Prize of Gor

Chapter 19 WHAT OCCURRED IN THE TARN LOFT; ONE MUST MAKE HASTE

“The shop of Bonto has been burned! He himself has been seized by Cosians!” cried Fel Doron, he of the employ of Portus Canio, bursting into the loft area, from the interior door.

Portus looked up, wildly, from his work, weaving closed a gap in the wickerwork of one of the light tarn baskets. “Bonto knows nothing,” said Portus, angrily, rising to his feet. “He is innocent. He is not involved.”

“What are you talking about?” asked Selius Arconious, looking up from the repair of a saddle.

“Is your Home Stone the Home Stone of Ar?” inquired Portus, suddenly, fiercely, of Selius Arconious.

“Of course,” said Selius Arconious, puzzled.

“What is going on?” asked Tersius Major, coming from the dark ice pantry, where slabs of meat are stored on blocks of ice, covered with sawdust.

“The shop of Bonto has been burned,” said Portus. “Bonto has been seized.”

“But why?” asked Tersius Major. “Did he not pay his taxes? Did he not show deference to a Cosian?”

“They are sweeping the city,” said Fel Doron. “They are arresting, and burning, almost as though on whim. Madness has infected the Cosian sleen. They seek the Delta Brigade!”

“There is no such thing,” said Selius Arconious. “The Delta Brigade is a myth.”

Portus, Fel Doron and Tersius Major exchanged glances.

“It exists,” said Portus, “but it is ineffective, and dilatory, and we must act independently.”

A tarn, one of several in the nearby caged areas, screamed, and snapped its wings.

Ellen understood little of what was going on. She was in an opened, empty cage, nearby, on her knees, with a bucket of water, and a brush, scrubbing, cleaning, the flooring there. She could look back through the stout bars and see and hear the men. She was naked as that was most convenient for the work which she was doing.

“Action at this time is premature,” said Tersius Major.

“What is different now? What has precipitated the actions of the Cosians?” asked Portus.

“One does not know,” said Fel Doron, wildly. “It is rumored something has occurred in the palace.”

“Look into the streets!” said Portus to Tersius Major.

Tersius hurried to the platform outside the huge entry portal to the loft, and, in moments, called back. “There is commotion below. Much running about, shouting.”

“It is said that Myron, Polemarkos of Temos, has entered the city,” said Fel Doron.

Myron, the polemarkos, was the commander of the Cosian, and mercenary, forces in the city. His own camp lay outside the gates. It was said he was a cousin to Lurius of Jad, Ubar of Cos.

“What is the concern below?” called Portus to Tersius, on the platform.

“I can make nothing out,” said Tersius.

“Talena will address the population from the Central Cylinder,” said Selius Arconious. “She will calm the people.”

“Talena!” cried Portus, angrily.

“Our Ubara,” said Selius Arconious.

“False Ubara!” cried Portus, in fury.

“Portus!” called Tersius, from outside the exterior entrance. “Guardsmen, on the bridges! They may be coming here!”

“Why?” asked Selius Arconious.

Portus turned white.

“They are going everywhere!” cried Fel Doron.

“No,” said Portus. “Not everywhere.”

Tersius returned to the interior of the loft.

“Tarns can come and go, and leave the city,” said Portus. “Where there are tarns they will be suspicious. Doubtless all tarn lofts will be investigated.”

“Why?” asked Arconious.

“I think they are coming here,” said Tersius, whispering.

“What does it matter?” asked Arconious. “We have nothing to fear.”

Portus rushed inward, to the loft office, and, in moments, carrying a heavy bundle over his shoulder, from which escaped the sounds of metal, emerged, seized up a tarn goad and, throwing open the latch to the huge cot, the general housing area, that mighty cage, which held several of the gigantic winged monsters, rushed within, shouting, the goad brandished and flashing. The birds drew back from the goad uneasily, angrily, and, against the far wall of that immense cot, that great cage, beneath straw, Portus concealed the mysterious bundle. He then, crying out angrily, and twice defending himself with the goad, returned to the central area, latching the gate behind him. The tarn goad he placed in a wall, behind a loose board. Scarcely had he finished this than there was a rude, insistent pounding at the interior door. Ellen looked to the huge tarn cage, that enormous cot, where Portus had concealed the mysterious bundle. Two of the tarns went to it, and put their beaks down to it, but they then withdrew, as it apparently contained nothing of interest to them.

“Continue with your work,” said Portus to Ellen, and she, dutifully, put down her head, and returned to her scrubbing, the stout bristles of the thick brush damp on the wet floor.

“Ah, Masters, welcome!” said Portus, as he opened the interior door, through which burst several guardsmen, their helmets bearing the yellow crest, their weapons at the ready.

“Who is tarnmaster here?” demanded the leader of the intruders, an officer, a lieutenant, or, perhaps better translated, a subcaptain.

“I, noble Master,” said Portus.

“The rest of you,” said the officer, indicating Fel Doron, Tersius Major and Selius Arconious, “kneel. You are in the presence of soldiers of Cos.”

Fel Doron, Tersius Major, and, lastly, angrily, Selius Arconious, knelt.

“You will show me all records of rentals, hirings, and such, of all comings and goings, of all business in this place to the passage hand before last.”

“Gladly,” said Portus.

“How many tarns have you?” asked the officer.

“Eighteen,” said Portus. “Eleven on the premises.”

“You can account for the others?”

“Of course,” said Portus. He then went toward his office.

The officer turned to his men. “Search this place,” he said. “Search it well.”

Immediately the soldiers began to ransack the loft area, casting saddles and harnesses about, pulling down tarn baskets, emptying boxes, stirring, and probing, thrusting about, beneath straw with their spears. They examined even Ellen’s stall. She heard the point of a spear move her chain, that fastened to the heavy ring in the floor. She was seldom chained there now at night, but the chain was still there, and it could be put again on her neck at any time, and then, if so, she must remain there again, held at the ring, fastened in place by the neck, awaiting the pleasure of men. They even went into the kitchen, and the rooms of Portus Canio and the others, emptying chests, pulling things down from shelves, scattering things about in the pantry, cutting into sacks. They did not, of course, enter the area occupied by the tarns. They did examine the empty cage areas, among them the cage where Ellen, head down, not looking up, her hair forward, scrubbed the boards carefully, lengthwise, as was required, going with their grain. As her hair was forward, she realized that the lock on the back of her collar, a close-fitting, common slave collar, would be visible to the men. She also knew, uneasily, that the sight of a collar on a woman’s neck, locked there, as of course it would be in the case of a slave, tended to be sexually stimulatory to men. After all, it shows that its wearer is a slave, proclaiming her so, manifesting her so, with all that that can mean to a lustful, powerful, domineering, possessive beast, a man.

“What have you found?” asked the officer, emerging from Portus’s office, a sheaf of papers in his hands, doubtless to be examined by others, elsewhere. He wadded these papers, these documents, into a pouch, slung at his side.

“Nothing,” he was told.

“There is a slave there,” said one of the men, indicating Ellen.

The officer turned and regarded Ellen, and she, aware now of his gaze, put aside her brush and, frightened, knelt facing him, her head down, beside the bucket of water. She spread her knees.

“Slut,” hissed Selius Arconious.

Ellen cast him an angry glance. Of course she must kneel with her knees spread! That was the sort of slave she was! She did not wish to be beaten. And had he not, himself, often enough, required exactly this posture of her?

“Belly, and to me, slave,” said the officer.

Ellen went to her belly and, across the wet floor, through the opened gate of the empty cage, across the dry, straw-strewn floor, squirmed to his feet. She then lay before him, prone, her head turned to the right, her elbows bent, the palms of her hands on the floor.

“Do you not know enough to kiss a man’s feet?” she was asked.

Ellen, now no more than a young, enslaved beauty, Earth and her Ph.D. far behind her, kissed his feet, submissively, a docile slave.

“Slut, slut!” chided Selius Arconious.

“What of the tarn cage?” asked the officer. “Has it been searched?”

His men looked at one another. “No,” said one of the men.

“Search it,” said the officer.

“There are tarns there,” said a man.

“Give me a tarn goad,” said the officer to Portus Canio.

Portus made a negligible gesture, as of regret. “There are no tarn goads here,” he said.

The officer regarded him, angrily.

“These are only draft tarns,” said Portus, “slow, clumsy, gentle birds. Of what need would be a goad?”

The officer then went to the cage door and, with two hands, flung up the latch, and, with both hands, swung the gate open a foot. The gates are large, and heavy, and barred, some fourteen to fifteen feet in height, some ten feet in width. A tarn can thus stalk through one, but could not spread its wings and fly through one. Normally they are harnessed in the cage, and then led through the opening. In returning to the loft, from a flight, they are normally unharnessed outside, save for a halter, by means of which they are led within, the halter then being removed. The tarns instantly, alertly, regarded him. At the entrance he hesitated.

“Only cowards fear tarns,” said Portus Canio.

The officer thrust through the gate, but scarcely had he entered the area, a stranger, one unknown to the tarns, than one of the birds flew at him, aggressively, and he sprang back through the narrow opening and the great, yellow, scimitarlike beak snapped on the bars, not a foot from his hand.

“They are so tame?” inquired the officer, irritably, turning to regard Portus Canio.

“I do not know what could be the matter,” said Portus Canio. “Perhaps it is just that they do not know you.”

“It is growing late,” said one of the men. “We have other areas to search.”

“Several,” said another.

“Stand,” snapped the officer, to Ellen, who, instantly, so addressed, a slave, stood.

The officer then, appraisingly, walked about her. He felt her breasts, admiringly. She gasped, softly, reluctantly, stimulated, but she dared not resist or protest. She was a slave. She could be felt and handled as men wished. He lowered his hand to her left hip and she drew back, inadvertently, frightened. He smiled, and drew back his hand.

“Open your mouth,” said the officer.

Ellen opened her mouth, widely, and the officer, putting his fingers to her mouth, held it open, uncomfortably, and looked within. He then released her and she closed her mouth, keeping her head down.

“She is a barbarian,” said Portus.

“I can see that,” said the officer. “Too, she has the barbarian brand on her upper left arm.” That was, as would be supposed, a vaccination mark.

“She is a barbarian,” repeated Portus, disparagingly.

“No matter,” said the officer. “And the little scars on the upper left arm do not, I have found, reduce their value in the markets.”

“She is a poor piece of barbarian slave meat,” said Selius Arconious, from his knees.

“I think she is rather pretty,” said the officer. “I think she would look well, chained by the neck, being marched in a slave coffle. I do not think she would be the worst bead on a slaver’s necklace.”

“A meaningless barbarian,” said Portus.

“Certainly she is meaningless,” said the officer, “as she is a slave, and particularly so, as she is a mere barbarian.”

“She is a low slave, a cheap slave,” said Portus, “good only for the cleaning of cages, the scrubbing of floors, the carrying of water, the replenishing of straw, such things.”

“She is not a draft slave,” said the officer. “She is a slight and beautiful slave. She would be better applied to softer, more feminine labors, the licking of a man’s feet, and such.”

“Surely you can see what a poor slave she is,” said Portus, “how insignificant she is, what poor goods she is.”

“I cannot really see that,” said the officer.

“I have seen toads who are more attractive,” said Selius Arconious.

How hateful you are, Selius Arconious, she thought.

“Toads like this one sell well,” said the officer.

Take that, Selius Arconious, she thought.

“She is plain,” said Selius Arconious.

Not so plain, she thought, not so plain at all!

“Too, be sure, she should be washed, and combed, and brushed,” said the officer.

“A low slave,” said Portus, disparagingly.

“Think of her belled, in a diaphanous thread of slave silk,” said the officer.

“In a paga tavern, in Cos?” asked Portus.

“Why not?” said the officer.

“She is quite homely,” said Selius Arconious.

Not at all, she thought. I have seen myself in the mirror!

“She is young,” said the officer, “but if you think she is homely, I suspect you have serious difficulties with your vision.”

There, Selius Arconious, she thought.

“Surely you cannot find her of the least interest,” said Selius Arconious.

“She has exquisite features and a slight, but beautiful figure,” said the officer.

How men might think, and speak, of her!

But was she not goods?

Ellen was acutely aware of the collar on her neck.

“She is nothing,” said Selius Arconious.

“No,” said the officer. “You are wrong. She is an exquisitely beautiful slave.”

“Absurd,” said Selius Arconious.

Not absurd, she thought. Have you not heard the appraisal? He is an officer. He has doubtless judged many women. Could it be, she asked herself, that I am beautiful, even exquisitely beautiful, if only as a slave is beautiful?

“I confiscate her in the name of Cos,” said the officer.

“No!” cried Selius Arconious, who would have sprung to his feet, save that the butt of a spear, pressing down on his shoulder, kept him in place.

“Please, no, Master!” begged Ellen.

“Were you given permission to speak?” asked the officer.

“No, Master,” said Ellen. “Forgive me, Master!” But the officer had put his left hand in her hair, to hold her in place, and he then lashed her face back and forth, striking her twice, first with the stinging flat of his right hand, then with the slashing back of the right hand. Ellen tasted blood in her mouth. “Forgive me, Master,” she whimpered, her head down. “Please forgive me, Master.”

Ellen was then aware that the officer had opened his pouch, and, in another moment, that he had wired a small, thin, rectangular metal tag to her collar. She did not doubt but what there were other tags such as that in the pouch.

“I will send a man here tonight, a slaver, or slaver’s man, to pick her up,” said the officer to Portus Canio.

“Cos treats her allies well,” said Portus Canio.

“The laws of Cos march with the spears of Cos,” said the officer.

He then turned to leave, and his men prepared to follow him.

“Sir,” said Portus Canio.

The officer turned about.

“There seems to be some disturbance in the city, some commotion in the streets,” said Portus Canio. “What is going on?”

“Nothing,” said the officer. He then left the loft area, followed by his men.

“They may return later, with tarn goads,” said Fel Doron.

Portus went to Ellen, who was still standing. He turned the tag which dangled from her collar. “‘Confiscated in the name of Cos,’” he read.

“You must give her up, Portus,” said Tersius.

“No!” cried Selius Arconious.

Ellen looked at him, startled.

He could do nothing to prevent her confiscation, for she was a mere property.

Why did he cry out so, she wondered.

Certainly he could not care for her. He was incapable of such feelings. He was no more than a vain, insensitive, arrogant brute. Too, men did not care for such as she; for she was not free; she was only a slave.

But she recalled the effect she had had upon him and must obviously still have. Certainly he had cried out.

She recalled how she despised and hated him.

Too, she would be frightened to belong to him. She knew he lusted for her, like the lion for hot meat. She, a former woman of Earth, feared naturally, understandably enough, to belong to a Gorean male. The men of her world had not prepared her for such a fate. She was terrified to think of herself as a helpless slave at the mercy of such men, Gorean males, at the mercy of such virile, severe, demanding, untamed, bestial predators, and she realized that, in that desperate predicament, she would be choiceless, absolutely so, that she would be the vulnerable, helpless object of powerful, uncompromising, unbridled lust, and that she must assuage and serve it with all her embonded loveliness, instantly, perfectly, unquestioningly.

How I hate him, she thought.

Soon I will be rid of him! Excellent! And I will have a new slavery and new masters. Splendid!

And she recalled how she had been muchly pleased to keep him at a distance, how amused she had been that he might burn with need, writhe with desire.

Tears sprang to her eyes.

Then she saw his eyes were upon her, and she smiled, smugly, and tossed her head, insolently. Burn, she thought, Selius Arconious, burn! You will never have me! Suffer! Suffer! Burn! Burn!

She saw he looked upon her with fury. I am not yours, she thought. Then, when she was sure he was looking, she turned her head away, smiling. To be sure, her gesture might have been a bit more effective if she had had her tunic.

“I fear Fel Doron is right,” said Tersius Major. “They may return later, with tarn goads.”

“We will not be here,” said Portus.

“What?” said Fel Doron.

“Give the signal,” said Portus.

“It is premature! It is not yet time!” said Tersius Major.

“We must act,” said Portus. “Give the signal.”

Fel Doron nodded. He lit a lamp.

For a moment he lifted the lamp, and regarded Ellen. Thus under the scrutiny of a free man, Ellen, appropriately, knelt.

“Doubtless it causes less ill will to confiscate slaves at night,” muttered Fel Doron.

“We are taking her with us,” said Portus. “She figures in our plans.”

This intelligence startled Ellen. Surely they could not take her with them. Had she not been confiscated? Did she not have a Cosian tag wired to her collar?

Fel Doron took the lamp outside. He returned a moment later. “It is done,” he said.

“Gather your goods, anything you want,” said Portus to Fel Doron and Tersius Major. “We fly tonight.”

“What is going on?” asked Selius Arconious.

“Selius,” said Portus, “attend to the slave. See that she is fed and watered, and that she relieves herself.”

“Very well,” said Selius, puzzled.

“Then go below, and see if you can learn what transpires in the streets.”

“I will do so,” said Selius Arconious.

When Ellen looked up, from her knees, she saw, in the half darkness, Selius Arconious looming over her.

She did not find it a particularly welcome sight.

“Oh!” she cried in pain, for he had reached to her hair and yanked her to her feet, and was now leading her, she painfully bent over, her head at his right hip, his hand tightly in her hair. She stumbled beside him, hurrying, trying to put her hands on his thick wrist. “Please, Master!” she cried. “Stop! You are hurting me!”

“Be silent, slut,” he snarled.

He drew her to the kitchen and threw her to her knees. Then he took a pan, threw it to the floor, and kicked it before her. He shook some biscuits into the pan, and they struck the pan and rattled about within it. She looked up, in misery. From a hook in the pantry he had taken down a slave whip. It was now in his hand. “Eat,” he said.

Quickly she put down her head and, on all fours, addressed herself to the biscuits. They were dry and it was hard for her to eat them. She looked up, in misery. He lifted the whip. She again put down her head, sobbing. Perhaps she was slow. Perhaps he was impatient. He pulled her by the hair to an upright kneeling position and held her by the hair with his left hand, the loop at the butt of the whip about his wrist, where it hung against her right cheek, and, reaching into the pan, took the last two biscuits and thrust them into her mouth. She tried to chew, wildly, terrified. She half choked, she struggled to swallow. She was still gasping when he put a pan of water before her, which she went to seize gratefully but found the whip interposed between her mouth and the pan. She looked up at him piteously, crumbs and flakes of biscuit about her face and mouth. His eyes were stern. “Like the sleek little she-urt you are,” he said. She put her head down and drank. “More quickly, slut!” said he. She wept. The salt of her tears mixed with the water. Her lips and tongue felt sometimes the sides of the pan, sometimes its bottom, so desperate were her efforts. Her hair was wet where it fell into the water. “You are too slow,” said he, and lifted the pan before her. “Open your mouth, slut,” said he, and he then, unceremoniously, impatiently, too rapidly, poured water down her throat, but much of it, too, went about her chin, and throat, and under her collar, and ran down, too, plentifully, between her breasts. When he threw the pan to the side with a clatter she was trembling and sobbing. She was then drawn again to her feet and led, bent over, as a slave, to her own stall. “Squat,” said he, “slave.” “Please!” she begged. He lifted the whip. She relieved herself before him.

“Wipe yourself,” he said, “slovenly creature.”

She wiped herself with a handful of straw from the stall, depositing the straw in the wastes container.

She then was kneeling before him, looking up at him, in the half darkness, sobbing, shaking with humiliation.

“You may speak,” he said, amused.

“I hate you! I hate you!” she cried.

“You might be easily used,” said he, “on the straw of your stall.”

She shrank back.

“Are you a creature of ice?” he asked.

“Yes,” she wept. “Where you are concerned!”

“So you will still pretend to be the little figurine of ice, carved in the semblance of a slave girl?”

“I am ice,” she cried. “I am ice!”

“I see,” said he. “You are a cold slave?”

“Yes,” she said. “I am cold! I am a cold slave!”

“I see,” he said.

“What are you doing?” she cried.

He had put her to her belly on the straw.

“Have no fear, little icicle,” he said.

He then, with two thongs, bound her, hand and foot. As she struggled, helpless, he lifted her in his arms.

“What are you going to do with me?” she asked. “Where are you taking me?”

“Portus wants me to go below, and see what is occurring in the streets,” he said.

“Put me down!” she cried.

“In a moment,” he assured her.

“No!” she cried. “Don’t!”

He opened the heavy door of the ice room, and, in a moment, as she protested weakly, and struggled, and moaned in dismay, and begged mercy, he placed her in the room, bound as she was, on blocks of ice, half hidden by the sawdust.

“This is a good place for little icicles,” he said.

“Don’t leave me here!” she begged. But, in a moment he had left, swinging shut, and latching, the heavy, timbered, reinforced door, and she found herself, to her consternation and misery, plunged into darkness.

She cried out, but it seemed that Portus and the others were unconcerned, or did not hear her.

Serious matters of some sort were afoot. Surely haste was being made. It was not surprising then that the comfort of a she-thrall, the comfort of a curvaceous little bondmaid, particularly one being disciplined, was less than uppermost on their minds.

“Please Masters, free me!” she wept. “I will be a good slave! I will be a good slave!”

She twisted, and squirmed, on the ice. Cold sawdust was on her face and in her hair. Her back ached with cold. She tried to change her position but the ice was even more merciless to her bosom, to her belly, the front of her thighs. She put her feet up, trying to keep them from the ice. Then she was again weeping on her back, and then on her sides, and then on her back again, in the darkness. “I will be a good slave!” she wept. “I will be a good slave!” She feared she would lose her mind from the cold and darkness. She was doubtless not there long, but, in the darkness, and in her misery, she lost all sense of time. It seemed she had never been so cold as now. The metal of the collar absorbed the cold and seemed like a flat ring of ice on her neck. Even the thongs that bound her seemed stiff with cold, and she feared they might cut her like frozen knives.

In what might have been some half of an Ahn, or so, the door to the ice pantry, or ice room, opened and there stood therein, silhouetted in the light behind it, the figure of Selius Arconious.

“Master!” cried out Ellen, beggingly, piteously.

“Are you prepared to be a good slave?” he inquired.

“Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” cried Ellen.

He then entered the ice room, picked her up, threw her over his left shoulder, steadying her there with his left hand, and left the ice room, she carried as a slave, as would be expected, her head to the rear. One advantage of this carry is that the slave cannot see to what device, or accommodation, or destination, she is being borne. He closed and latched the door to the ice room behind him, with his right hand. Too, it is difficult for a slave to be carried thusly, and she not to understand herself clearly as what she is, goods.

What men can do to us! What men can do with us, thought Ellen. They can do whatever they want with us!

How fortunate, she thought, that this fact has been concealed from the men of Earth, that they, perhaps in their simplicity, perhaps in their lack of imagination, perhaps in their naively uncritical acceptance of imposed conditioning programs, are unaware of it! Woe to us, should they decide to exercise their prerogatives, their rights in the order of nature! For would they not then again make us their slaves?

He carried her to the kitchen and there put her on her knees before him, she still bound hand and foot.

She knelt there, before him, shuddering, trembling with cold.

“So,” he asked, “are you a cold slave?”

“I am freezing!” she wept.

“Are you a cold slave?” he asked, amused.

“No,” she cried out, suddenly, comprehendingly. “I am a hot slave! I am a hot slave!”

“Perhaps then,” he said, “you are prepared to beg to serve me — as a hot slave?”

“Yes, Master!” she wept.

He smiled.

“I beg to serve you as a hot slave!” she wept. “I beg to serve you as a hot slave!”

“Remember,” said he, “in future slaveries, that you so begged. Remember that you begged to serve Selius Arconious, of Ar, begged piteously, and helplessly, to serve him, as a hot slave.”

“Master?” she asked.

“And that he refused to permit you to do so,” said he. “That he scorned you. That he regarded you as inadequate, and dismissed you as poor slave meat.”

She looked at him, wildly, disbelievingly.

He then took her tunic from the table, to which he had apparently brought it somewhat earlier, before fetching her from the ice room, and carefully folded it, several times, into a small, thick rectangle of cloth. He then thrust the tunic, so folded, now this small, soft thick rectangle of cloth, between her teeth. “I would not drop this if I were you,” he said.

He then carried her out to the general loft area, and put her, bound as she was, on her back, on the boards.

“The slave has been fed and watered, as you wished, Portus,” said Selius Arconious. “And I watched her relieve herself.”

“Good,” said Portus. “Harness tarns.”

Fel Doron, carrying a crate, passed Ellen. He put the crate in a tarn basket.

“Where is Tersius?” asked Portus.

“I am here,” said Tersius. He was entering the loft area from the exterior platform. He carried a lamp.

“What have you been doing?” asked Portus.

“Watching,” said Tersius.

“We will soon take wing,” said Portus.

“I am ready,” said Tersius.

“Assist Selius,” said Portus, looking about, as though he feared to hear at any moment the cries of men and the rushing of footsteps on the stairs, the rude, insistent smiting of spears against the inner door.

Tersius set the lamp, a small, shallow, panlike tharlarion-oil lamp, on a shelf bracket and hurried to gather up an armful of harnesses from pegs on the loft wall.

Portus, taking his concealed tarn goad from its hiding place to one side, behind the loose board, entered the tarn cage in which he had placed the oblong, mysterious package before the arrival of the Cosian soldiers, and retrieved it from under the straw. He brought it to the loft area, and put it on the floor, not far from Ellen, and unrolled it. Within, clattering out, there were several swords, two war axes, some crossbows, and some wired bundles of short, metal-finned quarrels.

Such things, Ellen gathered, were not permitted by the laws of the Cosian occupation.

A tyrant state always attempts to disarm its citizens, invariably on the pretext of doing this for their own good. And thus are the necks of men bent to the yoke of the state.

Fel Doron passed her again, this time carrying supplies from the kitchen, bread, biscuits, dried fruit, a bulging sack of meal, which supplies he placed in a nearby tarn basket.

“Arm yourselves,” said Portus.

Tersius and Fel Doron came to the sprawl of weapons on the floor. Each took a sword and a crossbow, and a bundle of quarrels.

“Seven tarns are ready harnessed for cargo,” said Selius Arconious, emerging from the tarn cage, and two others are haltered, ready for tandem, trailing flight. What is this all about?”

Two tarns, it seemed, were to be left behind.

“Do you care to arm yourself?” asked Portus.

“Surely you know such things are forbidden,” said Arconious.

Portus rerolled the bundle, tied it shut and placed it in one of the tarn baskets, one of seven taken from the nearby stacks and put near the great, lofty exit from the loft.

“You are leaving?” said Arconious. “What is going on?”

“You have heard of the Delta Brigade,” said Portus.

“It is a myth,” said Arconious.

“What do you know of it?” asked Portus.

“Little, if anything,” said Arconious.

“It is an organization,” said Portus, “formed largely, but not entirely, from veterans of the great disaster of the Vosk delta, where they were betrayed by treason in high places, denied supplies, abandoned, left to die, who muchly suffered in their retreat from the delta, and found themselves despised and humiliated when they returned to their city, held in contempt, and spat upon, despite their sharing of its Home Stone. Later, as you know, the gates of Ar were opened to the Cosians and their mercenary allies, again by insufferable treason in high places, under delusory pretenses of friendship and alliance.”

“Such could never have occurred,” said Selius Arconious, bitterly, “had Marlenus, our Ubar, he, the Ubar of Ubars, been in the city.”

“We must do what we can without him,” said Portus.

“I do not understand,” said Arconious.

“The Delta Brigade is not a myth, as you may have supposed,” said Portus. “I assure you of that. I, and Tersius, and Fel Doron, have been of the brigade. But we have now left it. It is too small, it is dilatory, it is unready to act. There are things that can be done now. We must do them. We will take independent action.”

“What can you do, alone?” asked Arconious. “Ambush and kill a Cosian sentry, precipitate the taking of hostages and reprisals by Cos? They could burn districts, slay thousands.”

“Some things can be done, and must be done,” said Portus. “We are not alone in these matters. There are others, too, who were of the Brigade, who feel similarly. Tonight, though we are less than ready, we will begin to act.”

“The city,” said Arconious, “must rise as a whole.”

“There is no rallying point,” said Portus.

“What can you do?” asked Arconious.

“The forces of occupation are not all Cosian,” said Portus. “Indeed, the greater portion of these forces are mercenaries in the pay of Cos. Their loyalty is not to the Home Stones of Jad or Temos but to the purse of their paymaster, gross Lurius of Jad. They have been supported largely by the routine, methodological looting of Ar, but the mercenaries are many and impatient and Ar grows poorer, and there is only so much silver, so much gold, so many women, only so much wealth which can be seized and distributed.”

“So?” said Arconious.

“Cos, in consort with Tyros, she under the Ubarate of Chenbar, the Sea-Sleen, extend their hegemonies, and lay tribute on more than a dozen cities.”

“Yes?” said Arconious.

“Portions of this wealth will come to Ar, to content the mercenaries,” said Portus.

“Cosians themselves could hold the city,” said Arconious. “They no longer need their mercenary allies. Their war is won.”

“Do you think the mercenaries, and their captains, will simply submit to being dismissed?” asked Portus. “That would be like turning larls loose in the streets. Denied their pay who knows what they will do. They might turn their weapons against Cos and Tyros.”

“That is a problem I am pleased to leave to Cos,” said Arconious.

“A caravan of gold is on its way to Ar,” said Portus. “It left Brundisium the last passage hand. It is pay for the mercenaries, and it is intended that it will be delivered to them on the feast of the accession of Lurius of Jad to the throne of Cos.”

“That is better than fifty days from now,” said Arconious.

“But already,” said Fel Doron, bitterly, “banners have been hung proclaiming the imminence of this joyous festival.”

“Your plan, I take it,” said Arconious, “is to interfere with, or delay, the arrival of the pay caravan.”

Portus grinned.

“Do not attempt this, I beg of you,” said Arconious. “The caravan will be well-guarded.”

“Are you with us?” asked Portus.

“It is foolish,” said Arconious.

“Are you with us?” asked Portus, again.

“No,” said Arconious.

“I wish you well,” said Portus. He extended his hand and the two men clasped wrists, each the wrist of the other. This is the strongest of grips, for otherwise hands may be pulled apart. In this fashion each has his own grip, and if one hand should slip, the other will hold. It is a grip common to mariners, it seems, and may have been derived from maritime practice. It is useful, it seems, in their dangerous work, where a lost grip might be the prelude to catastrophe, a fall from a yard, a plunge into cold, stormy seas. It has its value, too, of course, among tarnsmen, tarnkeepers, tarnsters, and such, who must occasionally move from saddle to saddle, or from basket to basket, and such, while in flight. The normal Gorean handshake, it seems, at least those which this slave has seen commonly exchanged amongst free men, is the same as, or rather like, that of Earth, from which world it is doubtless derived, the clasping of two right hands, thus the giving of the expected weapon hand to the other, a grant indicative of respect, trust and friendship, one supposes.

“I urge you to reconsider,” said Arconious.

“We do not,” said Portus, smiling.

“You are brave fools,” said Selius Arconious. “I wish you well.”

The tarns, interestingly, were arranged in order within the loft area, rather than outside, on the platform. Portus would lead, controlling the first tarn with its basket. Fel Doron would follow with the second tarn and basket. Tersius Major would come third, with the third basket, but, from his tarn’s harness, a long line extended to the fourth tarn and basket, and from the harness of that tarn, with its basket, there ran another line to the fifth tarn, and so, too, to the sixth and seventh tarn, this forming a string of tarns with their cargo baskets. The eighth and ninth tarns were in harness but bore no baskets. They did form, as they too were joined to the others by a line, a part of the tandem progress of attached tarns. There were thus two free tarns, so to speak, with baskets, and then a line of seven tarns, strung together, five with baskets, two without. This left behind, in their barred housing, two of the eleven tarns which had been originally in the loft. These two tarns were left in the care of Selius Arconious, who had chosen to remain behind.

Cosians would presumably be less suspicious if some tarns remained in the loft. Business, presumably, might have taken the others on their various ways. There might be problems, of course, when a slaver, or slaver’s man, came to collect a slave. Selius Arconious, of course, a lowly employee, could not be expected to be of much help in such matters. Too, what would the slaver, or slaver’s man, when he arrived with his whip and leash, know? Orders might have been countermanded. Or perhaps Portus might have been ordered to deliver the slave himself to some designated location. It was hard to know about such things. The important thing was to be courteous, and as helpful as possible.

Ellen had lain on the floor amidst this bustle, naked there, on the straw-strewn boards, bound hand and foot, neglected, the small, now-damp, folded tunic clenched between her teeth.

Portus entered the first basket, and Fel Doron and Tersius Major entered the second and third baskets, respectively. Draft tarns are usually controlled from the basket. They may, however, be controlled from the saddle. Ellen supposed that a tarn progress of this sort, tarnsters abasket, might attract less attention than one in which tarnsters might be in the saddle. Might that not be a disguise for roving tarnsmen, who might then jettison the baskets and wing their way free to whatever mischief they might portend?

“Untie the slave,” Portus called to Selius, “and put her in the last basket.” Selius turned Ellen to her belly and bent to free her of her several-times-looped, narrow pinions. He unbound her ankles first and then, kneeling across the backs of her thighs, undid the thongs which confined her wrists. She continued to clench the folded tunic between her teeth, not having been permitted to release it. It touched the floor, as she lay. Then she turned her head to the right, the left side of her face then on the boards. She could feel straw beneath the side of her face. “Ellen!” called Portus. She turned, as she could, lifting her head, rising a bit on the palms of her hands, to view her master, her body still pinned in place by Selius, who was kneeling across the back of her legs. “Though your hands are free,” said Portus to Ellen, “you will retain your gag until we have passed, if we pass, over the walls of the city.”

Ellen nodded, tears in her eyes.

Ellen did not understand Portus’s qualification ‘if we pass’. What could he have meant by that?

It frightened her.

“Put her in the last basket,” said Portus.

Ellen, her mouth stuffed with her own tunic, serving as a gag, moaned in dismay. She was terrified of tarns, and frightened of heights. And what if the narrow ropes by which the basket was suspended from the harness should break? She would not have dared to protest, of course, even if she had been permitted speech. She did not wish to be beaten. She knew it would be done with her as masters wished, as it would be with a verr or a sack of sa-tarna flour.

Selius picked her up and put her on his left shoulder, her head to the rear.

Well she knew the meaning of that carry.

“When Portus addressed you,” said Selius Arconious, “you merely shook your head in understanding, and affirmation.”

Ellen moaned, a tiny noise.

“Surely you know gag signals, slut,” said Selius.

Ellen whimpered once.

“Would you like to be thrown from the platform?” asked Selius.

Ellen whimpered twice, miserably, two tiny, pathetic noises.

“Good,” said Selius.

Ellen had been taught gag signals in her training, of course. The small tunic she now held between her teeth was not typical of Gorean gags, which often involve packing and stout mouth binding. It is important for a girl to know gag signals, for it is not unusual for her to be gagged by her master. This is useful in discipline, and it is also useful merely to remind her that she is a slave. They are also subject to blindfolds and hoods. In such encumbrances they must learn to respond to a variety of signals, for example, mere touches on an arm, guiding them, or, alternatively, verbal commands which, even though they can see nothing, they must obey with alacrity. The least hesitation or tentativeness is cause for discipline. In this way, it is possible to conduct a frightened, blindfolded slave even through narrow, twisting, intricate passages at a brisk pace.

Ellen was then lowered into the last basket. In it, other than herself, there was only a blanket, a small loaf of bread, flat, and round, like most Gorean loaves, and a small bota, presumably filled with water.

The basket, as it was a cargo basket, had no seat or bench. It was woven of stout fibers, generally an inch or better in width. It was something like five by five feet wide, and had a depth of something like four feet. Ellen stood within the basket, holding to its rim. She stood there, looking at Selius Arconious, she within the basket, he standing on the floor beside it, the small, folded tunic between her teeth. Tears burst into her eyes. She wanted to cry out that she loved him and she wanted to be his slave, but she could not speak. Surely she would never see him again, he for whose collar she longed to beg, he at whose feet she craved to kneel, he before whom she desired to fling herself, kissing his feet, he whose whip she longed to lick lovingly, obediently, he whose sandals she wished to bring to him in her teeth, on all fours, he to whom she desired to be the most abject and devoted of love slaves. Bind and whip me, she wanted to cry out to him. In this way she could have no doubt but what he was concerned with her, that she was an object of his attention. Bind me and whip me, she wanted to cry out to him. Teach me with the lash that I am, and that you claim me as, your slave. Bind and whip me, she wanted to cry out to him, that I might cry out in my bonds, in ecstasy, knowing myself at last yours, fully yours, your claimed slave!

But she could say nothing.

“Remember,” he said, “that you begged and were rejected, that you were scorned, that you were dismissed, as poor slave meat.”

She whimpered once, piteously.

In his eyes she saw only contempt, and hatred.

“The cargo is stowed,” Selius called to Portus.

Tears burst anew into Ellen’s eyes. The prints of her small teeth were deep in the damp layers of the tunic.

Portus lifted his arm, and Fel Doron, and Tersius Major, behind him, acknowledged this signal.

“Selius!” called Portus.

Selius turned his contemptuous gaze from the distraught, rejected, tearful slave. “Portus?” he asked.

“You were below,” said Portus. “Did you learn the origin of the disturbance in the city, the cause of such shouting, of such commotion, in the streets?”

“Yes,” said Selius Arconious. “Talena has disappeared from the palace.”

Portus then gestured ahead, and urged his tarn forth, out of the loft area, to the platform. In a moment the tarn had leapt from the platform, spread its wings, soared for a brief moment, swooping downward, and had then, with a sudden snapping of those mighty wings, begun to fly. The tarn basket attached to the bird’s harness, having slid on its leather runners from the platform, swung darkly on its ropes beneath the bird. Portus kept the bird low, and it moved in relative silence amongst the cylinders of the city. In a moment Fel Doron, with his tarn and basket, had left the platform. Then followed the train of tarns led by Tersius Major. All kept their birds low, moving swiftly and silently through the forest of cylinders, toward the walls, none visible against the three moons.

As Ellen’s basket began to move suddenly, she was almost flung from her feet. It then began to slide from the loft, out onto the platform. She held out one hand to Selius Arconious piteously, sliding away from him. She could see where he was standing in the great portal of the loft, at one side of the portal, his figure dimly outlined by the light of the tiny lamp behind him, that lamp far back, in its bracket, in the loft. She could read no sign of emotion in that calm, large, still figure.

Then the basket, so suddenly it seemed, dropped away from the platform.

Inwardly she screamed.

She felt a sickening moment of abject terror, and the dizzying, terrifying sensation of being unsupported, of falling. She closed her eyes, expecting in a moment to be dashed to the stones below. Then the basket swung on its ropes. She opened her eyes, in fear, but, too, in fascination. Wind rushed about her, blasting her hair. She gasped for breath. She felt cold in the rushing wind. She fastened her fingers in, about, and through the wicker, holding to it with every particle of her small strength. She looked up, struggling to keep her balance, at the ropes, the harness, the dark, majestic body of the winged titan above her. It was not easy to stand in the basket, it swinging so. Then, clinging to the side of the basket, she, startled, viewed, here and there beneath her, and muchly, too, about her, the vastness and splendor of the city of Ar. Many of the cylinders were ablaze with light. In many of the windows she could see that lamps were lit, the tiny, softly glowing lamps of love. In many of them she supposed there might be, exterior robes put aside, but modesty robes doubtless retained, free companions. A free companion would presumably not show herself naked to her lover, for such would not comport with her dignity. She is, after all, free. Too, he might then see her as a slave, think of her as a slave, and treat her as such. No free woman, surely, would wish to risk that. But perhaps some free companions did dare, in the privacy of their own compartments, to show themselves naked to their lovers. How bold they would be. How fit then would such women be for the collar! Perhaps they might even, in the privacy of their own compartments, dare a necklace or bracelet, some piece of metal on their soft flesh, this subtly suggesting, though the suggestion would doubtless be frenziedly denied, an insignia of bondage, but surely not an anklet, for that would be too slavelike. But such things could be dangerous, for the free companion who is a man is still a man, and men are excitable, and brutes. Even the best of them may be insufficiently weak, insufficiently devirilized, insufficiently tamed, insufficiently broken on the wheel of a woman’s will. But in others of those compartments, Ellen supposed, there would be not free companions but slaves, and masters. In such places she supposed the slaves lovingly served the masters. The relations of slaves and masters, of course, are quite different from those of free companions. In the master/slave relationship the master owns the slave, and thus will have everything from her, and at the time, and in the place, and precisely in the way he pleases. And the slave, lovingly, would not have it otherwise. Masters do not fraudulently deny the war of the sexes. Rather they recognize it, win it, and enslave their opponents. The conquered slave serves the master. She is owned. She is hot, devoted and dutiful, and grateful.

Below her, too, here and there, were broad thoroughfares, lit by torches. Some of these thoroughfares were divided by a gardened strip of greenery. Though it was late some individuals were abroad, some in palanquins, either men or women, borne by male slaves, some with guards, perhaps returning at this hour from late visits, some strolling alone, meditatively, in the late evening, some walking leashed slaves. She saw the stand of a vendor below, one selling perhaps candied suls, or tastas. Other streets were dark between the cylinders. These were muchly deserted, particularly during the lawlessness of the occupation. Many mercenaries, particularly of the smaller companies, are not above brigandage. Too, even in better times there are areas in Ar which are not wisely frequented after dark. On some of these streets could be seen small parties, led by individuals with torches. In other areas, muchly dark, one could scarcely detect the narrow crooked ways which twisted amongst clutters of buildings, some of them several-storied insulae. Some markets were open, these lit with torches, small, bright patches of light in the darkness. In these, various goods, as is common, were being offered. One, interestingly, was a tharlarion market. The larger beasts can be brought into the city only after sunset, when the streets are freer of traffic. In two markets, she saw slaves, some exhibited on a shelf, as she had been, others in small cages. In another place, within a rectangle of canvas walls, on a small stage, as the music of flutes and a czehar drifted upward, she saw acrobats, jugglers and fire-eaters. To one side, behind a curtain, she saw slaves, in silk, doubtless waiting to dance for their master’s customers. It is common to save the best dancers for last.

The basket swung on the ropes. Ellen released one hand from the wicker, to clutch a rope. Her hair flew about the rope. It is so beautiful, she thought. I hope the ropes hold. They seem so narrow! This world is so beautiful. This world is so natural! How fearful, she thought, to be a woman and live on a natural world! And yet, she thought, the thought startling her, I would not be elsewhere than on this world. On this world there are men such as Portus Canio and Selius Arconious! I am a woman. I did not know such men could exist. She touched her collar. What could a woman of Earth be before such men but a slave? But I would not be elsewhere than on this world. I am a woman. I have learned that on Gor, and have been taught what it means in its truth, depth and fullness. Better a collar on Gor than a throne on Earth! How glorious to be a woman and live upon a natural world, a world in which I must occupy my rightful place in the order of nature, my place at the feet of masters! The beat of the tarn’s wings above her was steady, and smooth.

She could see beacons now, set upon the walls of Ar.

She passed over the roof of a small cylinder. On the roof, amongst boards, and debris, there was a naked slave, chained by her wrists to a ring. She looked up as the tarns swept by overhead.

I trust she is well mastered, thought Ellen.

She could see the walls clearly now, the two of them, the interior wall overlooking the lower wall. They were being approached silently, smoothly.

Portus’s remark ‘if we pass’ returned to her, and it frightened her.

But she supposed that he knew what he was doing, and that this particular point on the walls, this exact location, would have been chosen with intent.

As it was night tarn wire might have been strung but here there was no sign of it.

Ellen did see a fellow look up from the interior wall below. He was, she thought, a guardsman of Ar. In any event that was his uniform. He made no move to signal the train of tarns nor did he rush to sound an alarm.

Then the walls of Ar, and its lights, were behind them, and they were making their way, still at a low level, across the open countryside. She did see the lights of some scattered villages.

She recalled the large peasant, and Corinne’s agitation at seeing him. Corinne had rushed away from the laundry pools, not even finishing her work there. That had startled Ellen. She herself, of course, had remained at the pools, finishing her own work.

There had been much commotion in the city that day. According to the report of Selius Arconious the explanation of the unrest had to do with the alleged disappearance of Talena, the very Ubara of Ar, from the palace. Perhaps she had departed on secret state business and had now returned to the palace, and was now again on the throne of Ar. That must surely be it. Certainly Ubaras, with all their walls, and gates and doors, and passwords, and guards, do not simply disappear. She recalled that Myron, who was polemarkos, commander of the occupation forces, had supposedly entered the city. She gathered that this would be unusual. She had heard that Talena had given him a lovely slave girl whose name was Claudia, who had once been the daughter of a former administrator of Ar.

Ellen then, the walls of Ar having been passed, removed her gag. She put her head back, her hair wild about her in the wind, and breathed in, gratefully. She clutched in one hand the thick, packed, sopped folds of the tunic. She looked back at Ar. Obviously they had not wanted her to scream, to cry out in terror, to call out, or such, until they were safely past the walls of Ar. She could still see the lights of the city behind them. She did not see any signs of pursuit. I am cold, she thought. She knelt down in the basket and spread the blanket a little, so that its folds rather matched the dimensions of the basket. The bottoms of her feet doubtless bore wicker marks. The blanket would protect her from the miseries of such a surface. She supposed that not all slaves, or captures, would be granted that indulgence. It would be quite unpleasant, she supposed, to be bound naked, hand and foot, in such a conveyance, one’s ankles perhaps lashed closely to one’s wrists, a simple, popular, but extraordinarily effective and secure slave tie, and kept in the basket in one way or another, perhaps by a secured lid, or perhaps merely by ropes or a harness run through the wicker. She shook out the tiny tunic, which, given its service, and the folding, in lines and creases, was irregularly damp. She drew it on, over her head, and pulled it down about her, as far as it would go, which was, of course, not really very far. Now, she thought, delightedly, I am again my own woman! And then, in the wind and the swaying of the basket, she laughed aloud. She was her own woman, insofar as a slave could be her own woman, which was not at all. She was the master’s woman, his slave. Still she now had, however skimpy, and amusingly minute, some covering for herself, for her enslaved beauty, some moment of shielding, be it only a thin layer of loosely woven, sleeveless, revealing rep-cloth, slit at the sides. Slaves are grateful, even for so little. The tunic, of course, though we may speak of it as “hers,” was, like herself, the property of her master. She did not even own the collar she wore. Slaves can own nothing; it is they, rather, who are owned. She then sat in the basket, and tried to pull the slit sides of the tunic more about her. She was extremely conscious of the absence of a nether closure in the garment. Few slave garments, as noted, contain such a closure. An exception is the Turian camisk. The absence of a nether closure in a garment tends to be sexually stimulatory to a woman, and this is particularly the case when the garment is brief, and, of course, required of her by a man. She pulled the blanket about her. How warm she was then, how comfortable, within its ample, sheltering folds. How kind is Portus, my master, to me, she thought, gratefully. How kind he is to a lowly barbarian, a mere Earth-girl slave! After an Ahn or so, she went again to her knees, holding the blanket clasped about her, and reached out for, and picked up, the small, round, flat loaf of bread which lay on the wicker flooring with the tiny bota. She bit off pieces of the bread while kneeling. There was nothing untoward in this, or unique to her condition, which was that of slave, for Gorean women in the high cities, and particularly those of high caste, commonly eat kneeling, or reclining, at low tables, as Gorean men in the high cities, particularly those of the higher castes, commonly eat at such tables cross-legged, or, like the women, reclining. To be sure, a slave’s dishes are often placed before her, on the floor, not on a table. The slave, of course, might be denied the use of her hands, if the master wishes, and then she must put down her head, and, on all fours, eat and drink from pans on the floor. Too, she is sometimes fed from the master’s hand, again not permitted to use her own hands. This is, of course, primarily symbolic, and is often used, if used, for no more than the first bite or two of food. It is a way, of course, of reminding the slave that she is dependent on the master for her food. In public places fountains often have several tiers, and almost always at least two, the bottom tier usually no more than a few inches from the ground or pavement, and, as would be expected, slaves, leashed verr, pet sleen, and such, are expected to drink from the lower level.

Ellen did not eat all the bread, but only a little of it. She did not know how long it must last. Too, she had been fed, in a manner of speaking, earlier by the brutish, impatient, handsome Selius Arconious. Oh, how I hate him, she thought. Oh, how I want him to master me! She also took a drink from the bota, which contained water, as she expected. She feared it might have been drugged, presumably with tasteless tassa powder, to sedate her in the basket, but it had no such effect. This pleased her. She recalled in anger, in humiliation, too, how he had watered her, with such reckless contempt. Then she recalled with fury, how he had forced her to squat before him and relieve herself. To be sure, she was only a slave. I hate him, I hate him, she thought. He is so Gorean! He is not like the sweet, pleasant, conquered men of Earth! He does not respect women! He does not treat us with tenderness and gentleness, he does not give us our due of solicitation! He does not care for our feelings! He dominates and masters us!

He is the sort of man who looks upon us as though we were horses, he with a riding crop in his hand! What have we to hope from such men, other than to remove our clothing and kneel before them, hoping to please them?

Later Ellen stood again in the basket, and watched, as she could, part of the blanket beneath her feet, the rest clutched about her, shielding her from the wind and cold, the passing countryside beneath her.

She looked up at the three moons. They are so beautiful, she thought. This is such a beautiful world.

As she stood there, the wind whistling about her, her hair blowing in the wind, the wing strokes of the great winged beast above her, deliberate, measured, she felt the tag wired to her collar.

I suppose I now belong to Cos, she thought. I have been confiscated. But my master, or he who was my master, has hurried me away.

She supposed she was now, at least from the point of view of Cos, stolen property.

This frightened her, as vulnerable goods.

Why did Portus not turn me over to the soldiers of Cos, or their representative, she wondered. After all, in the past months thousands of slaves in Ar had been confiscated, and hundreds of free women put in the collar. I think he was fond of me, but I do not think he was overly enamored of his young barbarian slave. Surely he was not in love with her, as though a man could be in love with a slave! Why then has he taken me with him? Why did he buy me? Solely for the lowly labors of the loft, and, of course, for the common purposes of the pleasure slave? Surely a man of his means could have purchased a better-trained, more beautiful girl, a Gorean girl. He said I figured in his plans, she thought. I wonder what that meant.

Then she felt a sudden chill. Perhaps he purchased me for a purpose for which he would not care to risk a Gorean girl!

She remembered the messages she had carried, the intrigues, the dangers in contemporary Ar. That is it, she thought to herself, miserably. He wants a meaningless, expendable tool! Then it seemed to her that this was too simple. He must also have wanted, she thought, an ignorant girl, one unversed in the politics of Ar, one who will understand little of what is being done, of what she is being used to accomplish, one who, even under torture, her flesh writhing on the rack, drawing back, screaming, from the heat of fierce, white irons, could reveal little or nothing of the matters in which she obediently, unwittingly, had figured.

What purpose has he in mind for me now, she wondered.

She did not doubt, however, but what Portus was fond of her. It was only, she was sure, that her value was negligible, and perhaps so, too, was that of dozens of free men, compared to some end in view, some projected goal in the city.

What had happened to Talena, she wondered. Why was the Ubara missing from the palace?

But doubtless there was nothing to worry about there.

But I think, she thought to herself, that I have little to fear, actually, little more than a horse might have to fear. I am property, I am goods. I may figure as spoils, being seized by one party or another, wearing one chain or another, but I do not think that I have to fear as might free persons fear. I would think that it would be Portus Canio, my master, who must fear, and Fel Doron and Tersius Major, his associates and friends, for they are free persons and would doubtless be held accountable for their actions, for theft, treason, or such.

I am a slave girl, thought Ellen.

As she stood there in the basket, in the wind, holding to the side of the basket, the blanket clutched about her, being sped through the night, beneath the moons, she had an odd sense of contentment, and pride.

I have never known such happiness as on Gor, she thought.

I am so pleased to have been brought here.

Here, for the first time, I am something, something exact and real. Here, for the first time, I have a function, a condition, a nature and an identity, an actual identity. For the first time I know what I am, and how I must be, and what I must do. Here, for the first time, too, my sex means something. Here, for the first time, my sex is truly meaningful. Too, for the first time I have an actual value. Free women may be priceless, but, thus, they are worth nothing. As what I am I now have a value and it will be determined by my beauty, which I have reason to believe is considerable, the desire of men, and the conditions of the market. On this world wars have been fought for slaves. We have value. Despite what masters say I suspect we are the most valuable form of merchandise on this world. Wagonloads of gold, hundreds of tarns, have been exchanged for high slaves. For some slaves cities have been bartered. Even average slaves are important items in the economy. Men desire slaves, and here they may have them.

Men fight for slaves. Men kill for them.

We are treasures, prizes. We are sought with eagerness, with zeal, with energy, with ambition, passion and power.

Men become great with our necks in their collars. At their feet we find our womanhood. Nature is confirmed, enhanced, fulfilled and celebrated.

The wind blew through her hair.

You may reject me, Selius Arconious, she said, bitterly, but others will not. I know that I have value, that I would bring a good price in a normal market. I may be young, and a barbarian, but I know that I am a beautiful slave. Yes, a beautiful slave! See me on a market block, Selius Arconious. See me perform! Then you will cry out with rage, with misery, with need, seeing what you have lost!

“You have lost a prize, Selius Arconious,” she cried, to the indifferent emptiness of the dark countryside. “You have lost a prize!”

The moons are beautiful, she thought, through tears.

Then, weeping, she lay down in the basket, a small figure, her knees drawn up, wrapped in the blanket.

I am a slave girl, she thought. I wonder whose chain my neck will wear.

In time she slept.