Witness of Gor

29

I knelt to one side and back, in the shadows, inconspicuously by the wall, in the circular chamber of the court of the commercial praetor. Shafts of sunlight, like golden spears, fell through the high, narrow windows, illuminating the scarlet circle before the high desk.

I heard two of the time bars, far off, across the city, beginning to sound.

The pit master, two guards, and I, I heeling the second guard, had returned to the court but a few moments ago. The guards waited within the chamber, near the entrance.

The high desk stood untenanted before the scarlet circle. There was no need, now, for the presence of the praetor’s officer. What business was now to be done could be handled by the clerk, and diverse minions, of the court.

I counted the sounding of the bars, stroke by stroke.

Shortly before the last stroke the outer door to the chamber, that leading to the hall outside, opened. A man entered. He had sturdy legs. He walked angrily. He stopped in the vicinity of the scarlet circle. One learns quickly in the collar to be quite sensitive to the moods of men. In the first glance, a frightened glimpse, I had detected his agitation, his anger. One learns to fear such moods in men. When they are in such moods one knows that one may be kicked, or beaten, though one has done nothing. I was pleased I was back in the shadows. To be sure, I did not think that I was in danger. The entrant did not own me. It was, accordingly, highly unlikely that he would consider abusing me. Too, the pit master, who would, I was sure, protect me, was at hand. Nonetheless, I kept my head muchly down, suitably for a slave.

I heard the tenth bar sound.

It was the tenth Ahn.

The tenth sounding of the bar still lingered over the city when a side door in the chamber opened and the court’s clerk, with a folder and papers, entered. He spread those upon the table, that which was, as we were situated, to the right of the currently unoccupied desk of the praetor’s officer. He had the fellow who had entered but shortly before conferred briefly over these papers. There wee, it seemed, two sets of such papers. They were, it seemed, in order. I did not doubt but what one set was papers of the court, stamped with the sign of the court, and certified with the signature of a praetor’s officer, if not the praetor himself. On copies of these papers the fellow who had but recently entered scribbled his signature. He put one copy within his robes. The other set of papers, which had been examined, and in places compared with the first set, was different. It was left open now on the table. In its original form it had been folded and narrow, and tied with a ribbon. The ribbon was blue and yellow.

The court’s clerk then went to the side portal. “Bring for the slave,” he called.

A guard of the court entered, leading a small female figure on a rope. She was in at least the outer robe of a free woman, apparently the same ornate, colorful, expensive robe that had been worn that morning. From the fall of the robe on her body I suspected that she was naked beneath it. The robe by which she was led was tied about her neck. I could see beneath the hem of the robe that her feet were bare, slave bare. The robe did have its attached hood, and her features were modestly veiled. Her head was down. About the robes and hood, and veil, holding them in quite tightly against her neck, was a collar. It was a simple collar and I supposed it was a temporary collar, a holding collar. Its engraving was probably no more than some simple legend, such as “If found, return me to the pens of Treve.” Beneath the veil, as I recalled, she was to be gagged. I did not doubt but what she was, and, in the manner of the men of this world, quite effectively. Her words, her pleas, her cries, her remonstrations, or such, as I recalled, would not only be of no avail, but were not even of interest to those of the house of William, in Harfax. Let them not then be disturbed by them. Behind the small figure, rather in the background, was a second guard of the court. The fellow who had but recently entered, in such agitation, so angrily, who had considered, and signed, papers at the desk of the clerk, had, at the call of the clerk to the guard, turned his back and walked through, and outside, the scarlet circle, that before the high desk. He was now some feet on our side of the circle. The small female figure was led to the center of the circle. This time, however, she did not face the desk, but faced the fellow on the other side of the circle. Her head was down. His back was turned. The guard who had led her forward now untied the rope from her neck and withdrew. He went to stand with the other guard, to the far side of the clerk’s table. Their presence was thus unobtrusive. The hands of the small female figure were behind her. I assumed they were tied there. She was now standing alone, in the center of the circle, her head down. She looked very small there. Sunlight fell upon her through the high narrow windows.

“The slave,” said the court’s clerk.

Angrily, with a swirl of robes, the man turned about and came to the edge of the circle. “I own you!” he cried, his voice thick with rage. It seemed she suddenly trembled, and might look up, but he cried out. “Do not dare to look upon me, you worthless slut, you now-nameless slave!”

The fellow mad an angry gesture to the clerk. The clerk summoned forward one of the guards, he who had led the slave into the chamber. The fellow came forward and produced, from his belt, a small key. It was the key, I assumed, to the holding collar. The clerk then looked to the fellow at the edge of the circle. That fellow indicated that the slave was to be turned about, and she was, rudely, so that now, standing, she faced the portal though which she had been introduced into the room. I saw that her hands were now, indeed, tied behind her back, fastened there with binding fiber. The fellow then came forward. He then removed from his pouch a collar and handed it to the clerk. The clerk looked at it. He thrust it before the slave, that she might see it. But then, perhaps because he thought that she, in her distress, her fear, was in no condition to pursue it, he said, “The legend on the collar reads, ‘I am the slave of Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax.’” He then handed the collar back to the fellow who, from his previous angry announcement of ownership of the slave, I gathered must be this very Henry, he referred to the collar, he of the house of William, in Harfax. He would also be, as I recalled, from the words of the praetor’s officer this morning, the youngest and least of that house.

Henry, from behind, above the holding collar, put the collar about the neck of the slave. He did not do this gently. Such collars, too, as it was a common collar, of the sort most frequently found in the north, fit closely. I, Fina, and the others, wore such collars. So, too, I recalled, did Dorna. I assumed most of this city did. He jerked the collar back, firmly. It must have been tight as it had, pinned beneath it, the cloth of the outer robe of concealment, the hood of that garment, and the veil. He pulled it back, again, firmly, and I heard the click of the collar’s closure. It is clear-decisive-meaningful-sound.

There is no mistaking it. The girl will not forget it. She has been collared. She may hear that sound even in her dreams, and awaken, and touch her throat, and, half asleep, stirring, ascertain its sure presence. Yes, it is there, and on her. And she cannot remove it. She is in a slave collar, in the collar of her master.

Inadvertently, without really thinking of it, my hand strayed to my own collar.

I kissed my finger tips and pressed them to my collar.

I envied girls their private masters.

I belonged to the state of Treve.

The pit master briefly glanced down at me.

Frightened, I returned my hands, palms down, to my thighs. I straightened my body. I looked straight ahead. My knees were slightly spread, enough to show that I was a pleasure slave, but were closely enough placed to accord with the decorum of the praetor’s court. I was pleased to understand that the pit master would choose to ignore my slight indiscretion. No one but a frustrated free woman would denounce, or punish, a girl for loving her collar.

I was relieved.

I would not be punished for breaking position.

We then, he and I, the pit master and one of his pit slaves, returned our attention to the floor.

The slave was now in two collars, the holding collar and, just above it, the identification collar, that by means of which she can be identified, as belonging to a particular individual. As soon as the identification collar was in place, the guard of the court removed the holding collar. There had been no moment, then, when the slave had not been in at least one collar. Henry, as we shall speak of him, now adjusted the identification collar on the slave, moving it about, and pressing it down, until it was in place, the lock at the back of the neck.

He then regarded her, in his collar. He then stepped back, away from her.

“You may turn about,” he said. “Keep your head down.” She obeyed and he, for his part, went back to the edge of the scarlet circle, rather on our side of it. She was then standing in the center of the circle, rather as she had before, save, of course, that she now wore not a temporary collar, a holding collar, but the collar of her master.

“You nameless slut,” he said.

She kept her head down.

“Worthless slave!” he cried.

I could not understand his fury. He was facing her, his back to us.

“Kneel,” he said, “keep your head down.”

She fell to her knees before him.

“Perhaps the slave recalls,” he said, “one who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit, one who once, when the mistress of a rich house, defrauded the house of William, in Harfax. Much did the house of William suffer, in its resources, and more, in its reputation, in its very name, honored for generations in a dozen cities. Nearly did she bring the house of William to its ruin, but the house, a strong one, survived, and, rebuilt itself, in its resources and its name. Indeed, it is now the most prosperous of the merchant houses in Harfax. In the time of our peril, of our shame, of our sacrifices, we did not, of course, forget the name of Constanzia of Besnit. But, know that even now, now, in the time in which our fortuned have been recovered and more, in a time in which our name shines again, and more brightly than ever, in a dozen cities, in a time in which we have become first among the houses of Harfax, we still remember that name. No, we have never forgotten the name of Constanzia of Besnit. We remember that name well. And then, wonder of wonders, it came to our attention, as such things may, that the Lady Constanzia, lured like a vulo, and trapped by her greed, was now a capture prize, being held n Treve for ransom. But, lo, would her own brothers not ransom her? But it seemed not. What then was to be her fate? If she were not simply fed to sleen, it would be, presumably, oh, miserable fate, the collar! Well, you can well imagine our reluctance to see such a fine lady, and one so special to us, being simply put upon a block, somewhere, and who would know where, and being sold to just anyone. No, it seemed fitting to us that we should rescue her from such a fate. Was she not, after all, an honored member of our caste? And so we decided to ransom her, if her brothers would not, as an act, if nothing else, of caste solidarity and benevolence. And so she was ransomed. And her ransom was not cheap, I tell you that. Should we not have waited until she was enslaved, and then bid upon her? No, certainly not. She must not have been enslaved. What if she had been simply fed to sleen? But, we had heard rumors that her body might not be without interest, and so we speculated that her captors might see fit to save her for the collar. But would we know where she would be sold? Perhaps not.

And auctions are such tricky things. Could we be sure of overcoming all bids? Might there not be others who, for similar reasons, for similar grievances, might be as anxious as we to obtain her? And what if she misbehaved in the house of the slaver and was, say, cut to pieces, and never even came to the block? But more than these fears, I think was the pleasure, the gratification, which would be felt in our house by our having been your actual ransomer. I think you can understand what an excellent and fitting thing this was. And so she came into our hands, deliciously, as a free woman. And, what, then, was to be done with her? We had feared, you might recall, that she might find herself enslaved, but our fear, most particularly, most exactly, was that she would find herself enslaved by the will and act of another-and not by our will and act, not by the will and act of the house of William, in Harfax. But our fears proved groundless. She has now been enslaved by our won will and act, by the will and act of the house of William, in Harfax, and is now, specifically, my slave, I who am the fifth son, and least in the house. You understand the meaning of this, too, I am sure, that you are the slave of the least in the house. But do no fear. You will be presented before the first in the house. An oath has been sworn to the effect. Indeed, it is in accord with the provisions of that oath I am come to Treve, to fetch you to Harfax. It is to be mine, you see, in accord with the provisions of the oath, to throw you as my branded slave, naked and in chains, to the feet of he who is first in my house, William, my father.”

The slave’s head was down.

“You will serve well in the house, I assure you,” he said. “You will work long and hard, you will perform the lowliest and most servile tasks.”

She did not lift her head.

“You will be kept under the strictest of disciplines,” he said.

She kept her head down.

“It will be amusing,” he said, “to point you out to our guests, and delineate your histry, as, too, you are serving at our meals. Indeed, afterwards, perhaps we will have you accompany our guests to their rooms, seeing to their needs and wants, attending upon them, brining them fresh linen, bathing them, preparing their couch and, later, naturally, taking your place at its slave ring, a token of the hospitatilty of the house of William.”

She kept her head down.

“Yes,” he cried, angrily, “you will serve well in that house! And, that it may be well recalled who you were, and what you did, you will be suitably named. Put your head to the tiles!”

She, kneeling, in the outer robes of concealment, in the hood, in the veil, thrust her head down to the tiles. Her small hands were then up, behind her, high, resting on her back, where the wrists were crossed, tied tighter.

“I name you ‘Constanzia’!” he said, angrily.

The slave was now named ‘Constanzia’.

At this point the clerk inscribed something on the set of papers which lay still on the table.

“You may straighten your back, but keep your head down, slave,” said the angry Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax.

Instantly the slave, who was now “Constanzia,” obeyed.

The clerk now folded the papers together, forming the long, narrow packet as before. He then tied the packet shut with the blue-and-yellow ribbon. He then walked across the scarlet circle, past the kneeling slave, and handed the papers to Henry, who took them, and put them within his robes, as he had his copy of the earlier papers, the court papers. These later papers were undoubtedly the slave’s slave papers. Somewhere, I had no doubt, there were similar papers on me. The notation on the papers which had been made by the clerk had undoubtedly been the slave’s name, presumably with the effective date of the name, as such names may be changed, as the master wishes. Subsequent names may, of course, be added to the papers, with their effective dates. Different masters, for example, will often give different names to slaves. Blue and yellow are the colors of the caste, or subcaste, as the case may be, of the Slavers. Some, as noted earlier, regard the Slavers as a caste independent of the Merchants, some regard it as a subcaste of the Merchants. The colors of the merchant caste itself are white and yellow, or white and gold. Needless to say, caste members do not always wear the caste colors. For example, a scribe would normally wear his blue when working but not always when at leisure. Goreans are fond of color and style in their raiment. They tend to be careful of their appearance and often delight in looking well. Not all slave papers are bound in blue and yellow, of course. I had seen copies in the pens which were in plain folders, in envelopes, and such. Indeed, some had been merely clipped together.

“I would now be left alone with the slave,” said Henry.

“Our concern in this business is now done,” said the clerk. “We have another matter to attend to, one which must shortly be discharged.”

“I will not be long,” said Henry.

“I wish you well,” said the clerk.

“I wish you well,” said Henry.

The clerk then, followed by the two guards of the court, withdrew.

The pit master and I were well back in the shadows. I am sure the fellow realized our presence in the chamber, but it was not conspicuous. The two guards from the pits, who had come with us, were back by the main portal.

“I hate you!” Henry said to the slave.

She trembled, her head down, her hands bound behind her.

“Oh,” he said, angrily, “it is not merely that you were once the hated Constanzia of Besnit! What matter such mild hatreds? We have you now in our collar. You are now under our whip. Let the house be satisfied with what you now are, and what will be done with you. I hold a grudge against you far more profound than that attendant upon the fraud you wrought upon us, even that attendant upon the near ruin into which you brought your house. No, do not dare to lift your head, hated slave!”

the slave kept her head down.

“You do not understand, do you, hated, branded slut!” he cried.

She whimpered twice, in misery.

“Ah,” said he, “you have already been taught gag signals! Excellent!”

I did not understand his fury.

“Twice you have caused great injury to the house of William,” he said, “once to the house as house, and once to the house though me, one of that house.”

He then, in fury, spurned the slave with his foot to the tiles. “Dare not to look upon me!” he cried.

She kept her eyes averted.

Even I was terrified by his wrath.

“Curse honor!” he suddenly cried, his fists clenched.

I was startled by this outburst, and looked up, more closely than before, less unobtrusively, less furtively. His back was to me. I had not heard this voice much before, if I had heard it before, only a few times, and then it had been in calmness, even in humor, sometimes in peremptory command, not as it was now, shaken with rage, almost hoarse with fury. But I thought that I recognized it. Before it had been only a whisper about my mind. Now I was certain. Also, it then became clear to me that the slave, far more familiar with the voice than I, if it was indeed the voice which I thought, must have surely wondered or speculated, or suspected, or entertained hopes, about the identity of its owner long before I. But she could not have been certain of the matter, for the voice was now unnatural with rage, and there might be many similar voices. She had not been permitted to look upon his features. That had been denied to her. She could not then be absolutely certain as to the matter. Indeed, even I had not looked directly upon him.

“What injury you have done to me!” he cried. “It is because of you that I have lost the most exquisite, beautiful, and desirable slave in all the world, the woman I love! Yes, here in the retreat of tarns, I found my love slave. But I must conduct my business! I must ransom the slut, Constanzia of Besnit! I must sign the letters of credit to the state of Treve to redeem her, rather than use them to negotiate for she who is to me beyond compare, who is to me above all others. Curse honor! Were it not for honor I would forget you. I would let you be dragged to any kennel, on any man’s chain. Were it not for honor I would remain secretly, at the risk of my very life, in this city, to seek her, to somehow come into possession of her! Were it not for honor I would find my love, and fly with her! Kneel, head down!”

The slave struggled again to her knees.

“We must leave,” he said. “The clerk has further business this afternoon.”

He then walked a little about the slave, considering her. He crouched down behind her, and put his hand on her ankle. She tried, in fear, to draw it a little away, but he held it. “Do you fear a man’s touch on you?” he asked. “You will grow used to it, my dear. Your ankle is not bad. It is trim, like hers. It will doubtless take a shackle well.” He then moved his hand a bit inside her lower robe, perhaps to the interior of her thigh. She jerked, putting her head back, and then, swiftly, lowered it again. “You will grow used to it,” he said. Then he stood up. “Your body may prove to be, as rumored, not without interest,” he said. “But you will never compare to her. You are too unlike her. At best you would be as a moon to her sun. To her you will always be, in my mind, as nothing.”

He then walked further about her.

“Would you like to speak?” he asked.

She whimpered once, desperately. Then, after a time, she again whimpered once, even more desperately. Then, in a moment, she began to try to speak, making tiny little futile noises, muffled in the gag.

“But you see,” he said, “you may not speak. Were you not informed? Do you not understand that your words, no matter how piteous, will be of no avail? The matter is now concluded. You are branded, branded, you perfidious, dishonest, corrupt, fraudulent slut-yes, at last, after all this time, branded, at last branded! — superb! — it is now done! — the slave mark is now on you, in you! — it has been burned deeply into your very body with the fiery iron-understand that, slut! — and you are now, too, in our rightful neckwear, no necklace, my dear, but the collar of a slave-and it is locked on you-and you cannot remove it-and it is my collar! — it is the collar that you wear, slut! You are now owned! I own you! You are now kajira! Kajira! And my dear, my sweet little thing, you are my kajira!”

“Ah, you would speak? But were you not informed? Your words are not of interest to those of the house of William. Why should we listen to the begging, pleading prattle of a slave? We choose not to do so. Perhaps later you will be permitted to speak, and you will be lashed if we are not pleased with your words.” He then walked about her, until, again, he was rather before her, she a little to his left. “Keep your head down,” he warned her.

The slave, kneeling before him, head down, pulled at the binding fiber.

“Do you truly think you can free yourself?” he asked.

She ceased her efforts, putting her head down even further. She whimpered twice.

“You might be interested in knowing,” said he, “my former lofty, rich lady, that your rival, the one I prefer a thousand times to you, is one amongst the lowliest of slaves, and one, it seems, amongst the most despised of slaves, one clad when most often I saw her only in a collar and rags, and never in more than a simple tunic. Her name, not that it matters, is ‘Tuta’.”

The slave began to tremble, uncontrollably.

“What is wrong?” he asked, puzzled.

The slave seemed in much agitation. How she pulled at the binding fiber, so desperately, yet so futilely. She made tiny noises, they muffled in the gag.

I myself had drawn back on my knees. What I had feared, what I had hoped, had come true!

He regarded the slave, puzzled, she kneeling, head down, before him.

“I do not understand,” he said.

She whimpered piteously, desperately.

“What is wrong with you?” he asked. “Doubtless she wishes to plead,” he mused. “It will do her no good.” He looked down upon her.

“Do not expect the least of kindnesses or considerations in our house, new slave.”

She squirmed.

“Perhaps she wishes to raise her head,” he speculated.

She whimpered once, desperately.

“So soon she desires to exert the wiles of a slave!” he said, angrily.

She whimpered, in misery.

“Ah, yes,” he said, “ I have heard rumors to the effect that the Lady Constanzia of Besnit might have slave curves concealed beneath her robes. Would one not have guessed? And how appropriate! And how fortunate for her! Perhaps if she grovels well she may be lashed less frequently! Perhaps she desires to now exhibit them, that they might win for her some lenience? Do you think I am so easily put off, so easily swayed, dear little thing, that I might be seduced from my resolution by the luscious contours of a begging slave? But do not fear, for I have every intention of putting them frequently and well to my pleasure. But they will never compare with those for my love! To her gold, no matter how luscious and exciting might prove to be the curves of your perfidious, despicable body, you can never be more than a meaningless tarsk-bit of shaved copper!”

The body of the slave shook, trembling with emotion.

“See,” he said, scornfully. “How quickly she learns! She is clever, no doubt! Oh, yes, she is highly intelligent, but now her intelligence will have a different object, not that of seeking wealth and power, but that of pleasing a master! Scarcely has she been branded and collared put on her than she hopes to sway me with the pathetic artifices, the piteous beggings, of a trembling slave, but her cunning will avail her naught!”

Clearly the slave wishes to raise her head, but dared not do so. I was pleased that I had given the Lady Constanzia some slave training in the pens, in answer to her desperate request that I do so.

She had desperately desired to learn how to be more pleasing to a certain visitor to Treve.

I had found her an apt pupil.

I showed her a few things, but not too many. She was, after all, a free woman.

In particular I tried to appraise her of the psychology of these matters from which, in a sense, all else flows.

“Your internal states,” I told her, “are important, your mind, your emotions, and desires.”

“In bondage it is your heart, your love, that blossoms,” I said.

I spoke to her of nature, and her laws, and of health, and dominance and submission.

On the behavioral level, I called her attention to a variety of attitudes and modalities of deference, some as simple as kneeling and bowing the head.

“Be submissive, and feminine,” I had told her.

“Be a slave,” she said.

“Yes,” I said, “be a slave.”

Another thing I had told her was to listen.

That is because she was a free woman.

One need not tell a slave that. The slave is in a collar. If she is inattentive, she may be lashed. Too, it is extremely important for her to listen to the master, for he is her master.

“It is not only we who wish to be listened to,” I told her, “but men, as well.”

And I did not tell her this but, commonly, aside from considerations of prudence, the slave wants to listen. Most slaves soon become loving slaves and it is one of the happienesses of the loving slave to have the master speak to her. And who is more important to her than her master?

We want the master to be kind and loving, but also to keep us under a strict, perfect discipline, even to the whip. We wish there to be no mistake about the matter that we are slaves, fully, nor any doubt about to whom we belong.

That is how we will to have it.

And so it is with care and attention, and pleasure, that we listen to the master.

Too, of course, as we are only slaves, and animals, we are grateful to be spoken to.

In addition, of course, it may be easier for the slave to listen, for she is seldom allowed to speak, unless she has been given permission to do so. Subjected to this condition we are muchly aware of the authenticity and rigors of our bondage. Few things more impress upon us that we are slaves. We are animals and goods. What better to remind us of this than that we may not speak without permission?

“Perhaps you think I can be moved by a piteous glance?” he said.

She made tiny whimpering noises, begging.

“Do you wish to look upon me?” he asked.

She whimpered once, plaintively, desperately.

“We must leave the city by sundown,” he said.

She whimpered again, begging.

“You are doubtless curious to see to whom you belong,” he said.

She whimpered, once.

“I suppose that sometime, sooner or later, you must be permitted to look upon my features,” he said.

She uttered a tiny noise, a single whimper.

“Do you wish permission to lift your head?”

She whimpered once.

“It is not granted,” he said.

She moaned.

“It will be rather in compliance to my command that you will lift your head,” he said.

“Lift your head,” he said.

She lifted her head, commanded, wildly, gazing upon him.

“What misery!” he cried. “Your eyes! They are like hers. They remind me of hers!”

But she now, unbidden, sobbing had flung herself to her belly before him, pressing he veiled, gagged mouth to his sandals, again and again.

“It seems the slut understands in what danger she stands,” he said.

She ministered as she could to his sandals.

“She who was the proud Lady Constanzia now has some understanding of her new condition, it seems.”

Sobs wracked the figure at his feet, but they were, I think, unbeknownst to him, sobs of joy.

He prodded her from him, angrily, with his foot. “Misery!” he said. “her very eyes are like those of my beloved slave!”

She lay on her side, her hands bound behind her, looking up at him. The outer robe she wore had become somewhat disarranged, and it was now, as she lay, above her knees. I speculated that she was indeed naked beneath it.

“I see that you can stimulate a man’s desire, Constanzia,” he said, menacingly, in fury.

He reached eown and seized her, and pulled her up, to her knees, looking closely at her.

“I suppose, too,” he said, “your hair will be dark, as hers.” Then his voice became soft. It almost broke. “Perhaps,” he said, “your eyes, your hair, if it be dark, truly dark, as hers, that you remind me of her, will gain you, you hated slut, a lenience which you might not obtain by other menas. Perhaps, at times I will give you a tidbit at the table, or perhaps, at times, even hold the whip, for that you remind me of her.”

Then he stood up, angrily.

“No!” he suddenly cried, in fury. “You will not weaken me! I shall not be weak! I will not be weak! You have been the enemy of our house, and are now my slave! No lenience for you, hated slut! No indulgence for the new slave, Constanzia!” he looked down at her, in fury. “I should put you to my pleasure now,” he cried, “and in the manner you deserve, with ruthless authority, on the very tiles of the court!” But he did not seize her. Rather, angrily, he jerked her to her feet. He then drew a leash from his pouch and put it on her. “We must to the dock,” he said, angrily. “Do you step forward, eagerly? So close to me? Do you look up to me so? Your eyes are filled with tears. Well should they be, with tears of fear and misery!” He turned about. She hastened to follow. He turned back. “You do not drag on the leash?” he asked. “You do not require a cuffing, to remind you that you are a leashed slave?”

She shook her head, it seemed, happily.

He drew back his hand, but then he lowered it, angrily. “I would not stand so close to me,” he said. “Do you not realize that but a moment ago, but for a wisp of will, blowing one way or another, you could have been put to my pleasure? Do you not think I can sense your nearness?”

But, as she had not been commanded, she stood her ground, near to him. She lowered her head, submissively, as his slave.

“Yes,” he said, “I do not doubt that you will prove of interest in the furs, and to our friends, our guests, our business associates, as well.”

She shrank back.

“Surely you understand, my dear Constanzia,” he said, “that you are now a slave.”

She regarded him.

“Indeed,” he said, angrily, “what is the meaning of these trappings you wear, this robe, this hood, this veil? Are they not presumptuous on one such as you have become? Do they not do you unwonted honor? Surely you understand that you are no longer entitled to such dignities.”

He dropped the leash, and it dangled down from her neck, before her.

He put his hands on the hood.

“It was thought,” said he, “that you might first be stripped in Harfax, but surely we need not so long postpone that small detail, so salutary in its effects upon a female.”

His hands tightened on the hood.

“Do you not pull back, do you not plead?” he asked.

But she kept her head down.

“What a strange effect you have upon me,” he mused. “It is doubtless because of she of whom you remind me. But I ignore this. I steel myself. I remind myself that you were once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit. So may you learn, new slave, what it is to be owned! So let it be told at the fairs, let it be remembered in the annals of the Merchants, that she who was once the proud Lady Constanzia of Besnit, who defrauded and nearly brought to ruin the house of William, in Harfax, was led though the streets of Treve on a leash, naked and bound, then the slave of Henry, least in that house!”

he thrust back the hood. The shape of her head, her throat and such, could now be much better discerned. The color of her hair, on the other hand, as the veil was arranged, it swathing her head, enclosing it save for her eyes and the very top of the bridge of her nose, could not be determined. The veil was not pinned back, nor merely bound about her lower face, the hood concealing the hair, but enclosed it, as noted, save for the eyes and a bit of the bridge of the nose. She was, of course, more revealed than before, the shape of her head, the loveliness of its positioning, its setting, and such.

He thrust the dangling leash back, over her left shoulder.

She shuddered a little.

His hands then grasped her robes, at the collar.

She regarded hi.

Then, angrily, he tore them down from her shoulders, and then stood for a moment, as though in awe, she before him, erect, slim, and lovely, the robes hung down now behind her, from her bound wrists, held by the sleeves. She had, indeed, been naked beneath them.

“Ai!” he said. “It would indeed have been the collar for you!”

She straightened herself, even a little more.

Her slave curves were exquisite.

“You are beautiful,” he said. “Indeed,” he cried, “you are slave beautiful! You should never have been a free woman! How absurd that freedom should have been permitted to you! What a woeful mistake! Such a body is born for the collar! It is incomplete without it!

She stood silent before him, scrutinized, inspected.

“You would bring a high price on the block,” he said. But then he said, menacingly, “But you are not for sale.”

She lifted her head a little, almost as though proffering her veiled countenance to him, as though she was eager to place the veil which she could not remove within his power.

“Oh, you can whine, and beg, and kneel, and grovel and weep, and plead to be sold,” he said, “to anyone other than the house of William, in Harfax, for as little as a tarsk-bit to anyone, for any service, but you are not for sale! We have waited long to obtain you. We have plans for you, slave!”

She whimpered, futilely, fighting the gag.

But she could not speak.

It had been put on her by a Gorean.

“Beg if you wish,” he said, “to be the girl of a keeper of tarsks, to be the property of a sewer master, to be sold for the cleaning of tharlarion stables, but you are destined rather for the those you so defrauded, for the house of those you so wronged, for the house of your most dire enemies! You are ours, and you will remain ours, to do with as we please, and fully, you may be sure, even though a ubar should bid upon you!”

she regarded him, her hands tied behind her, well and closely held by the binding fiber.

“Let us see if the former Lady Constanzia has been well marked,” he said.

There was a tremor in her body, one almost of shyness. She had not long been a slave.

She must submit her brand, fresh in her body, for the inspection of her master.

He had not yet seen it.

Would it be found acceptable? Would it meet with his approval?

She trembled.

She must hope he would find it pleasing.

It seemed she could scarcely move.

“Turn your left flank to me, slave,” he said.

She complied.

“Ah!” he said, suddenly, appreciatively. “Yes, yes!”

She whimpered, gratefully.

The slave was much relieved.

“Yes,” he said, “you are well branded, an incisive, clean mark. There is no mistaking it. And common kajira mark! Of course! Excellent, and superbly fitting! The former Lady Constanzia of Besnit-marked as a common slave! — Excellent!”

the common kajira mark, of course, which I myself wore, is a lovely brand. It may be the most familiar brand on Gor for a female slave, but that does not make it any the less beautiful. Indeed, I suspect it is the most common brand because it is the most beautiful, or surely one of the most beautiful. Just as the male beasts wish us to be attractive, and dress us for their pleasure, when permitting us clothing, and such, so, too, they brand us for beauty, as well. The brand, small and tasteful, but momentous in its meaning, much enhances the beauty of a woman, both aesthetically and cognitively-in the latter dimension marking her as slave, and thus latently, implicitly, indicatively hinting at, or, better, starting, the pleasures, the joys, one may have of her. The most common brand site is the left thigh, under the hip. This site is analogous to that used on a multitude of other forms of domestic animal, verr, tarsks, bosk, and such. Sometimes boys enjoy surprising slaves in the streets or markets and flip their tunics, to ascertain the brand, and, doubtless, to treat themselves to a flash of thigh. It is a game for them. As they are free persons they could simply put the girl to her knees and issue the command, “Brand,” to which the girl must respond by revealing her slave mark. But this would take time. And the pack of them are afoot, racing about and frolicking. It is irritating to be sometimes struck by a free woman or women after this has occurred, as though we could help it! Though we are doubtless quite sensitive to matters of modesty we, as slave, are not permitted modesty. It is one thing to be bared for our masters, and another for strangers.

“Now,” said he, “face me, again.”

She complied.

He then approached her and reached to the veil.

“It is your face now,” said he, “the utmost delicacy, and least expression, of your features, which are to be exposed.”

She did not pull back.

“Perhaps you do not understand,” he said. “Your features are to be publicly exposed, such that anyone, the least of the workers at the docks, even a male slave, may look freely, and as he pleases, upon them.”

She stood a little closer to him.

“You will be able to hid nothing,” he said.

She even lifted her chin.

“Are you truly prepared,” he asked, “so easily, to be face-stripped?”

She lifted her chin a little more, looking up at him.

“Strange,” he said, “that you do not cringe, that you do not try to flee, that I need not use the leash, to hold you here. Have you learned so soon the futility, the meaninglessness, of recalcitrance, of disobedience? Perhaps you have felt the whip. Or perhaps you understand, already, the brand, the collar.” He pulled away part of the veil from about her throat, freeing it from under the collar. “It is with pleasure, as you may well conjecture,” he said, “that I now bare the face of she who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit. I have dreamed of unveiling her, of stripping her face, of exposing it, of making it naked.” He continued to unwrap the veil. “In a moment now, my dear,” he said, “your face will be naked, as is fitting for what you are now, a slave.”

“Aiii!” he cried, in astonishment, dropping the veil to one side.

Instantly she fell to her knees before him.

He tore the gag from her, pulling out the wadding, discarding the binding.

Her head then was down to his feet, she weeping, covering them with kisses. The leash, fixed on her, fell to the floor. “I love you, my master!” she wept. “I love you!”

He drew her up to her knees and he crouched before her, holding her by the upper arms.

“What madness is this!” he cried, in consternation. “I do not understand! Are you not my Tuta!”

“I am whoever you will have me be!” she wept.

“But what of the Lady Constanzia of Besnit!”

“I was she,” she cried.

“You are Tuta!” he said.

“She was the Lady Constanzia of Besnit,” she wept.

“Tuta was a slave!”

“No! She was free! By the kindness of the pit master she was permitted to go abroad in the city, though only if collared, and clothed as a slave! I assure you there was no danger of her escaping!”

“Tuta,” said he, “was right-thigh branded!”

“No,” said she. “You assumed that because in certain rags permitted to me you could see only my left thigh, and, it not being marked, you inferred, I thought to be a slave, that I was right-thigh marked.”

He stared at her, in disbelief.

“I trust that master does not object to a left-thigh-marked girl,” she said.

“No, no,” he said. “I am right-handed. I prefer it.”

“Good,” she said.

“You were the Lady Constanzia?”

“Until this morning, and scarcely an Ahn ago, when I was, by order of the house of William, in Harfax, branded and collared.”

“Why did you not tell me you were free?” he asked.

“I must appear as a slave,” she said. “And you did not tell me who you were either!”

“Of course not,” he said. “What business would it have been of yours? I thought you were a mere slave.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, happily.

“My Tuta!” he said, beside himself with elation.

“No, my name is Constanzia,” she said. “That is the name which has been given to me by my master!”

“Should you not have told me you were free?” he asked.

“But would you have then related to me, would you have felt free to do so, would you have even approached me, would you have considered me? I wanted you to relate to me. I wanted you to approach me. I wanted you to like me. Thus I wanted you to see me not as what I was, in some legal sense, a free woman, but as what I was in my heart, what I had come to long to be, as a full woman, as one who, in the order of nature, belongs to men, as one who, in the order of nature, is a man’s slave.”

“And so I saw you,” he said.

“And appropriately, my master,” she whispered.

“Surely you should have told me you were free,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“When I was near you,” she said, “I was not free. When I was near you, I was a slave.”

They kissed.

“The first moment I laid eyes on you,” she said, “I wanted to be your slave.”

“And I,” he said, “from the first moment I saw you, I wanted you in my collar.”

“It is in your collar I am now,” she whispered.

“How can you have been Constanzia of Besnit?” he demanded.

“Forget that cold, greedy, proud woman,” she begged, “think now only of the slave in your arms, who would die for you.”

“The Lady Constanzia of Besnit,” he said, “muchly wronged my house.”

“She is now your slave,” she said. “Do with her as you will.”

“I must take you back to Harfax,” he said.

“I heel my master with love,” she said.

“I must, by oath, throw you naked and in chains to the feet of my father.”

“Do so,” she said. “I beg it.”

“Your life will not be easy in the house,” he said.

“I am a slave,” she said. “We do not expect our life to be easy.”

“What am I to do with you?”

“It is my hope that my master will do with me as he pleases.”

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you, too, my master,” she said.

“Tuta!” said he.

“Constanzia,” she said.

“You will answer quickly enough to either,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said happily.

There was a sound behind the portal to one side, that through which the clerk and the guards had earlier entered, bringing with them the slave.

Henry looked quickly toward the portal.

She looked over her shoulder, too. Frustration crossed her lovely features.

“I would serve you!” she said.

“Serve me?” he said.

“Surely master knows what to do with a slave,” she said.

He threw her then to her back on the tiles. “Spread your legs, slave,” he said.

“Yes, my master!” she said, delightedly.

I heard another sound behind the portal. The clerk, I gathered, had returned. The pit master, with the two pit guards, and I, of course, were waiting for him.

“Shameless,” said the pit master to me, regarding the pair, she in his arms, on the scarlet circle.

“Yes, Master,” I said, happily.

“Yet doubtless he should try the slut out,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“I wonder how she will do as a slave,” he said.

I considered the pair. She was gasping in his arms, head back, eyes closed.

“Excellently, I conjecture, Master,” I said.

“She looks well, naked, in her collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“She belongs in it,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” I said.

“Ai! Aiiii!” cried Henry.

“Oh, my master! My master!” cried the slave.

Then she wept, pulling at the binding fiber, “I cannot hold you! I cannot hold you!”

He then knelt beside her, and lifted her to a half sitting position in his arms.

Her head and hair were back, hanging down. Her body was gorgeous with color, a mottled scarlet tapestry. Her nipples were tightly pointed.

“It seems you will do as a slave,” he said.

“I desire only to serve and pleased my master,” she said.

He gasped, trying to regain his breath. He put her to her back on the scarlet circle. He, kneeling, looked down upon her.

“I love you,” he said.

“And I love you, my master,” she said.

Then suddenly, without warning, he seized her ankles and thrust them cruelly apart.

“You are a slave,” he reminded her.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Do with me as you will.”

“Ah!” she cried.

It took him longer with her this time, and, then, in a few minutes, he stood up, unsteadily.

She looked up at him. “The slave would be grateful if her master were pleased with her,” she said.

“The master is pleased with her,” he said.

“The slave is grateful,” she said.

The portal leading from the chamber opened and the clerk stepped though, taking in, in a glance, the slave, naked on the tiles, and her master standing over her. He did not seem surprised.

Sir,” said he. “The court must conduct further business.”

“We are leaving,” said Henry, he of the house of William, in Harfax.

The clerk withdrew, presumably to return shortly.

She stretched a little, and lifted one knee, rather saucily, rather provocatively, I thought. “Do you think that I may do as a slave, truly?” she asked.

“It is possible,” he said.

“And how do I compare to your Tuta?” she asked.

“There seems little to choose between you,” he said.

“But how could I compare with her?” she asked. “I am too unlike her!”

“Not as unlike as you think,” he said.

“I am only as a moon to her sun,” she pouted, “only as a tarsk-bit, and a shaved on, to her gold.”

“Perhaps it was a mistake to remove your gag,” he said.

“In your mind, compared to her, I could be only as nothing,” she said.

“Be silent,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Master?” she asked. For he had drawn a knife from his robes.

“Kneel,” he said.

She did so.

He then went behind her and cut the remains of the outer robe of concealment away from her bound wrists.

“What are you doing?” he asked, for she had lifted her bound wrists out, away from her body, lifting them up, toward him.

“Are you not going to sever the binding fiber?” she asked.

“What is wrong with it?” he asked. “Does it not bind you perfectly?”

“It does bind me perfectly,” she assured him. “I am quite helpless in it.”

“Then,” said he, “it will remain as it is, until I might be pleased to remove it.”

“Oh,” she said.

“Do you understand, Constanzia, Tuta-Constanzia?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “We understand.”

The leash still dangled from her neck.

“On your feet,” he said.

She struggled to her feet.

He took the leash and drew her to him, quite closely. He then regarded her, about a foot from him, he holding her there, by the leash.

“You have served well in quick usages,” he said. “We will see later how you do when put to service for Ahn at a time.”

“I know nothing!” she said, in alarm. “I have not been love-trained!”

“I will train you to my tastes,” he said.

“Whip-train me,” she whispered.

“The training of such as you is always subject to the whip,” he said.

“Good,” she said.

I recalled, as undoubtedly she had, as well, his often-remarked observation, early in their acquaintance, that she was in need of whip-training. Now, it seemed that that deficiency would be remembered. It would be attended to.

She inched closer to him. She was now almost touching him, looking up at him.

“And as what shall I be trained?” she asked.

“As a pleasure slave, of course,” he said.

“You dare?” she asked. “You dare do that to she who was once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit?”

“Certainly,” he said.

“Why?’ she asked.

“Because that is the way I want you,” he said.

“You are a beast,” she said.

“I am a man,” he said.

“But what of my will in these matters?” she asked.

“You have no will in these matters,” he said. “You are a slave. Your will is meaningless, it is nothing.”

This was true. The will of the slave did not count. The will of the master was all.

“But would I be a good pleasure slave?” she asked.

“I will see to it,” he said. “And you will be not only a good pleasure slave, but, I assure you, you will be a perfect pleasure slave,”

“I see,” she said.

“Then you are serious,” she said. “I, the former Lady Constanzia of Besnit, am to be a pleasure slave, and you will train me as such.”

“Yes,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“Did you ever doubt it?” he asked.

“No,” she smiled.

“It is not the sort of training you want?” he asked.

“It is the sort of training I beg!” she said, suddenly, delightedly, earnestly. He then crushed her to him.

I had realized, of course, for some time, that there was not only a slave in the Lady Constanzia of Besnit, but a pleasure slave. It had been obvious, for some time, that she wanted desperately to submit herselfto the mysterious visitor to Treve, to submit herself in the most perfect and complete way a woman can submit herself to a man, to be his ardent, devoted, helpless pleasure slave.

Then he thrust her from him, reluctantly, an effort which must have cost him much will. “Later, later,” he said. “We must from here,” he said. “There are matters to attend to. There are others to join, agents of our house.”

“Master!” she protested.

“In the first camp,” he said, “you and other slaves will be put in cages. I will have you drawn forth from your cage. I will have you brought to me and changed to a stake in my tent.”

“And how shall I live till then?” she asked.

“On water,” he said, “and a handful of slave gruel.”

“Yes, my master,” she breathed.

He then stepped from her, releasing a coil or two of the leash, permitting it to slacken.

“Are you prepared to be led forth?” he asked.

Surely something might be arranged from the remnants of the robe, or from pieces cut from the hood! Indeed, even the veil, a large one, might be wrapped about her body!

“You have your collar,” he said.

“Master!” she protested.

“Certainly you do not think I would deny my house this triumph,” he said.

She straightened herself, as the leash went taut, between the ring on the leash collar and his fist.

“Yes, Master,” she said, answering his earlier question, “I am prepared to be led forth!”

He then turned about and strode toward the door. She hurried to follow him.

“Master!” she said.

He stopped, and turned about.

“Should I try to place a downcast expression on my face, Master?” she inquired.

“You may do as you will,” he said, irritatedly.

“Doubtless you should treat me in your house, publicly, as a despised slave.”

“I suppose so,” he said, “at least for a time.”

“They need not know I am your love slave,” she said. “I am your love slave, am I not?”

“Yes,” he said.

“Am I subject to the whip?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“Am I to be whipped in your house?” she asked.

“It will undoubtedly be expected, upon occasion,” he said. “You were, after all, once the Lady Constanzia of Besnit.”

“And who will whip me?” she asked.

“Whoever wishes to do so,” he said. “Even other slaves. I advise you, thusly, to try to be quite pleasing, to everyone.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, trembling.

He turned about, and took a step toward the door.

“Master!” she said.

He turned to face her.

“You will whip me sometimes, will you not,” she asked, “that I may know that I am a slave, and that you are truly my master?”

He did not respond.

“Can you not understand?” she said. “I love you, truly love you, helplessly! With slave helplessness! As a slave her master! And I am a slave, and you are my master! I want reassurance. I want proof, in my deepest heart, that you can do with me what you want, and that you will, that I am your slave, that you own me!”

“Be in no doubt as to the matter,” he said.

“I would be convinced!” she said.

“On the practical level?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I see,” he said.

“Perhaps I will displease you!” she said.

“Then you will find yourself punished quickly enough,” he said.

“Could you punish me?” she asked.

“Test me,” he said.

“You could!” she said. “You could!”

“And would,” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said, happily.

But I did not think she would wish to displease him. And, too, once she had felt the whip, once it had made it clear to her what she was, once it had confirmed her bondage upon her, once it had imprinted upon her an understanding of what could be done to her, I did not think it likely that she would be eager to feel it soon again, even lightly, even in the hands of a beloved master, one to whom she had surrendered everything, one to whom she belonged, totally. The whip, as a tool, is a quite effective implement. It serves to keep us well in line. Free women may make men miserable, and even attempt to destroy them, but slaves may not do so.

It is ours, rather, to strive to be pleasing to our masters.

“In my house,” he said, “it will be I who will first tie you to the whipping ring, who will give you your first public lashing.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said. “It is your whip which I would feel first, before all others.”

It is not that unusual, incidentally, to whop a new slave, upon her first being introduced into a house. To be sure, the custom apparently varies from city to city. In any event, giving the background and interactions of the Lady Constanzia of Besnit and the House of William, in Harfax, I did not think that they would wish to wait long before seeing the lash laid to her-well laid-to the back of the new slave.

“Master!” she cried. “Look!”

“What?’ he said. “The girl in the shadows, the creature with her?”

“It is Janice!” she wept, joyfully.

“Are you sure?” he asked.

“Please let me go to her, just for a moment, please, my beloved master!” but the leash restrained her. “Oh!” she wept, in misery, held, helpless to approach me. But then he advanced toward me, letting her hurry before him. The pit master, near me, threw his cloak over his head, and turned away, that his features not be seen.

Constanzia knelt before me, I kneeling, too. “It is he, Janice!” she said. “I am a slave! I am his slave! I am happy! I am so happy! I love you, Janice!”

She bent toward me, joyfully. I took her in my arms and kissed her. “I am happy for you!” I said. “I love you, too!”

She then lowered her head to kiss the feet of the depth warden, near me. “Thank you, Master,” she wept. “Thank you for everything!”

He kept the folds of his hood drawn carefully about his face.

Then in a moment she was drawn to her feet by the leash, and pulled away. She looked over her shoulder, drawn toward the portal. “I love you!” she said. “I love you!” I called. Then the slave girl, naked and bound, on her leash, was taken from the chamber. I heard the noises of a small crowd outside, and much jeering. Some had gathered, it seemed, to witness the procession of the Lady Constanzia to the docks. I supposed that several of these people would accompany her to the docks, and that, indeed, she might have to run something of a gantlet until her arrival there, perhaps being abused, switched, and spit upon. So much, at least, it seemed, would be owed to the house of William, in Harfax.

to be sure, her master would doubtless to some extent protect her, seeing to it that the crowd did not exceed the proprieties customary to such occasions, for example, that they not be permitted to mutilate her or break her limbs. And soon, of course, or sooner or later, she should be relatively safe, being chained and hooded, and inserted into a cage basket, perhaps with other slaves, having arrived at the docks.

Shortly after Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax, had exited with a slave, the door to the side opened and the clerk came though. The pit master went forward then, and, near the clerk’s table, conferred with the clerk. Some papers were signed, a copy being retained by the clerk, and one my the pit master.

The clerk then turned toward the portal. “Bring forth the free woman,” he called. The two court guards then entered, conducting, between them, a woman in robes of concealment, fully veiled. She was, however, barefoot. Her ankles were trim. I wondered if she were pretty. The pit master turned to the two pit guards, by the portal leading to the outer hall, that leading thence to the outside, and, with a gesture, summoned them forward. He also beckoned that I should approach. I quickly rose to my feet and hurried forward, then kneeling near him. I noted impatience in the manner, and contempt in the eyes, of the woman in the robes of concealment as I approached. I knew myself despised by her. I did not meet her eyes.

“This is the Lady Ilene of Venna,” said the clerk.

The pit master lowered his head, his features shielded within the dark hood.

“Where am I?” she asked, angrily. “What am I doing here?”

The pit master went behind her and, one my one, pulled her hands behind her. There were two clicks.

“I am braceleted!” she exclaimed, angrily. “How dare you put me in such things! Remove them, immediately!”

The pit master was then again before her. He looked down at her feet.

“One slipper,” said he, not turning from the free woman, but addressing himself to the clerk, “was used to convince her house that she was in our keeping. The other is in a distant city, where negotiations may be conducted, the authenticity of our negotiators attested to by the possession of the second slipper. It was not thought that, under the circumstances, she required hose.”

Bonds are seldom placed over clothing. The free woman, the Lady Ilene of Venna, was under detention, rather obviously as a ransom prisoner, as had been the Lady Constanzia of Besnit, now the slave Constanzia, owned by Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax. Accordingly, her hose had been removed, that her ankles might now from the Gorean point of view be the more appropriately crossed and tied, or shackled. Such things are in part cultural, and in part practical.

I considered her, what I could see of her.

She certainly did have trim ankles. They would look well, crossed and corded together, tightly, or shackled.

I wondered, again, if she were pretty.

Doubtless the guards, too, were curious about that.

The woman tried to pull her feet back, a little, more beneath her robes.

“Who is this misshapen lout?” she asked. “What is he doing here? Why does he conceal his features?”

“You are in the presence of a warden of our city, Lady,” said the clerk. “It is in his keeping that you will find yourself until your disposition is clear.”

“My disposition?” she asked.

“Yes, Lady,” said the clerk.

“What are you doing!” she cried.

“He is leashing you,” said the clerk.

“Never!” she cried.

There was a click. She was leashed. “Take it off!” she cried.

“What?” asked one of the pit guards, one who had had his eye on her.

“ ‘What’?” she asked.

“Yes, ‘what’,” he said. “Your veil? Your hood? Your clothing?”

She shrank back. “Monster,” she said.

The pit master gestured to me and I rose, and came forward, and then again knelt, this time before the free woman, putting my head to the tiles before her. “Forgive me, Lady,” I said. I then rose up and grasped the leash.

“I will not be led by a slut of a slave!” she said.

The pit master then gestured to the guard who had spoken before, and I willingly surrendered the leash to him.

He stood rather close to the free woman and, the leash wrapped about one hand, put his two hands on her hips. He looked down into her eyes, and she turned her head away. With one hand, the chain of the leash dangling from it, he reached up and, within her hood, the chain trailing, touched the left side of her face. Then he turned it, again, to face him. He then put one finger to the height of the veil, where, near her left eye, rather at the bridge of her nose, he pulled it down, ever so little. It seemed he might think of peering down, within it. She tried to back away, but was prevented from doing so by one of the court’s guards. The fellow then crouched down a little behind her, on her right. He transferred the leash to his left hand, and, with that hand, brushed up the hem of the robes a bit and, with his right hand, grasped her right ankle. “Steady her,” he said to the court guard behind her, and that guard then grasped her by the upper arms. The pit guard then, holding to her ankle, lifted her foot, lifting it up so that the lower portion of the robe of concealment came forward, to the lodgment behind the knee, this revealing something of her calf, and also, of course, her foot, the ankle in his grasp. “A pretty calf,” said the pit guard. “Yes,” said the court guard holding the woman from behind. “I think she would take a two-ring,” said the pit guard, lifting the ankle a little more. “Yes,” said the other pit guard. “I would think so,” said the other court guard. This was a reference to the sizes of ankle rings. “She is about the size of Janice,” said the other pit guard, he not holding the woman’s ankle. “What size ankle ring do you take, Janice?” “A two-ring, Master,” I said. “See?” said the pit guard holding the woman’s ankle. “Yes,” agreed his fellow. The woman put her head in the air. I supposed she was not pleased at all to learn that she had this in common with me, that we might take the same size ankle ring. But what would be so surprising about this? Were we so different? And are not free women, as the men of this world sometimes suggest, only slaves without collars? The pit guard then released her ankle, and the fellow behind her released her upper arms. She now stood as she had before. Only I think that now she was acutely conscious of the men about her, and, in particular, of he who held her leash. His fist, the right fist, the leash now again transferred to his right hand, the leash wrapped about it, was only about six inches from her collar ring. He looked down at her. She quickly averted her eyes. “I wonder if she is pretty,” said one of the court guards. “ ‘Ilene’ would be a pretty name for a slave,” said the fellow with the leash. “Yes,” said his fellow.

“Please,” protested the woman.

“Do you think you might make good company for a lonely man on a long, cold night?” asked the guard, he holding her leash.

“I would be led by the slave,” said the free woman hastily, frightened.

There was laughter.

I thought her request a judicious one, particularly if she did not wish to be visited in a cell at night, and forced to strip, and perform as a slave.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” I said, accepting the leash from the guard.

“Slut,” she said to me.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“Functionary,” said the woman to the clerk.

“Lady?” he said, politely.

“You will expedite the arrangements from my ransom,” she said. “I will soon be ransomed by my beloved sisters. There should be no difficulties in the matter, as we are one of the richest houses in Venna.”

“It is my hope,” said he, “that these matters may be conducted with the utmost dispatch.”

“And if things do not work out,” said the pit guard, he in whose hands she had been, in effect, assessed, “I am sure we can think of something else for you.”

“Beast!” she said.

“What did you think I had in mind?” he asked.

She turned away, angrily.

“I expect,” she said to the clerk, “to be treated with honor, and with dignity and respect, such as comports with my condition and station.”

“I understand,” he said.

“You may begin,” she said, “by removing these horrid bracelets and this obscene leash!”

“They are the devices,” said he, “of your current keeper, a warden of the city.”

She turned to the pit master.

“Lout,” she said.

The pit master lifted his head a little, his feathers hidden in the folds of the hood. He seldom left the depths, and, when he did so, he apparently exercised certain cautions.

“Removed the bracelets and leash!” she said.

“Remove them yourself,” he said.

She struggled, briefly, pulling at the bracelets behind her back. The chain danced on its collar ring. I trusted she would neither mark nor injure her wrists. Such bracelets are not designed to be slipped by a female. They hold us well.

“I cannot do so,” she said.

“Then they will remain on you, until I see fit to remove them,” said the pit master.

“Tarsk!” she berated him.

The pit master stiffened. He was known as “the Tarsk” to certain scions of the city, I knew. The free woman, of course, would not know this. With her, it was merely a convenient term of abuse, an insult at hand.

The guards present smiled. The two pit guards exchanged glances. With her insult the free woman may have inadvertently placed herself closer to their grasp than she realized.

“I am rich, and of high station,” she said. “I shall expect the finest accommodations.”

“I have in mind a little place for you,” responded the pit master, one near the water.”

“Excellent,” she said.

“Sir!” protested one of the pit guards, he who had for a time held the free woman’s leash.

“No,” said the pit master, his decision having been made.

The free woman, it seemed, would not soon be in a cell, or even an ample-sized low-ceilinged kennel, one which might be on the guard’s rounds, one to which he might hold the key.

The free woman laughed merrily, understanding the pit master’s decision as constituting for her some sort of victory, particularly given the disgruntlement of the guard.

“Perhaps later,” said the pit master to the guard. “We shall see.”

“Our business here is done,” said the clerk, he having signed over the prisoner to the pit master. “I wish you well.”

“I wish you well,” said the pit master.

The clerk with the court guards then withdrew, exiting through the same portal by means of which they had entered the chamber.

The pit master then drew forth from his pouch a slave hood, which I would place on the prisoner. He and the two guards then went toward the door. They conferred there, out of earshot. Perhaps they spoke of the prisoner, perhaps of matters of the pits. I do not know. Too, curiosity is not becoming in a kajira.

I began to open and unfold the hood.

“What is that?” asked the free woman.

“A hood, Mistress,” I said. I needed not tell her it was a slave hood.

“What is it for?” she asked.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” I said. “It is to hood you. You are to know little of your surroundings, even where you are.”

“I am not a slave girl!” she said.

I shook out the hood.

“Wait,” she said. “See that guard.”

“Which?” I asked.

“There, he who so insolently dared to touch me!”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said.

“He is a handsome fellow, is he not?”

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

“The leash is pretty, isn’t it?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. It was of gleaming chain. The metal collar, with its ring, was also attractive.

“The bracelets, too, are pretty, are they not?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. Most slave hardware, it seems, or at least that intended for women, is not designed solely for custodial purposes, for perfection of security. That function goes without saying. It is also designed, commonly, to display the slave, to show her off, to enhance her beauty. Bondage, as a whole, incidentally, has a tendency to enhance the beauty of women, not so much from the emphasis which it places on diet, exercise, proper rest, cleanliness, physical attractiveness, cosmetics, costuming, and such, as for the way in which it returns woman, in an institutionalized fashion, to her place in nature, rightly relating her to men, reducing her inhibitions and freeing her emotions. No woman can be fully fulfilled and happy until she finds herself at the feet of her master. Many women do not know how beautiful they are until they see themselves, bound and collared, in a mirror.

“What is it like to be touched by a man?”

“They make us serve them well,” I said.

“Do you think they could make me serve them well?” she asked.

“Do not make me speak,” I said.

“Speak,” she said.

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

“Slut!” she said.

“Yes Mistress,” I said.

But she had trembled, thrilled.

“I will not be here long,” she said. “My beloved sisters will ransom me, almost instantly!”

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I lifted the hood.

“Do you think he likes me?” she asked.

“I do not know, Mistress,” I said. “Perhaps he might, if you were concerned to be pleasant-and if you were nude, at his feet.”

“Slut! Slut!” she said.

“Yes, Mistress,” I said. I then drew the hood over her features, and buckled it shut, beneath her chin.

In the hood, though she was not gagged within it, she remained silent.

I lifted the chain leash. I looked to the pit master, and the guards.

They still conferred.

I wondered what the free woman might look like, stripped, on a slave block. She had had a trim ankle, a well turned calf.

But she was confident that her sisters would ransom her.

I wondered if the guard would make a bid on her.

I then, at the sign from the pit master, brought the free woman forward and, shortly thereafter, she flanked by the guards, I holding her leash, the pit master leading, we left the court of the commercial praetor. We did not return immediately to the pits, as the pit master had certain matters to attend to in the city, mostly having to do with supplies. Indeed, it was, as it happened, only after sunset that we reached the entrance to the tunnels, some branches of which lead to underground routes and defenses, others to the pits. We did stop for a moment on the terrace, to watch a tarn caravan in flight, one of more than fifty birds, one which had left in the vicinity of sunset. Those not of this city with such a caravan, in the carrying baskets, would be hooded. Among these, I was sure, would be Henry, of the house of William, in Harfax, and certain agents of that house. In the cargo of the caravan, too, I was sure, in one of the cage baskets, there would be a slave, also hooded, a girl who had, only this afternoon, been named ‘Constanzia’.