freighting and departure of ships, having to do with tides, and so on. The district, too, of course, may have been simply sparsely populated, though I did see several of the three- and four-story common-wall dwellings typical of Port Kar. Indeed, my ambulations took me regularly past the portal, coming and going, of one of these buildings. This was the “entranceway” which had been designated by Florian. Many such buildings, incidentally, lack walkways, and can be reached only by water. They usually have a narrow landing with mooring cleats, but often they will have one or two vertical, colorful, thick, capped, metal poles, rising from the canal itself, to which boats may be tethered. One then steps from the boat directly into the house. Sometimes several boats are tethered to one pole. Occasionally there is a sea gate leading through walls to a landing. This was the situation at the holding of Bosk of Port Kar. I had never seen an insula in Port Kar, but they might exist somewhere in the city. The insulae are essentially tenements, often seven or eight stories high, crowded with dozens of tiny, low-ceilinged, narrow, often-unlit, one-room apartments.
A peddler pushing a two-wheeled cart, filled with bundles of rags, passed by. Too, later, a scribe went past, his kit on its strap over his shoulder. He was calling out, in a droning, chanting voice, to see if anyone might wish something read or something written.
I had passed the entranceway, approaching it, again, and now, having turned about, I had just passed it, again, on my way back toward where Florian and Miles were dawdling about. They were not even looking at me. Let them do all this walking, I thought, and let me stand around down there or sit there in the sun with my back to the wall. Certainly I could spend my time doing nothing just as well as they.
I stood still for a moment.
I looked about.
This was surely not a busy district, at least at this time of day, but too, it did not seem lonely, unsavory, or dangerous. I had the sense that it was gentile, in a slightly shabby way. I supposed that if one wished to be in an area where one might be comfortably ensconced and relatively inconspicuous, it would be hard to have made a better choice. One placing oneself here would not be likely to suffer from the noticeable prominence of affluence nor the meddling, critical scrutiny of inquisitive, crowding, perhaps suspicious or hostile, neighbors. Here, I supposed, one would attract little attention. Now who, I asked myself, would be likely to favor such an arrangement? And why, I asked myself, would I be here, doing what I was doing? And I was suddenly very afraid.
“Hold, slave!” I heard, a fierce, commanding woman’s voice. Surely that of a free woman! What slave would dare speak like that? “Hold!” she screamed.
I knew the voice!
I was terrified.
“Hold! Do not move!” she cried.
For a moment I could not move, for fear. It was she who had not pitied me in the tunic of fire, she who had subjected me to the stifling, acrid, horrid fumes of interrogation, she who had wanted me cast from the delta wall to tharlarion, she who had tried to buy me at the Lesser Al-Ka Market, doubtless to fulfil the murderous intention which had been frustrated by Addison Steele, reluctant to “waste a slave.”
I broke into a wild, desperate run, away, anything to escape she who styled herself Dorna of Tharna. I had no desire to be cast from the height of the delta wall into the jaws of waiting, clustered, thrashing tharlarion, churning about, anticipating fighting for a part of the wall’s offering.
“Hold!” she shrieked.
I could easily outrun Dorna, encumbered as she was in the voluminous splendor of the multicolored robes of concealment. Such garmenture attests to importance, dignity, station, honor, and display; too, it may intrigue the curious, appraising male to speculate about the wonders and treasures it may conceal; but it does little for freedom of movement, say, on occasions in which a fleet departure might be advisable. Indeed, a ribald joke heard in the taverns, where no free woman is present, is to the effect that the point of the robes of concealment is not only to pique male curiosity but to render their occupant easier to apprehend. If this is the case then an interesting covert parallelism would exist between the concealment of the free woman and the exposure of the slave.
“Fugitive slave!” screamed Dorna. “Fugitive slave! Running slave! Stop her! Stop her!”
I was just to speed past Florian and Miles when Florian stepped before me, and seized me. I struggled helplessly in his arms, my size and weight so small compared to his, helpless in his grasp. “Let me go, Master!” I wept. “You do not understand! She wants to kill me!”
I was miserable as I, now held by the arms, facing her, saw Dorna hurrying toward us.
“Let me go!” I begged. “Protect me! Please! She wants to kill me!”
“Be quiet,” said Florian.
“My gratitude, noble masters,” said Dorna, breathing heavily, her street veil reacting to the intensity of her breathing. “Naughty Mira,” she said to me, scolding me. “You have been gone for two days. I was worried about you. You are naughty! I fear I must give you five strokes of the switch for your antics.”
“That is too little,” said Florian. “A solid lashing, and then close chains, and biscuits and water for five days, would be better.”
“I fear I am too gentle and permissive a mistress,” said Dorna.
“I gather this is your slave,” said Miles.
“Can you read, noble masters?” asked Dorna.
“No,” said Florian.
“Do you take us for scribes?” said Miles, apparently offended.
“No, no, forgive me,” said Dorna.
This exchange will be better understood if it is understood that many Goreans cannot read, particularly in the lower castes, and, interestingly, in the scarlet caste, the caste of Warriors, as well, a high caste. Indeed, who would be so bold as to claim that the Warriors was not a high caste? It would help, too, to understand that, unlike on my former world, an inability to read is not taken as particularly regrettable or shameful. One does not expect the metal worker to be skilled at baking or the baker to be adept at metal work. So why should bakers and metal workers be expected to be skillful or adept at reading and writing, the expertise of the scribe? Indeed, some castes rather look down on the scribes. What do scribes know about baking or metal work? Indeed, some Goreans who can read, particularly amongst the Warriors, feign an inability to read, considering it embarrassing or unseemly for their caste.
