The girl stirred uneasy. Her legs were drawn up. She wore the Ta-Teera, the slave rag, and a collar. She lay in the corner of the main room of the inn. She lay on a slave mat. I had put her there.
I sat, cross-legged, behind one of the low tables in the room. I chewed on a crust of bread. The inn, now, was deserted. It had been evacuated early this morning.
“That is ten copper tarsks,” had said the man last night, had placing before me a bowl of sul porridge. I had not argued. I had paid him.
“You cannot put me out!” a free woman had been crying to the proprietor of the inn, at his counter to the side.
“You did not pay me for your last nights lodging,” he told her. “Pay me now for that, and for tonight, or you may not remain within the inn.”
“A silver tarsk for a night’s lodging!” she cried. “That is unheard of. It is outrageous. You have no right to charge such prices!”
Others, too, about the counter, uttered such cries. The inn was that of Strobius, in Lara, at the confluence of the Olni and Vosk. It was crowded with refugees from Vonda. Many hundreds had fled from Vonda, and most had taken the river southward, paying highly for their fares on the varieties of river craft, barges, skiffs, river galleys, and even coracles, which had brought them to Lara.
“Those are my prices,” said Strobius.
“Sleen!” cried more than one man.
“Whatever the traffic will bear,” had grinned a fellow near me at my table.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter was crying.
I lifted the sul porridge to my lips. The mask I wore, like those of some others in the room, covered only the upper portions of my face.
There was pounding at the inn door. Guards, sliding back a panel in the door, looked through. Then they admitted another small group of refugees. There would be no rooms for them, as there were none for many of the guests, but they, too, albeit only for a space in a corridor, would be charged a full silver tarsk for their lodging. The Inn of Strobius was not thought to be a good inn, but it was a large inn, and a stout one. Too, it was one of the few inns remaining open in Lara. Many of the refugees, destitute, who had come to Lara had not been permitted to land at the quays, but had been driven further downriver. Too, here and there in the city, river pirates, with impunity, sought women and plundered.
Several of the men in the room, other than myself, wore masks. I lowered the sul porridge to the table. It was not good, but it was hot.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter was crying. “You cannot put me out!”
Oneander of Ar, the salt and leather merchant, and some others, had worn masks at the loot camp outside the city of Vonda. He had been, perhaps, well advised to do so. He had intended to trade with Lara, a member of the Salerian Confederation. This would not make him popular in Ar, or in the strongholds of Ar. Too, he had been, as I had ascertained, attacked by river pirates on the south bank of the Olni and, embattled, had bargained for his life and those of his men by delivering his goods and slaves to the assailants. It was little wonder that he had chosen to mask his features. He did not wish to encounter the wrath of those of Ar, and he wished, doubtless, to conceal his chagrin and shame over the embarrassing termination of his business venture in the north.
I had waited outside the food tent in the loot camp. The sky to the west was lit with the flames of Vonda.
“Are you Oneander of Ar?” I asked the fellow who emerged from the tent.
“No,” he said.
“I think you are Oneander of Ar,” I said to him.
“Do not speak so loudly,” had said he, looking about, “you fool!”
I had then reached to his tunic and seized him, dragging him toward me.
“Remove your mask,” I told him.
“Is there no one to protect me?” he called.
“What is going on here?” inquired a guardsman.
“I think this is Oneander of Ar,” I said.
“I had heard he was in the camp,” said the guardsman. “Are you he?”
“Yes,” said the man, hesitantly, angrily.
“Remove the mask,” I said. “Or I shall.”
Angrily he drew away the mask.
“It is Oneander,” said the guardsman, not pleased.
“Do not leave me here with him!” called Oneander of Ar.
But the guardsman had turned his back and left.
“Who are you?” asked Oneander of Ar, apprehensively.
“I was once a silk slave,” I said. “You may recall me, from the streets of Ar, some months ago, in the neighborhood of the shop of Philebus. You set two slaves upon me.”
“Do not kill me,” he whispered.
“I have heard,” said I, “that you were embattled near Lara and surrendered slaves and goods.”
“On the south bank of the Olni,” he said, “yes, it is true.”
“You did well,” I said, “to save the lives of your men, and yourself.”
“I have lost much,” he said.
“What do you conjecture,” I asked, “to be the fate of your goods and slaves?”
“They are no longer mine,” he said. “They are now the property of the river pirates, theirs by the rights of sword and power.”
“That is true,” I said. “But what do you conjecture is to be their fate?”
“It is not likely they could be sold in Lara, or northward,” he said. “Usually the river pirates sell their goods and captures somewhere along the river, in one of the numerous river towns.”
“What towns?” I asked.
“There are dozens,” he said. “Perhaps Ven, Port Cos, Iskander, Tafa, who knows?”
“He who attacked you, the pirate chieftain,” I said, “who was he?”
“There are many bands of river pirates,” he said.
“Who was he?” I asked.
“Kliomenes, a lieutenant to Policrates,” he said.
“In what town does he sell his wares?” I asked.
“It could be any one of a dozen towns,” said Oneander. “I do not know.”
I seized him by the tunic, and shook him.
“I do not know!” he said. “I do not know!”
I held him.
“Please do not kill me,” he whispered.
“Very well,” I had said, and released him. I had then turned about and went toward the tarn cots of the loot camp, that I might arrange with some bold tarnsman to provide me with transportation, by a suitably circuitous route, to the vicinity of Lara.
The girl again stirred in the corner of the room. She rolled to her back. One knee was raised. She was luscious in the slave rag and collar. She turned her head from side to side. She made a small noise. She opened and closed one small hand. I wondered if she were aware, dimly, of the coarse fibers of the slave mat beneath her back. I did not think so, not yet.
“I am a free woman of Vonda!” the woman at the counter had been crying out last night. “You cannot put me out!”
“You will pay or be ejected,” Strobius had told her.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she said.
I had taken another sip of the sul porridge.
The woman at the counter had been veiled, as is common with Gorean women, particularly those of high caste and of the high cities. Many Gorean women, in their haughtiness and pride, do not choose to have their features exposed to the common view. They are too fine and noble to be looked upon by the casual rabble. Similarly the robes of concealment worn by many Gorean women are doubtless dictated by similar sentiments.
On the other hand, veiling is a not impractical modesty in a culture in which capture, and the chain and the whip are not unknown. One justification for the veiling and for the robes of concealment, which is not regarded as inconsiderable, is that it is supposed to provide something of a protection against abduction and predation. Who would wish to risk his life, it is said, to carry off a woman who might, when roped to a tree and stripped, turn out to be as ugly as a tharlarion?
Slave girls, by contrast, are almost never permitted veils. Similarly they are usually clad in such a way that their charms are manifest and obvious to even the casual onlooker. This, aside from having such utilities as reminding the girls that they are total slaves and giving pleasure to the men who look upon them, is supposed to make them, rather than free women, the desiderated objects of capture and rapine. I think there is something to this theory for, statistically, it is almost always the female slave and not her free sister who finds herself abducted and struggling in the lashings of captors or slavers.
On the other hand, in spite of the theories pertaining to such matters, free women are certainly not immune to the fates of capture and enslavement. Many men, despite the theories pertaining to such matters, and accepting the risks involved, enjoy taking them. Some slavers specialize in the capture of free women. Indeed, it is thought by some, perhaps largely because of the additional risks involved, and the interest in seeing what one has caught, that there is a special spice and flavor about taking them. Similarly it is said to be pleasant, if one has the time and patience, first to their horror and then to their joy, training them to the collar.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” had cried the free woman.
“I can,” he informed her soberly.
“I am a free woman of Vonda,” she said, “a member of the Confederation.”
“I am an innkeeper,” said he. “My politics are those of the ledger and silver.”
I had sipped the sul porridge while listening to this conversation.
There are various reasons why Gorean men, upon occasion, resort to masks. Oneander had worn a mask, as had others in the loot camp, because of his fear of the anger of the men of Ar, concerning his trading venture with Lara, and, doubtless, because of his shame at his failure in that venture. Several men in the main room of the inn wore masks now presumably to conceal their identity for various reasons. Times were troubled. It might not well serve their purposes to be recognized, as perhaps men of wealth or position, now in difficult straits. Some might have been seized or held for ransom. Others, perhaps, shamed by the fall of Vonda, or the necessity for their flight from the city, did not wish to be recognized in Lara. Masks, too, are sometimes worn by men in disgrace, or who wish to travel incognito.
I recalled the Lady Florence. Doubtless the young men of Vonda, and the estates about Vonda, who would attend her secret auction might wear masks. She might not know who had purchased her until she knelt his slave, before him, at the foot of his couch. I wore a mask because I had not wished to be recognized in Lara. In Lara there were many refugees from Vonda and its vicinity. Some might have watched me in the stable bouts.
I did not think my tasks would be either expedited or facilitated by being recognized as a former fighting slave. Now, however, for an independent reason, I was pleased to have worn the mask. Sometimes, incidentally, free young men wear masks and capture a free woman, taking away her clothing and forcing her to perform as a slave for them. She is then commonly released. Afterwards, of course, in meeting young men she does not know for which of them, if any of them, she was forced to perform as a slave. Such a woman commonly begins to take risks inappropriate for a free woman. She is, sooner or later, caught and enslaved. She is then, as she has wished, sold, and will truly wear the collar. Perhaps one of the young men will buy her, and keep her as his own.
“I am a free woman!” the woman at the counter cried.
“That condition,” said the innkeeper, “could prove temporary.”
“I have nowhere to go,” she said. “I am safe here. River pirates may still be within the city. It is not safe for me to be put out.”
“You owe me a silver tarsk,” said he, “for your last night’s lodging. Too, if you would stay here this night, you must pay me another tarsk.”
“I do not have them,” she wept.
“Then you must be ejected,” said he.
“Take my baggage,” she said, “my trunks!”
“I do not want them,” he said.
It was my plan to arrange transportation downriver in the morning. My business lay not in Lara but further west on the river. Many refugees, incidentally, had not remained in Lara. It was too close, for them, to the war zone. It lay well within the striking distance of a tarn cavalry, such as that which had been employed so devastatingly on the fields and hills south of Vonda. Small ships, coming and going, made their trips between Lara and the nearer downriver towns, such as White Water and Tancred’s Landing.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she cried.
Strobius, the innkeeper, then, in irritation, motioned to one of his assistants. The fellow came up behind the free woman and took her by the upper arms, holding her from behind. She was helpless.
“Eject her,” said Strobius.
“You cannot put me out into the street!” she cried.
“Rejoice,” said Strobius, “that I do not strip you and sell you into slavery.”
“What is going on here?” I had asked, rising to my feet and going to the counter.
“We are putting her out,” said Strobius. “She owes me money. She cannot pay.”
“But she is a free woman,” I said.
“She cannot pay,” he said.
“What does she owe?” I asked.
“A silver tarsk for last night,” he said, “and, if she would stay here this night, another tarsk, and in advance.”
“I believe this is the proper sum,” I said. I placed two silver tarsks on the counter.
“Indeed it is,” said Strobius. He swept the coins from the counter into his hand, and put them in his apron.
“There is your money, Fellow,” said the free woman to Strobius, haughtily, as haughtily as she could manage, still the helpless prisoner of his assistant’s grip.
“Yes, Lady,” said he, bowing deferentially to her.
“Perhaps, now,” she said, squirming in the assistant’s grip, “you will have this ruffian unhand me.”
He regarded her.
She shuddered. Her Home Stone was not that of Lara, times were troubled, and Strobius was master in his own inn. Too, she had, for a time, owed him money. Would he like to see her stripped, and collared?
“Please, Kind Sir,” she said. Gorean men are sometimes slow to release their grip on the bodies of females. They enjoy holding them. They are men.
“Of course, Lady,” said Strobius, smiling, again bowing. He then signaled the fellow to release the woman, which he did. She then drew back, angrily, and smoothed down her garments. Then, straightening herself, she came regally to where I stood.
“My thanks, Sir,” she said, looking up at me.
“It is nothing,” I said.
“I am grateful,” she said.
“Perhaps you would care to join me at my table,” I suggested. “There is little but sul porridge, but I could order you a bowl,” I said.
“One must make do in trying circumstances,” she said, “with what there is.”
“Do you have any wine?” I asked Strobius.
He smiled. “Yes,” he said.
“Would you care for some wine?” I asked her.
Her eyes glistened over her veil. It had been some days, I gathered, since she had been able to afford or had had wine. “Yes,” she said, “it would give me great pleasure to drink your wine. “
“Please go to the table,” I said, indicating the table, “and I will make the arrangements.”
“Very well,” she said, and turned away, going to the table.
“Sul porridge,” said Strobius, “is ten copper tarsks. I will charge you forty copper tarsks for the wine, two cups.”
“Very well,” I said.
In a few moments he had had a fellow bring a tray with the sul porridge and two cups of wine to the counter. I paid him.
“Oh, by the way,” I asked, “do you have a packet of Tassa powder?”
He grinned, and reached under the counter. “Yes,” he said, handing it to me.
“How much do I owe you for this?” I asked.
“For that one,” he said, “it is free. Take it with the compliments of the house.”
“Very well,” I said.
The girl turned uneasily on the mat. She was then again on her side. Her legs were again drawn up. She moaned. I saw the small fingers of her right hand touch the mat. Her finger tips were soft against the rough fibers. On her legs, where she had lain, there were markings from the mat.
I saved a part of the crust of bread I was eating.
She moved uneasily, and made a small noise. She must now sense that it was morning.
I looked about myself. The inn was deserted. It bore the signs of having been hastily evacuated. Tarnsmen of Ar, the rumors had had it, were soon to be aflight toward Lara. The evacuation of the inn had been a portion of the evacuation of the entire city. Outside the streets were empty, and quiet. There were few persons, I conjectured, now left in Lara. There were, of course, the girl and myself.
She rolled onto her belly on the mat. She lay there, the left side of her face against the mat, her small hands at the sides of her head.
I watched her.
I saw her small fingers move slightly, and her finger tips touch the fibers of the mat.
Then, suddenly, I saw her finger tips press down on the mat, and then, suddenly; her fingernails, frightened, dug at it. Her entire body suddenly stiffened.
“You are awake,” I observed.
“What is this on which I find myself?” she asked, frightened.
“Is it not obvious?” I asked. “It is a slave mat.”
“Where am I?” she asked, lifting her head.
“In the main room of the inn of Strobius,” I said, “in the city of Lara.”
She rose to her hands and knees. I noticed that her breasts were lovely, inside the rag she wore. “What happened?” she asked.
“You were drugged,” I told her.
She shook her head. She looked at me. I did not think she could yet well focus on me.
“You should not have drunk my wine,” I told her.
“Where are my clothes?” she asked.
“I discarded, burned or destroyed your luggage and your things,” I said, “with the exception of what you now wear, a Ta-Teera and a collar.”
“I am collared,” she whispered, disbelievingly. She tried the steel.
“It is locked,” I assured her.
I saw her hand, subtly, furtively, touch the side of her Ta-Teera.
“The key is no longer there,” I informed her. “Too, I have ripped away and discarded the tiny pocket which you had had sewn there. Girls are not permitted to carry things in their Ta-Teera. Surely you know that.”
“Where is the key?” she whispered.
“I threw it away,” I told her.
She shook her head. “I remember you,” she said. “You paid for my lodging. You gave me wine.”
“Yes,” I said.
“It was drugged,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“Give me the key to this collar!” she cried, suddenly. She sprang to her feet, her hands pulling at the collar.
“Do not leave the slave mat,” I cautioned her. “I threw the key away,” I reminded her.
“Threw it away?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“But it is a real collar,” she said. “I cannot remove it.”
“No,” I said, “it has not been designed to be removed by a girl.”
She regarded me with horror.
“Do not leave the mat,” I told her.
She stepped back more on the mat.
“Kneel down,” I suggested.
She knelt, her knees pressed closely together.
“I found both the Ta-Teera and the collar among your belongings,” I told her. “Surely they are unusual objects to be found among the belongings of a free woman.”
She said nothing.
“Perhaps you are an escaped slave,” I said.
“No!” she cried. “I am not a slave! I am not branded!”
“Reveal your thigh to me,” I said, “that I may see whether or not you are branded.”
“No!” she said. Then she said, angrily, “You put me in the Ta-Teera. You know well I am not branded.”
“That is true,” I smiled.
“Why are you doing this to me?” she asked. “Who are you? Is this some bizarre joke?”
“No,” I said, “it is not a joke.”
She turned white.
“Let me go,” she said.
“Are you hungry?” I asked.
“Yes, terribly,” she said, uncertainly.
I threw her what was left of the crust of bread. It stuck the slave mat before her.
She reached for it.
“Do not use your hands,” I told her.
“I am a free woman,” she said.
“Place the palms of your hands down on the mat, and lower your head, and eat,” I told her.
“I am a free woman,” she said.
“Eat,” I told her.
She ate, as I had instructed her, not using her hands. I then placed a pan of water within her reach. “Drink,” I told her. She then drank, as she had eaten, not using her hands. I then removed the pan of water from her, threw out the water that had been left and put the pan aside. I then again returned to my place and sat down, cross-legged, behind the small table. She looked at me. I did not think she was displeased to have eaten and drunk.
“What do you want of me?” she asked. “Who are you?”
“Spread your knees,” I told her.
Angrily she did so.
“How is it,” I asked, “that a free woman should have among her belongings such unusual articles as a Ta-Teera and a collar?”
“I have been associated,” she said, “with female slavers, of the house of Tima. I have occasionally used such articles in my work.”
“I see,” I said.
“Do I know you?” she asked.
“Do you?” I asked.
“You are masked,” she said. “You have me at a disadvantage.”
“It is true that you are well exposed before me,” I said.
She reddened.
“Do you know me from somewhere?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“From where?” she asked.
“Vonda,” I said.
She shrugged, angrily. “You could be any one of a thousand men,” she said.
“But I am not,” I said.
“No,” she said, “I suppose not.”
“Come over here,” I said, “and lie down on the table, on your back, before me.”
She did so.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“You will learn,” I said. The table was low, and sturdy.
“Obviously you intend to treat me as a slave,” she said.
“Perhaps,” I said.
“I see you have prepared lengths of rope,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
Then, slowly, not hurrying, I began to tie her down across the table. I began with her left wrist, fastening it over her head and behind her, to one of the short legs of the table.
“Where are the others?” she asked.
“The city has been evacuated,” I said.
“Why?” she asked.
“It was feared there would be an attack of tarnsmen from Ar,” I said.
I then jerked tight the rope pulling her right wrist over her head and behind her. I secured it in place.
I thrust up the Ta-Teera, that I might spread her legs.
“Did you truly throw away the key to the collar?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Then you must help me to get out of it soon,” she said, “perhaps with tools.”
“Why?” I asked. I fastened down her left leg.
“Surely you have read it?” she asked. Such collars usually bear a legend. Usually the legend identifies the master, that the slave, if fled, or lost or strayed, may be promptly returned.
“No,” I said. “I cannot read Gorean.”
“Does it tell who your master is?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “Oh!” she cried, as I pulled her right ankle to the right corner of the table and there, with two loops of the slim, coarse rope, tied it down.
I then jerked apart the Ta-Teera, that she be well revealed to me. She gasped. She squirmed, and trembled. I then stood up and looked down upon her, observing my handiwork.
She pulled at the ropes, and knew herself helpless. She looked up at me. “You have taken me boldly,” she said.
I said nothing.
She pulled again at the ropes. Then she lay back, helpless. “You have tied me well,” she said.
I shrugged.
“I suppose now,” she said, “you will wish me to address you as ‘Master’.”
“As you wish,” I said. “It does not matter.”
“Tied as I am,” she said, “it seems to me not unfitting that I should call you ‘Master’.”
I said nothing.
“I request your permission to do so,” she said.
“It is granted,” I said. “What does your collar say?” I asked.
Suddenly she reared in the ropes. “You must help me to remove it!” she said.
“What does it say?” I asked.
“It says, ‘I am the slave, Darlene,’” she said.
“It is an Earth-girl name,” I said.
“Precisely,” she said. “You can well imagine what might be done with me if I were caught in such a collar. Men might think that I was an Earth girl, or one of those girls like an Earth girl, and was thus given such a name!”
I smiled.
“Surely you understand my fears,” she said.
“Of course,” I said.
“I used to train Earth girls,” she said. “I know how men look upon them.”
I nodded. Gorean men were not gentle with Earth girls. They regarded them as natural slaves, and treated them accordingly, fully. Some of the most abject slaveries on Gor were assigned to Earth girls.
“So you will help me out of this collar as soon as possible, will you not?” she asked.
“I will if it pleases me,” I said.
She lay back. “I am in your ropes,” she shrugged.
I crouched then beside her.
“You know me, don’t you?” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“You heard my name about the inn,” she said.
“Yes,” I said, “but even aside from that I would have known you.”
“Even veiled?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
She pulled at the ropes. “You have then,” she said, “a shrewd eye for the flesh of women.”
“Perhaps,” I said.
“Do you truly know me?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“What is my name?” she asked.
“You are the Lady Tendite of Vonda,” I said, “who was assistant to the Lady Tima of Vonda, a slaver of that city, of the house of Tima.”
“Who are you?” she asked, frightened.
I drew away the mask.
“Who are you?” she asked.
“Do you not recall me?” I asked. “I was once a silk slave. My name is Jason.”
Slowly recognition crept into her eyes. “No,” she whispered. “No!” Then, struggling wildly, she tore at the ropes. “No,” she screamed. “No!” Then again she lay before me, tied as helplessly and perfectly as before. “No,” she whispered. “No, no.”
“Yes,” I whispered to her. “Yes.”
The Lady Tendite now lay on the slave mat, where I had put her later in the morning.
“You will help me get this hated collar off, won’t you?” she purred lifting her arms and putting them about my neck, lifting her lips to mine.
“Does Darlene beg it?” I asked.
“Darlene!” she said, lying back, angrily.
“Is that not the name on the collar?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said, “it is.”
“Does Darlene beg it?” I asked.
“Yes,” she purred, again lifting her arms and putting them about my neck. “Yes,” she whispered. “Darlene begs it.” Then we kissed.
“The request of Darlene is refused,” I told her.
Angrily she scrambled to her knees and pulled at the collar. She looked at me in fury. “You sleen!” she said.
I smiled.
“Sleen! Sleen!” she said.
The Ta-Teera had been half torn from her. She had squirmed well.
“Sleen! Sleen!” she wept.
She was soft, and luscious and curved. It was easy to see why men make women slaves.
“Be silent!” I said to her, suddenly.
She looked at me, frightened.
“Do not leave the mat,” I told her, getting up. I went to one of the narrow, barred windows in the inn. I saw five armed men running down the street.
“River pirates,” I said. “I think they must be.”
She moaned, and foolishly tried to cover her beauty. I looked back at her. “Do you think they would permit you modesty in their shackles?” I asked. Then I returned to her side. “They are not coming here,” I said. “I think they have decided it is time to leave Lara.”
“Why?” she asked.
“Yet I do not smell smoke,” I said. “It is interesting.”
“What is going on?” she asked.
“Can you not guess?” I asked.
“No,” she said. “No!”
I then took her by the arms and threw her to her back on the slave mat beneath me.
“My dear Lady Tendite, or ‘Darlene,’ as I may choose to call you,” I said, “I do not think we have a great deal more time to tarry in this place.”
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“And you must leave it somewhat earlier than I,” I said.
“I do not understand,” she said. “Oh,” she said, entered and held. She tried to press me away, but could not do so. Then she clutched at me.
“Excellent, Darlene,” I said.
“What are you making me do?” she whispered.
“Can you not guess?” I asked her.
“You have won, Jason,” she whispered to me, lying on her side beside me, her head on her arm. “You have made me yield to you, irreservedly, helplessly, and as a slave.”
“As a free woman,” I said, “you cannot yet begin to understand the fullness, the helplessness, of true slave yieldings.”
“I sense what they might be,” she whispered, “being fully owned, being fully and legally at the mercy of a master.”
“Do the thoughts intrigue you?” I asked.
“I must put them from my mind,” she said. “I must not even dare to think them.”
“Why?” I asked.
“They are too profoundly feminine,” she said.
“And thus not fit for a proud free woman?” I asked.
“Yes,” she said.
“But suitable perhaps for a collared slave?” I said.
“Yes,” she smiled. “Such a woman is permitted to be true to herself.”
“I suspect,” I said, “she is given no choice but to be true to herself.”
“Yes,” said the girl. “She is given no choice. She must be true to herself. If she should be reluctant the master and the whip will see to it.”
“You seem to speak enviously of the miserable women in bondage.”
“Perhaps,” she said.
“You yourself wear a collar,” I said.
“But I am a free woman,” she said.
“For the time, perhaps,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she said.
“Get up,” I told her. We got up.
She faced me. “You are not going to help me get the collar off, are you?” she asked. She touched me about the shoulder with her finger.
“No,” I said.
“You fill me with strange feelings, Jason,” she said.
“Oh?” I asked.
“I am accustomed,” she said, “to having men do what I wish.”
“I suggest, Lady Tendite,” I said, “that you begin to accustom yourself to doing what men wish.”
“What are you doing?” she asked. I had heard men nearby, the sound of weapons. I dragged her toward the door of the inn. I slid back the panel and looked out. The street, as far as I could tell, was clear. I then shut the panel, and swung up the heavy bars on the door. I opened the door and looked out. The street was clear. I held the Lady Tendite firmly by her left upper arm. She was barefoot, in the torn Ta-Teera and collar. I then flung her down the wide, shallow steps and some fifteen feet into the street beyond. She fell to her hands and knees in the street, and suddenly scrambled up, wildly, looking about herself. I then shut the door, dropping the two heavy beams into place. She ran to the door and began to pound on it. “Let me in!” she cried. “Let me in!”
Within the inn I left the main room and went up to the second floor where, from one of the room’s windows, I might command a better view of the street. I could still hear her pounding on the door below. “Let me in, Jason!” she sobbed. “Let me in!” Again and again she struck with her small fists against the door. “I will be your slave, Master!” she cried. “Have mercy on me, Master! Please have mercy on me, Master!”
Then, from the window, I saw her run to the center of the street. She turned from the left to the right, uncertainly. She was sobbing.
“Hold, Slave!” I heard. Men had entered the street. I saw they wore, as I had thought, the uniforms of Ar.
The girl turned wildly in the street and started to run from the men. But she had gone only a step or two when she saw some five other men at the end of the street, also approaching her. She stopped, uncertainly, confused, in the street. The men, not hurrying, then surrounded her.
“I am not what I seem!” she cried. “I am not a slave!”
One of the men seized her by the hair and bent back her head. “Her name is ‘Darlene’,” he said.
“No!” she said. “I am the Lady Tendite, a free woman of Vonda!”
One of the men then was drawing her hands behind her back. He snapped her wrists in slave bracelets.
“I’m not a slave!” she said.
“‘Darlene’ is an excellent slave name,” said one of the men. “I am hot for her already.”
“Wait until we have her in the camp,” said their leader.
“A nice catch,” said another.
Another man was snapping a leash on her collar.
“Are you an Earth wench?” asked one of the men.
“No,” she said, “no!”
“Nonetheless I wager you will whip as well,” said another.
“I am not a slave!”
“See,” she cried, moving her hip to throw back the shreds of the ripped Ta-Teera, “I am not branded!”
“Only a slave would so expose her hip to free men,” said one of the men.
“She is not branded,” observed another.
“That technicality can be swiftly remedied by a metal worker,” said one of the men.
“Why are you not branded, Darlene?” asked a man.
“I am not a slave!” she said. “And my name is not ‘Darlene’!”
“You speak much, Darlene,” she was told.
“Bring her along,” said the leader. “We must finish our patrol.”
The Lady Tendite felt the leash grow taut at her collar. She hung back.
“I am not a slave,” she said. “My name is not ‘Darlene. I am the Lady Tendite of Vonda!”
“Do all the women of Vonda run about the streets half naked, clad in the rag of a slave, wearing collars?” asked the leader.
“No,” she said, “of course not. I was caught and abused, tied even upon a table and forced to give pleasure as a slave. Other things, too, were done to me. I was forced, even, to yield to my captor, as though I might have been a slave and he my master.”
“Splendid,” laughed one of the men.
She glared angrily at the fellow.
“I bet I, too, can make her yield,” said one of the men.
“Later, at the camp,” said the leader. Then he again turned his attention to the Lady Tendite. He bowed low before her, in mock courtesy. “I invite you, if you wish, Lady Tendite, to accompany us,” he said. “We shall be returning to our loot camp shortly, which is east of Vonda. There you will discover that the women of Vonda are not entirely unknown to us. Many of them have already kindly consented to give us their thighs for branding, their throats for collaring. We trust you will be no less generous.”
“She will look well on the slave block,” said one of the men.
“True,” said another.
“And, Lady Tendite,” said the leader, “until you are properly and legally enslaved you will be known by the capture name of ‘Darlene’. Say It!” he snapped.
“Darlene!” she cried. “My capture name is Darlene.”
“And,” said the leader, “in virtue of your collar, and in anticipation of your impending enslavement, you will address us and behave towards us as a slave towards free men.”
“Yes,” she said.
Then she was struck across the back with the haft of a spear, cruelly.
“Yes, Master!” she cried.
The patrol then continued on its way. I watched the Lady Tendite, her hands braceleted behind her, on her leash, dragged behind the men. She turned once, after about twenty yards, to look back. She saw me. Then she was turned about by the leash and was again dragged, stumbling, down the street.