Smugglers of Gor (12 page)

“Now,” I said to the free women, “be away, lest I call for a switch, and have you switched like slaves from the inn.”

Weeping, awkwardly, pulling one another’s hair as they stumbled forth, the two free women left the inn.

“It is a joke worthy of a Ubar,” said one of the fellows about.

“How long do you think they will keep their purses?” asked a fellow.

“Not long,” I said.

“Guardsmen will pick them up, supposing them to be slaves,” said another, “as they are barefoot and, essentially, slave-garbed.”

“It may be an Ahn, or better, before a free woman may be found to discreetly examine their bodies,” said another.

“Before then,” said another, “they may be whipped and put in cages, for claiming.”

“You may be sure that guardsmen will be annoyed, having been inconvenienced,” said another.

“They will see it as a merry jest,” said another.

It was true that many Gorean males found the pride and pretensions of free women annoying. Certainly it was easier to deal with women in their place, at one’s feet, in collars.

I would not have behaved as I did, of course, if my Home Stone had been that of Brundisium.

Had that been the case, it would have been expected that I would endure uncomplainingly, and graciously, the contumely of the women, however prolonged and unpleasant it might be, for they were free, and a Home Stone would have been shared. Anything else would be not only improper, but, I supposed, unconscionable. On the other hand, not all Gorean males are patient with women, even those with whom a Home Stone might be shared. I wondered, sometimes, why free women occasionally so hazarded themselves before men. Were they exploiting their freedom, or testing its limits? Did they not know that they were women, and in the presence of men? Perhaps, as the saying is, they were “courting the collar.”

“More black wine,” I said to the waiter.

Most Gorean shops, particularly those of the lesser trades, open at dawn. The proprietors and workers commonly live on the premises, above or behind the shop, and breakfast is commonly taken in the shop itself, while waiting for business. One does not care to miss a possible customer.

I finished the black wine, rose, and dropped a silver tarsk on the table, a rather insolent gesture, I suppose, as it would have purchased half a hundred such breakfasts, save for the black wine. But then I had come by the money easily, the night before. I included, as well, one copper tarsk-bit. I then left the shop, heeled by the slave.

I must make some small purchases.

By the time I reached the wharves she was tunicked and leashed. Her hands looked well, braceleted behind her. On her neck, close-fitting, and locked, was a collar.

***

She was kneeling beside me.

“I am grateful to be permitted to speak,” she said.

I did not respond to her.

“We have been here for an Ahn,” she said. “I have heard the bars.”

I feared another morning was lost.

“You are watching?” she said.

“Yes,” I said.

“For what is Master watching?” she asked.

“Cargo,” I said.

“Shapely cargo?” she asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“I feared so,” she said.

Two men passed, drawing a dock cart, laden with weights of cheese, cradled in tur-pah. Shortly thereafter two fellows passed, bearing a pole between them, from which hung gutted, salted harbor eels. Four docksmen passed, each bearing on his shoulder a bulging, porous, loosely woven sack of reddish suls. At least two ships, coasters, were preparing for departure.

A small flock of verr, some twelve or so, were herded by, conducted by a small boy with a stick. Some coasters, as well as round ships, have pens for livestock. The coaster, being shallow keeled, will usually have its pens on the open deck. Most round ships, given the dangers of weather and the distance of the voyage, keep livestock below, in the first or second hold. Coasters and long ships will commonly beach at night, the crew cooking and sleeping ashore. Indeed, most Gorean mariners, when practical, like to keep in sight of land. The moods of Thassa are capricious, and the might of her winds and waves prodigious.

Some small groups of armsmen, probably mercenaries, drifted past us. There was no discipline, no formation. Some carried spears on their shoulders, and others crossbows.

All seemed wary, dangerous men.

As I had scouted this portion of the dockage in the past, I knew that gear of war, as well as bundles of other supplies, whatever they might contain, had been put aboard one ship or another, sometimes in abundance. One could see how several had rested lower in the water. Sometimes it had been easy enough to identify the goods, as tools, such as axes, adzes, planes, wedges, clamps, and saws, or materials such as tar, turpentine, canvas, paint, and cable. One might have supposed them bound not for the northern beaches and forests but a shipyard, such as the arsenal of Port Kar.

“Ho!” I said, suddenly, softly.

“May I see?” she said.

“Remain on your knees,” I said.

From the yard of a dark building, behind the wharves, through a double wooden gate, wide enough to exit a wagon, a scribe, in his blue work tunic, carrying a tablet, had emerged. As I had expected, for I had seen this before, he was followed by a coffle of stripped slaves, fastened together by the neck on a single rope. Their hands were tied together behind their back, and they were blindfolded.

The coffle would be halted outside the building, where it would wait, until it was met by an officer from one of the ships.

Three guards were with the coffle, one on one side, two on the other, the two on the side facing the approach to the wharves.

I looped the leash about the neck of my slave, and tucked in the strap.

“Master?” she asked.

I approached the coffle, as I had the others, to place myself between it and the ships. In this way, I could, with others, survey its components.

I was followed by my slave.

Doubtless she was grateful for her tunic. I had arranged with the cloth worker that it be “slave short.” She had nice legs. Why should a master not display them? As with the common slave tunic it was sleeveless, and, naturally, as most slave garments, lacked a nether closure. This helps the slave to better realize that she is a slave, that she is always at the convenience of the master.

Several men, mercenaries, docksmen, and others, had gathered in the vicinity of the coffle.

“Good!” I said.

“Master?” asked the slave.

I was sure it was she.

Men, as is their wont, were examining the slaves, and commenting on them. Slaves, unless new to bondage, are accustomed to being publicly viewed, and spoken of, as the goods they are. Verr, kaiila, tharlarion, and such, do not object to this, so why should slaves?

“I wager that one is hot,” said a fellow.

“Ten Ehn and I could make this one weep, buck, and beg,” said a fellow.

“Consider the flanks of the tall brunette,” said another. She was first in the coffle.

“The ankles of the redhead,” said another.

“Excellent,” said another, “I would like to see them shackled.”

“There is a pudding that would juice at a touch,” said another.

“Pretty vulos,” commented a man.

“Tastas, each of them,” said a fellow, “a confectioner’s delight.”

“Put them on their sticks,” said another.

Remarks, as well, suggestions, and such, were addressed to the slaves, but they could not speak, as they were forbidden speech in coffle. I did see some tears run below the blindfolds on more than one slave. The lips of two or three trembled. Did they not know they were slaves?

I went to the one in which I was interested.

Sensing someone near her she stood more straightly, more beautifully. She may have supposed it a guard, and did not wish to invite the instructive stroke of a switch.

One expects much of slaves. They are not free women.

As I had expected, I could still see the residue of her lot number, now much faded, as was that of the others, on her left breast.

It was 119.

I went a bit to the side, to examine her small wrists, crossed, corded together, closely, behind her back. The opaque cloth of the blindfold had been wrapped twice, snugly, about her head, and knotted in place, behind her head. She could see nothing. She could feel the planks of the walk with her feet, and the breeze on her body. She was on the same long rope as the others. It is looped about the neck and knotted, and then taken ahead to the next girl. The loop was loose, but it could not be slipped.

I regarded her.

The beast was beautiful, quite beautiful.

I was annoyed.

She was more beautiful than I remembered her. I had wanted to find her less beautiful. But she was more beautiful. To be sure, she had now had some training, had learned to kneel, and obey men.

I was angry.

I had hoped to cast her image from me, to rid myself of her memory. I should not have come to the docks! I should not have watched, and waited, for days. I might have taken ship for Daphne days ago, but I had lingered in Brundisium. I was a fool.

“Master?” asked my slave, timidly.

I did not respond to her.

Surely the slave in the coffle could not be as beautiful as she seemed. I looked at the others, and was reassured. They were all lovely, and surely she on whose breast was inscribed the faded number, 119, was no better than most of them, and less than several of them.

Why then did she seem as she did to me?

I moved close to her, a bit back and on the right side, and breathed, softly, on the side of her neck, below the right ear. “Oh!” she said, softly, startled, and jerked at the cords on her wrists, but, too, inadvertently or not, she had also lifted her head. She had responded, as a slave, to the caress of a man’s breath.

“Not so close,” said one of the guards.

I moved back.

It had been a simple test, but it had told me what I wanted to know. She was a slave, no more than a slave, and should be a slave.

I smiled to myself.

She was a worthless piece of collar meat, no different from tens of thousands of others.

She belonged in a collar, and chains, at a man’s feet.

That was indisputable.

Two fellows, officers, were approaching from one of the ships. Behind them I could see several armsmen were boarding. One of the officers carried a tablet.

I would soon be rid of the troublesome slave. How pleased I was! I had never forgotten her, but now it would be easy to do so, for she would be carried to the north, and I should never see her again.

I had not remembered her as beautiful as she was. To be sure, she had now been in bondage for a time. Being in her natural place does much to enhance the beauty of a woman.

I must forget her.

What would it be to own her, I wondered, for such a woman must be owned. They must be treated with firmness, and never permitted to forget that they are mere slaves. They are to be mastered, uncompromisingly and utterly.

I looked back to the coffle. Papers were being exchanged between the officer and the scribe. Much is done with notes.

Men need slaves.

The coffle would soon be boarded, climbing the narrow plank to the ship.

I would never see her again.

I could then forget her.

How pleased I was.

I considered how she might look on all fours, crawling to me, bringing me the whip, it held between her small, fine, white teeth, the slave whip. I considered how she might look, kneeling before me, the coiled whip now in my hand, addressing to it the attentions of the female slave, caressing it with her lips and tongue, humbly, and at length, well aware that if I were not satisfied, it would be used upon her.

“Master,” said my slave, “might we not now return to the inn of Tasdron?”

Again I did not answer her.

“She is not so beautiful, is she?” asked my slave.

“No,” I said.

The coffle had now begun to move toward the nearest of the two small ships. Docksmen stood at mooring cleats, ready to loose the ropes and fling them to fellows aboard the ship. A mariner stood at the bow, amidships, and stern, each with his harbor pole. Four mariners stood ready to hoist the small yard, with the now-folded sail. Oars were still inboard. The two helmsmen were at their posts.

I would wait until the ship departed, and see it disappear, a bright speck, outside the farther breakwater. That would be the last of it, and of her. The matter would then be done.

The coffle was conducted up the planking onto the deck. There they were knelt, and relieved of the neck rope. They would remain bound and blindfolded until Brundisium was no longer visible. Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. After the vessel was well underway, it seemed likely they would be taken to the base hold, the ceiling of which is waist high, which is floored with ballast sand, and there chained together by the neck, after which they would be freed of the wrist cords and blindfolds. A coffle from a different building was already stowed in that fashion in the base hold of the second ship. The base hold is usually dark, and the ballast sand is damp. Verr are sometimes penned in a base hold, but, more commonly, on the open deck.

The second ship, I noted, was also making ready for departure. It had been ready yesterday, but, seemingly, was waiting for the first ship. The cargos were very similar, and I had seen armsmen divided between the two ships. Two ships, together, are accounted safer than two ships, taken singly. Round ships are the preferred prey of the “sleen of the sea,” but the sleen, when hungry, do not disdain smaller prey. I had had some interaction, in a tavern, with the fellow who seemed to be the high officer of the armsmen on the second vessel.

The first ship, now, freed of its mooring, was thrust from the dock with the harbor poles. I saw the yard being raised, foot by foot, tackle creaking, followed, foot by foot, by its increasing expanse of unfolding canvas.

As docksmen were at the mooring ropes, I assumed the second vessel was ready to clear the harbor.

The first ship was already a hundred yards from the wharf.