Renegades of Gor (11 page)

Swiftly, crying out with misery, stumbling, falling, she tried to scramble to

her feet. Then, as swiftly as she could, falling twice more, partly crawling,

weeping, she strove to reach the door of the kitchen.

“24—25—26--,” I counted. “27—28—29—30—31—32—33—34--.”

She appeared through the swinging door, carrying a bowl in her chained hands,

desperately moving toward me in short, careful, frightened steps. She could not

risk falling.

I let her approach closely. “Hold,” I said.

She stopped, wildly.

“Perhaps in your haste you have forgotten to season that,” I said. “I prefer

anyway to season my own porridge. See that you do not dare to present the

porridge without the seasonings.”

She cried out with misery.

“Bring condiments as well,” I advised her. “50—51—51.”

In a moment or two she had regained the kitchen, and, an instant or two later,

clutching a small, partitioned hand-rack of small vials and pots, each in its

place, she again emerged into the public area.

“67,” I said. “68.”

“Please!” she cried. “have mercy!”

“69—70,” I said.

She hastened toward me, terrified, with quick, small steps.

“75—76.” I said. “Obeisance.”

She cried out with misery, performing obeisance.

“77,” I said. “78—79.”

(pg.73) Then the porridge, with the seasonings and condiments was on the table.

“80,” I said.

She leaned back. I feared she might faint. Then she again performed obeisance,

and shrank back.

“Do not leave,” I told her. “You do not have permission to withdraw. Back on

your heels.”

She knelt back on her heels, frightened.

I tasted the porridge. It had not yet been seasoned. Trying it, with one

spoonful or another, from one vial or pot, or another, I seasoned it to my

taste. I would later, now and then, here and there, in one place or another, mix

in condiments. By such devices one obtains variety, or its deceptive surrogate,

even in a substance seemingly so initially unpromising as inn porridge.

She looked at me, anxiously.

“I think this will prove satisfactory, free woman,” I said.

She breathed more easily.

I put down the spoon.

“I shall take this other bowl away,” she said.

“Not yet,” I said.

“Sir?” she asked.

I rose to my feet and pressed her back to the tiles, and pulled her wrist chain

down, lifting up her feet. I then slipped the wrist chain behind her feet and

ankles, and pulled it up behind her back. This held her hands rather behind her,

at the sides. I then put her again to her knees.

“Sir?” she asked.

“You do have auburn hair, don’t you?” I said.

Then I picked up the original porridge and held it in the palm of my left hand

and took her firmly at the back of her head, by the hair, with my right.

“No!” she cried.

I plunged her face downward, fully into the porridge.

I held the bowl firmly, pressed upwards. I held her hands firmly, pressing her

face down into the bowl. She struggled unavailingly. Then I let her lift her

head, sputtering, choking, coughing, gasping for air, her face a mass of

porridge. “I can’t breath!” she wept. “I’m choking!”

Then I thrust her face again into the bowl.

“Eat,” I said. “Eat.”

(pg. 74) Wildly she began to try and take the material into her mouth. Then she

twisted her head to the side. “It’s inedible!” she wept. I turned her head

again, and pushed it down. “Eat!” I said. I supposed it was possible someone

could drown in a bowl of porridge. I pulled her head up then, so she could

breathe, and she gasped for breath. “Please!” she wept, through the glutinous

mask on her face. Again I pushed her head down, and again, she strove to get the

stuff in her mouth. Then I put the bowl on the floor before her, and put her to

her belly before it, and put my foot on her back, so that she could not rise.

Her face was at the bowl. “Eat,” I said. She put her head down over the bowl

and, lapping, and biting at the substance, fed. When I removed my foot from her

back, she looked up at me. “Please!” she begged. “Eat,” I said, then kicked her

with the side of my foot, and, as she addressed herself again to the contents of

the bowl I settled myself before the low table, cross-legged, and returned to my

own repast. Once again she looked up at me, frightened, through the paste of

porridge, it thick about her face and on her eyelashes. “I’m on fire!” she wept.

“Water! I beg it!”

“Eat,” I said.

Frightened, she again lowered her face to the bowl.

After a time I had finished my own porridge.

When I glanced again at her she had rather finished her porridge, and was lying

on her belly, her head turned toward me, looking at me.

“You are a monster,” she said.

“Lick your bowl,” I said.

Miserably she did so.

“Some porridge has been spilled,” I said. “It doubtlessly overflowed that sides

of the bowl when you pressed your face into it. That can happen when one feeds

too greedily, too enthusiastically. One expects a woman to feed more delicately,

more daintily. To be sure, you are a free woman, and may eat much as you wish.

Still, such feeding habits would disgust a tarsk. If a slave fed anything like

that, she would be under the whip within an Ehn.”

She looked at me, frightened.

“You can see porridge about, here and there,” I said. “ Do not let it go to

waste.”

She moaned, and, on her belly, lowered her face to the (pg.75) floor. Her tongue

was small, and lovely. Trained, it might do well on a man’s body.

“Are you finished?” I asked her, after a time.

“Yes,” she whispered, in her chains, on her belly, looking up at me.

“Rejoice that you are a free woman, and not a slave,” I said. “Had you been a

slave, you might have been killed for what you did earlier.”

She was silent.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“Approach me, on your belly,” I said.

She squirmed to the table, her hands still behind her.

I then reached behind her and drew the wrist chain down and, forcing her legs

tightly back against her body, put it back in front of her legs. It was then as

it had been before. I let her straighten her legs.

“When you bring the check,” I said, “do so in your teeth.”

She looked at me, angrily.

“Do you understand?” I asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“The check is to be paid, or put on the bill, I gather, at the keeper’s desk,” I

said. One had to pass the keeper’s desk after leaving the paga room. That

arrangement, I supposed, was no accident. For example, it would save posting of

one employee, which was perhaps a calculated economy on the part of the

proprietor. I would not have put it past him, at any rate. Too, in virtue of

this arrangement, one need not entrust coins to debtor sluts, slaves, and such.

In this house I suspected that they would not be permitted to so much as touch a

coin. They would be kept coinless, absolutely.

“Yes,” she said.

“Do you wish to say anything?” I asked.

“I hate you! I hate you!” she said.

“You may, after performing obeisance, withdraw,” I said.

Swiftly she performed obeisance, and then rose to her feet, and, moving

carefully, with small steps, as she could, hurried to the kitchen.

I would finish my bread, and nurse the paga for a time, and then retire to my

space. It was in the south wing, on the third (pg.76) level, space 97. I would

pick up my ostrakan, with the blankets, at the keeper’s desk. I wondered how I

might approach Ar’s Station and deliver the message of Gnieus Lelius, the regent

of Ar, to the commander at Ar’s Station, Aemilianus. If I appeared to be of Ar,

I might fall afoul of Cosians. If I appeared to be with Cos I might have

considerable difficulty in approaching the defenders of Ar’s Station. Still I

must do something soon. The siege at Ar’s Station, I had gathered, might be

approaching a critical juncture.

As I pondered these matters the door to the paga room burst open and the fellow,

fierce and bearded, who had been in the baths now appeared, in the uniform of

the company of Artemidorus of Cos, which, indeed, I had supposed must be his. He

wore his sword, on its strap over the left shoulder. This is common among Gorean

warriors, though not on the march nor in tarnflight. In this arrangement the

sword may be unsheathed and the scabbard and strap discarded in one movement. He

carried his helmet and the intriguing pouch which had caught my attention

earlier, that which he had carried with him even in the room of the baths.

I did not meet the fellow’s eyes, not wanting to explore the consequences of a

confrontation. I supposed I should permit myself, if the occasion arose, to be

bullied and humiliated, that I might not risk complications or delay in my

mission. Still, I am not always as rational as I might be, and if her threatened

or challenged me, I was not at all certain that I could summon the concealments

and coolness necessary to endure abuse. I am upon occasion too hot-headed, too

quick to act, too ready to respond to any insult or slight, real or imagined. It

is doubtless one of many faults. Perhaps I should be more like a Dietrich of

Tarnburg, who might dissemble plausibly, and then, later, when it suited his

convenience, and if it fitted into his plans, make his kills.

I did not raise my eyes but appeared to be concerned with the paga. I heard him

make a sound of contempt. I wondered if he noted that my hand closed more

tightly upon the base of the kantharos. I should try to control that. I think, I

myself, might have noticed it, in the movement of the upper arm. He stood there,

a few feet away. I began to feel insulted. Heat rose in my body. I controlled

myself. Surely that is what Dietrich of Tarnburg would have done. I did not look

up. Warriors, of course, are trained to rely upon peripheral vision. If he

approached me too closely, coming within a predetermined critical distance, I

could dash the paga upward into his eyes and wrench the table up and about,

plunging one of the legs into his diaphragm. Then in a moment I could have him

under my foot or upon my sword. Such authorities recommend breaking the

kantharos into shards on the face, marking the target above the bridge of the

nose with the rim. This can be even more dangerous with a metal goblet. Many

civilians, I believe, do not know why certain warriors, by habit, request their

paga in metal goblets when dining in public houses. They regard it, I suppose,

as an eccentricity. I heard him make another sound of contempt, and then he

strode away, toward another table. He was still alive. I wondered what was in

the pouch.

I took another sip of paga.

The fellow, I noted, had taken one of the larger tables, a double table, for

himself. To be sure, the paga room was not crowded. He and I were the only

customers at this hour. I had taken a small table near the wall. The small table

does not encourage the approach of strangers. Its location, too, was not an

accident. It permits one to survey the entire room, including the entrance, and,

too, to have the wall at one’s back.

He smote twice on the surface of his table. It leapt under his blows.

“Waitress!” he called. “Waitress!”

I heard the swinging of the kitchen door and a sound of chain. The Lady Temione

came forth. I would have to admit that she was pretty, in the half light, in her

chains. She had apparently cleaned herself, or had been cleaned, perhaps having

her head and upper body thrust into a washing tub. There was no sign now, at any

rate, of the porridge in her hair, or about her face, neck, shoulders and

breasts. She cast an angry look at me. I was still nursing the paga. I even had

some bread left.

She hurried to the newcomer.

It seemed for a moment she was going to request his order on her feet, almost as

though in defiance, but then, looking back at me, she suddenly knelt and

performed obeisance and then knelt back on her heels, in a waitress’s proper

deference, to receive the orders of the keeper’s customer.

(pg.78) I took another sip of paga. She would, of course, have to return to my

table, eventually, to bring the check. Perhaps that was why she chose to observe

the waitress’s proper forms. To be sure, the waitresses in Gorean paga rooms,

and such, are usually slaves. Still, it did not seem inappropriate that she,

too, should perform suitable service at table. She was, after all, a debtor

slut. Perhaps she thought I might beat her, or have her beaten, if she omitted

these courtesies. Particularly after I had taken the time to explain them to

her. In this, of course, she was correct.

The fellow was looking at her, narrowly, in the half light. She shrank back

under his gaze. Then he rose to his feet and went to crouch near her. He touched

her about the neck. Then, literally, moving her about, his hands on her knees,

he examined her thighs. Then, standing, he pulled her half to her feet, by the

upper arms.

“Where is your collar?” he demanded. “Where is your brand?”

“I’m free!” she wept.

He then shook her, angrily, like a doll. Her head jerked back and forth. I was