Kajira of Gor (32 page)

He then accompanied the teamster to the stables. I hurried forward and ran to

the gate. I felt under the palings of the gate. I began to dig there in the

softness of the ground, and in the muddy water pooled -n the ruts. I tried to

thrust my body down, under the gate. There was not enough room. I heard the

creaking of another wagon, this one coming about the inn. I hid back in bushes

to the side. In moments the porter had returned to the gate.

I was in misery. I could not slip under the gate, or dig out under it, if the

porter was there. He was a man and would simply stop me, and capture me. I did

not know when, or if, another wagon would arrive before daylight, one that might

take the porter again from his post, giving me time to dig out under the gate.

Risking much I slipped back to the enclosure where the tarn baskets were. Xs I

feared, it was now once more locked. I hurried back about the inn. The porter

was engaged in a discussion, and not a particularly amiable one, with the

driver. The driver had apparently criticized the porter for not being at the

gate, and the porter, in response, was being officiously careful about checking

the driver’s ostrakon of payment. “I am not sure that is the mark of Leucippus,”

said the porter. “It does not look much like his mark.”

“Awaken him, then,” said the driver “and certify that it is so.” “I do not care

to awaken him at this Ahn.” “I am to be on the road by dawn.” “You will have to

wait.” “I do not have time to wait!” In the end the porter opened the gate-and

let the man proceed. By that time I was in the back of the wagon. An Ahn or so

later, when it was nearly dawn, I eased myself silently from the back of the

wagon and crouched down on the road. It continued on its way. I then left the

road and ran across the fields.

“Are you awake?” asked a voice.

The hand on my shoulder shook me again, again gently.

My body stiffened. “Yes,” I whispered.

I lay on the slope of a ditch, as it ascended to a road.

There was a trickle of water at my feet. The grass was very green here, because

of the water.

When I had left the wagon, by means of which I bad accomplished my escape from

the inn, I had fled across the fields. I had run and walked until perhaps noon,

and bad then, fearful of discovery, hidden near a small pool in a brake of ferns

until nightfall. I had washed in the pool and drunk from it. I had set out again

in the moonlight. I had eaten almost nothing and I was terribly hungry. I had

been a field for only an Ahn or so when the winds had risen and clouds had

obscured the moons. Rain had begun to fall, as it apparently had the night

before. I stumbled on through the darkness, my legs lashed to the thighs by the

knives of the wind-whipped grass. I soon grew weak and exhausted. I sought a

dwelling, or a road, which I might follow to a dwelling, that I might there,

like an urt, skulk about and, as at the inn, piteously seek some sustenance from

their refuse. Twice I fainted, probably from hunger. The second time I recovered

consciousness the storm had worsened and the sky was bursting with lightning and

thunder. As I crouched in the grass I saw, in a valley below me, in a flash of

lightning, like a wet stone ribbon, a road. I crawled toward it. At its edge

there was a deep ditch. Had I not been crawling, I might, in the darkness,

between flashes of lightning, have come on the ditch unawares and fallen into

it. As it was I lowered myself down its slope with the intention of then

climbing the other side and attaining the surface of the road. In the bottom of

the ditch there was, at that time, a flow of water some six inches deep, from

the storm. I knelt in this, the cold fluid rushing about my legs, and, cupping

my hands, drank from it. I then started to climb toward the road. I was suddenly

frightened. The incline was steeper than I had anticipated. I slipped back, into

the water. I tried again, inching myself upward. Grass pulled out of the slope,

clutched in my hands. I slipped back. I was weak and miserable. I waded at the

bottom of the ditch and, in two or three places, again tried to climb out of it.

I was not successful. The storm, meanwhile, had subsided. I could now see the

moons. In the moonlight I found an ascent which I, though with difficulty, could

manage. Gasping, holding at the grass, inching my way upward, I drew my body

from the grass to the road. I looked at the road, from my belly. I felt out with

my hands. It seemed constructed of large, square stones. It was not an ordinary

road, I thought. Like most Gorean roads, however, a single pair of ruts marked

its center. Gorean vehicles, commonly slow moving, tend to keep to the center of

a road, except in passing.

In the distance I heard the sound of bells, harness bells. It might be a wagon,

or a set of wagons, which had pulled to the side of the road during the storm

and now, with the passing of the storm, had resumed its journey. It must be near

morning, I thought, that they are on the road. Gorean roads are seldom traveled

at night. The bells were coming closer. I moaned and slid back from the road,

again into the ditch. I slipped back a yard or so down the grassy slope, and

then, clinging to grass, held my position. I could not see the surface of the

road. I would wait here until the wagons had passed. They would not, I was sure,

at night, in the moonlight and shadows, detect my presence. I clung there until

the first wagon had passed. I could hear others approaching, too. I let myself

slip down further in the ditch. I must not be discovered. I put my cheek against

the wet grass. I was very tired.

It was a good hiding place, the ditch. In the darkness, in the moonlight and

shadows, I would not be detected. I was safe.

I dreaded the climb again to the surface of the ‘road. The ditch was so steep. I

did not understand the need for such a ditch at the side of the road. But I was

safe now. There were other wagons, too, coming. There must be many wagons. I

must wait. I would rest, just a little bit. It would not hurt to close my eyes,

only for a moment. I was so hungry. I was so tired. I was so miserable. I would

rest, just for a little bit. I would close my eyes, only for a moment.

“What are you doing here?” asked a voice.

“I am a free woman,” I said.

I lay on the incline, the grass under my belly. It was warm now. The sun felt

hot on my back. Muddy water was about my feet. A man was behind me. At least one

other, I could hear him moving about, was above and in front of me, up on the

surface of the road.

“I was attacked by bandits,” I said. “They took my clothes.”

“Hold still,” said the voice behind me. a

I heard the clink of a chain.

My body stiffened, my fingers clutched at the grass.

A chain was looped twice about my neck and padlocked shut.

“What are you doing?” I whispered.

“Hold still,” said the voice.

The chain was then taken under my body and down to my ankles. My ankles were

crossed and the chain was looped thrice about them, holding them closely

together. Another padlock then, its tongue passing through links of the chain,

was snapped shut. My ankles were now chained tightly together. I could not even

uncross them. It is common to run a neck chain to the ankles in front of a

woman’s body, rather than behind it. In this fashion any stress on the chain is

borne by the back of her neck rather than her throat. It is also reguarded as a

more aesthetic chaining arrangement than its opposite, the neck chain, for

example, with its linearity, and its sturdy, inflexible links, affording a

striking contrast with the softnesses, the beauties, of her lovely bosom. This

arrangement is also favored for its psychological effect on the woman. As she

feels the chain more often on her body in this arrangement, brushing her, for

example, or lying upon her, she is less likely to forget that she is wearing it.

It helps her to keep clearly in mind that she is chained. It reminds her,

rainatically and frequently, of that fact.

“What are you doing?” I asked. “I am a free woman!”

“How is it, did you say,” asked the man behind me, “that on are unclothed?”

“Bandits took my clothes!” I said.

“And left you?” he asked.

“Yes,” I said.

“If it had been up to me,” said the fellow behind me, “I think I would have

taken you along and left the clothes.”

I was silent.

“I suppose,” he said, pleasantly enough, “they might have had poor of eyesight,

or perhaps it was just very dark.”

I did not speak.

“What is your Home Stone?” he asked.

I thought quickly. I did not want to identify myself with Corcyrus, of course,

or any cities or towns in that area, even Argentum. Too, I knew we had flown

northwest. I then took, most out of the air, a city far to the north, one I had

heard of but one, unfortunately, that I knew little about. The name had been

mentioned, I did recall, on the tarn platform, in the

imp of Miles of Argentum. Perhaps that is what suggested it

My mind.

“That of Lydius,” I said.

“What is the location of Lydius?” he asked.

“North,” I said. “North.”

“And where in the north?” he asked.

I was silent.

“On what lake does Lydius lie?” he asked.’

“I do not know,” I said.

“It does not lie on a lake,” he said.

“Of course not,” I said.

“On what river does it lie?” he asked.

“It doesn’t lie on a river,” I said.

“It is on the Laurius,” he said.

I was silent.

“What is the first major town east of Lydius?” he asked.

“I don’t remember,” I said.

“Vonda,” he said.

“Yes,” I said.

“No,” he said. “Vonda is on the Olvi. It is Laura.”

“Yes,” I said, sick and hungry, chained.

“You are certain that you are a free woman?” asked the man.

“Yes,” I said.

“Where is your escort, your guards?” be asked.

“I was traveling alone,” I said.

“That is unusual for a free woman,” he said.

I was silent.

“What were you doing on this road?” he asked.

“Traveling,” I said. “Visiting.”

“And where did you think you were going?” asked the man.

“I don’t know,” I sobbed. I did not even know what towns lay along this road. I

did not even know where I was.

“Look here,” said the fellow. He turned me about. I saw he was a brawny, blond

youth. He did not seem angry or cruel. He crouched down and, with one finger,

near the bottom of the ditch, made a precise marking, or drawing, in the mud.

“What letter is that?” he asked.

“I do not know,” I said.

“Al-ka,” he said.

“I cannot read,” I said.

“Most free women can read,” he said.

“I was not taught,” I said.

“You have a luscious body,” he said.

“Please unchain me,” I said.

“It has delicious slave curves,” he said.

“Unchain me, please,” I begged.

“Your body does not suggest that it is the body of a free woman,” he said. “It

suggests, rather, that it is the body of a natural slave.”

“I beg to be unchained,” I said. “You can see that I am a free woman. My body is

unbranded. I do not wear a collarl”

f

“Some masters,” said he, “are so foolish as not to brand and collar their

women.”

“That would be stupid,” I said.

“I think so,” he said.

“So you can see, then,” I said, “that I, uncollared, unbranded, must be free.”

“Not necessarily,” he smiled.

“Unchain me,” I begged.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“Lita,” I said. I remembered this name from the time that Drusus Rencius had

taken me to the house of Kliomenes in Corcyrus. It was the name he had chosen

for me there, Lady Lita, of Corcyrus. It had sprung into my mind probably

because of that trip. Too, I recalled that both Publius and Drusus Rencius had

thought that it would be a good name for me.

Both of the men then laughed, he standing now before me as I sat on the bank,

and he, who was apparently alone, on the surface of the road.

“What is wrong?” I asked.

“That is a slave name,” he said.

“Nol” I said.

“It is a common slave name,” he said. “Indeed, it is one of the names popular

with the masters for unusually juicy and helpless slaves.”

“It is also the name of some free women,” I said.

“It is possible, I suppose,” said the man.

“Please unchain me,” I begged.

“Lita,” said the man.

“Lady Lita,” I said.

“Lita,” said he.

I looked at him in misery.

“It seems clear you are a slave, Lita,” he said. “You are naked. You apparently

have no Home Stone. You do not know where you are. You cannot even read. Your

name is even that of a slave.”

“Nol” I said.

“But it is,” he said. “Therefore, since it seems clear that you are a runaway

slave, you will henceforth address us as ‘Master.”’

“Please, no,” I said.

“If you are actually a free woman, as you claim,” he said, no great harm will be

done.

“You spoke to me,” she said.

“Yes,” I said. “Forgive me, kind lady. No one has read me the legend posted over

my head. I beg you to do so.”

She lifted her robes and climbed to the cement platform.