Quarry of Gor, page 24
“He was once whole,” I said, “and, I fear, terrible.”
“No more,” said Euphrosyne.
“Such unfortunates should be pitied,” I said.
“You still know little of Gor,” said Euphrosyne. “That is the greatest insult. Ridicule and derision they will bear, but not pity. What Gorean would be so cruel?”
“So to some they are objects of contempt and sport?” I said.
“Of course,” said Euphrosyne.
“I do not think he would prove such,” I said.
“What choice has he?” asked Euphrosyne.
We then joined the others, and hurried on.
I did not think he had seen me. I had seen him once before, of course, on board a moored ship in Brundisium. It was he who had been referred to, but skeptically, as Bruno of Torcadino. Indeed, I had heard that name again, during my interview in the alcove, when I, hooded and chained, had knelt before an interlocutor whose identity had been concealed from me. I did not regard the so-called Bruno of Torcadino as lightly as might have Euphrosyne. Cripple that he was he had braved and defied, even intimidated, men both armed and dangerous. He had frightened me, as might have a dangerous animal, unexpectedly come through a portal before one, unrestrained and baleful. Even had he seen me I did not think he would recognize me, and certainly not in passing and at a distance. What was he doing in Port Kar? Was this a coincidence? Did he still seek his Luta? Did he suspect she was in the city? Had he intelligence of that? Had he followed her here? Where was he bound? Certainly not to the Golden Chain. Had he heard of the mangled gate at the Delta? Had that provoked his curiosity? Dared he enter the marshes? I was afraid. I must crave an audience with my master, Ho-Tosk.
Chapter Eighteen
What Occurred One Night
in the Golden Chain
His back had been turned toward me. He was in converse with two others. When I, sent to his table, knelt to inquire his order, he had turned about.
“Why did you start?” he asked. “Look up at me. Move your hair back, to the sides, slave.”
I did so, and then lowered my hands.
He fastened his hand in my hair.
I lifted my hands, without thinking, to my throat, my collar.
“Hands down, palms on thighs,” he said.
He then pulled my head toward him, more under the soft light of the dangling lamp.
“You know me,” he said.
“No, Master,” I said, unable to take my eyes from the small, triangular scar, low, at the right side of the mouth.
“I know you,” he said. “I am sure of it.”
“I do not think it can be,” I said. “Forgive me, how could you know me? I am a barbarian.”
“Brundisium,” he said.
“I do not see how it can be,” I said.
“The sheet, the fire, the mistake,” he said.
“I do not understand,” I said.
“It is she,” he said to his two companions.
“Are you sure?” asked one of the three men.
“Yes,” he said.
“Then she is lying,” said one of them, the second man.
“But she is far lovelier now,” said the man with the scar, “more beautifully curved, softer, more helpless, more vulnerable, more owned, more vital, more alive, more aware that she is in a collar. She is more of a slave now.”
I did not understand how this could be. How could I now be more a slave than I had been in Brundisium? Yet I feared it was true.
“She has been longer in the collar,” said one of the men.
“They cannot help themselves,” said the third man. “Their bellies flame; they become more pathetically needful; they become more desperate to please; they improve.”
“She would whimper and oil at a touch,” said the man with the small scar.
I was grateful that he did not touch me.
“She lied, she should be whipped,” said the second man.
“Please do not whip me,” I whispered.
I had learned the whip early in this world, even before my serious training had begun. I recalled when I, and the others, stripped, our bodies stretched, our hands fastened high over our heads to a chain, had been introduced to its caresses.
“Do not fear,” said the second man. “We would use the broad-bladed, five-stranded slave whip, suitable for female slaves. It will not mark your pretty hide.”
“It is interesting that she is here,” said the man with the scar.
He removed his hand from my hair.
I remained where I was, as I was.
“Three pagas,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
“Be quick,” he said, “and return with them yourself. Do not substitute another slave. We are going to talk with you.”
“Master?” I asked.
“I trust you are a charming, entertaining, informative conversationalist,” he said.
I rose to my feet, backed away, turned, and hurried to the paga vat. A taverner’s man, with his coin box, would collect coins. The girl goes with the price of the drink, but many men come to the tavern merely to eat and drink, meet friends, apprise themselves of news, gossip, and rumors, hear or tell stories, listen to the musicians and watch dancers, when they are performing, or even to play kaissa or stones, such things. A girl is seldom bound and sent to an alcove when there is more than one man at a table. Gorean men like to have slaves to themselves, and seldom hurry with what they have paid for. Men who are looking for a girl commonly come alone. In any event, I did not think the man with the scar and his fellows were interested at the moment in bringing a helpless slave to spasmodic submission.
At the paga vat I heard a slave in Alcove Seven cry out with ecstasy. Also, Daphne passed me, smiling, her wrists bound behind her back with a thrice-looped leather lace. Six other slaves were standing nearby, to the left of the heavy, colorful, beaded curtain, their backs to the wall, waiting to be picked out, or assigned to a table.
Shortly thereafter I knelt again beside the table, Table Forty-One, near the far wall of the tavern’s main serving area, and placed the small tray on its surface with the three goblets. “Paga, Masters,” I announced.
Each took a goblet.
I reached for the tray but a hand pressed it down on the table, that of he who had spoken of the whip.
“Remain where you are,” said the man with the scar, softly.
“What is your name?” he asked.
“‘Zia’,” I said, “if it pleases Master.”
“Do you remember Brundisium?” he asked.
I was silent.
“Shall I call for a whip?” he asked.
“I remember Brundisium,” I said. “Master was kind enough to release me in Brundisium, that I might be returned to the House of Anesidemus. A slave is grateful.”
“We were commissioned to obtain a slave, one once supposedly named ‘Luta’, now named ‘Adraste’,” he said. “We anticipated obtaining her from a buyer, while she was being delivered or transported. We thought things turned out more to our advantage. In virtue of an unanticipated dock fire she, and others, suitably concealed, and suitably protected from hot ash and sparks, were removed for safety from the House of Anesidemus. Our suborned contact in the house marked Adraste’s sheet to facilitate her acquisition. Unfortunately for us, covering sheets were mixed, or deliberately changed, and we took you for Adraste.”
“You had never seen Adraste,” I said.
“No,” he said. “As you know, the matter turned out badly.”
“Bruno of Torcadino, the one-legged man, was your fee giver,” I said.
“We received one silver stater by way of assurance and good faith,” he said. “A second silver stater was due upon the delivery of the slave.”
“Who was not delivered,” I said.
“We had planned carefully,” he said. “We had arranged a departure from Brundisium, an escape, with the first tide following the theft. Even with the theft bungled, its attempt would be obvious and noted. We did not wish to be held in Brundisium, caught in a net of investigation and interrogation. We withdrew. Later, at sea, we pondered the matter. It seemed clear that the one-legged man had not revealed his true identity. That was clear even in Brundisium. But why should he do that, unless it was important to keep that identity secret? And why should it be kept secret, if the matter was all clear, lawful, and honorable, that of bringing a slave back to her proper chains? Why not have recourse to guardsmen? And would it not be improbable to put two silver staters at risk for a single slave, however beautiful, and one vended in a low market, that of the House of Anesidemus? Why would he not have attended the auction and bid on her personally? And one who could commit two silver staters in such a way most likely has more in hand. He must know something about the slave. He must know someone to whom he can deliver her for even more than two staters. It was all mysterious. Who was he? Who was the slave? Surely there was more here than was easily seen.”
I remained silent. Clearly he did not know that the true identity of Adraste was that of the former Lady Julia Leta, former agent of the House of the Claudian Marcelliani, of Ar’s Street of Coins, wanted for embezzlement.
“I am surprised to see you here,” he said.
“Master?” I said.
“How is it that you are in Port Kar?” he asked.
“I was sold in the House of Anesidemus,” I said. “I was purchased by an agent for Ho-Tosk, my master, proprietor of the Golden Chain. I and some others were brought north, along the coast, for the tavern.”
“Adraste was shipped with you?” he asked.
“No, Master,” I said.
“Note that,” said the second man.
The men had been drinking their paga, bit by bit.
“May I ask,” I said, “how it is that Master is in Port Kar?”
I was not struck.
“We sensed that not only silver but perhaps gold might be involved in this strange business,” he said. “We put about. We returned to Brundisium. We watched for the one-legged man. Days, weeks passed. We were unsuccessful. Then we learned that a one-legged man had taken ship, and recently, to Port Kar.”
“Why would he have done so?” I asked.
“I do not know,” he said. “But now that I find you in Port Kar I conjecture that he, perhaps having little to guide him and being desperate, thought that you, because of the change of sheets, might somehow be associated with Adraste. Surely that might be possible. He must have learned you were taken to Port Kar. Such information is easily purchased. Then, suspecting that there might be some connection or relationship between you and Adraste, and what else had he to go on, he pursued that possibility. Might you not somehow lead him to Adraste?”
“I am frightened,” I said.
“We have been several days in Port Kar,” he said.
“I know,” I said.
“What do you know of Adraste?” he asked.
“Very little,” I said.
“What is unusual or special about her?” he asked.
“She is very beautiful,” I said.
“Many slaves are beautiful,” he said. “That is why they are put in collars. What else?”
“Nothing that I know of,” I said.
“Finally, with inquiries and silver, we located the one-legged man,” he said. “We eventually followed him here. I think he had learned from some slave on the street that a slave named Adraste had served at the Golden Chain.”
“She was not I,” I said.
“But she, Adraste, had served here?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” I said, “until two days ago.” I need not tell him that I had informed Ho-Tosk of what had occurred in Brundisium, and the current presence of the one-legged man in Port Kar. Immediately upon my disclosures, Adraste, doubtless to her consternation and confusion, had been removed from the floor. Within the Ahn she had been removed from the tavern.
“What became of her?”
“I do not know,” I said. “Perhaps she was sold.”
“Can you recognize her?” he asked.
“No more than many others,” I said, “slaves, taverner’s men, the taverner, many customers, and others.”
“The one-legged man was furious,” said the man with the scar.
“He was in the tavern?” I said.
“Yes,” he said.
I had not seen him. Presumably I had been abroad in the city. For that fortuity I was grateful.
“Did he recognize you?” I asked.
“No,” said the man with the scar. “We, having followed him, stood to the side, in shadows. His concern was with the Vat Master and the taverner’s men. He cried out with rage. He demanded that Adraste be brought before him. He claimed her as his own. He shouted, he demanded, he denounced. He offered silver to any who could supply him with information as to her whereabouts. But his ranting, his offers, his cries, his wheedlings, availed him naught. With his great crutch, which must have been cored with lead, he smote tables, breaking them in two, struck lamps from their chains, swept shelves free of goblets. Then, threatened by taverner’s men, armed with clubs and staves, amidst calls for guardsmen, he departed the tavern.”
“I am glad I was not present,” I said.
I had seen little evidence of this alleged damage. Tables must have been replaced, lamps restrung, and such. I gathered that the slaves had been cautioned not to speak of the matter. Things were apparently to be as they were before. In this way, I supposed, the physical residue of the incident eliminated, inquiries might be minimized.
“It seems Adraste, whoever she might be,” said the second man, “is in Port Kar.”
“And many might recognize her,” said the third man.
I found myself regarded by the man with the scar. “Are you for sale?” he asked.
“I do not think so,” I said. But I was well aware that I, as a property, could be bought and sold, as any other property.
“Any of these slaves will do,” said the second man.
“We will find her,” said the man with the scar.
“We, or the one-legged man,” said the third man.
“What is the mystery of Adraste?” asked the second man.
“The one-legged man knows,” said the third man.
“One other knows as well,” said the man with the scar.
“Who?” asked the second man.
I sought not to tremble.
“Adraste,” said the man with the scar. “We need only find her, and torture will do the rest.”
I tried not to lose consciousness and collapse beside the low table.
I think then the men had finished their paga.
I heard the goblets clash together, and then, together, strike down on the table.
“Will Masters have more?” I asked, as we are instructed to ask.
I hoped they were finished.
“Paga,” said the man with the scar.
“Yes, Master,” I said.
Chapter Nineteen
The Line
I stood with the others, my back to the wall, near the paga vat, looking at the guests, the tables, the slaves, coming and going, the serving. It was a warm evening, in the neighborhood of the Twentieth Hour, the day after I had served the man with the scar and his confederates.
My glance strayed to the door of the tavern.
The night, the tavern, the world changed.
My heart leapt, my blood raced, I struggled to regain my breath. A suffusion of heat irrupted within me. How long I had awaited this moment, hoping for it, dreading it, wanting it, fearing it.
How should I act, what should I do?
Then I straightened my body, and stood well, noting with fury, that the others did so, as well.
Surely that was expected of me. It meant nothing. I had no choice.
Should I lift my head, should I lower it? Should I look on him, or away? What should I do with my hands? Should I cross my wrists behind my back or before my body, or hold my arms to the side, or turn a little and pretend to be adjusting my collar? Perhaps I should pretend to be obliviously conversing with Aglaia on my right or Ianthe on the left?
“He is handsome,” whispered Aglaia, not facing me.
“Who?” I asked. “Oh,” I said, “that one.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“A little, maybe,” I said.
