Mariners of Gor

Chapter Thirty-Seven

“Wine, Master?” said my slave.

“Wine, Master?” said the slave of the stranger.

“Yes,” I said.

“Yes,” said the stranger.

They served the wine well, kneeling beside the two small tables, behind which we sat, cross-legged, touching the goblet softly, tenderly, appropriately, to their body, then lifting it, and licking and kissing the goblet’s rim, as they looked over the rim, into the eyes of their masters, then lowering their heads humbly between their extended arms, both hands on the goblet, proffering the goblets to the masters.

My slave had done well in the market, and I was quite pleased. The ka-la-na, for example, was excellent. I was impressed as she was a barbarian. I wondered if the slave of the stranger would have done as well. For example, when she had been free, given her station, she had probably had few experiences making her way amongst the stalls and baskets.

The ka-la-na was indeed excellent.

I wondered how much that had to do with her market skills, and how much might have had to do with her smiles and the brevity of her tunic. To be sure, for a slave, one supposed a sharp distinction amongst such things might not be warranted.

It had taken Callias only a moment, in the back room of the warehouse, at the side of the slave, to cut away her bonds, and tear loose the blindfold and gag.

“Master! Master! Master!” she had wept, joyfully, clutching him, melting against him.

“Oh!” she cried.

“Do not break her back,” I warned, for he held her with possessive address, with ferocity.

I supposed few free women had ever been so held, unless they were on their way to the marking iron, the collar.

She drew back for a moment and her lips were reddened, and bruised, and the lower lip bleeding, and then she thrust them, again, wildly to his.

“Stand,” I said to Callias. “She is a slave. Put her to your feet!”

But, both kneeling, they clung to one another, kissing, each weeping.

I stood to one side, embarrassed, if not dismayed, at this demonstration.

“It is only a slave,” I said.

“Yes!” he gasped.

“Are you going to keep it?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said, “yes!”

“For a time, at any rate,” I said.

“Yes!” he said. “Yes!”

I feared he was not attending much to me.

“I take it,” I said, “that that is Alcinoe. That was the name, at any rate, on the collar.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I gather you do not need now to journey to the World’s End, as it, so to speak, has been brought to you.”

He mumbled something, but the words were blurred, as he had his mouth on the side of her neck, under her hair.

“I suppose Lord Nishida, and perhaps Tarl Cabot, suspected you had some interest in this slave. Otherwise, certainly her presence here would seem fortuitous. Are you listening to me? She is a well-formed slave, but you could probably trade her in, at a slave house, for a better, given an extra coin or two.”

“No,” I think he said.

“I do not much care for that tunic,” I said, “it is too long, too heavy, too opaque. A scrap of silk would better remind her that she is a slave.”

He then put her at arm’s length, and looked upon her, enraptured.

“What color are her eyes?” I asked.

But I received no answer, for they were again in one another’s arms. Her eyes, as I later ascertained, were brown. It seemed difficult to communicate with Callias at the time.

“Is she white silk?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he mumbled.

“Surely you are interested,” I said. To be sure, a white-silk slave is quite rare.

I was having not much fortune in conversing with Callias, and so I thought I might try it with the slave. “May she speak?” I asked Callias.

“Yes,” he said. “Certainly.”

I was alarmed for Callias. Apparently he had given the matter very little thought. In any event, it seemed he accorded her a standing permission to speak. Many masters do, but, of course, with the understanding that that permission is revocable at any time. He had not even made the slave wait, in unsettled apprehension, for a time, to see what might be his decision in the matter. Whereas many masters do accord their girls a standing permission to speak, many others do not, but expect the slave, under normal conditions, at least, to request permission to speak, before speaking. Fewer things make it clearer to a woman that she is truly a slave, than that she may not speak without her master’s permission.

“Slave,” I said.

“Master?” she said.

“Are you white silk or red silk?”

“White, white, white!” she said, continuing with her kisses, then licking at the shoulder of her master, thereby confessing herself the more his loving, begging beast.

That answer, it seemed to me, was clear enough. I supposed that she had been kept white silk deliberately. I would not have guessed, however, from the sheen of sweat on her body, her avidity, the eagerness of her kisses, the wetness of her hair back against her neck, that she was white silk. As mentioned, white-silk slaves are rare. Often there is not one in a slave house.

Given the look of this slave, who was quite beautiful, though I had seen many better, it seemed unlikely she was truly white silk. Her body, its deliciousness, its vitality, its movements, its pressings and brushings, its piteous closures with, and its desperate touchings against, the master, its pleadings, did not suggest white silk. To be sure, there is a simple test for such things, often conducted by slavers. If she were truly white silk now, it was interesting to speculate on what she might be if red silk, if become the victim of irresistible slave fires. How easily a slave may be managed, and controlled, by such things! Must she wait? Will one choose to satisfy them, and how often, and in what way, and to what extent? A red-silk slave is often deprived of attention for some days, say, four or five, before being brought to the block, that she may writhe in the sawdust, extend her hands pathetically, and howl her need to the buyers.

“Have you had your slave wine?” I inquired.

I thought this a judicious question, and one that might not occur to Callias, and the slave, given the reckless pitch of their activities. A sober head is not amiss in such matters. It also seemed a good question to ask, too, as the slave, if white silk, did not seem destined to long remain in that condition.

“Yes, Master,” cried the slave, gasping, “that horrid stuff was forced down my throat shortly after my first collaring, and when I first came aboard the great ship, that of Tersites, and before I was landed, at the World’s End, and again, here at Brundisium, before I was brought ashore.”

I was well satisfied in this. Indeed, given improvements in slave wine, dating back some years, brewed from the sip root, the first administering of the wine would be sufficient indefinitely, until the administration of a releaser, which removes its effects. The releaser, I am told, unlike slave wine, which is quite bitter, is quite pleasant, rather like a sweet wine, or fruit liqueur. It is usually administered when it is decided that the slave is to be bred. Sometimes slave wine is administered more than once. There could be several reasons for this, for example, one might not know if it has been administered before, and one might wish to make sure of the matter, or one might simply wish additional security in the matter, which seemed to explain the dosage at the World’s End, or that before bringing the slave ashore in Brundisium. Too, one might administer it as a punishment, rather like a whipping or a night in close chains. Needless to say, if the slave comes with papers, a certification with respect to slave wine, and the date of its most recent administration, will usually be included in the papers.

“She seems a passionate little thing,” I said. “Are you going to breed her?”

“Yes, breed me, breed me, Master,” she wept, kissing him.

“I do not think she understands,” I said to the stranger, Callias. “Are you going to put her out for breeding?”

“Put me out for breeding?” she said, startled.

“It is a way of increasing one’s stock of slaves,” I said. “To be sure, there would be a fee for the use of the male slave.”

“I could be bred?” she said.

“Of course,” I said, “you are slave stock.”

This sort of thing, on the whole, however, is usually done by fellows who have many female slaves and do not know them, often the proprietors of large farms. The slaves, then, are bred with the same attention to lines, and properties, as other domestic animals, tarsk, verr, hurt, kaiila, tharlarion, and such. This sort of thing is independent of the sort of thing practiced on the great slave farms. Some bred slaves have pedigrees going back several generations.

“Master, Master,” she wept, “do not breed me. Keep me for yourself!”

“He will do as he wishes, slave,” I informed her.

Usually, in slave breeding, both the male and female slave are chained in a breeding stall, and hooded, that neither may know the other. The breeding takes place under the supervision of masters, or their agents, and the slaves, of course, are forbidden to speak to one another. If the breeding is successful, the mother is hooded during labor, and never sees the child, which is taken from her, to be tended, and cared for, elsewhere.

“I am so a slave, so a slave!” she said.

I frankly doubted that Callias would put her out for breeding. Indeed, I was beginning to wonder if he would release her from his arms.

“It may be done with you, kajira,” I assured her.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, frightened. It seemed I had suggested to her a new dimension of being a slave, to which she had hitherto devoted little thought.

“Keep me, keep me for yourself alone,” she begged Callias. “I would be yours alone!”

“Do you think you could be a good slave?” I asked her.

“Yes, yes,” she said, “Master!”

I supposed this was possible. Most private slaves, after a time, are hopelessly devoted to their masters. Doubtless this has to do with the collar.

It is hard to be in a man’s collar and, after a time, not come to be his slave, not merely in law, but in heart. And it is hard to have a woman in one’s collar without noticing, after a time, how well she looks on her knees before you.

“I fear, dear Callias,” I said to the stranger, “that you are weak.”

“I?” he said.

“Do not forget that this curvaceous little thing you have in your arms is not a free woman, nothing warranting respect and dignity, but a beast, a worthless slave, only that.”

“Is she not lovely,” said Callias.

“I have seen many better,” I said, “on the shelves, in the cages, on the block, even in secondary markets.”

“Surely she is the most beautiful woman in the world,” said Callias.

“Not to everyone, surely,” I said.

“Who better?” he asked, annoyed.

“Thousands,” I said.

“Do you have an example?” he asked.

“Certainly,” I said. “What of the barbarian in The Sea Sleen, the slender brunette, the exquisite paga girl, whom you had decamisk herself before you?”

“She cannot even speak Gorean properly,” said Callias.

“She can learn,” I said, now myself annoyed.

“Let her be whipped, regularly,” said Callias, “until her diction becomes passable.”

“Perhaps your Alcinoe could do with a bout with the whip,” I said.

“Master!” protested Alcinoe.

“Did I hear a slave speak without permission?” I asked.

“No,” he said, “she may speak as she will, until such permission might be revoked.”

“It does not seem to me that she has had the time to earn such a privilege,” I said.

“I grant it,” he said.

“Too quickly, too easily,” I suggested.

“Surely you see,” he said, “how lovely she is!”

“There are many better,” I said, “for example, the barbarian at The Sea Sleen, who heard your story.”

“She cannot even begin to compare with Alcinoe,” he said. “And she is not even Gorean.”

“I think she is Gorean now,” I said. “She is now no more than another collared Gorean slave girl.”

“You admit she is beautiful,” he said.

“Yes,” I said. From the tone of his voice I thought it well to concede this. Besides, I supposed she was beautiful.

“Very beautiful,” he said.

“Perhaps,” I said, “but now she is sweaty and heated, and her hair is wet, and there are still thong marks on her ankles and wrists.”

I noted, too, that her body was imbued with desire. To be sure, this adds to the appeal of a slave.

“Perhaps,” I said, “you are thinking of freeing her.”

“No,” cried the slave, frightened. “Do not free me, Master! Keep me! I am your slave! I belong to you! Your collar has been put on my neck! It is locked on me, and I cannot remove it! But I do not want to remove it! I want it there for all to see, that all may know that I am a slave, and that you are my master! I love my collar! I am proud of it! I want to be owned! I want to be possessed, utterly, and without qualification. I know myself, by beauty, by blood, by thought, by dreams, by needs, to be naturally the property of men, and it is your property I wish to be!”

He held her out, again, from him, both of them on their knees, on the planks of the dark, polished floor.

“What do you see?” she laughed.

“A slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she laughed, and leaned forward, as she could, straining to reach him with her lips.

“I am not a fool,” he said.

“No, Master!” she said.

This was doubtless an allusion to the well-known proverb, that only a fool frees a slave girl.

“All my life,” he said, “I have waited for such a slave.”

“All my life,” she said, “I have waited for such a master.”

“So why, then, should I free you?” he asked.

“You should not,” she said.

“I will not,” he said.

“A girl is grateful,” she whispered.

“Some women are too beautiful, too desirable, to free,” he said.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that I am such a one.”

“The collar proclaims you such,” he said.

“The heart of an eager and willing, but choiceless, slave rejoices,” she said.

“You understand,” he said, “the meaning of your condition?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Unquestioning and instantaneous obedience?”

“Yes, Master.”

“Subjectability to discipline, even to the whip and chain?”

“Yes, Master.”

“The slave is not a free woman,” he said.

“No, Master.”

“What, then, is the duty of a slave?”

“Master?”

“To be a dream of pleasure to her master.”

“I will strive to be pleasing to my master,” she said.

“And if you fail?”

“Then I trust that the master will better train me, will correct my behavior, and see to my improvement,” she said.

“It will be so,” he said.

“I will do my best,” she said.

“No one can ask more than that,” he said.

“Such words fall delightfully on the ears of a slave,” she said.

“But it will be I, and I alone,” he said, “who will decide whether or not you have done your best.”

“I understand, Master,” she said.

“Beware, my friend, dear Callias,” I said. “I suspect you are in danger.”

“How so?” said he.

“I do not claim, of course,” I said, “that you are subject to this danger.”

“What danger?” said he.

“Some men, doubtless fools and weaklings,” I said, “are particularly subject to this danger, the danger of becoming enamored of a slave. It is quite enough to lust for them, desire them, master them, and rule them, quite enough to rope and chain them, and pleasure yourself with them, as frequently and variously, and as inordinately, as you wish, and derive from their conquest, their helplessness, and submission the thousand satisfactions and delights, the triumphs, of the mastery, of owning and governing such a property, of enjoying such a vulnerable, shapely beast, but it is quite another to care for one.”

“Do you think,” he asked, “that I am a fool and weakling?”

“In general, no,” I said, “but men wiser and stronger than you, I am sure, and men perhaps wiser and stronger than I, have succumbed to eyes bright with tears, a strand of hair brushed piteously aside, a faltering syllable, a trembling lip.”

“But she is Alcinoe,” he said.

“And Tula is Tula, and Lana is Lana, and Iris is Iris, and Lita is Lita, and so on,” I said. “They are all soft, subtle, cunning, dangerous beasts.”

“You feel I am in danger?”

“That is my surmise,” I said.

“Surely I am not uniquely in danger?”

“Doubtless not,” I said. “But see that the stern resolution which takes the beast from the block does not melt when it lies at your slave ring. Deprive the she-sleen of her domination and she will become confused, and bitter, denied her coveted meaning as your beast. She will turn on you. She will scorn your weakness, and mock your frailty. Unmastered she is an angry leaf in the wind, without direction, no better than a free woman, flung about, tormented and unfulfilled. She longs to obey, to love and serve. Deny her this and you deny her to herself. She understands will, and the whip. See that she is never in doubt as to either. The slave is never content until she lies naked at the feet of a man.”

There was then a knocking at the jamb of the open portal, and Captain Nakamura appeared in the opening. He carried with him a small package.

The stranger rose to his feet.

Doubtless he was embarrassed to be found on his knees, a slave in his arms. Certainly I trusted so.

“Do you accept the gift?” asked Captain Nakamura.

“Yes,” said the stranger.

“I am sure I can find others, who will buy it from you, if you wish,” he said.

“No,” said the stranger.

“Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” he said, “have included some tokens with the gift, which, as you are accepting it, I may present to you.”

“My thanks,” said the stranger.

“One is a slave garment,” he said, “which seems more locally cultural than her current tunic, and the other is a coiling of chain and rings, which, I am told, is a sirik.”

The stranger accepted the small package, a slave tunic, within which was wrapped a sirik.

“Do you wish her current tunic back?” asked the stranger.

“No,” said the captain, smiling, “though we have purchased some local slaves, for transportation to the islands.”

I did not understand the smile of Captain Nakamura, as he seemed, on the whole, a rather undemonstrative, reserved fellow. To be sure, I am informed by the stranger that these fellows are much freer in emotion, teasing, joking, and such, when amongst one another.

The slave, who had her head down, I thought was smiling, as well.

I did not understand the meaning of this, either.

The first thing I would have done was discard the long, heavy, opaque Pani tunic, which seemed quite inappropriate for a slave, at least in good weather, given what a slave was.

Let it be cast away!

Captain Nakamura then bowed, excusing himself, but paused, at the door. “It is my understanding,” he said, “from a cripple at the castle, a man named Rutilius of Ar, that the slave, Alcinoe, may have value in Ar.”

“Oh?” said the stranger.

The slave, on her knees, turned white.

“It is his claim that she is the former Lady Flavia of Ar, a fugitive, one for whom a sizable bounty would be paid. I was to arrange for her delivery to Ar, collect the bounty, and divide it, on my return, with him.”

“Interesting,” said the stranger.

“In any event,” said the captain, “the slave is yours.”

“Yes,” said the stranger, “she is mine.”

The tone of his voice, I conjectured, would leave no doubt in the slave’s mind but what she was indeed his.

It would be up to him, whether or not she would be taken to Ar.

With another short, courteous bow, Captain Nakamura withdrew.

I was apprehensive.

The attitude of the stranger seemed to have changed.

Outside the tall window a cloud must have passed before Tor-tu-Gor, and the room seemed suddenly, ominously dark, and the slave little more than a shadow between us.

But the simple words of Captain Nakamura, I thought, even more than a darkening cloud, had engloomed the chamber. It was as though they had enkindled a mysterious lamp, a lamp of memory, which, when lit, emitted not light, but darkness, fear, and cold. Where there had been warmth, light, joy, touching, and love, there was now a dampness, as of the dungeon, a darkness as of caverns, a polar chill, the coldness of fearful order, of propriety, of a vision of justice, as unwelcome as the touch of a snake at night.

The stranger handed me the scrap of cloth, which would be a typical slave tunic. He retained the sirik.

I myself had no doubt that the slave, appropriately on her knees before her master, the stranger, had once been highly placed in Ar, and perhaps a conspirator in the treason that had betrayed that city into the hands of Cos, Tyros, and several of the free companies.

The stranger looked down on the slave, and she shrank small before him. I sensed then that his memory swept him back to Ar, and that, for a moment, he saw before him not a loving, eager, precious possession, who might be sought even at the World’s End, but a traitress and fugitive, one vain and treacherous, one who, when free, had betrayed her Home Stone, abused power, and turned even on her supposed friend, whom she had honored as her Ubara.

“Strip,” he said to her.

“Master?” she said.

“Instantly,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, frightened, and hastened to pull away, over her head, the Pani tunic.

He then dangled before her frightened eyes the loops of chain, with its rings.

“I am no longer she whom you despise,” she said. “I am different! I am now in a collar! I am only a collared slave, and yours, my master! I am contrite! I am penitent! I have learned softness, deference, humility, vulnerability, giving, truth, honesty, kindness, caring, service, awareness of others!”

She looked up at him.

With a movement of his foot, he brushed the Pani tunic to the side. I thought it made an unusual noise, sliding on the boards.

“Stand,” he said.

“Surely you care for me, a little!” she said. “And know, Callias, of Jad, that I am yours, not just to the collar, but to the heart.”

He reached down, and struck her twice, sharply, first by the palm of his right hand, and then by the back of his right hand.

“The slave,” he said, “does not soil the name of a free man by putting it on her slave lips.”

I supposed she had been aware of this protocol, that the slave does not address a free person by his name, but, perhaps, in the stress of the moment, this simplicity had escaped her. In any event, such lapses are not permitted in a slave.

“Forgive me,” she said.

He motioned for her to rise, and she did so, and stood before him, though I feared she might fall.

“Prepare to be siriked,” he said.

She put her hand, frightened, before her face, and then, suddenly, turned, and fled to the opposite wall, against which she stood, the palms of her hands at the side of her head, her belly to the wall.

“Return,” he said, evenly.

Numbly, she turned, and retraced her steps, and then stood before him, head down, small before his size and power.

Then she raised her head, and said, “Sirik me.”

The neck ring was snapped about her throat first, rather like a Turian collar. Next her small wrists were clasped in the wrist rings, each at the terminus of the short, horizontal chain, attached to the vertical chain dangling from the collar, which vertical chain, continuing, looped down to the floor where, attached to it was the second horizontal chain, each end of which terminated in an ankle ring. Two snaps, and she was ankle bound. The sirik is a lovely and practical chaining arrangement. The two horizontal chains may be used in conjunction with the vertical chain, or independently, in which case one might have wrist shackles, in which the wrists might be confined before or behind the slave, and ankle shackles. Her wrists, now confined before her, were some six inches apart, and her ankles were something like a foot apart, permitting her to shuffle, or walk with small, careful, measured steps, but not allowing her to run. The vertical chain may function independently, as well, as a chain leash, or a tethering device, by means of which the slave might be secured to a slave ring, a tree, a stanchion, or such. The length of the vertical chain, which may loop to the floor when the slave’s hands are lowered, is also long enough to permit her, her hands lifted, to feed herself.

He regarded the slave before him, small, naked, siriked.

“The visage of Master is terrible,” she said. “Is Master angry? Does Master despise his slave? How different he is now from but moments before. She would that Captain Nakamura had not spoken of past things, of fearful things, of things long since regretted. I am not different from what I was, but moments ago, in Master’s arms.”

He was silent. His fists were clenched.

“It seems Master has recalled another woman,” she said, “the vain, deceitful, greedy, traitress, Flavia of Ar.”

“Yes,” he said.

“She who once was that woman now stands before you,” she said, “naked, and siriked.”

“It is thus,” said the stranger, “that Marlenus prefers to have his captives brought before him, naked and chained, then to be flung to their knees before his throne.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

He regarded her, I fear, with ferocity.

“I am naked and chained,” she said. “I am helpless. You can do with me as you wish. I cannot escape. I cannot prevent you from taking me to the restored Marlenus now, and putting me before him, if you will, my knees on the tiles, before his throne.”

“Cry out now,” he said, angrily, “with all the pride, fury, and rage of the free woman.

“Were I free,” she said, “I would not do so, but would rather beg to be shown mercy, and beg instead that you would make me your slave.”

“You are such?” he said, scornfully.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Slave,” he sneered.

“Yes, Master,” she said, humbly.

“Cry out,” he demanded, “angrily, loudly, insolently! Threaten me! Denounce me!”

“Do you not understand, Master,” she said. “I cannot do so. That is all behind me. See my collar. See my mark! I am now a slave!”

“Yes,” he said, “it is true. I doubt then that you, now a slave, would be impaled as high as a free person, for that might demean them, you, say, some seven or eight feet, not twenty or thirty, as they, to show your lowliness.”

“I am sure,” she said, “in the end, it makes little difference.”

He folded his arms, and regarded her.

“Despise me if you wish,” she said, “but despise me not as the Lady Flavia of Ar, for I am no longer she. Despise me then, if you must, as a slave, the slave that I am.”

“You should be taken to Ar,” he said.

“Take me to Ar,” she said.

“I do despise you,” he said, “but not for your collar; rather for what you once were.”

“And no longer am,” she said.

“But were once!”

“But no longer!”

“You should be taken to Ar,” he said.

“So,” she said, “I am to be taken to Ar?”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“Are there no better things to do with a slave?” she asked.

She was cuffed, sharply.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Ar would be too easy for you,” he said, “for one who was once the Lady Flavia.”

“Master will not take his slave to Ar?” she said.

He was silent for a time, regarding her. Her head was down. Then he said, “No.”

“Master?” she said, looking up.

“There are better things to do with a slave,” he said.

“That is my hope,” she said.

“Long ago, on the ship,” he said, “I told you that I did not care for gold washed in blood.”

“That pleases me,” she said.

“And thereby I lose myself a fortune,” he said.

“But obtain thereby,” she said, “a much greater fortune, that of being yourself.”

“Slut, slave, vile thing,” he said.

“I will try to please my master,” she said.

His eyes were hard.

“Be kind,” she said, frightened.

There was a small sound, as the links of the sirik rustled.

Not every man, of course, will accept bounty, particularly on a woman. Callias, of Jad, was a warrior, an oarsman, at one time an officer. Bounty hunters are commonly low warriors, men without Home Stones, brigands, assassins, villains, thieves, reprobates, the recklessly impecunious, gamblers, the dishonored. I had not thought that Callias was such a man, and my judgment was now vindicated. To be sure, what now stood stripped and siriked before him had once been the Lady Flavia of Ar. Nothing could change that.

The stranger did not care for gold washed in blood.

Should he then return her to Ar, that she might suffer at the hands of an alien justice?

What good could be served by such an act?

Many are the masks of justice, and behind those masks there may be no face, only a choice of masks.

He who has power chooses a mask to his liking.

How fiercely the masks scowl at one another.

I thought the slave was right, that the Lady Flavia of Ar was gone, that she had vanished, with the snapping of a collar. What remained might be named, and dealt with, as one pleased.

Still the lovely slave between us had once been the Lady Flavia of Ar. That could not be gainsaid.

“May I kneel?” she asked.

The stranger nodded, and she sank to her knees, gratefully. I did not know if she could have managed to stand much longer.

“At least,” I said to the stranger, “you have recalled the nature of the slave.”

“Yes,” he said. “She was once Flavia of Ar.”

“And more broadly, and to the point, and more importantly, I trust, putting aside her past, which we may ignore for the moment,” I said, “you have recollected the nature of a slave, as a slave.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Good,” I said. “Now, I trust, you have overcome your foolishness, or weakness.”

“What foolishness, what weakness?” he asked, not pleasantly.

“At least,” I said, “the remote possibility of caring for a slave.”

“Have no fear,” he said. “I have eluded that danger, if ever it was a danger, which very thought seems absurd. All such risks, however unlikely or tenuous, are put aside.”

“Good,” I said. “Then you will see her, and treat her, as what she is, a slave.”

“Yes,” he said. “As worthless, meaningless collar meat.”

“Precisely,” I said.

“But, in her case,” he said, “there is something in addition, that will add to my pleasure.”

“What?” I asked.

“That she was once the Lady Flavia of Ar.”

The slave, head down, siriked, moaned in misery.

“The Lady Flavia of Ar,” I said, “-who is now mere collar meat.”

“Yes,” he said.

“Do you hate her?” I asked.

“I must try,” he said.

“For what she once was?” I asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Do not hate me, Master!” she wept. “I love you! I love you!”

“Liar!” he said, angrily.

“I may not lie!” she cried. “I am a slave!”

He drew back his hand, and she shrank down, but he did not strike her.

He placed his boot on her shoulder and thrust her to the floor, on her side. She crawled back to him, on her belly, and, putting down her head, kissed the boot which had spurned her to the floor.

“You have been white silk long enough,” he told her.

“Master?” she said.

“On your knees,” he said, “former Lady Flavia of Ar, facing away from me, your head to the floor.”

With a rustle of chain the slave obeyed.

“So, Master?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Master well humbles the former Lady Flavia of Ar,” she said. “But Alcinoe, the slave, hopes that she will be found pleasing by her master.”

“Return shortly,” said the stranger to me, and I left the room. I heard a jerking of chain, and heard the slave cry out, startled. Then I heard her cry out, “Master! My Master!”

I walked about the trading area, which, if anything, was even busier than before. Against one wall there was a coffle of stripped, kneeling slaves who, I supposed, had been brought in by a dealer, for the inspection of the Pani. From something Captain Nakamura had said earlier, I gathered they had already made certain purchases. The girls were in neck coffle, and had been placed in the position of pleasure slaves, which seemed to be the sort of slaves in which the Pani, for their various purposes, were interested. When a girl was regarded, she would lift her head, and say, “Buy me, Master.” I suspected, however, that few of the girls were interested in being bought by the newcomers, so strange and unfamiliar to them, within whose purview they found themselves scrutinized.

I returned to the open portal of the back room, and entered. “It is as I feared,” I said.

“Oh?” said Callias.

He was seated near a wall, that in which the portal was, cross-legged. The slave was lying near him, lovingly, on her side. I noted blood on her leg, which suggested that, however unlikely it seemed, the Pani had actually kept her white silk. In that I suspected the hand of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman. I noted that she was no longer confined in the sirik, and its coils lay to one side, near the cast-aside Pani tunic. Her head was against one of his legs. She looked at me, but dreamily. It was almost as though I were not there.

“Does it hurt?” I asked.

“Very little, Master,” she said. She drew up her legs more.

“I am not too pleased,” I said.

“Oh?” said Callias, seemingly distracted.

“Next,” I said, “I suppose you will grant her a tunic.”

“I suppose so,” he said. “That should make it less likely she would be stolen.”

“Am I likely to be stolen?” she asked Callias.

“You are that beautiful,” he told her.

“Master,” she said, kissing his knee.

“Not the Pani tunic,” I said.

“Certainly not,” he said.

The small slave tunic brought into the room earlier by Captain Nakamura, in which the sirik had been wrapped, lay to the side.

“You will, at least, I trust,” I said, “see to it that she works for that tunic, perhaps for several weeks.”

As an animal, a slave is not entitled to clothing. If permitted clothing, it must be understood as a gift from her master. To be sure, most slaves are clothed, particularly in public. Free women are quite adamant on that point. If it is appropriate to speak of a compromise in these matters, presumably it would be that the slave is clothed, but as a slave. Here we have something of an agreement, or compromise, between free women and masters, namely, that the garmenture of the slave must be clearly indicative of her bondage, and, secondly, that the slave, as she is usually the property of a man, may be dressed for his pleasure. The usual outcome of this interaction is the slave tunic. The camisk is less acceptable to free women, but they reconcile themselves to the camisk on the grounds that the female slave is so worthless that it is acceptable for her to be camisked. The female serving slave of a free woman is likely to be modestly tunicked, whereas the slave of a free man is likely to be tunicked in such a manner as to make it clear to other men that she was worth buying.

The stranger glanced down to the slave, lying at his right knee. “Would you like a tunic?” he asked.

“Oh, yes, Master,” she said, “very much.”

“You,” I said, “as far as I know, do not even have a slave whip.”

“That is true,” he said.

“I assure Master,” said the slave, “he does not need a whip.”

“No,” he said. “One must have a whip.”

“But for what possible purpose?” asked the slave.

“Guess,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “What is Master doing?”

The stranger was removing his dagger belt, from which he removed, as well, the dagger and its sheath. He then buckled the belt, so that it constituted a closed loop.

“Master?” said the slave.

“This will do,” he said, “until I obtain a proper whip.”

“I see,” she said, uneasily.

“And now,” he said, “I think I shall begin your training.”

“My training?” she said.

“Surely you know that slaves, as many other sorts of animals, are trained.”

He then tossed the looped, buckled belt across the room, to the far wall.

“Fetch it,” he said, “on all fours. Do not touch it with your hands. Bring it back in your teeth.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

It pleased me to see the former Lady Flavia of Ar cross the room on all fours, bend down, pick up the belt in her teeth, and then turn about, and return, on all fours, to her master, the belt dangling from her teeth.

He removed the belt from her teeth. “You may now,” he said, “show the belt deference.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“We do not yet have a whip,” he said. “Lick and kiss it.”

This was an analogy to the simple ceremony of kissing the whip, wherein the slave demonstrates her bondage and submission, acknowledging and accepting her subjection to the mastery, a common symbol of which is the whip. Similar things may be done with rope, the chain, slave bracelets, and such.

The former Lady Flavia of Ar addressed herself to the belt of her master.

“She seems tentative,” I said.

“I think you are right,” he said.

The slave looked at me, angrily, but then her master’s hand was in her hair, twisting it, and she cried out in misery, and his other hand was up, the looped belt in it. “No!” she cried, her head held in place. He then gave her two sharp strokes with the looped belt.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

He then put the belt again to her lips, and she began to kiss and lick the belt more seriously.

“I hate you!” she said to me.

“I think she does not understand what is required,” I said to the stranger.

She then received two more strokes of the looped belt.

Then, fervently, desperately, the frightened slave, Alcinoe, the slave of Callias, of Jad, a Cosian, addressed herself to the belt of her master.

“That is much better,” I said. “I suspect you are beginning to comprehend.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Now,” I said, “with your lips and tongue, as the most helplessly needful of all women, as a slave, make love to the belt of your master. In kissing it, tenderly, you express your gratitude that you, only a slave, have been permitted to touch a belonging of your master. Too, in this way, you express your devotion for the master, your reverence for him, perhaps unnoticed by the master, by tenderly and gratefully kissing even a belt, even a tunic or sandal, of the master. In licking it, slowly, you express yourself, and your bondage, that you submit yourself to him wholly, without reservation. In licking it slowly, and sensuously, you express your passion, and need, your desire, that you would serve him intimately, as the least of slaves, as the readiest of aroused, owned beasts.”

She suddenly looked at me, with recognition, with understanding in her eyes. “Thank you, Master,” she whispered. “I think I understand! Perhaps I was ready for such things. Perhaps I wanted them, and longed for them! Is that possible? I change! I have changed! Such acts change me! No wonder they are forbidden to free women! How they make us slaves! How right they seem! So right, so right! Inwardly I am different! How can one do such things, and live so, without becoming a slave? How close I am now to myself! In such acts I am changed! They show me to myself! They open doors to my secret heart! How can I understand these emotions, their depth? How happy I am, and how helpless! How helpless I am in their grasp! I feel so slave! I am so slave!”

She turned her head, wildly, to Callias, her master. “I heat, Master,” she said. “I am heated! I flame! Please, please, Master!”

With a great cry, he seized her in his arms, turned her, and flung her beneath him, across the scrap of tunic which had been brought to the room earlier by Captain Nakamura. I thought it well, then, to exit the room. I left the door open, behind me, however, as she was not a free woman, but a slave.

Eventually the eighteenth bar sounded.

I secured one of the public lamps, and reentered the room.

“I do not think,” I said, “that the River Dragon will make the morning tide. Commerce proceeds apace, and ever new Merchants, now even from Market of Semris, arrive each Ahn. The warehouse will be closed soon, to reopen at dawn. I think a day or so more will secure such supplies as Captain Nakamura never anticipated, and would not choose to leave without. Yet I expect him, still, to leave as soon as matters are well concluded.”

“I would see him sail,” said the stranger.

“Perhaps the day after tomorrow,” I said.

“What do you think of my slave?” he asked.

I lifted the lamp.

She was now tunicked, but not in the lengthy tunic of the Pani, but now, rather, in the tunic which had been brought in earlier by Captain Nakamura, that within the folds of which had been the coils of the sirik.

Alcinoe twirled before me.

What a vain thing she was, but are not they all? Surely, given their beauty, their desirability, they are entitled to a little vanity, or, indeed, I suppose, to a large measure of that sometimes annoying, but generally endearing, charming quality. Free women have their vanity, sometimes extravagantly so, so why not a slave, as well? And, indeed, is not a slave even more entitled to vanity than a free woman? She, after all, has been looked upon by men, and found fit for collaring. To be sure, the slave is well advised to conceal her vanity in the presence of a free woman.

“She is quite pretty,” I said. “The tunic is a bit long, is it not.”

“I think so,” said Callias.

This would not be unusual, of course, as few tunics are tailored to an individual slave. Given the common looseness, and drapery, of a tunic, a number of different slaves might wear the same tunic, which would be indifferently fetching on most of them. Many slaves, of course, once they have a tunic, will do their small, mysterious things to the garment in such a way that it seems designed for themselves alone. Some masters, too, of course, will take their slave to one of the Cloth Workers, and have one or more tunics altered to, or even made for, the particular slave.

Alcinoe looked at me, startled. I gathered it had not occurred to her that the tunic might be too long.

“Many Merchants,” I said, “have frequented the warehouse since morning. If I were the harbor master I would put them out. Why should they hold a position that long at a table? Others clamor for their turn. One would think they were doing kaissa, or stones, not buying and selling. In any event, venders of comestibles, biscuits, candy, fruit, and such, with their carts and trays, have been about, and doing their business, too. I suggest we leave this room, if you two can manage that, buy something to eat, I will pay, as you have no money, and then go to my domicile, get some sleep, and return, if you wish, in the morning.”

The stranger rose to his feet.

“What have you two been doing all this time?” I asked.

“Waiting for master,” laughed Alcinoe.

I saw this as an excellent argument not to give a slave a standing permission to speak.

“What do you think?” said Callias.

“One thing, I see,” I said, lifting the lamp higher, to the better view Alcinoe, “she has spent at least some of the time becoming more beautiful.”

“Yes,” said Callias.

The slave looked down, bashfully.

Happiness makes a woman more beautiful. Even a plain woman who is happy is beautiful.

“I think we had better go,” I said. “Gather up the sirik, and I will discard the Pani tunic, wretched garment, in the garbage, as we leave.”

“I would not do so, if I were you,” said Alcinoe, who knelt, understandably enough, as she was addressing a free person.

“You do not like the garment, I hope,” I said.

“I think it is horrid,” she said.

“Good,” I said, and bent down to pick up the tunic.

“Please wait, Masters,” she said. “Perhaps you should examine the tunic.”

I suddenly recalled some puzzles I had had, pertaining to that distressing garment, its thickness, its opacity, its length, long and heavy, even for a Pani tunic, a smile on the face of Captain Nakamura, and a smile on the features of the slave, the sound it had made when it was brushed across the floor by Callias’ boot.

“It is my conjecture,” she said, “that Lord Nishida and Master Tarl Cabot, who commands the tarn cavalry of Lord Temmu, would not have been likely, as an expression of their esteem and gratitude to my master, to send him so negligible a gift as a mere slave, and one untrained, too.”

“No!” said Callias. “You are a thousand times more than enough. They must know that. You are the world to me!”

Beware, Callias, I thought, beware.

“A slave is grateful to be so esteemed by her Master,” she said, “but Alcinoe is well aware that she is only a slave, and that her monetary value is determined only by what masters will pay for her.”

“She is right,” I said.

“I would pay the world for her,” he said.

“You do not have the world,” I told him. “And, unless you have not been candid with me, you do not have even a tarsk-bit.”

“And poor Alcinoe,” she said, “as a gift, may be worth but, say, five silver tarsks.”

“Closer to two,” I conjectured.

“Oh?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“And thus, if such things are so, five, or perhaps two,” she said, “the gift of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman, would seem surprisingly modest, particularly for those who have much they might bestow.”

“No matter,” said Callias.

“Thus,” she said, “perhaps masters might examine the tunic, before disposing of it.”

We looked upon the tunic, lying crumpled on the floor, to the side.

“Close the door,” said Callias. “Bring the lamp closer.”

I closed the door, and brought the lamp to where Callias sat, putting it on the floor beside him.

Alcinoe fetched the Pani tunic, knelt before her master, spread the tunic before her, lifted it in two hands, and then, her head down, between her extended arms, proffered it to her master.

“Now a gift of true worth,” she said, “is presented by a slave to her master, with the affection and regard of Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, commander of the tarn cavalry of Lord Temmu.”

“You are the gift of true worth,” said Callias to the slave.

“Yes, yes,” I said, “I am sure of it, but let us examine the tunic.”

“It would be well,” said the slave, “to open the lining carefully, and examine every inch of the tunic.”

“Have no fear,” I said. “Friend Callias, loan me your dagger.”

“What is here?” Callias asked the slave.

“Some coin,” she said, “tiny golden tarsks, almost like beads, which are light and consume little space, but mostly pearls, and jewels.”

“How much is here?” I asked.

“Slaves are not told such things,” she said. “But I do not think masters will be disappointed.”

“Callias,” I said, freeing a pearl from the garment, “I think you are a rich man.”

“Even if it is nothing,” he said, placing a hand on the arm of the slave kneeling beside him, “I am already a rich man.”

The slave kissed his hand.

“Be serious,” I said. “Here is another!”

“How much did you know of this?” asked Callias of the slave.

“I knew, of course, that the garment contained such things,” she said, “but I did not know how many or of what worth.”

“Curiosity is not becoming to a kajira,” I said.

“But not unknown, I assure you,” she said.

“True,” I said.

“I was, of course, to guard it with my life,” she said.

“What if you were taken to Ar, as I suspect you deserve,” I said.

“One supposes,” she said, “that the garment, if handled, would betray its secrets.”

“It might have been cast aside,” I said.

“I prevented that this evening,” she said, “and, in any case, would prevent it.”

“Even were you on your way to Ar?”

“Of course,” she said.

“Why?” I asked.

“I love my master,” she said. “It was intended for him, and it was my charge to see that he received it. I wanted all that was good for him. He might thus add it to a fugitive’s bounty. Of what value is wealth to one on the impaling spear? And if my master does not want me, what matters the manner of our separation? Why not the impaling spear?”

“I want you,” said Callias, “more than all the wealth in the world. I would never let you go. I would die for you!”

“Do not forget I am only a slave,” she said. “That is what I am. And I would be kept as one.”

“And you will be,” he said, “even to the chain and whip!”

“I will try to be pleasing to my master,” she said.

“Fully pleasing,” he said.

“Yes,” she said, kissing him, “fully pleasing.”

“From the first moment I saw you,” he said, “I wanted to own you.”

“And from the first moment I saw you,” she said, “I wanted to belong to you.”

“You do,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Love slave,” he whispered.

“Love master,” she said.

“I could slip half of this into my purse,” I said, “while you two are carrying on, as it is said, dizzy on the heights of desire, wandering on the roads of delight, lost in the forests of rapture, drunk on the wines of love, swimming about in one another’s eyes, and such. Repulsive. Offensive!”

“Perhaps,” said Callias, “you, too, one day, will as gladly lose your way.”

“You are fortunate,” I said, “that my caste codes discourage robbing armed warriors.”

“How does it proceed?” asked Callias.

“I am not of the Street of Coins,” I said, “but I think it is clear that you are a wealthy man. I have a hundred golden tarsks here, a hundred pearls, a hundred jewels, of various sorts and sizes.”

“That is a great deal,” said Callias.

“This one pearl,” I said, “I would estimate at a dozen silver tarsks.”

“So much?” he said.

“It would buy six slaves such as Alcinoe,” I said, “on the open market.”

“She is much better than that,” he said. “Perhaps four,” he speculated.

“Master!” protested the slave.

I spread the tunic on the floor, between myself and Callias, the slave to the side.

“I think that is all,” I said, “as I have opened and removed the lining, shaken it, fingered every square hort of the garment, and bitten and chewed each square hort as well, to make doubly sure. On the other hand, the tunic is yours, as is she who was its occupant, and if I have missed anything, it should turn up eventually, when it is unraveled into its least threads.”

I thrust the sorted objects across the floor toward Callias, and he scooped them up, and placed them in his wallet.

“I am hungry,” he said.

“Let me buy from the vendors,” I said. “The smallest tarsk here, the smallest pearl or jewel, would attract attention.”

“I think not,” he said, “given the trading.”

“Exchange no more than one,” I said, “and let it be as though it were your last, your only one.”

“Very well,” he said.

“I, too, am hungry,” I said. “What of you, girl?”

“I, too, Master,” she said.

I opened the door. Outside the floor was still crowded.

“What of the slave?” I said. “Are you going to put her in the sirik?”

“No,” he said. Then he turned to the slave. “You will not attempt to escape, will you?” he inquired.

“No, Master,” she said. “And Master well knows,” she said, as she touched her collar, and then her left thigh, and lifted, a little, the hem of her tunic, “there is no escape for the slave girl.”

“True,” he said.

“And she wishes no escape,” she said.

“I am famished,” I said.

We then left the back room, and, a bit later, Callias had exchanged one of the tiny beadlike golden tarsks for nine silver tarsks, ninety-nine copper tarsks, and a hundred tarsk-bits, at one of the changing tables maintained in the warehouse by the harbor administration, to facilitate trading.

I might have been concerned here, but the warehouse seemed filled with bulging purses, and the counting boards on several of the long tables were so filled that coins lay loose, spilled beside them.

At that point the nineteenth bar sounded.

The house would close at the twentieth Ahn, to open in the morning, with the first light. Several Merchants, I did not doubt, would arrive well before dawn.

“As I recall,” said the stranger, “you were going to buy us some food.”

“Yes,” I said.

“That should be easy, as there are still several vendors about.”

“Yes,” I said. I did have some tarsk-bits in my purse, and I had certainly volunteered to buy something to eat. On the other hand, that was at a time, as I recalled, when I thought the stranger had not a tarsk-bit to his name. He was now a wealthy man, quite possibly the most wealthy man in Brundisium not of the Merchant caste. I suddenly began to suspect something of the economic dispositions, calculations, and shrewdness of the extremely wealthy, which shrewdness, and such, apparently, it did not take long to acquire. After all, I thought to myself, too, he is a Cosian, and everyone knows what Cosians are like, though to be perfectly honest I had never given much thought up to that point as to Cosians in general. Still, he was not a bad fellow. And some fellows are changed by a single tarn disk, so there was some excuse for him.

“Wait here,” I said.

In a few moments I had made my way to a vendor’s cart and purchased some wrappings of food. I spent a bit more than I had intended, an extra tarsk-bit or two, but, in this manner, I thought, I might demonstrate the munificence of the Caste of Scribes, apparently a munificence well beyond that of warriors, mariners, the common oarsman, the newly rich, and such, a munificence, to be sure, commonly exercised within judicious limits.

“Where is your master?” I asked Alcinoe.

She was kneeling where I had left her and the stranger.

“I do not know, Master,” she said.

“You are not secured,” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

Usually one does not leave a good-looking slave alone, unless properly secured. There were, at the wall, for example, some slave rings, to which more than one slave was chained.

“What is going on?” I asked. “Was there trouble?”

“I do not know, Master,” she said. “I do not think there is trouble. My Master said for me to wait here, and we might begin to eat.”

“Is he coming back?” I asked. “The warehouse will close shortly.”

“I am very hungry,” she said.

I gave her one of the wrappings of food, and took another. After a time, as the stranger had not returned, and the warehouse was to close in a bit, we divided the last wrapping of food between us.

Let Callias take that, I thought.

Still I was uneasy.

“I fear for your master,” I said.

“He is armed,” she said.

“What business would take him from your side?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said.

“It must be of great importance,” I said.

“I would like to think so,” she said, licking her fingers.

“The closing bar will ring shortly,” I said. “It will be the twentieth Ahn. We will be expelled.”

Already some of the tables were closing.

Some men were exiting the warehouse.

“Where is he?” I asked. “I am concerned. I am apprehensive. The streets may be dangerous.”

Actually I did not have too much concern along these lines, as the night lamps would be lit, and, given the warehouse, the exiting Merchants, and such, there would be a number of guardsmen about, private guards, city guards, and guards in the employ of the harbor administration. Too, I had little doubt there would be a sufficient number of Pani about, as well, some to assure the safe conduct of their goods, gains, and such, back to the ship, and others outside, to guard the warehouse, and the abundant stores still within.

“I trust he had something to eat,” I said.

“I would suppose so,” she said.

“He was to return, and meet us here, was he not?” I asked.

“He did not say so,” she said.

“It seems he has been detained,” I said.

“He is armed,” she reminded me.

“On what business was he embarked?” I asked. “Did he say nothing?”

At that point the trading bar began to ring.

“It is the twentieth Ahn,” I said.

“I think we must leave,” she said.

That was very clear, as goods were being covered, lamps were being extinguished, the praetors had left their platforms, and attendants were marshalling folks out. To dally was to invite the intervention of guardsmen, impatient for the conclusion of their day’s duty. It is well to follow the requests and instructions of such fellows punctually. The pounding of spear shafts and butts produces serious bruising.

“I still do not see him,” I said, looking about, outside the large portal to the warehouse.

The street was darker than I had anticipated. I could see lights on the River Dragon, moored at the nearby wharf. The crowds were thinning out, and, I feared, the streets would be soon deserted. I did see a pair of guardsmen at the land end of the wharf, and a number of Pani were taking up stations near the now-closed warehouse.

That much was surely to the good.

I supposed it was safe enough in the vicinity of the warehouse.

I was not at all sure about some of the nearby streets.

Where was Callias?

If he had not met us in the warehouse, should he not, at least, meet us here, outside the warehouse?

The bar had rung.

It was clearly past the twentieth Ahn.

“Should I not be bound and leashed?” asked the slave.

“Your master retained the sirik,” I said.

“You have no binding fiber, no leash?” she asked.

“I am a Scribe,” I said.

“Do not Scribes have slaves?” she asked.

“This one does not,” I said.

“If you had one, you would doubtless have such things,” she said.

“Doubtless,” I said.

“Poor master,” she said.

I could think of a slave I would have enjoyed having in my binding fiber, and on my leash, a slender brunette, a barbarian paga slave, whom I knew from The Sea Sleen.

I looked down the dark street, about the right-hand corner of the warehouse, as one faced it.

“I would rather have you free,” I said, “so that you can scream, and run for guardsmen.”

“But men might emerge from a doorway,” she said, “and subdue and gag me before I could do so.”

“We will keep to the center of the street,” I said.

“The streets seem to be quite narrow,” she said.

“Ho!” called a cheery voice.

“Callias!” I cried.

“Here you are,” he said, genially. “Let us make our way to your domicile. As Alcinoe and I have no other lodging, and it is rather late, I take it you will put us up, give us breakfast, and charge us nothing.”

“Certainly,” I said. “Who but a boor could deny one as needy as you so trivial a boon?”

“Good fellow,” he said.

He then took some time to embrace and kiss Alcinoe.

“It is past the twentieth Ahn,” I said. “It is rather dark.”

Callias unsheathed his sword and led the way, followed by myself, and, lastly, heeling us, Alcinoe.

People of means commonly do not frequent the streets at night, and, when they do, they often hire a lantern bearer and a pair of guardsmen to attend them.

My domicile was not far away, but it always seemed farther than usual at night.

“It is a pleasant night,” said Callias.

He was in a good mood, which, given the events of the day, was not inexplicable.

“Do not sheathe your sword,” I said.

“Just smell Thassa, the salt, the wind from the sea,” he said.

“Watch the doorways,” I said.

My domicile was reached by an external stairway, leading to a long balcony, off of which were several common-wall dwellings in a single long, elevated building, on pilings, facing the harbor. It is within walking distance of the registry. Two lamps were posted at the head of the stairwell, and, in their light, one could negotiate not only the stairs but, though with more difficulty, the balcony, which tended to the left of the stairwell.

We ascended the stairway, went left, and, a few doors later, were before my domicile.

“Wait!” I said. “That is not my signature knot.”

“No,” said Callias, “it is mine.”

Many doors in Brundisium, particularly in the more impecunious quarters, are tied shut, often by a leather cord tied about two staples, one on the door and the other on the jamb. To enter the door, one simply unties the knot and frees the door. Whereas anyone may untie the knot the tying of the knot is a secret, difficult to duplicate except by one familiar with the knot. If, say, the proprietor returns to the dwelling and discovers the knot is missing or different, that suggests that the area has been entered without authorization. Doors may be secured from the inside, usually by two bars. In some dwellings, of a somewhat better sort, such as mine, the signature-knot fastening is combined with a latch or bolt arrangement, in which the drawing of a latch string, put through a small hole in the door, moves the latch or bolt. When one is absent, or within and, say, expecting company, the latch string may be left free, outside the door. When one wishes, one draws the latch string within, which prevents the door from being opened, except from the inside. In more prosperous areas, generally farther from the waterfront and the warehouse district, metal locks, answering to metal keys, are more common. Some of these locks are massive, with corresponding keys. Indeed, the keys might function as weapons.

Callias undid his knot, drew the latch string, freeing the latch, and opened the door.

“After you,” he said.

“The lamp is lit,” I said.

“I left it on,” he said.

“I will see if I can find you something to eat,” I said.

“Do not bother,” he said. “I had a pleasant supper at a tavern.”

“Good,” I said.

“I trust you fed well,” he said.

“The vendors had something left,” I said.

“Splendid,” he said.

“It is late,” I said. “I shall arrange some bedding.”

“When I am finished with Alcinoe,” he said, “she shall sleep at my feet.”

“Of course,” I said.

“Friend,” said Callias.

“Yes,” I said.

“You have treated me well,” said Callias. “You were kind in the tavern. You offered me money. You befriended me. You gave me lodging. I am grateful.”

“It is nothing,” I said.

He pressed into my hand a tiny beadlike object.

“No,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Low Scribes do not have such things,” I said.

“Be the first,” he said.

“I cannot accept this,” I said. My view of rich men, and, in particular, of Cosians, was in the process of being suddenly and radically transformed. They were, after all, were they not, generous and noble sorts?

“Would you dishonor me, by refusing?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“And there will be more later,” he said. “Where are you going?”

“To The Sea Sleen!” I said.

“Hold,” said Callias, “it is late, and dark, you are unarmed.”

“No matter,” I said.

“You would carry a golden tarsk through the streets of Brundisium, at this Ahn?” he inquired.

“Who would know?” I asked.

“One need not know,” he said. “You could be robbed for a copper tarsk, for a tarsk-bit.”

“I wish you well!” I said. “You, too, Alcinoe!”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“I take it you have a sudden craving for paga,” said Callias.

“A sudden craving, yes, dear friend,” I said, lifting my clenched fist, holding the tiny, beadlike coin, a golden tarsk, “but scarcely for paga.”

“What then could you possibly have in mind?” he asked.

“Come now, dear friend,” I said, “can you not recall something which I could not hitherto afford, something in a yellow camisk, with bells on her left ankle?”

“The paga girl,” he said, “the slender brunette?”

“Of course!” I said.

“She is a barbarian,” said Callias.

“One I want in my arms,” I said.

“You would do that, you would buy her, a barbarian?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Yes!”

“Why?” he asked.

“Be serious,” I said.

“Barbarians are not that rare,” he said, “not in the larger markets. They are brought from that place called Earth.”

“Surely you have noted,” I said, “that they are generally of extremely high quality.”

“They are selected with that in mind,” he said.

“It is not simply that she is beautiful, that she is exquisite, that she is delicate, that she has deep, profound eyes, lips made for kisses, small wrists and ankles, that her body is rich in slave curves, in the many turnings and planes which the auctioneer’s whip calls to our attention. It goes mysteriously beyond such things, eluding calculations and measurements.”

“To you,” said Callias, “she is different, and special.”

“So tamely put,” I said, “such words manage only to point, only to hint, at ineluctable, mysterious matchings, and sensings.”

“Perhaps,” said Callias.

“And what does Alcinoe mean to you?” I asked.

“Ah!” smiled Callias.

“Master,” breathed Alcinoe, softly.

“To all fours,” he said to her.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

This position can be igniting to a female slave, being so positioned by a master. At the least, they are well reminded, so positioned beside a man, that they are slaves.

No free woman, of course, would be so positioned.

It makes clear that the slave, legally, and otherwise, is an animal, her master’s animal.

“Surely,” I said, “you could detect her intelligence, her sensitivity, her emotional depth, her readiness, her softness, her femininity, her needs, the incipience of her passions?”

“I gathered something of that,” he said.

“Consider,” I said, “such a one, with all her beauty, intelligence, and depth, and how helpless she will be when slave fires burn in her belly!”

“I saw her look upon you,” he said. “I suspect they burn there already.”

“She is perfect,” I said.

“How so?” he asked.

“Consider the studies to which she was drawn, studies of a world much different from her own, a simpler, more natural world.”

“And she a female,” he said.

“What would be the most, on such a world, for which she, an alien female, might hope, and what, on such a world, might be what she truly desired, wanted, and would hope for?”

“As she is a desirable female, and might bring a decent price on a block, that seems clear,” he said.

“She must have understood,” I said, “that she, in all likelihood, if found on such a world, would be captured, and would soon find herself stripped and in the chains of a slave, awaiting her sale.”

“I would think so,” he said.

“Do you think she did not know herself, even on her own world, as suitably a man’s slave?” I said.

“What woman does not, on any world?” he asked.

He looked on Alcinoe, and she, on all fours, put down her head.

“Why then should she be denied, as her own world would deny her, submission to the mastery, ropes on her ankles, her wrists pinioned behind her back in slave bracelets, a collar on her neck, her lips pressed obediently to a master’s whip?”

“I, for one,” he said, “would have no interest in denying her such things, particularly if she would look well at a man’s feet. It is cruel to deny to a woman her nature, and, as well, to a man his.”

“She would be a delicious, perfect slave,” I said. “I want her! I want her, wholly! I want to own her, completely! Let herself then discover herself, and know herself, as that for which nature has designed her, a man’s slave!”

“And if you owned her,” he said, “and she writhed in her chains before you, miserable in the throes of slave fires, and begged for the attentions commonly bestowed on a slave, would you show her mercy?”

“Perhaps,” I said, “if she begged well.”

“I see,” he said.

“Master,” said Alcinoe to the stranger, looking up at him, “I am needy!”

“Kneel,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Bedding is there,” I said, pointing to a side of the room. “And in the locker, at the back, you will find ka-la-na, and food. I am off now to The Sea Sleen!”

“Do not go,” said Callias.

I paused at the door.

“You advise me to wait until morning?” I asked. Surely there was much to be said for such counsel.

“No,” he said.

“You wish me to wait, a bit,” I asked, “and you, armed, would accompany me? I would be grateful, and that is thoughtful, but it is not necessary. Too, I suspect there must be guardsmen about. I will keep to the wider, better-lit streets.”

“No,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“It is too late,” he said.

“I do not understand,” I said.

“I stopped by The Sea Sleen, after leaving the warehouse,” he said. “It is there I had supper.”

“So?” I said, apprehensively.

“The slave whom I suppose you mean,” he said, “the slender brunette, who heard the story of the voyage, she of the yellow camisk and belled ankle, is no longer there.”

“No!” I cried.

“I assume she is the one you had in mind,” he said.

“She is no longer there?” I said. “Are you sure? Perhaps she was not on the floor at the time.”

“No,” he said. “She was sold.”

“When?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Recently,” he said.

“Aiii!” I moaned. I sank to my knees beside the door, my head in my hands. My body shook with sobs.

“Master!” breathed Alcinoe, concerned.

“Please,” said Callias, embarrassed.

“Forgive me,” I said.

“It is only a slave,” he said.

“Of what value is this?” I said, looking down at the tiny golden tarsk in my hand.

“Something like a hundred silver tarsks,” said Callias.

With a cry of anger and frustration I cast the golden tarsk to the end of the room.

It was retrieved by Callias.

Alcinoe had not stirred. A slave, commonly, may not touch money without permission.

Callias thoughtfully placed the coin in my purse.

“Thank you,” I said.

“These things are not to be thrown about,” he said.

“No,” I said.

“Forget her,” said Callias.

“No,” I said.

“You can buy another,” said Callias.

“I do not want another,” I said. “All my life I have waited for one such as she.”

“And then,” said Callias, “you found her.”

“In one brought from a far world,” I said.

“A mere barbarian,” he said.

“What is a barbarian,” I asked, “other than one whose native tongue is not Gorean?”

“Oh, much more than that,” said Callias. “One lacking civilization, or derived from some civilization which is unnatural and inferior, perhaps one which is complex, selfish, polluted, crowded, and uncaring, one unfamiliar with suitable customs and proprieties, with codes and castes, with literature, music, and poetry.”

“Gorean literature, music, and poetry,” I said.

“I knew a barbarian once,” said Callias, “who not only lacked a Home Stone, but did not know what a Home Stone was.”

“That is more serious,” I granted him. “I am sure she knows now!”

“But a slave is not permitted one,” he said, “no more than a verr, a tarsk or kaiila.”

“True,” I said.

“There are places, I am told, on the world, Earth, where free women do not veil themselves.”

“Shameless,” I said.

“You know why that is, do you not?” he asked.

“No,” I said.

“Because they are slaves,” he said. “They bare their features that men may look upon them, and scrutinize them, and ponder them, and assess them, and consider them as what they are, as slaves.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

“And do you not think their men do not strip them in their minds, imagine them naked in collars, and consider what they might pay for them?”

“Perhaps,” I said. “I do not know.”

“Do you not do the same with free women,” he asked. “Do not we all, perhaps glimpsing an ankle, a bared wrist, a fluttering veil, the turn of a hip within the robes of concealment?”

“Master!” protested Alcinoe.

“Be quiet, girl,” said Callias.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are attractive in your tunic,” said Callias, “but I think we may shorten it, considerably.”

“As Master wishes,” she said.

“Also,” he said, “there are many of these slaves brought to Gor who do not even know how to please a man, are ignorant even of the dances of slaves.”

“They may be taught,” I said.

“I would conjecture that your little barbarian,” he said, “knows nothing of the dances of slaves.”

“She could be taught,” I said.

“Do you think she might look well, writhing before you, hoping to please her master, fearing your whip did she not do so?”

“I would think she would look quite well,” I said.

“Has she not in her imagination, many times, naked and in a collar, so danced, danced as a slave before men, fearing their whips?”

“I do not know,” I said.

“She has,” said Callias. “That was clear in her expressions, in her movements, in the tavern. She is a slave.”

“You think so?” I said.

“She is a slave to the core, awaiting her master.”

“And she is gone, sold!” I said.

“Poor, dear Master,” breathed Alcinoe.

“There will never be another,” I said.

“And there need not be another,” he said.

“What?” I said.

“Alcinoe,” he said, “are your thighs hot?”

“That is not all that is hot, my Master!” she whispered.

“I take it you are well lubricated,” he said, “and are oiling nicely?”

“Yes, Master!”

“Are you ready to squirm as the slut you are?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Do you beg to do so?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Yes, Master!”

“My dear friend,” said Callias to me, “as I recall, you mentioned you might arrange some bedding.”

“It is at the side of the room,” I said.

“Perhaps you might spread it for us,” said Callias.

“What?” I said.

“We are your guests,” he said.

“It is right there,” I said, pointing.

“And you are our host,” he said.

“You have spent several nights here,” I said. “Is it suddenly so inaccessible?”

“Please,” said Callias.

“Very well,” I said.

I moved toward the bedding.

“Wait!” I said.

“What?” he said.

“We shall learn her fate,” I said. “In the morning, we will venture to The Sea Sleen, find out to whom she was sold, contact him, and buy her back!”

“She had no papers,” said Callias. “The transaction was informal. She is nameless. It would be difficult to trace her. Moreover, it seems she was not purchased by one of Brundisium, but by an itinerant, one bound abroad.”

“Surely there is a name,” I said.

“Apparently,” said he, “no name was given.”

“We must watch the gates,” I said, “the piers!”

“All of them?” he asked.

“What shall we do?” I asked.

“I would think about retiring,” he said. “Is there not the matter of the bedding?”

“I trust that you will enjoy Alcinoe,” I said.

“I intend to,” he said.

“Please, hurry, Master,” said Alcinoe.

“Do not be bitter,” he said. “Remember that your paga girl is only a slave.”

“So, too, then,” I said, “is your Alcinoe.”

“Yes, yes,” said Alcinoe. “Please, Master.”

“You are quite right,” he said. “Alcinoe is, of course, only a slave, but one must note, as well, that she is different, perfect, wonderful, unique, special, and incomparable, unparalleled, and the most desirable woman on all Gor.”

“Please,” said Alcinoe, “please, Master!”

“To you,” I said.

“Surely you acknowledge she is quite nice,” he said.

“Yes,” I said, “she is quite nice.”

“The bedding, the bedding,” he said.

I reached down, angrily, seizing the first covering to hand, one of the down-filled comforters, for I could not afford furs, and lifted it back.

“Aii!” I cried.

“I expect to be leaving in a few days,” he said. “I do want to see the River Dragon sail.”

“You are an itinerant,” I said, “one bound abroad!”

“Yes,” he said, “one soon bound abroad.”

“You gave no name,” I said.

“No,” he said, “but I suppose some might have recollected it, from before.”

The large, soft eyes of the girl were frightened, looking up at me. She squirmed a little, but was helpless. She was naked, of course, and bound, hand and foot. I turned her quickly, exposing the left thigh, high, just under the hip. She was kefed, the letter nicely entered into her thigh. How beautiful is the kef! And how meaningful, recognized on all Gor. I then put her to her back. She pulled at her bound wrists; her small ankles were crossed, and thonged closely together, as had been her wrists. She was not collared, but such an oversight may be remedied quickly, at the shop of any Metal Worker. I already had one in mind, he closest to my dwelling, scarcely yards away. I would have to have a slave ring put in, and buy some chains, rope, binding fiber, slave bracelets, perhaps ankle rings, and, surely, an attractive leash. In time, if she proved satisfactory, I might even consider a tunic, or two, the sort of tunic men choose for owned women. I doubted if, when on her own world, her old world, that no longer her world, as she was now of Gor, she had anticipated her present helplessness, and the absoluteness of her new condition, that of a Gorean kajira.

She looked small, half concealed in the bedding, that within which she had been placed.

I held up the lamp, and, in its light, examined her, from the smallness of her thonged feet, to the curves of her calves, and thighs, the sweetness of her love cradle, the narrowness of her waist, the delights of a small but ample, well-proportioned, exciting bosom, which would be so vulnerable to the caresses, the lips, and kisses of a master, to her rounded forearms, half pulled behind her, her soft shoulders, the white throat, yet to be closely clasped in a signet of bondage, her exquisite features, her lips, and eyes, her wide, frightened eyes, and her dark hair, which I supposed had not been cut since her arrival in some slave pen, as Gorean masters commonly like long hair in a slave. She presumably did not even know the pen, or its location, in which she had first learned that she was now a property, goods, to be disposed of as men might see fit.

“I trust,” said Callias, “she is the right one.”

“Yes,” I said. “Yes, yes, yes, yes!”

“Good,” he said.

“You bought her!” I said.

“For you,” he said. “The barbarian is yours.”

“I can never pay you back,” I said.

“You could,” he said, “as the tarn disk in your wallet, which you were so careless with a moment ago, would buy several such as she.”

“Allow me to recompense you,” I said.

“No,” he said. “She is a gift. And one of not much importance.”

“She is the world to me,” I exclaimed.

“Continue her examination,” he said.

“‘Continue’?” I said.

“Turn her,” he said, “put her on her belly.”

I did so.

“A bit slender,” he said, “but lovely lines.”

“Yes,” I said.

“Sit up, girl,” said Callias, and the slave turned about and struggled to a sitting position before us. Her hair was partly before her face. She drew back a little, from my hand, frightened. I brushed the hair to the side.

“I did not allow her to speak,” said Callias.

I nodded. She had been then, as it is said, gagged by the master’s will.

“Perhaps she has heard more than we might like, words which might frighten her, or go to her head,” he said, “but I did not wish to leave her lying about, just anywhere.”

“Certainly, Master,” said Alcinoe, “it will not hurt her to know that she has been found of interest by free men, and is desired.”

“No,” said Callias, “so much is known by any woman who is bought off the block or pulled by the hair from her cage.”

“Even muchly desired?” smiled Alcinoe.

“You will need a whip, of course,” said Callias.

“Of course,” I said.

Fear showed in the slave’s eyes. I gathered she had been whipped, perhaps in the slave pen, long ago, to help her understand she was a slave, and perhaps in the paga tavern, to assist in her training. She impressed me as a frightened, timid, bashful slave, who well knew herself a slave, and would be muchly concerned to be found pleasing by her masters. Such slaves scarcely ever feel the lash. There would be no point to it. The slave is to be worked, mastered, and enjoyed. If one is not interested in relishing and cherishing a slave, why own one?

“To be sure,” said Callias, “she may have heard too much, but if she is wise she will not attempt to grow bold, or presume on a master’s indulgence. It is a simple thing, when she is in your collar, to correct such mistakes. Let her be in no doubt that when she is in your presence, she is, so to speak, to be on her knees. Too, perhaps, we overspoke ourselves, or your mind may change, and the whim of one day be unknown to the whim of another day. Keep her as the slave she is, and all should go well.”

“I see,” I said.

“Besides,” he said, “you have not owned her before. Perhaps you have overestimated her. Perhaps she will not prove to be satisfactory.”

“She is so beautiful,” I said.

“Then you could sell her,” he said.

“Master!” said Alcinoe.

“So let her rejoice, hope that all will go well, and tread softly,” he said. Then he turned to the seated, bound slave, who shrank back. Callias, when he wished, could be intimidating. “You are no longer a paga girl,” he told her. “You have been purchased. I bought you. You are a gift.” He then indicated me. “I bought you for him. You are now his. You belong to him,” he said. “Do you understand?”

The slave nodded.

“I have not given her permission to speak,” said Callias.

“I see,” I said.

“You are in the presence of your master,” said Callias. “Get on your knees, and put your head down, to the floor.”

The slave struggled to comply.

How beautiful she was, so before me.

“Step back,” said Callias to me.

I moved back, a few feet, across the floor.

“Now,” said Callias to the kneeling girl, bent over, her head down to the floor, “to your belly, and wriggle across the floor, to your master, and then put your head down, and lick and kiss his feet, until you are permitted to stop.”

I stood back, and watched this dream of pleasure, bit by bit, struggling, approach me, as a bound slave, and then that beautiful dark hair was about my feet, and I felt her lips and tongue, those of this beautiful animal, a slave, my beautiful belonging, caress my feet.

There are many gestures of submission.

The common submission of a free woman, usually rendered in terror of her life, as amidst the flames of a burning city, is to kneel before the male, and lift her crossed wrists to him, her head bowed between her arms. In this way her submission is clear, and she is hoping to buy her life with her beauty, the crossed wrists, ready for binding, indicating that she is pleading to be accepted as a slave. If she is accepted, the wrists are usually bound, and she is expected to follow her captor docilely. Sometimes, of course, after this gesture, she is put to her belly, her wrists are bound indeed, but behind her, and a rope is put on her neck, or, sometimes, a nose ring, on a cord, is affixed, such things functioning as a leash or tether.

She continued, on her belly, bound, to tender a slave’s deference to a free man.

Looking down upon her, I thought how strange it was that she, from a far world, be here, thusly. I wondered what her fellow students, from her own world, those supposedly so superior to beauty, its naturalness, and purpose, might think of her now, she to whom they had regarded themselves so superior, on the grounds of ignorant doctrines, labored concealments, and falsifications of nature, as she now was, a frightened, bound slave, understanding herself subject to the uncompromising domination of a male. Could they understand the needs, the joy, the readiness, the responsiveness, the passion, of a woman mastered? Perhaps they would be indignant, offended, outraged. Or perhaps they would be amused, and think her fate one well deserved, a fate well deserved by one whom they suspected did not share their views. But then, at night, would they dream of themselves so, at the feet of masters?

“It is enough,” I said.

I then lifted her to her knees, before me.

I then went behind her, and, with some difficulty, undid the knots binding her ankles together, and then those confining her small wrists.

She moved her ankles, and rubbed her wrists, looking up at me.

“Position,” said Callias, sharply.

Instantly, frightened, she went to position. I noted, interestingly that Alcinoe, reflexively, had also gone to position. She seemed nonplussed for a moment, but remained in position. I did see that this pleased her master.

My slave seemed apprehensive. This night she had changed hands. She may well have been unaware of the transaction, until she was called forth, and delivered into the hands of Callias.

Callias scowled at her, at the gift he had made me. I gathered he wished to make sure that it was a good one.

“Your knees,” he said. “Widen them. What sort of slave do you think you are?”

Obediently she spread her knees more widely.

I supposed she had no doubt now, but what she had been purchased for a pleasure slave. To be sure, this should have been anticipated by any paga girl. I forced myself to remember that she was a barbarian, and, as I recalled, had not been long in bondage. Indeed, on her own world, I supposed she had been free, as free, at any rate, as such women could be, in such a world, where, I gathered, their values, views, attitudes, dress, behavior, and such were dictated, as nearly as I could tell, by lunatics who, in fear of themselves, lived in hiding, walled away from nature, and her fulfillments. One gathered they somehow supposed that nature was a mistake, the foe of happiness, rather than its foundation and truth. How such an aberration might come about seemed inexplicable. Doubtless there had been cultural turnings, misdirections, roads wrongly taken. Doubtless there were historical reasons underlying this phenomenon, reasons by means of which a suitably informed scholar might intelligently speculate on the matter.

She was before me, in position, kneeling back on her heels, her back straight, her head up, looking ahead, the palms of her hands down on her thighs, her knees spread, this making clear the nature of her bondage. Alcinoe, too, to the side, was in position.

Both were lovely slaves.

I regarded my slave, rapt.

I wondered if women could begin to understand how they appeared to men, and what they meant to men.

I supposed not.

How could they?

They were not men.

They could know, of course, that they were desired, sought, hunted, captured, bound, chained, bought and sold, owned, and mastered.

Perhaps that would give them a sense of things. Free, of course, distracted, confused, uneasy, restless, discontented, suspicious, and unhappy, and not knowing why, their beauty was extremely dangerous, and could easily be misused to torment and divide men, to influence and manipulate them, to discomfort and afflict them, for not all wounds and bruises, blows and goadings, are the results of steel or leather. The question then is a simple one, which is “Who shall be master?” The man is mightier, and, in his heart, wishes to own the female. The female, is weaker, smaller, softer, and, in her heart, longs to be owned, and mastered. She is content only at the feet of a strong male. Accordingly, the relationship of the male master and the female slave is appropriate, a relationship in which nature is fulfilled, to the benefit of both. The female responds to the master, as his slave, and the master revels in the possession and mastery of the female, his slave. The war is done. She kneels before him, wearing his collar.

I looked upon my slave, and my slave knew herself looked upon, and as a slave.

She trembled, but retained position.

“Slave,” I said.

She looked at me, frightened. Her lips trembled a little, but formed no sound. She looked wildly, frightened, to Callias. I recalled she had been forbidden to speak. Clearly she did not wish to feel the lash.

“It is I who now own you,” I said. “Do you understand, female?” So addressed, as “female,” the woman, whether free or slave, is forcibly reminded of what she is, radically and basically, and that it is quite different from something else, that of being a male. And this recollection, on the part of a slave, who is vulnerable, helpless, and owned, is even more devastating, for she is not only a female, but a female who is a slave.

The slave swiftly nodded, frightened. Her hair moved about her shoulders as she did this. I wanted to seize her in my arms, fling her to the floor, and cover her with kisses.

“You have, as of now,” I said, “a standing permission to speak.”

“Thank you, Master,” she whispered.

“Revocable at any time,” I added.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You may speak,” I said. “Speak.”

“I am afraid,” she said.

“We will have to improve your Gorean,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is reasonably fluent at present,” I said.

“That is my hope,” she said, “Master.”

“I am going to be about for bit,” said Callias. “In that time, Alcinoe will work with her.”

“She is a barbarian, Master!” said Alcinoe.

“No matter,” said Callias, touching his belt.

“Yes, Master,” said Alcinoe, quickly.

Callias then seized up one of the heaped comforters, spread it a bit, and then slung it to the side, on the floor.

“Lie there,” said Callias to his slave, Alcinoe, pointing to the comforter.

Quickly she hurried to the comforter, and lay upon it, I thought rather seductively, considering that she has recently been white silk.

“It is late,” announced Callias.

“It is my hope,” she said, “that I may be permitted to give pleasure to my master.”

Callias drew off his belt and tunic, and took his position on the comforter, and Alcinoe crawled eagerly to his side, but his hand, in her hair, held her for a time at his thigh, which she licked and kissed hopefully, and then, after a bit, he put her to his pleasure, with patience, until, at last, wild-eyed, looking toward the ceiling, gasping, she begged to be permitted to yield, as his slave. She then cried out with the sobbing joy of the well-ravished slave. I did not think he was so quickly through with her, but, as Callias had noted, it was late.

“Master?” said my slave.

I took another comforter, and then another, and arranged them on the floor, rather off from where Callias and Alcinoe were still tangled together.

No, I thought to myself, he is not yet finished with her.

I removed the Scribe’s satchel, my purse, the Scribe’s robes, and lay upon the comforter and, on one elbow, regarded the slave.

“Am I to be whipped?” she asked.

“Do you wish to be whipped?” I asked.

“No,” she said, “no, Master.”

“I do not have a whip,” I said.

“A slave is pleased,” she said.

“I shall obtain one shortly,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I am of the Scribes,” I said.

“I know,” she said.

“Do you know much of Scribes?” I asked.

“Only that they make me serve well in the alcove,” she said.

“But that is not unusual, is it?” I asked. “With fellows of any caste?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“You,” I said, “have an affinity with the Scribes.”

“Master?” she said.

“I think you are the sort of female who would appeal to a Scribe,” I said.

“I will try to please my master,” she said.

“You were a student, of sorts?” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “one spoken of as a graduate student. I was in what is called a university. I was in what is called a department, for in my old world knowledge is often put in departments, its wholeness, doubtless of necessity, being ignored or neglected. My department, in which I studied, was one devoted to classical studies. One attended classes, one heard lectures, one participated in what are called seminars, smaller courses, more informal courses, where students might participate in discussions, commonly held about tables.”

“Interesting,” I said.

“It is a way of doing things,” she said.

“One gathers then, that many might be in such places.”

“Yes,” she said.

“Would there be more than one, or, say, two students, with a teacher?”

“Often several,” she said.

“They do not live together?”

“No,” she said. “They meet at appropriate times and places, according to schedules, beginning when clocks strike or bells ring, and ending when they strike or ring again.”

“As hiring space on a passenger wagon?” I asked.

“Perhaps,” she said.

This account seemed strange to me, but I supposed she had no reason to lie to me. I had spent several years in the household of my teacher, who would accept no pay, because, for our caste, knowledge is priceless. One day he had said to me, “You may leave now,” and I knew then that I was of the Scribes.

“Are there many students at these places?” I asked.

“Sometimes thousands,” she said.

“There are so many,” I asked, “who hunger so for knowledge, and so avidly seek it?”

“Not at all,” she said. “By far the greatest number have little or no interest in learning whatsoever.”

“Why then are they there?” I asked. “What are they doing there?”

“It is expected of them,” she said. “It is something to be done.”

“Why?” I asked.

“One supposes there are many reasons,” she said. “If one does not perform certain actions, enact certain rituals, spend time in certain places, and obtain legal evidence that one has done so, one may be culturally disadvantaged.”

“And what do these actions, these rituals, or such, have to do with learning?”

“In most cases,” she said, “very little, if anything.”

“Might they not just as well do other things for the same amount of time,” I asked, “jump up and down, or sing songs, or such?”

“I had not thought about it,” she said, “but one supposes so.”

“It is a cultural thing?” I said.

“Yes,” she said.

“Is there not some sort of monstrous mistake, or deceit, or fraud, involved in all this?” I asked.

“It is a way of doing things,” she said.

“Is this not a misunderstanding of learning, a disparagement of learning, an insult to learning, a cheapening of learning, a prostitution of learning?” I asked.

“Some care,” she said.

“Even there?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You were interested in far worlds,” I said, “ancient worlds, ancient to your former world, their culture, their languages, their way of life, their beliefs.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I approve of that,” I said.

“I am pleased,” she said.

“Who is pleased?” I asked.

“A slave is pleased,” she said.

“Perhaps, someday, you will speak to me, at length, of such things.”

“Surely Master is not interested in my interests, my feelings, my mind?” she said.

“In that question,” I said, “I detect the pathology of your world.”

“Master?”

“A Gorean,” I said, “wants all of a slave, and owns all of a slave.”

She looked at me, startled.

“All of her is in his collar,” I said.

“A slave is pleased,” she said, “that a master would lock his collar on the whole of her.”

“Few men would want less,” I said.

“I did not gather that,” she said, “from the alcove.”

“You did not have a private master,” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“As a student, a graduate student, or such, on Earth,” I said, “I would suppose you did not anticipate that you would one day be on Gor, kneeling naked before a man, his slave.”

“No, Master,” she said, “but in secret moments I dreamed of such things.”

“Did you know of Gor?” I asked.

“I thought it only in books,” she said.

“What do you think now?” I asked.

“I have felt the thongs of a Gorean master on my limbs,” she said, “I have been collared, I have served on the floor of a Gorean tavern, I have striven in the alcove to be found pleasing by my master’s customers, I am no longer of the opinion that Gor exists only in books.”

“You are very pretty,” I said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Of your fellow female graduate students,” I said, “I wonder if you were the only one found worthy to be put in a Gorean collar.”

“Perhaps,” she said. “I do not know.”

“So,” I said, “you were a student, a graduate student?”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Spread your knees more widely,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You obey promptly,” I observed.

“I hope to please my master,” she said.

“What do you think of dancing naked?” I asked.

“I would have to obey my master,” she said.

“But what do you think of it?” I asked.

“I would hope to please my master,” she said.

“Do you know how to play the kalika?” I asked.

“No, Master.”

“You do not know slave dance, I take it,” I said.

“No,” she said.

“You may be taught such things,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Slave dance,” I said, “is very attractive in a woman.”

“I doubt that I could be so beautiful,” she said.

“One does not expect every woman to bring a hundred pieces of gold as a dancer,” I said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“I have seen many dancers, even public dancers, brothel dancers, street dancers, tavern dancers, who were not as beautiful as you.”

“I do not know how to dance,” she said.

“Perhaps, with the encouragement of the lash, you could learn,” I said.

“The slave who desires to please her master,” she said, “does not require the encouragement of the lash.”

“You would do your best?” I said.

“Certainly, Master,” she said.

“Would you like to dance-as a slave?” I asked.

“On Earth,” she said, “I dreamed of such things.”

“Speak,” I said.

“I thought of myself, frequently enough, as a property, as owned, as a girl who must unquestioningly, fearfully, obey masters, who might dance for their pleasure, about campfires in lonely places, on streets in shabby districts, to a master’s flute, on the decks of galleys, to the clapping of hands, on the floor of taverns, to music, silks swirling, bangles clashing, to shouts, to hands reaching for me, to the clash of goblets and the spilling of drink, to the cries of aroused men, pleased to look upon me as I would then be, a vulnerable, helpless slave, desperate to be found pleasing.”

“And did you dream of yourself helpless in the chains, or arms, of a master?”

“Yes, Master,” she said, putting down her head.

“Where were you sold?” I asked.

“In Market of Semris,” she said.

“In what pen, or slave house, were you first marked?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said. “I, with other slaves-”

“Barbarians?” I asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “-were transported naked and collared in a closed slave wagon, with blue and yellow silk, our ankles chained to a central bar, it run the length of the wagon bed. We traveled for days. At night, in camps, we were chained in the open, to trees or the wagon wheels. One or another of us were hooded and removed from the bar in one place or another. We were, I take it, distributed amongst various markets. Only three were left in the wagon when the hood was buckled about my head and I was lifted from the wagon. I felt the dust of a road beneath my feet. My hands were braceleted before me, and I was tethered by the bracelets to the stirrup of some large, four-footed beast, which I later learned was a kaiila. After some weary hours on the dusty road I was brought to a sales barn, where my tether was freed of the stirrup, and I was unhooded and debraceleted. Shortly thereafter, I was fed, watered, and rested. Later I was processed, washed, brushed, combed, and such, preparing me for my sale.”

“Which was in Market of Semris,” I said.

“That is my understanding,” she said.

“Did you enjoy your sale?” I asked.

“I was terrified,” she said. “I found myself turned about, and positioned, delicately, expertly, by the auctioneer’s whip, exhibited as merchandise, displayed, as a slave, while men cried out, and called bids on me.”

“I see,” I said.

“And then,” she said, “the auctioneer touched me, unexpectedly, and I leaped with a cry of misery, in piteous response, which delighted the men. I could not help myself! ‘Pleasure slave,’ I heard call. ‘To the taverns with her!’ I put my head in my hands, and bent over, and sobbed. I could not help myself. Then I was apparently sold, for I was conducted from the platform.”

“What did you go for?” I asked.

“I do not know,” she said. “But I gather it was for less than a silver tarsk.”

“You were purchased for a paga slut,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

I was interested in this information not simply because it pertained to the slave, but because it seemed not untypical of certain mysteries commonly obtaining in the case of barbarian slaves. Many things seemed obscure about such barbarians, or reasonably so, for example, the location of their first acquisition, apparently a far world, the means by which they were brought to Gor, where they were initially housed on our world, why they seemed to be distributed about, almost tracelessly, and such. As nearly as I could determine they were derived from several places on the far world, and brought by different ships, or by some method of conveyance, at different times, to many different locations on Gor. Subtleties or secrecies seemed to be involved. In any event, I knew little of these matters, and, if others knew, they were apparently less than communicative.

“I have never had a private master,” she said to me.

“I have never owned a slave,” I said.

“Master must have seen me many times in the paga tavern,” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

She put down her head, shyly.

“Did he find me of slave interest?”

“Certainly,” I said.

“If he found me of slave interest,” she said, “why was it that he never snapped his fingers, summoning me to his table, why did he not bind me, and thrust me before him to an alcove?”

“I did not want you thusly,” I said, “a girl for a coin, to be relinquished after some Ehn or an Ahn, or so, to be ceded in her turn to another, to be surrendered at the closing of a tavern’s portal. I wanted you whole, and mine, indisputably, legally, in every way. I did not want to rent you for the price of a drink. I wanted more. I wanted all. I wanted everything. I wanted to own you, completely, every strand of hair, every bit of you.”

“You sensed something in me?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“I noticed your eyes upon me,” she said, “as one would look upon a slave one would own.”

“Perhaps,” I said.

She lifted her head.

“Surely you noted me putting myself before you often enough,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. How tormenting had been that flash of thigh, that whisk of a camisk as she turned, the flash of the bells tied about her left ankle.

“In my cage,” she said, “I hoped you would bid on me.”

“I am a poor man,” I said, “a low Scribe, one who labors in the registry. I could not afford you.”

“I thought that you might understand me, as others could not,” she said.

“Do not expect to be too much understood,” I said, “as you are a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Surely she knew that her feelings, her thoughts, her hopes, her desires, her dreams, and such, were meaningless, and of no consequence, as she was a slave.

“I saw you look upon me,” she said, “as a master looks upon a slave, and I trembled, and shivered, and wondered, and I feared, and hoped, that you would be my master.”

I did not respond.

“I may be from Earth,” she said, “but I have learned here, as I suspected on Earth, that women are slaves, and that I am a woman, and a slave. I want to be what I am, a slave. I will try to serve you well, and please you so.”

To the side Callias and Alcinoe were asleep, in one another’s arms.

“It was with joy,” said the slave, “that I, my presence unknown to you, heard you speak of ineluctable, mysterious matchings, and sensings.”

“I did not know you were there,” I said, annoyed.

“I understand,” she said. “I only want to say to you that I, too, in the tavern, on different nights, looking upon you, felt such things.”

“Have you eaten?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said. “Has Master?”

“Yes,” I said.

She looked at me. “It is strange,” she said. “I have come from far away, to find my master.”

“Strange, too,” I said, “that I should so find my slave, in one come from so far a world.”

“Do you think you might care for me, eventually, a little, Master?” she asked.

“I will buy a whip in the morning,” I said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

It was hard to take my eyes from her. How beautiful she was, kneeling before me, in the light of the lamp.

“I am marked,” she said, “as Master determined, the common kef. I am thus well identified as a slave.”

“So?” I said.

“And,” she said, “I think that Master may like me, forgive me, Master, as I could not help overhearing words which gave me such hopes, and surely he knows my antecedents and origins, my affinities, as he will have it, if he is correct, with the Caste of Scribes, so lofty a caste, and my former station and position, as a student in a university, and thus, in a sense, my prestige, dignity, and such.”

“I do not understand,” I said.

“So,” she said, “it will not be necessary to put me in a collar. I am above a collar.”

“You were collared in The Sea Sleen,” I said.

“I was a paga girl,” she said. “They did not know my specialness. I am now the slave of a Scribe, and the Scribes is a high caste.”

“Look to the side,” I said. “Do you see that slave, she, Alcinoe?” I asked.

“Certainly,” she said.

“Well,” I said, “she was once a free woman in imperial Ar, a high lady, a woman of importance and power, of wealth and station. What is on her neck?”

“A collar,” said the slave.

“What sort of collar?” I asked.

“A slave collar,” she said.

“Precisely,” I said.

“But she is Gorean,” said the slave.

“And you are a barbarian,” I said, “a thousand times less.”

The slave touched her throat, lightly, tentatively, apprehensively.

“Master will collar me?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said. “Tomorrow you will wear a collar, a slave collar, and it will be locked on your neck.”

“I will not be able to remove it?”

“No,” I said.

Relief, to my surprise, flooded her features.

“Thank you, Master,” she said. “That is what I want. I want your collar on my neck, and I want it there, locked, as on the neck of any other slave, for I am only another slave. No more! That is what I am, and want to be. How happy you make me! I am grateful! I will try to be worthy of wearing your collar. Thank you, Master. I will love my collar.”

I then lay back on the comforters, which I had spread on the floor.

“Master?” she said.

“Please me,” I said.

She crawled to my side. “I will try, Master,” she whispered.

“Wine, Master?” had said my slave.

“Wine, Master?” had said the slave of my friend, Callias.

“Yes,” I had said.

“Yes,” had said Callias.

As noted, the slaves had served the wine well.

I thought the supper was nicely prepared.

Too, as noted, the ka-la-na was excellent.

This morning we had all ventured to the high piers, bid farewell to Captain Nakamura, and watched that unusual ship, the River Dragon, unusual, at least for Brundisium, take its leave.

We watched it, until it could no longer be seen from the high pier.

“I wish them a good journey,” said Callias.

“I, too,” I said.

“Tersites,” he said, looking out to sea, “had eyes painted on the great ship.”

“I recall that, from your story,” I said. “It pleased me. Now she can see her way.”

“A day out from the cove of the castle,” said he, “we heaved to, and Tersites himself, with his own hands, poured wine, oil, and salt into the sea.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” I said. It seemed then, at last, that Tersites had made his peace with vast, mighty Thassa.

“Where is the great ship now?” I asked.

“I do not know,” he said.

“One wonders what transpires at the World’s End,” I said.

“Yes,” he said, “one wonders.”

“You need not have shared so much with me,” I said, “the coins, the jewels, the pearls.”

“Have no fear,” he smiled. “What you received is small, compared to what I retain.”

“I suspect,” I said, “that you would have been more than content with no more than a mere slave.”

“Yes,” he said, “that would have been more than enough.”

“But, surely,” I said, “the gold, the jewels, the pearls, and such, were welcome.”

“Do you not think it would have been boorish, not to have accepted them?”

“Quite,” I said.

We turned about, to join the slaves, one in a scarlet tunic, one in a blue tunic, waiting at the land end of the pier.

The slaves now, at our supper, brought forth the Turian liqueurs.

“These are expensive,” I said.

“One wishes to make his contribution,” said Callias.

“You have done far more than that,” I said.

“Alcinoe,” he said, “knows of such things. She used to approve the menus for banquets, for state dinners, for private suppers, and such.”

“A valuable slave,” I said.

“In many ways,” he said.

Alcinoe smiled. “After supper,” she said, “with master’s permission, I will show him how valuable a slave can be.”

“And I trust,” said my slave, “that I may convince my master that a mere barbarian is not to be despised in the furs.”

As the reader, if such there be, may apprehend, I could now afford furs. To be sure, expressions such as ‘serving in the furs’ are rather general.

Whereas the girls prepared and served the meal, we had them share it with us, as well, they kneeling at the small tables, at which we sat cross-legged. This is not that unusual in small households, where informality is common. We did, of course, take the first bite of the various dishes, the first sip of the various beverages, and such.

“Your vocabulary and grammar,” I told my slave, “is much improved.”

“Alcinoe has been very helpful,” she said.

“Beware her accent,” said Callias. “It is of Ar.”

“It is a beautiful accent,” said my slave.

“Doubtless,” said Callias, “but there are places where that accent might earn you a blow.”

“I listen carefully in the market, on the streets, and about the piers,” she said, “and do my best to speak as those about me.”

“I have a western, coastal accent,” I said. “Callias, not surprisingly, has a Cosian accent.”

“East Cos, Jad, I am told,” said Callias.

“It seems then,” said Alcinoe, “that I am the only one without an accent.”

“That is the vanity of Ar,” said Callias.

“Someone must speak correct Gorean,” she said.

“I trust,” I said to Alcinoe, “that your kind efforts to assist my slave with her Gorean are not completely unrequited.”

“No,” she said.

“Perhaps she does some of your chores for you?”

“No,” she said.

“What then?” I asked.

“She has informed me of certain tricks of the alcove,” said Alcinoe, “unlikely to lie within the repertoire of the average free woman, which I once was.”

“Good,” I said.

“Interesting,” said Callias. “That explains much.”

Shortly thereafter the slaves rose to their feet and, a bit later, I could smell the fumes of freshly brewed black wine. It shortly made its appearance. Alcinoe, as she was Gorean, had the honor of bringing forth the vessel and cups, and my slave, as she was a barbarian, and thus subordinate, unless it was otherwise specified, brought forth the small pitcher of cream, the tiny spoons, and the small, flat bowls of sugars and spices. Later, each slave brought forth, as well, a tray of assorted cakes and pastries.

I thought the slaves served well.

Both wore only their collars.

This is not that unusual, at small suppers, and such, in the absence of free women.

It is pleasant for a fellow, of course, to be so served, by naked, beautiful slaves.

The mastery is characterized by many such delights.

After supper, and the slaves had cleared, and then washed, dried, and stored the dinnerware, and such, we addressed ourselves, each with his own slave, to the pleasures of the furs.

Later the slaves slept, lying beside us.

“Callias,” I said.

“Yes,” he said. He was not asleep either.

“There is interest in many of these things,” I said, “in Tersites, the great ship, in Talena, of Ar, in Tarl Cabot, the Pani, the World’s End, and such. Would you mind, if I might, as I could, tell your story?”

“No,” he said. “But no one will believe it.”

“There was Captain Nakamura,” I said, “and the River dragon.”

“A strange ship,” he said, “from faraway. What might that have to do with the things you mention?”

“It came from the World’s End,” I said.

“All people will know,” he said, “is that it is an unusual ship, and it is not clear from whence it came.”

“Is it important,” I asked, “whether people believe it or not?”

“Not at all,” he said.

“You do not mind,” I said, “if the story is told?”

“No,” he said. “I would like for it to be told.”

“You will be leaving in a few days,” I said.

“Yes,” he said.

“I shall not ask where,” I said.

“I am not as yet sure myself,” he said.

“I conjecture that names, and such, will be changed.”

“Quite possibly,” he said. “That would seem judicious.”

“I will wish you well,” I said.

“And I, too,” he said, “will wish you well.”

I now conclude this tale.

It may be recalled that my slave had long been nameless. For example, she had had no name given her in The Sea Sleen, and had been purchased by Callias as a nameless slave, much as one might purchase any nameless animal. Still slaves like to have names, and it is convenient that they should be named, obviously, for a variety of reasons, for ease of referring to them, instructing them, and such. Her collar, in The Sea Sleen, had simply identified her as a paga girl of that tavern, to be returned there if found strayed, or fled. Her name now, with mine, identifying me as her master, appeared on her collar. It seemed she had hoped to be given a beautiful name, and had long hoped that a particular name, one which much appealed to her, would be given to her. It was with fervency that she had knelt before me, her head to my feet, and timidly asked that she might be given a name, and informed me of the one she hoped might be hers. I thought her choice lovely. It is a name not unknown in Brundisium, and one often encountered amongst the islands. It is ‘Helen’.

So let this tale be concluded.

I wish you well.

Calisthenes,

Office of the Registry,

Harbor Administration,

Port of Brundisium,

Scribe.