Magicians of Gor coc-25, page 42
part #25 of Chronicles of Counter-Earth Series
I then took the key to the second of the two collars which had been in the box, that which I had put most recently on her, the Appanius collar, and removed it from her neck. I put it back in the box, under the first collar. I dropped the key in the box. I closed the box.
"Claim me!" wept Phoebe. "I beg it! I am your slave! Use me as the helpless vessel of your pleasure!"
"Do not move," I said to the new slave.
She remained as she was, on all fours.
"I yield me your slave!" wept Phoebe. "I yield me your slave!"
Then she was trembling, and gasping for breath, clinging to Marcus. He, too, gasped, and then suddenly he laughed, a might laugh, almost a roar, a laugh of triumph, like an exultant larl, joyful in his mastery of the beauty.
"Such may be done to slaves," I said to the new slave.
"Yes, Master," she said, on all fours.
"The other garment, I take it," I said to the new slave," is finished."
"Yes, Master," she said. "Mistress finished it yesterday."
"Put it on for me," I said.
"Yes, Master," she said. She rose to her feet and went to the side of the room where she knelt by a chest and took from it a white garment, of the wool of the bounding hurt.
I looked away, as she stood up, to slip it over her head and arms, and smooth it down on her body. I did not wish to look until it was on her.
"Master," she announced.
"Excellent!" I said.
It came to a bit above the knees, and had a high, modest neckline. It some respects it was rather in the style set for the tunic of state slaves. That I thought might fit in well with my plans.
"Turn," I said.
"Yes," I mused. "Excellent." Perhaps even more importantly it was the sort of garment in which a slave might dare to appear before a free woman. It was not the sort of garment that would be likely to excite the envy or anger of free women. It was not the sort of garment which sometimes provokes free women to rush at slaves in the street, crying out and lashing at them with switches. It was decorous, and yet clearly the garment of a mere slave.
"Mistress has sewed it," she said.
"You have done well, Phoebe," I said. "It is perfect."
"Thank you, Master," gasped Phoebe. She was lying next to Marcus. She was covered with a sheen of sweat. Her body was covered with red blotches, from the recent racing of her blood, the excited distention of thousands of capillaries. Her lovely nipples were not yet subsident.
"Your skin is blotchy," I said to Phoebe.
She laughed, ruefully. "Yes, Master," she said.
The new slave, her head down, smiled.
"Remove the garment," I said to her. "Replace it in the chest. Then resume your position here, beside me, on all fours."
"Yes, Master," she said.
I then again, in a bit, regarded her. No longer was she in the dignity of the garment. Her breasts, in her present position, that which I had indicated, were beautifully, pendant.
"Can you write?" I asked her.
"Yes, Master," she said.
I reached to her.
"Oh," she said, softly. "Oh!" I had taken her nipples gently, first one, and then the other, between my thumb and forefinger. They, too, it seemed, had not forgotten their state of but a few moments ago. Or, perhaps it was but the fact that the meaning of her present condition was intrusive in her consciousness.
"Surely you are interested in the nature of the messages you will carry," I said.
"Yes, Master!" she said. I had touched her, lightly, at the side of the waist. "One need not concern you," I said, "as you will be the mere instrument of its delivery. On the other hand, I think you will have a little doubt as to its general import."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"You will deliver it to the female I designate," I said, "and to her personally."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"To make it more likely you will be admitted into her presence, the message will be carried about your neck, in a message tube, and your hands will be back-braceleted."
"As Master wishes," she said.
"But even so," I said, "before being admitted to her presence, you may be double leashed, one on each side, that you cannot touch, or approach, the woman, except as permitted."
"I understand, Master," she said.
"Do you think she will be admitted to her presence?" asked Marcus.
"Given her story, and her collar," I said. "I think so."
"The note she carries is to be written in a man's hand," said Marcus.
"Of course," I smiled.
"Doubtless in your deft script," he said, lying on his back, looking at the low, peeling ceiling above him.
"I was hoping someone might be prevailed upon to provide a more convincing communication," I said.
"Oh!" said the new slave. She moved uneasily, tensely, but did not break position.
"The handwriting must suggest a correspondent who is educated, charming, witty, elegant and suave," I said.
"That sounds like a job for your own block script," he said. "It has many virtues. I have known peasants who could not do as well. Or, if you prefer, you could use your inimitable cursive script, with its unusual alternate lines. Its humorous suggestion of complete illiteracy adds to it's a piquant charm all of its own."
"My master has an excellent hand!" volunteered Phoebe.
"Were you asked to speak?" inquired Marcus.
"No, Master," she said. "Forgive me, Master." She then lay small and quiet beside him. She did not wish to be cuffed or whipped.
"It was my hope, Phoebe," said I, "that your master, exactly, might be prevailed upon to lend his expertise to this endeavor.
"Yes, Master," she whispered.
"I write a simple hand," said Marcus.
"Perhaps you could add a few flourishes, or something," I suggested.
"No," said Marcus.
"Do you want me to write it?" I asked.
"That would be disastrous," he said.
"Also," I said, "my handwriting might be recognized."
"I hadn't thought of that," said Marcus.
"You will do it then?" I asked.
"I will write only my own hand," he said.
"That will be perfect," I said.
"What if she has seen the handwriting of the putative correspondent?" asked Marcus.
"That is highly unlikely," I said. It was unthinkable that the putative correspondent would initiate such a correspondence. In such a relationship the first note, if there were to be notes, given the risks involved, would surely issue from the free person.
I touched the slave near me, on all fours, on the side of the leg.
"You," I said to her, "will be under no doubt, however, as to the contents of the other message."
"Yes, Master," she said. She moved, uneasily. I moved a bit, and looked at the ankle ring on her left ankle. I then put my hand on the ring, and then pressed my thumb a little into her leg. I then turned the ring a little on her ankle, shifting it a bit. There was about a quarter of an inch of slippage between the metal and her ankle. I then lifted the chain, a little, one of its links hammered shut about the ring's staple, and let it drop to the floor. She shuddered at the tiny sound. I then jerked twice, softly, on the chain, that she might feel this small force exerted on the ring, and subsequently on her ankle, within it. Below the ring, behind it, her foot was small and soft. I regarded it, the hell, the sole, her toes. It was a small, shapely, lovely foot. And then, above it, close about the ankle, locked, was the ankle ring. I then touched her collar, and turned it a little, back and forth. She was very quiet while I did this. It, like the other collars, was an excellent fit. I then readjusted it, carefully. The lock was now again centered, at the back of the neck. I then touched her. "Oh, oh!" she said.
"Steady," I said.
She moaned.
"Because," I said, "you will write it."
"Yes, Master," she said.
"I will dictate the contents to you," I said, "or, if you wish, you may compose it, subject, of course, to my approval."
"As master wishes!" she said.
"Do not break position," I warned her.
Marcus and I had agreed that Phoebe would not write the letter. It was better that it was done by a woman who had been at one time a citizeness of Ar, her penmanship influenced by the private schools of the city. It is a well-known fact, on the world, Earth, that the cursive script of diverse nationalities, such as the English, French and Italian, tend to differ in certain general ways, quite aside from the individual characteristics of particular writers. Certain letters, for example, tend to be formed differently, and so on. Much the same thing, predictably, and perhaps even more so, given the isolation of so many of her cities, occurs on Gor. for example, Phoebe had a beautiful, feminine hand, but it was natural for her, and easiest for her, of course, to write it Cosian script. It was not that Cosian script, was illegible, say, to folks of Ko-ro-ba or Ar, but rather that it was recognizably different. Thus, rather than have Phoebe try to disguise her hand and write in the script of Ar, Marcus and I had decided that the note, or letter, would be written by the new slave, whose background, and education, were of Ar, the same as those of the putative writer of the note, or letter. In the formation of most cursive letters, incidentally, there are few, if any, differences among the various cities. The differences tent to have more to do with the "cast' of the hand, so to speak, its general appearance, a function of a number of things, such as size, spacing of letters, linkages among them, lengths of loops, nature of end strokes, and such. Also, certain letters, at least for commercial or legal, if not personal purposes, tended to be standardized. An excellent example are those standing for various weights and measures. Another familiar example is the tiny, lovely, cursive "kef' which is the same whether it is put on a girl in Cos, or Ar, or Ko-ro-ba, or Thentis or Turia.
"Oh, Master!" sobbed the slave.
"Master!" said Phoebe, suddenly, taken by Marcus and thrust down, forcibly, to the boards. He looked down into her eyes, fiercely. "Yes, Master," she said, lifting her arms to put them about his neck.
"When do you think your friend, the noble Tarsk-Bit, will be prepared to act?" asked Marcus, evenly.
"Please enter your slave, Master," said Phoebe.
"Do not be angry with him," I said. "He had to revile the Home Stone to see it, to examine it. "I had encouraged Marcus not to be present when this was done, but he had, of course, insisted upon it. In so far as it was practical it seemed he wished to be present at, and, in a sense, supervise, all phases of this delicate and, I thought at least, perilous operation. No detail was too unimportant to him to overlook. What could compare in importance for Marcus, for example, to the recovery of his Home Stone, its rescue from its captivity in Ar? To be sure, I think Boots had overdone the matter a bit. He, exuberant in his performance, probably did not realize that I was struggling a few yards behind him to keep Marcus from leaping upon him, blade in hand. Most of those about, of course, also taking no note of the reactions of Marcus, the fire in his eyes, and such, had been muchly amused. Boots had made a great show of his contempt for the Home Stone of the treacherous Ar's station. His insults had been numerous, well thought out, stinging, and delivered with flair. He had even been applauded. It was fortunate that Marcus had not reached him. In so simple a manner had Boots, unbeknownst to himself, escaped unscathed, for example, without having had his heart slashed out of his living body.
"When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.
"He did not mean it, what he said," I said.
"He sounded convincing," said Marcus, grimly.
"Would you have preferred that he sounded unconvincing?" I asked.
"Master," begged Phoebe.
"Master!" said the new slave, suddenly. She must not, of course, break position. "When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.
"The facsimile must be prepared," I said. "That takes time."
"When will he be prepared to act?" asked Marcus.
"Soon, I am sure," I said.
"Perhaps he has already left the city," said Marcus.
"No," I said.
"Your slave begs," said Phoebe to Marcus.
"Your slave begs, too!" said the slave near me.
The new slave, beside me, was on all fours. She was in this position by my will. I had been keeping her in this position. It is a position which a woman understands. I had, furthermore, checked her ankle ring, and collar. Such things are very meaningful to a woman. such attentions, seemingly small in themselves, subtly, explosively, erupt in the cognizances of her belly. Bu means of them is her bondage recalled to her. By means of them she understands herself the better, and to whom she belongs. Also, such things would commonly be checked as a simple matter of course, just as one might check the tether on a verr, or the chain on a sleen. Beyond this, of course, I had, from time to time, as I had spoken with her, and discussed matters with Marcus, touched her, sometimes almost idly, while concerned with other matters. But now her body was tense. "Oh!" she said. Her lovely flanks quivered. She could not resist my touch, even involuntarily, as her knees and the palms of her hands must remain in contact with the floor.
"He had better not," said Marcus.
"He will not," I said. "But if he chose to do so, surely one could not blame him. It is not his Home Stone. He is not a soldier. You are not his officer, or Ubar, or some such."
"True," said Marcus.
"Be grateful," I said, "if he is willing to be of assistance."
"I wish to owe him little," said Marcus. "I will see that he is well paid."
"Very well," I said.
"Do you think he can be prevailed upon to accept money?" asked Marcus.
"Doubtless, if we are strenuous enough in our insistence on the matter," I said. "Good," he said, grimly.
"He is really not a bad fellow," I said.
Marcus made an angry noise.
"I think it would be better if you were not present when he makes the attempt on the Home Stone," I said.
"I will be there," said Marcus. "He may need help."
"It will not be much help," I said, "if you drop him on the spot."
"What does that mean?" he asked.
"If he does manage to obtain the Home Stone and you run him through, and it drops out of his cloak on the street, and it becomes immediately apparent to the guards about that there appear to be two Home Stones of Ar's Station in the vicinity, what then?"
"I shall seize it up and make away," he said.
"There may be a hundred guards about," I said.
"Doubtless you will be at hand," he said.
"But what if there are one hundred and one guards about?" I said.
"You jest," he said.
"What do you think your chances will be of getting the stone out of the city, let alone to Port Cos?"
"I do not know," he admitted.
"The alarm would be sounded within Ihn," I said.
"Doubtless," he granted.
"You would be fortunate if you managed to get the stone as far as the Teiban Market," I said. "If I did not know your skill with the sword, I would have placed a bet you would not get it as far as Clive." This street actually entered the Avenue of the Central Cylinder, from the west.
"I have nerves of steel," said Marcus. "I can control my emotions with perfection."
"As five days ago?" I asked.
"He needn't have been as ribald as he was," said Marcus.
"There are at least two reasons for what he did," I said. "First, the length of his tirade gave him time to study the Home Stone, in all its details. Secondly, it established a character. If he come back during the same watch, as he presumably will, the guards will remember him, and expect a show."
"Then they will be more attentive," said Marcus.
"But to him, not to the Home Stone," I said.
"You said "at least two reasons, " said Marcus. "That suggests there might be at least one other."
"Perhaps," I said, evasively.
"What?" he asked, not pleasantly.
"He was enjoying himself," I said.
"He should have been impaled!" said Marcus.
"Master," begged Phoebe.
"I should have run him through!" exclaimed Marcus.
"Master!" whimpered Phoebe.
The new slave whimpered, too, urgently, helplessly, plaintively, to call her needs, and herself, to my attention.
"I think it would be better if you were not present when the attempt is made on the Home Stone," I said.
"You are in one of your rational moods," said Marcus, disgustedly.
"Almost everyone has them occasionally," I said. "Also, I thought you were supposed to be the rational one."
"I shall think about it," he said.
"The important thing here," I said, "is not your sense of honor, which seems a bit touchy, but the rescue of the Home Stone."
"This is more of Your Kaissa," he said.
"Master," begged Phoebe.
He looked down at her, fiercely.
"A slave begs," she said, "that her master consent to enter her."
"Oh!" she cried, as Marcus, fiercely, took her in his arms.
"It is I who am impaled," she laughed. "It is I who am run through!"
"But as befits female slaves!" he said.
"Yes, Master!" she laughed. Then she closed her eyes. "Oh, yes!" she said. She gasped. She sighed, softly. "Deign to use me, unworthy slave though I am," she whispered, "as the cover for your spear, as your sheath and scabbard."
"And it is done, is it not?" he asked.
"Yes, Master!" she said.
"And in the manner befitting female slaves?" he asked.
"Yes, Master!" she said.
He kissed her, his head down, fiercely about the throat.
Her head was back. Her eyes were closed. "I have received my master," she said. "I, too, would receive my master," whispered the new slave.
"I will write the letter for you," mumbled Marcus, his words lost somewhere in Phoebe's neck.
I will require further assistance, as well," I said.
"It is yours," he said.
"I do not think it will interfere in any way with the recovery of the Home Stone," I said.
"Yes," mumbled Marcus. "Yes, yes,"
