Plunder of Gor (32 page)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

The tarsk-bit struck into the metal cup slung about my neck.

“Thank you, kind Master,” said Tyrtaios.

The guide stick, with its attached collar, buckled under my chin, was tight against the back of my neck.

I felt it press me forward.

I again wore the brief, yellow tunic, and the belly chain, its bracelets once more confining my hands behind my back.

“Twenty copper tarsks for your slave!” laughed a man.

“Is she truly so ugly?” asked Tyrtaios, the dark bandage swathing his eyes, seemingly surprised, even dismayed.

“A she-tarsk would bring more on the block,” laughed another fellow.

“
Ela
!” cried Tyrtaios. “I paid a silver tarsk for her. I was told she was beautiful!”

“Fool!” called a man.

“Unsighted dupe!” called another.

“Be gentle,” said another fellow. “You see he cannot see. The slave is comely enough.”

“Indeed,” said another. “I have seen worse in the taverns.”

“Twenty-one copper tarsks then!” called out the fellow who had bellowed forth the supposed offer of twenty tarsks but a moment ago.

“But I need her, to show me my way!” laughed Tyrtaios, seemingly joining in the sport.

“Buy a sleen!” suggested a man.

“But I cannot afford a sleen,” cried Tyrtaios, as though in distress.

There was more laughter.

Miserable, I felt tears running down my cheeks, to and beneath the curved rods of the device fastened on me, the bit drawn back between my teeth.

I did not care to be demeaned, or humiliated, but then what did it matter? I was a slave.

Had Tyrtaios been truly blind, and had bought me, unable to ascertain the quality of his purchase, he might, indeed, have been duped. Had he been truly blind he might have been in anguish then, not so much for having a plain or homely slave, for such might guide one as well as a high-block beauty, but for having been misled and cheated, a possibility not lightly regarded by most Goreans. Indeed, a merchant who misrepresents his goods may have his business burned and his stock confiscated, may even be denied bread, fire, and salt, and be driven naked from the city.

I did not know my worth, of course. Indeed, how does a woman know what she is worth until she is sold? But I thought I would now sell for at least a silver tarsk in most markets. Indeed, Arnold, of Harfax, if that was his name, he whom I continued to think of as Tullius Quintus, of Ar, had twice been offered that for me, on the streets in Ar.

I did not hope, of course, that I could bring as much as a trained sleen. But then a trained sleen will sell for more than most slaves, just as a tarn will commonly sell for more than several sleen.

“Let us share a round of paga!” called a fellow.

There was assent to this.

Another tarsk-bit was placed in the cup about my neck.

“Thank you, Master,” called Tyrtaios.

The coin had been dropped into the cup by the fellow who had made the supposed bids of twenty and twenty-one copper tarsks for me. I supposed he was seeing fit to pay for the pleasure of his sport.

“To the right, down that street,” said Tyrtaios.

The bit was back, deeply, between my teeth.

I turned right, responsive to the stick.

“Here,” said Tyrtaios, “we shall try our fortune. What, and whom, we seek, I am sure is in this district, somewhere. May this path prove propitious.”

We had soon entered into that street.

It bore no signs, but that is common in many Gorean cities. It is not that the streets lack names, only that the names are not likely to be known by strangers. One may inquire, of course. The situation is occasionally complicated by the fact that a street may have more than one name, depending on your informant, and, sometimes, it will change its name, depending on your location, a street having, say, one name closer to the piers, and another name closer to the markets. In Ar, street maps, at least public street maps, are forbidden, largely as a military precaution. The map, as I understand it, precise and reliable, studied behind closed doors, is amongst the subtlest and most potent vehicles of war. Campaigns are conducted, wars are fought, on its quiet surface. It is before the trumpet; it precedes the drum and the cadenced tread of marching men.

“The street is dingy,” said Tyrtaios. “The gutters are unkempt and foul. The insulae are squat, dirty, and odorous. Excellent. Quite suitable for an unnoted residence. The piers are near, too. Excellent. Who knows what, at hand, baled and crated, might prove of interest? On these stones we shall try our fortune. Too, it is near the tenth Ahn. The bar will soon ring. Men will be about the street. I can smell the cook shops, fresh bread, and sausages. Perhaps, at last, here, we shall detect our elusive Kurik of Victoria, and be led by him, unwittingly, to our prize.”

Another coin was deposited in my cup.

“Thank you, Master,” called Tyrtaios, feigning gratitude.

I had not been put in the bit before.

Did Tyrtaios fear I might call out to Kurik of Victoria, to warn him of his danger? Surely not. I need only pretend that I had not seen him.

That would be simple enough.

But why then had I been placed in the bit?

The tenth Ahn is the noon hour.

I could smell the fresh hot bread, so different from the bread to which I had been accustomed on my former world, baked, marshaled forth, aligned, wrapped, shipped, and stored, long removed from the ovens of its birth, long departed from the pinnacle of its taste, its perfection. I feared many on my former world had never tasted fresh bread, which seemed a sadness. How little they knew of what bread might be. The common Gorean loaf, so to speak, is flat and circular. It may be larger or smaller. It is commonly divided into four, if smaller, or eight, if larger, wedgelike pieces, these pieces sold separately. Odors, too, emanated from the crackling pans, plates, and griddles of the cook shops. Soup, usually thick, sometimes with suls, as in sullage, but commonly comprised of other vegetables and noodles, would be ladled into wooden bowls. And there would be, too, behind the counter, in baskets, grapes, tospits, larmas, nuts, and olives, and, in blocks, cheeses, and, in its amphorae to be lifted from its racks, cheap ka-la-na.

The street was now relatively crowded.

The bar for the tenth Ahn sounded.

Another coin was placed in the cup.

“May the Priest-Kings look upon you with favor,” called out Tyrtaios.

Then I felt the rigid guide stick, fastened to the close-buckled collar, tight against my neck. Any movement I might make would then be conveyed back through the stick, to the hand of Tyrtaios.

“Be watchful,” said he, “slave girl.”

I whimpered, once. How helpless one is, bitted, and braceleted.

We were passing one of the cook shops, on the left, open, little more than a hole in the wall, set into the ground floor of an insula, as are many shops.

A tall man was standing outside the shop.

As we approached, he turned.

I started.

This involuntary motion was conveyed instantly through the guide stick to the hand of Tyrtaios.

I tried to continue on, as though nothing had occurred, but I could not move against the collar, for Tyrtaios had stopped. This held me in place.

“So,” said Tyrtaios, pleasantly, “that is Kurik of Victoria.”

I whimpered twice, and then twice, again, desperately, piteously.

“You lie most lamely,” said he. “I shall not even bother lashing you. Indeed, you have done well to betray your former master.”

I whimpered again, twice, desperately.

“I am in a good mood,” he said. “But do not press the matter. Do not court the lash.”

I was silent. Tears formed in my eyes.

“Yes,” said Tyrtaios. “He matches the description perfectly. Excellent. You have done well, kajira.”

To my misery I saw Kurik of Victoria approaching us.

Did he recognize me?

It seemed not.

I was, after all, only another slave.

“Is someone approaching?” asked Tyrtaios, as though he might not be certain of the matter.

I whimpered, once.

I tried to stand still. I now knew my slightest tremor, perhaps not even visible, would be conveyed back to Tyrtaios, through the stick. I had been unable to help myself, as he had said. I could not have helped but react to the sight of Kurik of Victoria, my first master. That Tyrtaios had anticipated. My clever plans, that I might refrain from disclosing the proximity of Kurik of Victoria, did I see him, had been unfounded. It was rather like the magician who, by muscle reading, by a held arm, may force an unwilling accomplice to lead him to the location of a concealed object. My eyes were filled with tears. I fear my expression was one of fear, protest, and agony, as I tried to warn Kurik of Victoria of his danger.

But he approached, easily, smiling.

He stopped but a foot from me.

Tyrtaios could not see my expression. He could detect, through the stick, little more, I suppose, than my subtle agitation, which I was trying to subdue. But he could see the expression of Kurik of Victoria, which conveyed naught but interest, and perhaps concern.

“You pause, sad Master,” said Kurik of Victoria.

“I fear I know not which way to turn,” said Tyrtaios.

“You are on the street of Crates, near the food shop of Bion,” said Kurik, of Victoria.

“It is as I suspected,” said Tyrtaios. “My slave has made the wrong turn.”

“She seems distressed,” said Kurik.

“Of course,” said Tyrtaios. “She fears a beating.”

Kurik, with his thumb, wiped the tears from my cheek. I tried not to press my face against his hand. Could he not see my misery, my fear?

“She is pretty,” said Kurik. “It would seem a shame to beat her.”

“Is she truly pretty?” asked Tyrtaios, as though interested.

“For a pot girl,” said Kurik, “for a kettle-and-mat girl.”

I was sure then he recognized me!

I was thrilled that he might recognize me, even bitted, but, too, what was I doing here? Would his suspicions not be aroused? Might not he be sought? What likelihood was there that this encounter would be utterly fortuitous?

“I am sure,” said Kurik, “her misadventure was unintended. Let us not hurry to strip and bind her, and apply the lash to her fair skin.”

“I will merely withhold her evening gruel,” said Tyrtaios.

“Merciful Master,” said Kurik.

He then reached into his wallet.

“Why is she bitted?” he asked.

“Yesterday evening she was displeasing,” said Tyrtaios, regretfully.

“Perhaps then,” said Kurik, “we should give her a taste of the lash.”

I feared I turned white.

Kurik then took out a copper tarsk, and dropped it into my cup.

“Master,” exclaimed Tyrtaios, “beware. I fear you have inadvertently deposited a full tarsk in the cup!”

“How do you know?” asked Kurik.

“The weight, the sound, Master,” said Tyrtaios.

“Remarkable,” said Kurik.

“Retrieve it, I beg of you,” said Tyrtaios.

“It shall remain where it is,” said Kurik, magnanimously.

“May I inquire the name of so thoughtful and generous a master?” asked Tyrtaios.

“Of course,” said Kurik, “I am Tenrik, of Siba.”

“Noble Master,” said Tyrtaios.

“Where did you buy your slave?” asked Kurik.

“In the market of Eamon, here in Brundisium,” said Tyrtaios. “She is a barbarian.”

“Barbarians make good slave girls,” said Kurik.

“I am told so,” said Tyrtaios.

“Take this one,” said Kurik. “Wherever she might be first seen, and however she might be dressed, one could see, at a single glance, that she should be a slave girl, indeed, that she is a slave girl.”

“I am pleased to hear it,” said Tyrtaios.

On Gor I was a slave girl. And on Gor what else could one such as I be? And I did not wish to be other than I was, a slave. I suspected I had been bred, through a thousand generations, to wear a master's collar. Had I known on Earth what I had learned on Gor, I would have knelt and begged a collar.

But there were few masters, I feared, on my former world.

Who amongst them knows what a woman is, what she wants, and what are her needs?

“I wish you well, kind Master,” said Tyrtaios.

“I, too, wish you well, gentle Master,” said Kurik, turning away.

No sooner had Kurik vanished than I was pulled about by the stick and collar, and hastened, half dragged, back up the street.

“What a fool,” said Tyrtaios, delightedly, contemptuously, tearing the wrapped bandage from his face. I tried to keep up with him, half running, he now leading, the stick in his left hand, held behind him. “He did not even recognize you. My disguise was perfection. How could things proceed more smoothly? And consider the absurdity of the name, ‘Tenrik', obviously reminiscent of his real name, ‘Kurik'! Could he not do better than that? And he alleges to be of Siba, he, of Victoria! Siba is another of the towns on the Vosk, like Victoria. Why could he not, at least, have pretended to be from somewhere else, away from the Vosk, Corcyrus, Helmutsport, Besnit, Bazi, Tor, anywhere apart from Victoria? What a fool, a fool!”

I fell, weeping, and, by the collar and stick, it turned on my neck, was yanked to my feet.

“He will be known as Tenrik of Siba,” said Tyrtaios. “I know his district. He will be known, here and there, by that name, surely at least by description, in some insula, at a cook shop, somewhere. I must not allow the trail to fade. I need now only maintain contact. The package, or shipment, may have already arrived. Or will soon arrive. This contingency, needing to make contact with the shipment, will keep him in place. It is at, or should come to, a southern pier, or warehouse. I am sure of that. He is here. I follow him, he leads me to the material, I dispose of him, acquiring his identity or credentials, and then claim the goods for myself, thence to be presented to my principal. All proceeds well.”