Kur of Gor

Chapter, the Twenty-Eighth: THE SEEKING OF GRENDEL

"She is pretty,” said Peisistratus.

"Yes,” said Cabot.

"The tunic well sets her off,” said Peisistratus. “I see there is a smear of blood on her thigh."

"She can be washed, later,” said Cabot.

"You had her taste her virgin blood?"

"Of course,” said Cabot. “Stand straight,” he said to the slave. “You are under the gaze of a free man."

"The tunic is quite short,” said Peisistratus.

"She has excellent legs,” said Cabot.

"Well then to display them,” said Peisistratus. “She seems prettier now than yesterday, in the cylinder."

"She has learned something of the meaning of chains,” said Cabot.

"Left thigh,” said Peisistratus. “Lift up your skirt."

The slave complied.

"Excellent,” said Peisistratus. “She is well marked."

It was tiny and lovely. It was the common kajira mark.

"You may lower your skirt, and kneel,” Cabot informed the slave.

She lowered her skirt, and smoothed it, delicately, carefully, and then knelt beside her burden, supplies from the cylinder, which she would bear, as her master's lovely beast.

How vain they are, and how beautiful, thought Cabot.

"Kneel more straightly,” Cabot admonished the slave. “Good,” he said. The slave had much to learn, but she was highly intelligent, and would doubtless learn quickly. One of the most difficult things for a female slave, incidentally, is to be under her master's discipline while in the presence of a free woman. She knows the free woman despises her for being a slave, but, also, envies her, to the point of hatred, for her bondage, and the superb, uncompromising domination to which she is subject.

"Her hair, of course, is too short,” said Peisistratus.

"It will grow,” said Cabot.

"Corinna is better,” said Peisistratus.

Corinna, as one might recall, was a cylinder slave, one perhaps favored by Peisistratus. She was a skilled dancer. I believe we may have noted this, earlier.

"Perhaps,” said Cabot.

The slave stiffened, angrily.

How vain they are, thought Cabot. And how delicious. It was no wonder that men made them slaves, and had them serve them with perfection.

One of the nicest of gifts, incidentally, is a lovely female slave. Too, they are cheaper than a kaiila, or trained sleen, and far less expensive than a tarn, one of Gor's mighty saddle birds.

A chain of twenty or more beauties might be exchanged for a single tarn.

And how, Cabot thought, they learn to compete with one another, each to be more pleasing to the masters, each to bring a higher price on the sales block. They will fight over a brush or comb, an eye shadow or lipstick, or earrings, or a ribbon. They will tear hair for a bangle.

Yes, he thought, how delicious are slaves. Who would wish to live without them?

And the love of a slave for her master!

Who can understand that love, who has not had a slave at his feet?

Peisistratus looked about.

"I think,” said Peisistratus, “I should accompany you no further."

"It seems quiet,” said Cabot.

"Unnaturally so,” said Peisistratus.

Cabot looked up at the forests overhead. “Your men are about their errands?” he asked.

"Yes, since last night,” said Peisistratus.

"You are attempting to contact Lord Arcesilaus?"

"A man is on his way to his lodgings now,” said Peisistratus.

"It is strange,” said Cabot, “but while it is so quiet here, elsewhere, amongst the darknesses separating the worlds, fleets may be locked in dire, fearsome war, a thousand vessels exploding and burning, casting about debris and crews, fleets maneuvering, calculating, firing, escaping, dying, withdrawing, advancing, doing what men and Kurii do, conducting their affairs as usual, affairs so momentous to transitory civilizations, the universe indifferent, not noticing, or caring, blooming and dying, again and again, never noticing or caring, according to its own long laws."

"But we have been here,” said Peisistratus. “Nothing can change that."

"Yes,” said Cabot. “Nothing can change that."

"I think that is important,” said Peisistratus.

"I think so, too,” said Cabot. “We are part of it, and we know something of it, while it knows nothing of us."

"In us,” said Peisistratus, “as we are of it, it knows something of itself, and, in its way, of us."

"Perhaps,” said Cabot.

"We are the torch by means of which it explores its own caverns,” said Peisistratus.

"Perhaps,” said Cabot.

"I wonder if Grendel has been taken,” said Peisistratus.

"I do not know,” said Cabot.

"If he has been taken,” said Peisistratus, “his little blonde she-urt will have lost no time in uttering all she knows, to save her worthless hide."

"Doubtless,” said Cabot.

"It could be,” said Peisistratus, “that Agamemnon is unsure of the extent of the conspiracy, and will thus wait for the return of the fleet."

"That is quite possible,” said Cabot.

"You are determined to seek Grendel?” said Peisistratus.

"Yes,” said Cabot.

"Where will you seek him?"

"Where I think he will go,” said Cabot, “a place where Kurii will be reluctant to follow."

"Where?” said Peisistratus.

"There,” said Cabot, pointing upward, toward a shimmering patch of silver, seemingly small at the distance, amongst the forests above."

"Lake Fear,” said Peisistratus.

"Yes,” said Cabot.