At his bidding, after the second halt, after he had descended from the wagon bed, the trek was slowed.
She would have feared to belong to him. She sensed he had suffered many cruelties, and perhaps betrayals. She did not think she would wish to be the man, or woman, who might have dared to betray such a man.
He seemed to her taciturn, and dangerous.
Twice from her position in the wagon bed, as the wagon had rolled on, she had seen him standing to one side, his head lifted, as though testing the wind for some subtle scent.
That night they made no fires.
After she had kissed, and opened, and prepared the blankets of the men, her master’s last, as was proper, she lay down beside him, her master, at his thigh. He did not bracelet her again, nor did he fix slave hobbles on her ankles. “I could run away,” she thought to herself. “Does he want me to run away?” She squirmed, and turned to her back, looking up at the moons. “Or is he so arrogantly sure of me, that he knows I would not dare to run away? To be sure, there is nowhere to run. There are the dangers of the grasslands, of animals, of starvation, of thirst, the danger of another collar, the danger of recapture and punishment, punishments whose severity I dare not even contemplate.” She touched her collar, and fingered the delicate scaring of her brand. “There is no escape for the Gorean slave girl,” she thought, “and that is exactly what I am, and all that I am, only that, and nothing more.” She turned back, gently, smiling, to his thigh, and kissed it, softly, that he not awaken. “Why do you not use me, Master?” she whispered. “Am I not pleasing? Are you truly my master? If you are my master, why do you not show me that you are my master? I am ready. Prove to me that you are my master. I beg it. Teach me, Master, that I am your slave.”
“So you beg slave use, like a she-sleen in heat,” he said.
“Never,” she said suddenly, startled, softly, embarrassed. “Certainly not, Master!”
“You are an Earth woman?”
“Yes, Master.”
“And Earth women do not beg for their use?”
“Perhaps some who are slaves do, Master,” she said, “for they are helpless, and cannot help themselves.”
“But you do not so beg?”
“No, Master, of course not!” she said.
“Go to sleep,” he whispered.
“I did not know you were awake,” she said. “Forgive me, Master,” she whispered.
“Go to sleep,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“And you are a little icicle from Earth?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You did not seem such in the camp,” he said.
“The camp, Master?”
“The festival camp, outside Brundisium.”
“Oh,” she said.
“It might be interesting,” he said, “to turn you into a squirming, begging slave.”
She dared not speak. She choked back a sob of need.
Later they slept, she closely beside him, her head at his thigh.
****
In the morning Ellen awakened abruptly, to the stirrings and shouts of men.
“I do not see them,” she heard.
“Where are they?”
“They are not here.”
“They are gone.”
“Gone?”
“Yes!”
“Is their gear missing?”
“Yes!”
The cries of the men were not those of alarm. The cries, rather, were those of surprise, of bewilderment, of consternation.
“They left the camp.”
“When did they leave?”
“Sometime last night.”
“In what watch?”
“We do not know.”
“How could they leave without detection by the watch?”
“They are Warriors,” said a man.
“Like shadows, like serpents, as silent as the leech plant bending toward its prey,” said another.
“Where are they?”
“Who knows?”
“Where did they go?”
“Who knows?”
“Why did they leave?” asked a man of Portus Canio.
“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.
Selius Arconious was no longer at her side. She struggled to her feet, and wiped the grit of sleep from her eyes.
“Why did they leave?” pressed a man, again.
“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.
She saw Selius Arconious near the wagon. Fel Doron was standing in the wagon bed, scanning the endless grass about them. The tharlarion was not in harness, but hobbled nearby, grazing.
“What did they know that we do not?” asked a man of Portus Canio.
“I do not know,” said Portus Canio.
“Why did they permit us to make so little ground yesterday?” asked another man of Portus Canio.
“One does not question such men,” said Portus Canio.
“Let us track them!” said a man, angrily.
“They are of the Warriors,” said Portus Canio. “There will be no tracks, no trail that we could follow.”
“Had we sleen!” said a man.
“Yes, of course,” said Portus Canio. “— had we sleen.”
“But we do not,” said another man.
“Let us try to track them!” said the man.
“Feel free to do so,” said Portus Canio.
“I do not think I would care to follow such men, even had we sleen,” said another.
Portus Canio’s original interlocutor turned white. “True,” he said, in a frightened whisper.
“Why did they leave?” asked a man, anew.
Portus Canio did not respond.
“Why do you think they left?” asked the man.
“Harness the tharlarion,” said Portus Canio. “We are breaking camp.”
Selius Arconious returned to his bedding, and looked down, into the puzzled, frightened eyes of his slave, the Earth girl, Ellen.
“Master?” she asked.
“Bosk of Port Kar and Marcus of Ar’s Station,” said he, “are not now in the camp. They left under the cover of darkness, last night. They informed no one. We do not know why they left, or where they have gone. Gather up my things, and help the others. We will be leaving soon. Stay close to the wagon.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
****
It had not been more than an Ahn since the harnessing of the tharlarion and the breaking of the camp than Portus Canio called the halt.
Ellen, unbraceleted, barefoot, in her tunic, had been walking beside the wagon, on its left side, as one would face forward.
Portus Canio was not the only one who had caught the scent. Men glanced warily at one another.
Portus Canio climbed to the wagon box, beside Fel Doron, and stood, facing backward, shading his eyes. “Yes,” he said.
Fel Doron had caught the scent first, perhaps because of his height on the wagon box. “Portus!” he had called.
Selius Arconious had lifted his head, facing backward, nostrils flared, testing the wind, a moment later.
Ellen, the wagon stopped, climbed one of the large, bronzeshod rear wheels, and, clinging to the side of the bed, her bare feet on a heavy, wooden, rounded spoke, looked backward.
It was a scent she had experienced once before, on Targo’s sales shelf in the Kettle Market, though then it had been so suddenly, so unexpectedly, upon her, almost stifling, almost overwhelming, so hot, so suddenly close and terrible.
There was no mistaking it, that scent, though now it was distant, and faint, a whisper on the wind. It was the same.
“Arm yourselves,” said Portus Canio.
A man removed a cylindrical bundle, tied with cord, from the wagon bed, and undid the cord, spilling bladed weapons on the grass. They were seized up. Another man removed two crossbows from beneath a canvas cover. In a moment these devices were set, the metal bands curved back, the cables tautened; quarrels were fitted to guides.