Quarry of gor, p.49
Quarry of Gor, page 49
“I do not like it,” said Ho-Tosk. “The alcoves are filled. Tempers flare. Paga grows short. Mariners, long at sea, are ashore. They are hungry for food, drink, and slaves. The tables are crowded. Men press at the threshold. Where shall we seat them? Dare we turn them away? They do not share our Home Stone. They may be reckless, careless. What will they do?”
“Send them to the Silken Rope,” said one of his men.
“Many at the gate,” said Ho-Tosk, “have been turned away by the Silken Rope.”
“Paga, paga!” called a fellow from across the room.
“There,” said the Vat Master, pointing to the fellow, and he then dipped a goblet into the paga, lifted it, dripping, and thrust it into my hands. “Thread your way amongst the tables,” he said. “Be quick. And do not spill a drop or you, barbarian slut, will be lashed across the back of the thighs.”
“Yes, Master,” I said.
Shortly thereafter I returned to the Vat Master.
A moment later, Daphne, shaken and red-eyed, her tunic half torn away, threw herself to her knees before the Vat Master and kissed his feet. “Master,” she wept, “permit me to withdraw through the beaded curtain!”
“You are half-naked,” he said.
I gave no sign of any reaction, but I found his remark piquant. Even in an intact slave tunic, is a woman not already half naked? Is it not the point of a slave tunic to leave little doubt as to the charms of its occupant?
“I was put on my belly, on the table!” she said.
“Did he pay his coin?” asked the Vat Master.
“Yes, Master,” said Daphne.
“No matter then,” said the Vat Master.
“What transpires?” asked Ho-Tosk.
“This is the third one this evening,” said the Vat Master.
“We cannot have this,” said Ho-Tosk.
“The alcoves are occupied,” said the Vat Master.
“Still,” said Ho-Tosk. Then, looking about, he turned away.
“Master,” pleaded Daphne.
“Very well,” said the Vat Master. “Withdraw, but return anon, freshened and retunicked. If you are not back within ten Ehn you will be fetched and whipped.”
Daphne leapt up and disappeared through the thick, dangling, colorfully beaded curtain.
There was a woman’s cry of distress from somewhere in the semidarkness.
“There is another one,” said the Vat Master. “And the paga grows short.”
Off to one side two fellows were scuffling.
“Should guardsmen not be summoned?” I asked.
“They are busied in the streets,” he said.
When I had been returned to the cages of the Golden Chain from the Skerry of Lars, I had, of course, recalled the beautiful slave, Dorna, once, in her freedom, called Dorna the Proud, once the highest of Silver Masks in Tharna, second only to the Golden Mask, Lara. It was my understanding that she had been remanded to the Golden Chain, not only to be treated as the slave she was, but to serve as bait for the capture of Pa-Kur, master of the Assassins. However, I did not encounter her. She was not on the premises. It seems that no effort had been made, either to silence her, or to acquire her, which might have led to the capture of Pa-Kur. Upon reflection, this did not surprise me. She had, although unwittingly, played her part well, misleading Florian and others as to the timing of the assault on the holding of Bosk of Port Kar. Too, what secret knowledge, or such, could she have now that would be relevant to the designs of Pa-Kur? Was she not now worthless to him, save perhaps as collar meat? Surely, in any market, he could buy kajirae who might do quite as well as Dorna, squirming, moaning, whimpering, thrashing, gasping, and panting in his arms. Why should he risk himself or an agent in her acquisition? Surely, as astute as he was, he would suspect a trap. And he could always wait and, if he wished, pick her up later. Too, I suspected he had other things on his mind after the unsuccessful assault on the holding of Bosk of Port Kar. Indeed, had he managed to escape the marshes alive? In any event, Dorna was no longer the property of the Golden Chain. I did not know what had become of her. I had heard that she was purchased, loaded with chains, and taken away. We must expect such things. We are slaves. Incidentally, I understand that masks, whether of silver or gold, are no longer permitted in Tharna.
There was a stir amongst the tables, and I noted that an alcove had opened up. A taverner’s man called out a number and a fellow raised his hand, clutching an ostracon. In this way, as honor was implicitly involved, contention was eliminated.
I wished more alcoves were free. I wished Addison Steele was present. I knew he held me in contempt. Yet might he not want me? Might he not thong my hands behind me and command me to an alcove, where I would kneel, head down, bound, awaiting him? I knew that every bit of me was his. Even from Earth and the cocktail party I had sensed that I belonged naked at his feet! How I had fought this, I, such a stupid, foolish, willful, wayward girl! How could I admit that I was a slave, and his slave! How deep was biology, and the secret of my being! How alien this was to all that I had been taught! I tried to resist, on Earth, and even on Gor! But I could not do so. I wanted his collar on my neck! How I had tried to hate him, and despise him! But I loved him, wholly, helplessly, hopelessly. I knew I was worthless, an illiterate barbarian slave girl. How rightfully he would look down upon me, I, who had been so vain, shallow, petty, and pretentious on Earth. What could I be good for, but to be slave? I trembled in his presence. Before him I could hardly stand. Before him I was weak. I wanted his domination. I wanted to kneel before him, and look up at him, adoringly, and beg to press my lips submissively and gratefully to his whip. He was the master of my heart and belly. How far he was above me, he a free man and I only a slave! Yet I would not have wished to be a free woman. That would have been too little for me. I wanted to love him a thousand times more than could a free woman. I wanted to love him with the selfless, marvelous, abject, wonderous love of a slave. Ela, I was not even a high slave, only a cheap, common girl, easily affordable, purchasable even by men of modest means. I knew I was nothing to him. But I loved him with every particle of my owned, marked, and collared body, with every particle of my heart and belly.
“Ho-Tosk,” called the Vat Master, anxiously.
The proprietor, distracted and concerned, was soon at his side.
“Look,” said the Vat Master, pressing a goblet down in the vat. The paga scarcely covered the base of the goblet.
“I have sent word to the warehouse,” said Ho-Tosk. “I did not anticipate this early shoring of the ships from Brundisium.”
“Nor did others,” said the Vat Master.
“We cannot command the winds and the waves,” said Ho-Tosk. He then, with a hurried gesture, summoned one of his men, one with the jangling coin box at his belt. “Paga grows short,” he said. “More is ordered. Men must be entertained. We must give them something to think of other than empty goblets.”
“We do not want the tavern dismantled,” said the Vat Master.
I could understand his concern. He, aside from a few slaves who would doubtless be cuffed or slapped about, would be the likely focus of a rapidly rising, widely spread disgruntlement.
“I will summon musicians,” said the taverner’s man.
“And will they play to an empty floor?” asked the Vat Master.
“That is true,” said Ho-Tosk. “Our patrons, frustrated enough already, will not be likely to tolerate that.”
“Shall I summon the musicians?” asked the taverner’s man.
“Yes,” said Ho-Tosk.
The fellow then disappeared through the beaded curtain.
“And who is to be put upon the floor?” asked the Vat Master. “What should we do for dancers? Adraste is gone. Ianthe is indisposed, Aglaia has a sprained ankle. Who else would you dare risk before such a crowd?”
Sensing the urgency of the matter, another taverner’s man had joined the group, he who had chained and hooded me long ago, for my interview with a stranger, in the matter of the alleged Luta, supposedly the former Lady Julia Leta, of Ar, the stranger who had later turned out to be Florian.
“You need a dancer,” said the fellow who had recently joined the group.
“There is none,” said Ho-Tosk.
“You had a dancer on your want list, recently submitted to Samos, First Slaver,” said he who had recently joined the group. “Is she not caged below, even now?”
“She has not been delivered,” said Ho-Tosk, despairingly.
“One of the finest dancers in Port Kar,” said he who had recently joined the group, “is Sandra, a slave of Bosk of Port Kar, housed in his holding.”
“Send for her,” said Ho-Tosk. “We have good relations with the holding of Bosk of Port Kar.”
The fellow then hurried away.
“He will not return in time,” said the Vat Master.
“We are lost,” said Ho-Tosk. “Let us hope the tavern is not set afire.”
Another alcove opened up, and a taverner’s man, he governing the ostraca, called out a number, and another fellow, clutching an ostracon, rushed forward, losing no time in delivering it to the taverner’s man. “You!” he cried, looking about, to a passing, startled slave, “come here!” In a moment he had tied her hands behind her back. He then pointed to the now-opened alcove. “There!” he said. The slave hurried to the alcove and knelt within it, head down. We could see her silhouetted outline, delineated by means of the tiny tharlarion-oil lamp beyond her. In a moment he had joined her, drawing shut the leather curtains behind him.
“Paga, paga!” called two other men.
“May it be the will of Priest-Kings that the paga speeds to our door,” said the Vat Master.
“There may be hope yet,” said Ho-Tosk.
The musicians arrived and took their places at the side of the dancing floor. There was a czehar player, two flutists, and a drummer, with the small tabor. They were followed by the taverner’s man who had gone to fetch them. “There are no dancers,” said the czehar player, who was the leader of the small group. “Ianthe and Aglaia are unavailable.”
“One has been sent for,” said Ho-Tosk, “from the holding of Bosk.”
“Let us withdraw,” said the leader of the group.
“Play something,” said Ho-Tosk.
Daphne, freshly tunicked, then returned to the floor.
“Can you dance?” asked Ho-Tosk.
“No,” said Daphne, hurrying away.
“She fears the whip,” said the Vat Master.
Often, when a girl dances, unless her skills are familiar, recognized, and indisputable, a taverner’s man, with a whip, is discreetly in the background. If he, or the patrons, a commonly discriminating and demanding audience, fond of the provocative subtleties and beauty of slave dance, are dissatisfied, he applies the admonitory, hissing leather to the slave. Under these circumstances it is clear that it is in the best interest of the slave to do her best, to be as pleasing as possible. She is, after all, a slave. In a sense, this sort of thing is typical of, and pervasive in, Gorean bondage. The slave, being a slave, and not a free woman, is subject to the whip. The average slave is seldom, if ever, whipped, for she is commonly zealous to be found pleasing, knowing well she will be whipped, if she is not. To be sure, an occasional stroke of the whip is an excellent reminder that she is not a free woman but a slave; and, indeed, she may even, upon occasion, beg for a stroke or two, that she be reassured of her servitude. It might be mentioned, in passing, that being marked and collared, being naked, or clad as a slave, obeying, needing permission to speak, kneeling, being subject to bonds, kissing the whip, being owned, and such, is incredibly arousing to a slave. Even performing small, domestic tasks can be arousing for a slave, for she knows she is owned. She is a special thing, a property, a possession. Bondage is not only her way of life, but her fulfillment. She would have it no other way. She is where she wants to be, at the feet of her master.
The musicians began to play.
Euphrosyne arrived at the vat, and looked with dismay into the vat. “I cannot return with half a goblet,” she said.
“Paga!” called a man.
“Paga!” called another.
“They will beat me!” said Euphrosyne.
“Can you dance?” asked Ho-Tosk.
“No,” said Euphrosyne.
“Here,” said the Vat Master. “A quarter of a goblet of paga. We can do no better. On your way!”
“They will beat me,” said Euphrosyne.
“Perhaps they will merely stretch you across the table, as they have done with others,” said the Vat Master.
Whimpering, Euphrosyne took the goblet pressed into her hands, and sped back amongst the tables.
“What of Sucha, Tamira, and Fina?” asked Ho-Tosk.
“Not dancers,” said the Vat Master.
“Several serve in the alcoves,” said the fellow who had gone to fetch the musicians.
“None are dancers,” said the Vat Master.
“We are lost, lost,” said Ho-Tosk.
At that point a burly fellow, presumably of the Arsenal, for he wore a sawyer’s brown and yellow smock, made his way to the paga vat. He held a paga goblet in his right hand, and his left hand was knotted in Euphrosyne’s hair, her body bent down, her head held at his left hip, in leading position. “What is this?” he said, lifting the goblet. “The bottom of this goblet is scarcely damp.”
“Ela,” said Ho-Tosk. “It was a mere quarter cup. I am sorry. It could not be otherwise. The slave is not remiss. Behold.”
The fellow stared groggily, only half comprehendingly, into the paga vat. “There is no paga left,” he said, slowly, trying to grasp what doubtless seemed to him a most unexpected anomaly.
“Very little,” said Ho-Tosk.
“Then you are truly short of paga?” said the man.
“Yes,” said Ho-Tosk. “The girl spoke the truth. She is not so unwise as to be deceitful. It will not be necessary to lash her.”
The fellow released his grip on Euphrosyne’s hair, and she rushed about the vat, to station herself behind the Vat Master and the vat.
“There will be no charge, of course,” said Ho-Tosk.
“Paga has been ordered,” said the Vat Master. “It will doubtless arrive momentarily.”
“Ho!” cried the sawyer. “Beware, brothers! The vat is drained! There is no paga! Who has made off with the paga? Where is it hiding now? Who is hiding it? We know, do we not? What price will they charge now? A silver tarsk for a cup? Search the tavern! Find it! Tear up the floors, pull apart the walls!”
Fortunately, the incoherent suggestions, the reeling, drunken importunings, the inflammatory proposals, of the belligerently tottering sawyer were not taken seriously, particularly as he almost immediately lapsed into unconsciousness and was carried to the side. On the other hand, his obstreperous, ranting analysis of the situation did serve to apprise the tables of a hitherto generally unrecognized problem, one which might soon prove acute, particularly as a number of patrons were on the point of beginning, or continuing, their evening, rather than prematurely terminating it.
“Be patient, noble friends,” called Ho-Tosk, “dear sharers of a Home Stone, and esteemed guests of Port Kar; it is true we are a bit short of paga now, for which deprivation I accept all responsibility, but more is even now hurrying to our portal. Wait a moment, a moment. Shortly there will be a free round of paga for all!”
This information did much to calm the tables.
Some of the patrons, at four adjoining tables, then broke into a song extolling the great harbor of Brundisium. Almost simultaneously, local mariners and workers from the arsenal, not to be outdone, added to the ambiance by contributing a competitive medley of tavern songs. It was not long then until disputes arose having to do with the comparative merits of the ships and slave girls of Brundisium vis-a-vis those of Port Kar. This might have grown ugly, save one fellow insisted on the greater beauty of the slaves of distant Ar. He was struck unconscious, which seemed to satisfy both parties, those of Brundisium and those of Port Kar.
“Where is the paga?” asked the Vat Master of Ho-Tosk.
“Perhaps the scoundrels of the Silken Rope have waylaid the delivery,” said Ho-Tosk. “They, too, must be crowded, and needful.”
“I think we shall withdraw,” said the czehar player.
“Stay where you are,” said Ho-Tosk.
“I fear insurrection,” said a taverner’s man, he who had fetched the musicians. “If it were in the streets, we could nail boards across the portal.”
“Perhaps,” said the czehar player, “you should do so anyway, to keep it from reaching the streets.”
The portal was now muchly open, for those who had crowded about seeking entrance, having learned of the dearth of paga, had, at least for the most part, departed, presumably intent on taking their custom elsewhere.
Doubtless this was disconcerting to Ho-Tosk.
At that point, Addison Steele, and Florian, of the holding of Bosk of Port Kar, in casual street tunics, appeared in the threshold.
Both seemed surprised, at least momentarily, by what they had come upon. The paga girls were not hurrying about amongst the tables, but gathered together, somewhat apprehensively, near the paga vat. Taverner’s men, with coin boxes at their belt, were inactive, standing to one side. There was little bustling about, little laughter, no shouting, no busy, genial hum of conversation, no coming and going. Ho-Tosk was on the floor but not mingling with customers. One had the notion of something like a tense restraint at the tables. A fragile, unwilling, sullen acquiescence seemed pervasive. Might there not be an unseen tempest brewing? Matters seemed calm, like the stillness of a crouching sleen before it pounces.
Ho-Tosk, who seemed to recognize and know the two new guests, summoned them to his side, anxiously, but discreetly. He took Florian by the sleeve. “Where is Sandra?” he said.
