I looked at the tharlarion.
It stood there, placidly. It slid a transparent membrane upward, covering its eye, as a broad-winged insect crawled on its lid. The insect fluttered away. The Lady Florence owned many tharlarion. Her stables were among the most extensive and finest of any owned by a citizen of Vonda.
I returned to the area before the shop of Philebus.
I glanced again at the male silk slave sitting on the walk, fastened at the ring.
"Liar," he said. I think he was angry that he, and not I, had been chained. I looked awav from him. The broad avenue was beautiful, with its width, its paving and fountains, the buildings, the trees, the central cvlinder in the distance. It was in that cylinder, as I understood it, that were housed many of the bureaus and agencies of Ar, many of the departments important to the functioning of the state; in it, too, met various councils; in it, too, were the private compartments of the Ubar of Ar, a man called Marlenus.
I leaned against the wall of the shun of Philebus. Most Gorean shops do not have windows. Many are open to the street, or have counters which are oven to the street. These shops are usually shuttered or barred at night. Certain of the shops, usually those containing more precious goods. Inch as that of Philebus, are entered through a narrow door. Not unoften, inside, there is an open court, with awnings at the sides, under which goods are displayed. There was, in the shop of Philebus, such a court at the back, whence goods might be taken to be viewed in natural light, should the customer wish.
I looked, idly, at the people on the avenue. It was not excessively crowded on this day of the week, nor at this hour; yet -there were ample numbers of shoppers and passers-by. Here and there there were borne palanquins, as richer individuals were carried about their business. Some light, twowheeled carriages passed, drawn by tharlarion. I saw, too, more than one bosk wagon, drawn by gigantic, shaggy, wickedly horned bosk. Their hoofs were polished; their horns were hung with beads. One of these wagons had a cover of blue and yellow canvas, buckled shut with broad straps. From within I heard the laughter of slave girls. A man followed the wagon, walking behind it, with a whip. In such a wagon the girls are commonly chained by the ankles to a metal bar which runs down the center of the wagon bed. I saw a girl lifting up the canvas a bit, and peeping out. I wondered if she were pretty. She belonged to someone. Then the canvas was pulled down, quickly. All the girls might be whipped, I supposed, for such a transgression. They were slaves.
I glanced to the slave girl who was, by the shortened neckleash, chained at one of the rings in front of the shop of Philebus. Her small wrists were secured before her body with cord, fastened with cunning knots. The cord, I supposed, had been woven about a core of wire. The knots were under the left wrist, to make it more difficult to reach them with the teeth.
She looked at me.
She wore a light, gray tunic, brief. I considered the lines of her thighs and calves.
"I am for free men," she said, angrily. "I am not for the likes of you, Slave."
"Do you yield well in their arms, Slave?" I asked her.
She looked away, biting her lip.
I examined her body. It was exciting and attractive. I would not have minded owning her.
"I expect you yield well indeed, Slave," I said to her.
She flushed crimson, from head to toe, at the ring. I saw that my speculation had been correct. I smiled to myself. Her shoulders shook with a sob.
I went to the fountain, which was only a few yards away, and, getting down on my hands and knees, putting my head down, from the lower bowl, from which slaves and animals might drink, satisfied my thirst.
I then returned to the shop of Philebus, to continue to wait for my mistress.
I looked up, hearing taro drums in the sky. A squadron of Ar's tarn cavalry, the stroke of their wings synchronized with the beat of the drum, passed by, overhead. There must have been some forty birds and riders. The formation seemed large to be a patrol.
I watched the robes of free women, passing in the street, the wagons, the now increasing throngs, the palanquins of rich men, some with lovely, briefly tunicked slaves chained behind them, attached to the palanquins, an affectation of display.
My mistress was long in the shop. I assumed I would have many packages to bear.
I then saw a kaiila pass. It was lofty, stately, fanged and silken. I had heard of such beasts, but this was the first one I had seen. It was yellow, with flowing hair. Its rider was mounted in a high, purple saddle, with knives in saddle sheaths. He bore a long, willowy black lance. A net of linked chain, unhooked; dangled beside his helmet. His eyes bore the epicanthic fold. He was, I gathered, of one of the Wagon Peoples, most likely the Tuchuks. His face, colorfully scarred, was marked in the rude heraldry of those distant, savage riders.
"Slave," said a woman's voice.
Immediately I knelt, head down. I saw the sandals and robes of a free woman before me.
"Where is the shop of Tabron, who is the worker of silver?" she asked.
"I do not know, Mistress," I said. "I am not of this city. Forgive me, Mistress."
"Ignorant beast," she said.
"Yes, Mistress," I said. Then, with a turn of her robes, she had gone on.
I got again to my feet, and leaned against the wall of the shop of Philebus. I felt the collar at my throat, of sturdy steel. It was enameled white. In it, incised, in tiny, dark cursive letters, in a feminine-type script, was a message in Gorean. It read, I had been told, `I am the property of the Lady Florence of Vonda.' The lock on the back of the collar had a double bolt, the double bolt, however, responding to a single key. I was barefoot. The tunic my mistress had given me was of white silk.
I stood straighter then, by the wall, for I now heard the counting of a cadence. Passing now in the street before me, in ranks of four, was a column of men. The four files, as I counted that nearest to me, were fifty deep. The men wore scarlet tunics. Behind their left shoulders were round shields. On their heads were scarlet caps, with yellow tassels. Behind their left shoulder, over the shields, there hung steel helmets. Sheathed swords, short, were slung at their left shoulders. On their right shoulders they bore spears, with long, bronze, tapering blades. Their feet wore heavy, thick-soled sandals, which, almost like boots, with swirling leather, rose high about their calves. The sound of these bootlike sandals on the atones of the street was clear and regular. Behind the right shoulder, slung on the shaft of the spears, were light packs. I gathered the men were leaving the city. The Gorean infantryman usually marches light. Military supply posts, walled, 0ccur at intervals on major roads. Indeed, one of the apparent anomalies of Gor is the quality and linearity of certain roads, which are carefully kept in repair, roads which often, seemingly paradoxically, pass through sparsely populated territo• ries. The nature of these roads and their quality seems peculiar until one examines maps on which they occur. It then becomes clear that most of them lead toward borders and frontiers. They are then, in effect, military highways. This becomes clearer, too, when it is recognized that most of the supply posts occur at forty pasang intervals. Forty pasangs is an average day's march for a Gorean infantryman. I wondered why the troops were leaving the city. Too, such troops, as I understood it, usually departed from a city in the early morning, primarily, I supposed, that a normal day's march might be completed. I watched the troops disappearing down the street. They had been led by two officers, also afoot. The column had been flanked, too, by two other officers, presumably of lesser rank. The column's tread had been even. The unison bad been unpretentious but, in its way, stirring and dramatic. One felt that what was passing was not at that moment simply a collection of men, an aggregate of diverse individuals, but a unit. This, I take it, was a tribute to the training of such men. At the head of the column, behind the officers, but a pace or two before the rightermost man in the first rank, there marched a fellow who bore a standard on which was mounted an image of a silver taro. Many such standards are over a century old. The Gorean soldier is commonly a professional soldier, usually of the caste of Warriors. In a sense, given the cruel selections undergone by his forebears, he has been bred to his work. In his blood there is the spear and war.