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. 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 afraid, for a moment, that her neck might break.
"Where is your collar, your brand?" he cried.
"I'm free!" she wept. "I'm free!"
"Bring me a woman!" he cried toward the kitchen, still holding her helplessly before me. "Bring me a woman!"
"What is wrong?" asked a fellow, looking out from the kitchen, probably the night cook.
"Where is the keeper!" cried the fellow.
"He has retired," said the fellow.
"This thing is free!" cried the fellow, giving the Lady Temione another shake. "How dare you send it to my table! I do not want it! Send me a female! Send me a woman!" He then hurled the Lady Temione from him and, with a rattle of chains, she struck the floor. There, terrified, feet from him, she lay on her belly. I was amused to see her lift herself slightly, surely not even aware of what she was doing, a natural female appeasement behavior in the face of male anger. I thought she would do well in a collar. Then, as though she might suddenly have understood what she was doing, she lowered herself as flat to the tiles as she could, trembling with fear and shame. She looked at me, wildly, hoping I had not noticed her behavior. I smiled, and she sobbed. Her womanhood had been observed. The newcomer, as nearly as I could tell, had taken no note of these things.
"Immediately, Sir!" called the fellow from the kitchen door. "In but a moment, Sir!" Then he called to the Lady Temione. "Quick," he cried, "back to the kitchen, slut! No! Do not rise! Crawl!" He then disappeared back through the kitchen door. The Lady Temione paused near my table, on all fours. She looked at me. She had been rejected by a man, thrown from him, in disgust. I saw that she was stunned, that she was confused, that she was bewildered. Many free women regard themselves, with justification, as marvelous prizes. It can come as a great shock to them to suddenly realize they are, for most practical purposes, worthless. This rejection had shaken her profoundly. Like many free women she probably regarded herself as inordinately attractive. She looked at me, piteously, beggingly. She wanted some reassurance from me, that she might be at least a little bit desirable or attractive.
"Check," I told her, "and as you are." I then indicated with a gesture of my finger, that she should proceed on her way. Sobbing, slowly, as she could, in her chaining, she took her way from the room. She had scarcely attained the kitchen door before another woman emerged, swiftly, yet gracefully, drawing a diaphanous silken wrap about her. How she moved. There was a close-fitting collar on her neck. How beautiful she was! What bondage does for a woman! She hurried to the fellow and bellied to him. immediately he seemed mollified. I felt my fingernails scratch on the lacquer on the table. That must be one of the keeper's best girls, I thought. Indeed, perhaps she was the keeper's preferred slave, sent by him to the customer from his own furs.