“Ellen,” said Portus Canio, not looking at her, “down. Sit. Sit in the wagon, facing backward. Keep us informed. Tell us what you see.”
“Yes, Master,” said Ellen, frightened.
“Continue as you were,” said Portus Canio to Fel Doron.
“On, ugly beauty,” said Fel Doron, quietly.
“They do not seem to be approaching, Master,” said Ellen. “They may be circling, far off.”
“Then they are not merchants,” said a man.
“Have they seen us?” asked Portus Canio.
“I do not know, Master,” said Ellen.
“I saw five,” said Portus Canio. “How many do you see?”
“I count five,” said Ellen, slowly.
“Are they tarnsmen?” asked a man, looking forward.
“Are there tarn baskets?” asked another.
“I think so,” said Ellen. “It is hard to tell.”
“They would then be merchants,” said a man.
“If they are tarnsmen, there would be only five then,” said a man.
“They could reconnoiter, and summon others,” said another man.
“Can you see if there are tarn baskets?” asked another.
“Yes,” said Ellen, suddenly. “As they just veered, I am sure there are tarn baskets!”
“Then they are civilians, merchants,” said a man.
“That may not be true,” said Portus Canio, grimly.
“There could be four or five men to a carrier,” said Fel Doron, softly.
“That could be twenty or more,” said a man, apprehensively.
“Can you see banners, weaponry?” asked Portus Canio.
“It is too far away,” said Ellen.
“What are they doing now?” asked Fel Doron, looking forward, over the broad, scaled back of the draft beast in the traces.
“I am not sure they see us,” said Ellen. “Their interest may be in something behind us.”
“We will continue on our way,” said Portus Canio.
“What is behind us?” asked Fel Doron.
“Stand,” said Portus Canio.
Ellen struggled to her feet, bracing her leg against the side of the wagon bed. “I see only the grass, bending in the wind, clouds, the horizon, Master,” she said.
“What of the tarns and carriers now?” asked a man.
“They are smaller now,” said Ellen. “I think they are going away.”
“I do not understand this,” said Portus Canio. “If they are merchants, they would not circle, but continue on their way. If they were tarnsmen, or soldiery, one would expect them to approach, to alight and inquire into our identity and destination.”
“They may not have seen us,” said a man, “and, come to the perimeter of their search range, turned back.”
“Perhaps,” said Portus Canio.
Ellen, looking back, could see the wake of the wagon wheels in the tall grass. She had little doubt but what so remarkable a feature might be detectable from a height, and much more easily than from a position on the ground, unless one were in the actual wake of the wagon itself.
Portus Canio swung himself over the side of the wagon, and stood upright beside her for several Ihn, looking backward. He shaded his eyes. From the height of the wagon he could see much farther than was possible from the level of the ground. Too, he was some twelve to fourteen inches taller than the slave. He could see, of course, the twin tracks in the grass behind them, which would mark, for several hours, the passage of the wagon.
He then lifted Ellen from her feet, holding her for a moment, and looked down into her eyes. She felt the strength of his hand in the softness behind the backs of her knees, and his other hand at her back. She trembled slightly, held helplessly off her feet, knowing herself in his power. She held her legs together, demurely, her head down, slightly bowed, turned to the side, her toes pointed, emphasizing the curvature of her calves. As a slave girl she had been taught to hold herself in this position when carried in that fashion. She knew substantially what she looked like. She had observed herself in the large wall mirrors of the training room when she had been new to a collar, being carried in exactly that way by instructors or guards. This posture of the body, she knew, is extremely provocative, as it is intended that it should be. She wondered what some of her arid, shrill, frustrated, sex-starved feminist colleagues would have thought of her, if they could have seen her being carried in that fashion, as a half-naked, braceleted slave girl. She did not care. They knew nothing of what it was to be a woman, and to belong to men. Let them go their own way, she thought. And let them cry out, if they would, if they could manage nothing better, in tragic, unsatisfied need, and clutch, and drench, their pillows with desperate tears, tears of helpless frustration, envying her, and wondering why they knew no men, wondering why no one would put a collar on them.
Portus Canio growled softly, held her for a moment, then laughed softly, and then placed her gently on the blankets in the wagon bed. He wants me, thought Ellen. Someone wants me! Someone thinks I am of interest! Indeed, it had been Portus Canio who had bought her off the shelf of Targo in Ar, in the Kettle Market! She stole a glance at Selius Arconious. He was dark with fury. She smiled, and turned her head aside, innocently, pretending not to notice.
“Keep watch, behind us, and to the sides,” said Portus Canio.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
But they saw nothing more of tarns and tarnsmen, or merchants, or aerial soldiery that day.
They continued on their way.
Perhaps the next day, or the day following, they might reach the neighborhood of the “place of concealed tarns.” It was in that vicinity that Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus, of Ar’s Station, were expected to leave the group, and the group itself to turn toward the Viktel Aria, and, eventually, Ar. She did not know. Such things were not discussed directly with slaves, nor did she feel it was her option to inquire. She did, of course, as she could, and as unobtrusively as possible, listen to the conversations of the masters. As is well known, there is a Gorean saying to the effect that curiosity is not becoming in a kajira. On the other hand, who has ever heard of a kajira who was not inquisitive, and quite so? After all, what do the beasts expect? We are females, and slaves.
She gathered that things might be afoot in Ar.
It was rumored that Marlenus of Ar, the Ubar of Ubars, as some thought him, had returned to Ar. Mercenary garrisons, deprived of their pay, become restless. Revolution in the city, it seemed, might be soon enkindled.
That day Bosk of Port Kar twice called halts. This was for no reason that she understood. After calling the second halt, he had stood on the wagon bed, near her. He paid her no attention, but looked about. She remained very still. He frightened her. She did not dare to meet his eyes. Was this, she wondered, because she was now no more than a meaningless, braceleted, collared, half-naked slave on Gor, or was it rather simply because she was a female? But she speculated that even if she had met him on Earth, among others, in a civilized setting, or one of those settings called “civilized,” perhaps at a cocktail party, she in sophisticated garmenture, in heels, perhaps in pearls, she might have felt similarly, been similarly frightened. Would she have been able to stand poised before him? She thought not. She thought, rather, she would have looked into his eyes, even in such a room, in such a place, at such a time, and comprehended in his gaze the calm fires of command. She was sure she would have understood, even there, on some level, even in such an unlikely place and time, that she was looking into the eyes of a master, one who could detect, and knew how to deal with, the slave in her. She would have trembled, even there. Oh, she would have smiled, and chatted, for a moment, and looked away, and laughed lightly, perhaps a little hysterically, and negotiated the room, withdrawing, but knowing that his eyes were still upon her, undressing her, idly measuring her for chains.