"Yes," she said. "I regard myself as desirable." She regarded me, angrily. "Don't you?" she said.
I said, "Proper diet and exercise, imposed under suitable disciplines, would doubtless work wonders with you."
"Would you care to order," she asked.
"Have you served others?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"And you have not been disciplined?" I asked.
"No," she said. "I am a free woman." She looked at me, angrily. "Are you ready to order?"
"Yes," I said.
"Well?" she asked.
"Kneel," I said.
"Kneel?" she asked.
"That is my first order," I said.
She regarded me.
"Do you not know how a woman serves at table?" I asked.
"I am a free woman," she said.
"Shall I send you to fetch a slave whip? I asked.
She then trembled, and knelt. But, in a moment, she had recovered herself. She looked at me, angrily.
"You may keep your knees together," I said, "as you are a free woman." Swiftly she closed them, furious. "I hate you!" she said.
"You may now lower your head, before a male," I said.
"Never!" she said.
"Now," I said. She lowered her head, angrily. "I have never done that before," she said, lifting her head.
"You may now put it to the floor, the palms of your hands, too, to the floor," I said.
Trembling with rage she obeyed. Then she straightened up, and knelt back. "What do you have?" I asked.
"Paga and bread are two tarsks," she said. "Other food may be purchased from three to five tarsks."
"Is the paga cut?" I asked.
"One to five," she said.
This is not that unusual at an inn. The proportions, then, would be one part paga to five parts water. Commonly, at a paga tavern, the paga would be cut less, or not cut at all. When wine is drunk with Gorean meals, at home, incidentally, it is almost always diluted, mixed with water in a krater. At a party or convivial supper the host, or elected feast master, usually determines the proportions of water to wine. Unmixed wine, of course, may be drunk, for example, at the parties of young men, at which might appear dancers, flute slaves and such. Many Gorean wines, it might be mentioned, if only by way of explanation, are very strong, often having an alcoholic content by volume of forty to fifty percent.
"How much bread?" I asked.
"Two of four," she said. That would be half a loaf. The bread would be in the form of wedges. Gorean bread is most always baked in round, flat loaves. The average loaf is cut into either four or eight wedges.
"What is the other food?" I asked.
The Ahn is late," she said. "We have nothing but porridge left."
"It is three?" I asked.
"Yes," she said.
"I do not suppose," I said, "that if one orders the porridge, the bread and paga comes with it?"
"No," she said.
I had not, of course, expected any such luck, particularly after my conversation with the keeper. To be sure, even if perhaps a bit greedy, he was not a bad fellow. He had, for example, put the Lady Temione naked at the tables.
"Bread, paga, porridge," I said to her. "Very well," she said.
"Very well, what?" I asked.
"Very well, Sir," she said.
"Head to the floor before you get up," I said.
She put her head angrily down to the floor, the palms of her hands on the floor, and then straightened up.
"From each of your fraud sisters outside, chained to their rings," I said. "I had a kiss."
"You will get no kiss from me," she said.
I then gestured her up with a casual motion of my finger and away, that she should hurry to the kitchen.
"Lady Temione," I called.
She stopped.
"You may move more swiftly," I said, "if you rise up on your toes and take short steps."
She cried out with rage, and stumbled, and fell. Then, rising, she hurried, as she could, angrily toward the door of the kitchen and, in a moment, disappeared through it. I watched it swing behind her, until it hung motionless on its hinges. Such doors, single and double, are common in inns and taverns, as they may be negotiated by someone whose hands are occupied, as in bearing a tray. Most often, however, on Gor, curtains, often beaded, are used to separate open from restricted areas in taverns, restaurants, and such. Lady Temione, I had noted, needed discipline. The sooner she received it the better it would probably be for her, and her lift.
In a few moments she returned through the door bearing a tray. She knelt near the table, put the tray on the floor, unbidden performed obeisance and then, as though submissively, put to the tray on the table, and put the paga, in a small kantharos, and the bread on its trencher, before me. Then she put the bowl of porridge, with a spoon, before me. She then withdrew, taking the tray, put it to the side, on the floor, again performed obeisance, unbidden, and then knelt back, as though in attendance. There had been something false in her subservience.
I looked at her, narrowly. She did not meet my eyes.
I took a sip of paga, and then sopped some bread in it, and then ate it. As I reached for the spoon I thought she leaned forward a little. I took a very tiny bit of the porridge. As I had suspected it might be, it was offensively seasoned, salted, almost to the point of inedibility.
"Is anything wrong, Sir?" she asked.
"I will count an Ehn," I said, "that is, eighty Ihn. You have that long to make good what you have done."
"I?" she asked, innocently.
"1a€”2a€”3-," I said.
"But what?" she said, alarmed.
"4a€”5a€”6-," I said.
"My ankles are chained!" she cried.
"7a€”8a€”9-." I said.
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.
"24a€”25a€”26-," I counted. "27a€”28a€”29a€”30a€”31a€”32a€”33a€”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. "50a€”51a€”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!"
"69a€”70," I said.
She hastened toward me, terrified, with quick, small steps.
"75a€”76." I said. "Obeisance."
She cried out with misery, performing obeisance.
"77," I said. "78a€”79." 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.