Prize of Gor (100 page)

“Continue as you were,” said Portus Canio to Fel Doron.

“On, ugly beauty,” said Fel Doron, quietly.

“They do not seem to be approaching, Master,” said Ellen. “They may be circling, far off.”

“Then they are not merchants,” said a man.

“Have they seen us?” asked Portus Canio.

“I do not know, Master,” said Ellen.

“I saw five,” said Portus Canio. “How many do you see?”

“I count five,” said Ellen, slowly.

“Are they tarnsmen?” asked a man, looking forward.

“Are there tarn baskets?” asked another.

“I think so,” said Ellen. “It is hard to tell.”

“They would then be merchants,” said a man.

“If they are tarnsmen, there would be only five then,” said a man.

“They could reconnoiter, and summon others,” said another man.

“Can you see if there are tarn baskets?” asked another.

“Yes,” said Ellen, suddenly. “As they just veered, I am sure there are tarn baskets!”

“Then they are civilians, merchants,” said a man.

“That may not be true,” said Portus Canio, grimly.

“There could be four or five men to a carrier,” said Fel Doron, softly.

“That could be twenty or more,” said a man, apprehensively.

“Can you see banners, weaponry?” asked Portus Canio.

“It is too far away,” said Ellen.

“What are they doing now?” asked Fel Doron, looking forward, over the broad, scaled back of the draft beast in the traces.

“I am not sure they see us,” said Ellen. “Their interest may be in something behind us.”

“We will continue on our way,” said Portus Canio.

“What is behind us?” asked Fel Doron.

“Stand,” said Portus Canio.

Ellen struggled to her feet, bracing her leg against the side of the wagon bed. “I see only the grass, bending in the wind, clouds, the horizon, Master,” she said.

“What of the tarns and carriers now?” asked a man.

“They are smaller now,” said Ellen. “I think they are going away.”

“I do not understand this,” said Portus Canio. “If they are merchants, they would not circle, but continue on their way. If they were tarnsmen, or soldiery, one would expect them to approach, to alight and inquire into our identity and destination.”

“They may not have seen us,” said a man, “and, come to the perimeter of their search range, turned back.”

“Perhaps,” said Portus Canio.

Ellen, looking back, could see the wake of the wagon wheels in the tall grass. She had little doubt but what so remarkable a feature might be detectable from a height, and much more easily than from a position on the ground, unless one were in the actual wake of the wagon itself.

Portus Canio swung himself over the side of the wagon, and stood upright beside her for several Ihn, looking backward. He shaded his eyes. From the height of the wagon he could see much farther than was possible from the level of the ground. Too, he was some twelve to fourteen inches taller than the slave. He could see, of course, the twin tracks in the grass behind them, which would mark, for several hours, the passage of the wagon.

He then lifted Ellen from her feet, holding her for a moment, and looked down into her eyes. She felt the strength of his hand in the softness behind the backs of her knees, and his other hand at her back. She trembled slightly, held helplessly off her feet, knowing herself in his power. She held her legs together, demurely, her head down, slightly bowed, turned to the side, her toes pointed, emphasizing the curvature of her calves. As a slave girl she had been taught to hold herself in this position when carried in that fashion. She knew substantially what she looked like. She had observed herself in the large wall mirrors of the training room when she had been new to a collar, being carried in exactly that way by instructors or guards. This posture of the body, she knew, is extremely provocative, as it is intended that it should be. She wondered what some of her arid, shrill, frustrated, sex-starved feminist colleagues would have thought of her, if they could have seen her being carried in that fashion, as a half-naked, braceleted slave girl. She did not care. They knew nothing of what it was to be a woman, and to belong to men. Let them go their own way, she thought. And let them cry out, if they would, if they could manage nothing better, in tragic, unsatisfied need, and clutch, and drench, their pillows with desperate tears, tears of helpless frustration, envying her, and wondering why they knew no men, wondering why no one would put a collar on them.

Portus Canio growled softly, held her for a moment, then laughed softly, and then placed her gently on the blankets in the wagon bed. He wants me, thought Ellen. Someone wants me! Someone thinks I am of interest! Indeed, it had been Portus Canio who had bought her off the shelf of Targo in Ar, in the Kettle Market! She stole a glance at Selius Arconious. He was dark with fury. She smiled, and turned her head aside, innocently, pretending not to notice.

“Keep watch, behind us, and to the sides,” said Portus Canio.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

But they saw nothing more of tarns and tarnsmen, or merchants, or aerial soldiery that day.

They continued on their way.

Perhaps the next day, or the day following, they might reach the neighborhood of the “place of concealed tarns.” It was in that vicinity that Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus, of Ar’s Station, were expected to leave the group, and the group itself to turn toward the Viktel Aria, and, eventually, Ar. She did not know. Such things were not discussed directly with slaves, nor did she feel it was her option to inquire. She did, of course, as she could, and as unobtrusively as possible, listen to the conversations of the masters. As is well known, there is a Gorean saying to the effect that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. On the other hand, who has ever heard of a kajira who was not inquisitive, and quite so? After all, what do the beasts expect? We are females, and slaves.

She gathered that things might be afoot in Ar.

It was rumored that Marlenus of Ar, the Ubar of Ubars, as some thought him, had returned to Ar. Mercenary garrisons, deprived of their pay, become restless. Revolution in the city, it seemed, might be soon enkindled.

That day Bosk of Port Kar twice called halts. This was for no reason that she understood. After calling the second halt, he had stood on the wagon bed, near her. He paid her no attention, but looked about. She remained very still. He frightened her. She did not dare to meet his eyes. Was this, she wondered, because she was now no more than a meaningless, braceleted, collared, half-naked slave on Gor, or was it rather simply because she was a female? But she speculated that even if she had met him on Earth, among others, in a civilized setting, or one of those settings called “civilized,” perhaps at a cocktail party, she in sophisticated garmenture, in heels, perhaps in pearls, she might have felt similarly, been similarly frightened. Would she have been able to stand poised before him? She thought not. She thought, rather, she would have looked into his eyes, even in such a room, in such a place, at such a time, and comprehended in his gaze the calm fires of command. She was sure she would have understood, even there, on some level, even in such an unlikely place and time, that she was looking into the eyes of a master, one who could detect, and knew how to deal with, the slave in her. She would have trembled, even there. Oh, she would have smiled, and chatted, for a moment, and looked away, and laughed lightly, perhaps a little hysterically, and negotiated the room, withdrawing, but knowing that his eyes were still upon her, undressing her, idly measuring her for chains.

At his bidding, after the second halt, after he had descended from the wagon bed, the trek was slowed.

She would have feared to belong to him. She sensed he had suffered many cruelties, and perhaps betrayals. She did not think she would wish to be the man, or woman, who might have dared to betray such a man.

He seemed to her taciturn, and dangerous.

Twice from her position in the wagon bed, as the wagon had rolled on, she had seen him standing to one side, his head lifted, as though testing the wind for some subtle scent.

That night they made no fires.

After she had kissed, and opened, and prepared the blankets of the men, her master’s last, as was proper, she lay down beside him, her master, at his thigh. He did not bracelet her again, nor did he fix slave hobbles on her ankles. “I could run away,” she thought to herself. “Does he want me to run away?” She squirmed, and turned to her back, looking up at the moons. “Or is he so arrogantly sure of me, that he knows I would not dare to run away? To be sure, there is nowhere to run. There are the dangers of the grasslands, of animals, of starvation, of thirst, the danger of another collar, the danger of recapture and punishment, punishments whose severity I dare not even contemplate.” She touched her collar, and fingered the delicate scaring of her brand. “There is no escape for the Gorean slave girl,” she thought, “and that is exactly what I am, and all that I am, only that, and nothing more.” She turned back, gently, smiling, to his thigh, and kissed it, softly, that he not awaken. “Why do you not use me, Master?” she whispered. “Am I not pleasing? Are you truly my master? If you are my master, why do you not show me that you are my master? I am ready. Prove to me that you are my master. I beg it. Teach me, Master, that I am your slave.”

“So you beg slave use, like a she-sleen in heat,” he said.

“Never,” she said suddenly, startled, softly, embarrassed. “Certainly not, Master!”

“You are an Earth woman?”

“Yes, Master.”

“And Earth women do not beg for their use?”

“Perhaps some who are slaves do, Master,” she said, “for they are helpless, and cannot help themselves.”

“But you do not so beg?”

“No, Master, of course not!” she said.

“Go to sleep,” he whispered.

“I did not know you were awake,” she said. “Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.

“Go to sleep,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“And you are a little icicle from Earth?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You did not seem such in the camp,” he said.

“The camp, Master?”

“The festival camp, outside Brundisium.”

“Oh,” she said.

“It might be interesting,” he said, “to turn you into a squirming, begging slave.”

She dared not speak. She choked back a sob of need.

Later they slept, she closely beside him, her head at his thigh.

****

In the morning Ellen awakened abruptly, to the stirrings and shouts of men.

“I do not see them,” she heard.

“Where are they?”

“They are not here.”

“They are gone.”

“Gone?”

“Yes!”

“Is their gear missing?”

“Yes!”

The cries of the men were not those of alarm. The cries, rather, were those of surprise, of bewilderment, of consternation.

“They left the camp.”

“When did they leave?”

“Sometime last night.”

“In what watch?”

“We do not know.”

“How could they leave without detection by the watch?”

“They are Warriors,” said a man.

“Like shadows, like serpents, as silent as the leech plant bending toward its prey,” said another.

“Where are they?”

“Who knows?”

“Where did they go?”

“Who knows?”

“Why did they leave?” asked a man of Portus Canio.

“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

Selius Arconious was no longer at her side. She struggled to her feet, and wiped the grit of sleep from her eyes.

“Why did they leave?” pressed a man, again.

“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

She saw Selius Arconious near the wagon. Fel Doron was standing in the wagon bed, scanning the endless grass about them. The tharlarion was not in harness, but hobbled nearby, grazing.

“What did they know that we do not?” asked a man of Portus Canio.

“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.

“Why did they permit us to make so little ground yesterday?” asked another man of Portus Canio.

“One does not question such men,” said Portus Canio.

“Let us track them!” said a man, angrily.

“They are of the Warriors,” said Portus Canio. “There will be no tracks, no trail that we could follow.”

“Had we sleen!” said a man.

“Yes, of course,” said Portus Canio. “— had we sleen.”

“But we do not,” said another man.

“Let us try to track them!” said the man.

“Feel free to do so,” said Portus Canio.

“I do not think I would care to follow such men, even had we sleen,” said another.

Portus Canio’s original interlocutor turned white. “True,” he said, in a frightened whisper.

“Why did they leave?” asked a man, anew.

Portus Canio did not respond.

“Why do you think they left?” asked the man.

“Harness the tharlarion,” said Portus Canio. “We are breaking camp.”

Selius Arconious returned to his bedding, and looked down, into the puzzled, frightened eyes of his slave, the Earth girl, Ellen.

“Master?” she asked.

“Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus of Ar’s Station,” said he, “are not now in the camp. They left under the cover of darkness, last night. They informed no one. We do not know why they left, or where they have gone. Gather up my things, and help the others. We will be leaving soon. Stay close to the wagon.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

****

It had not been more than an Ahn since the harnessing of the tharlarion and the breaking of the camp than Portus Canio called the halt.

Ellen, unbraceleted, barefoot, in her tunic, had been walking beside the wagon, on its left side, as one would face forward.

Portus Canio was not the only one who had caught the scent. Men glanced warily at one another.

Portus Canio climbed to the wagon box, beside Fel Doron, and stood, facing backward, shading his eyes. “Yes,” he said.

Fel Doron had caught the scent first, perhaps because of his height on the wagon box. “Portus!” he had called.

Selius Arconious had lifted his head, facing backward, nostrils flared, testing the wind, a moment later.