I snapped my fingers for the proprietor to come to my table. He did so. “One of your slaves,’ I said, “just stepped from the kitchen, and then returned to it.” He looked at me.
“Send that slave to me,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” he said.
I waited.
In moments, the girl approached, carrying her vessel of paga.
She knelt before me.
“Paga,” I said.
Elizabeth Cardwell poured me paga.
We looked at one another. We did not speak.
I well remember Elizabeth Cardwell. Once we had cared for one another. Together, we had served Priest-Kings. I had brought her, in such service, into much danger. Then, in the Sardar, I had decided what was best for her. She would be returned to Earth. She would be freed of the perils of Gor. There she might contract a desirable marriage. There she might be safe. There she might own a large house, and have the convenience of labor-saving devices.
She had dared to protest.
What place was Gor for a woman?
I had made up my mind.
I knew what was in her best interest, and I would see to that interest. I knew what was best for her.
But that night she had fled the Sardar. Ubar of the Skies, my great war tarn, for some reason, though, he had slain men for this attempt, permitted her, only a girl, to saddle him and fly.
I had seen what was best for her. But she had refused to accept my will. Ubar of the Skies returned, four day later. In fury I had driven him from the Sardar.
I had not seen him since.
I had seen what was best for Elizabeth Caldwell. But she had not seen fit to accept my will.
“Tarl,” said the girl, now, whispering it.
“Go to the wall,” I said.
She put down her vessel of paga, and rose lightly, I saw the beauty of her body beneath the silk. She went to the wall, where Tendite had been chained. I went to the proprietor. “Key,” I said, handing him a copper tarn disk. It was number ten.
I went to the wall, and indicated that the girl should kneel before ring ten. It, like the others, had, strung through it, a short length of chain, some five inches, each end of the chain terminating in an opened slave bracelet. She put her hands above and behind her head, and I snapped her wrists into the slave bracelets.’ I sat down, cross-legged, across from her.
She smiles. “Tarl,” she whispered.
“I am Bosk,” I said.
She moved her wrists in the slave bracelets. She smiled. “It seems you have found me,” she said.
“Where did you go?” I asked.
“I sought the northern forests,” she said. “I knew that girls, sometimes are free in them.” She put down her head.
“So you arrived at the edge of the forests,” I said, “and released the tarn.” “Yes,” she said.
“And you entered the forests?”
“Yes,” he said.
“What happened?” I asked.
“I lived for some days in the forest, but poorly, on berries and nuts, I tried to make snares. I caught nothing. Then, one morning, when I was lying on my stomach beside a stream, drinking, I lifted my head to find myself surrounded by armed panther girls. There were eleven of them. How pleased I was to see them! They seemed so proud, and strong, and were armed,” “Did they permit you to join their band?” I asked.
“They had not been satisfied with me,” said the girl.
“What happened then?” I asked.
“They told me to remove my clothing. Then they tied my hands behind my back and put a leash to my throat. They took me to the banks of the Laurius, where they tied me to a pole set in the stones, my hands over my head, my neck, belly and ankles, too, bound to it. A river craft passed. I was sold for one hundred arrow points. I was purchased by Sarpedon, master of this tavern, who occasionally scouts the river, to pick up such girls.
I looked at her. “You were foolish,” I said.
Her fists clenched in the slave bracelets. Her collar, yellow and enameled, shone in the darkness, at her throat. Her hair, a black sheen, loose, fell over her shoulders, and to the small of her back. She was beautiful in the bit of yellow silk. She pulled at the bracelets. Then she relaxed.
She smiled. “It seems,” she said, “you have found me, Tarl.”
“I am Bosk,” I said.
She shrugged.
“What has happened to you, since we parted?” she asked.
“I have become rich,” I told her.
“And what of Priest-Kings?” she asked.
“I no longer serve Priest-Kings,” I told her.
She looked at me, troubled.
“I serve myself,” I said, “and do what I wish.”
“Oh,” she said.
Then she looked up at me.
“Are you angry,” she asked, “that I fled the Sardar?”
“No,” I said. “It was a brave act.”
She smiled at me.
“I now seek Talena,” I said. “I will hunt for her in the green forests.” “Do you not remember me?” she asked.
“I seek Talena,” I told her.
She put down her head. Then she lifted it. “I did not want to be returned to Earth,” she said. “You will not return me to Earth, will you?” I regarded her. “No,” I said. “ I will not return you to Earth.” “Thank you, Tarl,” she whispered.
For a time we said nothing.
“You are now rich?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Rich enough to buy me?” she asked.
“Ten thousand times over,” I told her, and truly.
She relaxed visibly in the chains, and smiled. “Tarl-“ she said.
“Bosk” I corrected her, sharply.
“I would hear my name on your lips once more,” she whispered. “Speak my name.” “Who are you?” I asked.
“Elizabeth Cardwell,” she said. “Vella of Gor!”
“What is locked on your left ankle?” I asked.
“Slave bells,” she said.
I put my hand in the bit of silk. “What is this?” I asked.
“Slave silk,” she whispered.
I pointed to the yellow collar on her throat. “And that?” I asked.
“The collar of Sarpedon,” she whispered, “my master.”
“What is your name?” I asked.
“I see,” she said coldly.
“Your name?” I asked.
“Tana,” she said.
I smiled. It was the same name which had been that of one of the girls I had had Thurnock sell this morning, one of the two panther girls. It is a fairly common Gorean name, but no heard of that often. It was something of a coincidence that the two girls had both that name, the one sold this morning, the other now chained before me.
“Your name is Tana,” I told her. You are simply Tana, the slave girl.” Her fists clenched in the slave bracelets. She was indeed that now, simply an unimportant, lowly paga slave in Lydius.
I regarded her beauty.
“What are you going to do with me?” she asked.
“I have paid the price of a cup of paga,” I told her.
I regarded her in the shadows of the small alcove, lit by the tiny lamp, its draft carried by the tiny, ventilating hole above it.
She still wore the chains I had put her in. the bit of yellow silk, crumpled, soaked with sweat, lay to one side.
“How does it feel to be a paga slave?” I asked.
She turned her head to one side.
I had exacted the full performance of the paga slave from her.
“You are angry,” she said, “because I fled from you. Now you take your vengeance on me.” “I merely used you as the paga slave you are,” I told her. It was true. I had treated her no worse, or better, than such slaves are commonly treated. Moreover, she knew that. She knew I had forced her to serve precisely as a paga slave, no more nor less.
I had not taken vengeance on her. I had simply treated her exactly as what she was.
In my use of her I had, of course, addressed her only as Tana. That was the name of the slave.
She looked at me, in her chains. I sat cross-legged, was buckling my belt. “What are you going to do now?” she asked.
“I am going to seek Talena,” I said. “I will hunt for her in the forests.” She lay back, in the chains. Then she rose to one elbow.
“You are different,” she said, suddenly. “You are different, from when I knew you.” “How is that?” I asked, curious.