"Rescind them,” said Cabot.
"No,” said Peisistratus.
"Why not?"
"There are the quotas,” he said. “She is unclaimed."
"Surely you understand my position here,” said Cabot. “I can accept no slave."
"Your position, as I understand it,” said Peisistratus, in English, “is that you could become master of human Gor, that you could have armies, palaces, riches, hundreds of slaves."
"And she is part of the temptation, is she not?” asked Cabot.
"Perhaps,” said Peisistratus.
"I want paga,” said Cabot.
"It is a matter of honor, is it not?” inquired Peisistratus.
"There is nothing to be done,” said Cabot. “There is the cage. It is like the arena."
"I am to inform Agamemnon that you decline his offer?"
"You may do whatever you wish,” said Cabot.
"Drink no more, not now,” said Peisistratus.
"Paga!” demanded Cabot.
"Remember the arena,” said Peisistratus.
"Paga!” thundered Cabot, in fury.
Swiftly the slave pressed the goblet about her body, as she had been taught, associating the metallic, rigid cruelty of the goblet and the fire of the drink with the softness, the readiness, the warmth, and the desirability of her body, in this way making it clear that both goods were proffered, both placed at the disposal of the master, both the drink and the female. And the girl inadvertently gasped, startled, as the metal rim pressed into her belly, bespeaking the dominion to which she was subject, and she looked down into the swirling liquid in the cup, and Peisistratus smiled, for did not the fire in the goblet in its way stand token for another fire, and might she not suspect this, that which might burn in the grasping, liquid softness of a slave's belly?
The girl then lifted the goblet to her lips and kissed it slowly, humbly, regarding Cabot over its rim, and then she put down her head between her extended arms, and offered him the goblet.
"No,” begged Peisistratus.
Cabot reached out, and clutched at the goblet, and some paga spilled, to the right thigh of the slave.
"How do you choose to die?” asked Peisistratus. “One who herds tarsk would not choose to die so."
"It does not matter,” said Cabot. “There is nothing to be done."
"You are of the Warriors,” said Peisistratus.
"Once,” said Cabot.
"Still,” said Peisistratus.
"There is nothing to be done."
"Look into the paga,” said Peisistratus. “Do you like what you see there?"
"No,” said Cabot.
"Is that you?"
"Yes."
"No,” said Peisistratus. “The paga lies."
"How can it lie?” asked Cabot.
"It deceives you, it betrays you."
"Paga can betray no one,” said Cabot, patiently, forming the words very slowly.
"No,” said Peisistratus, “but it can show you one who betrays himself."
"I am he,” said Cabot, slowly.
"You are he,” said Peisistratus. “Now swirl the paga, and look again into it."
Cabot moved the fluid in the goblet, and peered into it. One supposes, in that troubled, swirling fluid, there was nothing to be seen, other perhaps than reflections, rivulets, small currents.
"What now do you see?” inquired Peisistratus.
"The arena,” said Cabot, slowly.
"Then you have not forgotten it?"
"No,” said Cabot. “I have not forgotten it."
He then slowly, carefully, poured the paga unto the table, and it ran from the table to the floor.
"Slut,” said Peisistratus.
"Yes, Master?"
"Get out!"
"Yes, Master,” cried the slave, and rose up, and, with a jangle of coins, fled from the table.
Cabot then cast the goblet from him, and it clattered on the flooring, several feet away, and rolled to the side.
He then slumped down, to the side of the table.
"Let him sleep,” said Peisistratus to one of his men.
Chapter, the Twenty-Third:
WHAT OCCURRED IN A GLADE
The grass was long and soft in the area, abundant, and green and flowing, in the soft wind.
Cabot stirred.
He was no longer in the Pleasure Cylinder.
He did not open his eyes. He felt the weight of the iron on his limbs, on his wrists and ankles.
He heard a sound of chain. Something was bending over him. He felt soft lips press against his lips. She remembered that, he thought—from near the shuttle lock.
He opened his eyes, and looked into blue eyes. She drew back a little, some inches from him.
She had been brushed and combed, washed and perfumed. She was worthy of a Ubar's pleasure garden, but he was not a Ubar.
He thrust her to the side, as he could, and she whimpered, puzzled, irritably.
He then sat up, and regarded her, his fellow prisoner, his right wrist shackled to her left, his left to her right, and so, too, with their ankles.
He shook the chains, angrily, and she cried out, in pain, for this had hurt her.
Breeding shackles, he thought. Breeding shackles!
She tried to approach him, again, and he thrust her back.
"You are a slave,” he said.
"Certainly not!” she exclaimed.
"Then you are a pet, that of Grendel."
"No,” she said, “I have been taken from him."
"Whose pet, then, are you?” he asked.
"I am not a pet,” she said.
"Where is your collar?” he asked.
"I have no collar,” she said, angrily. “I am not a pet."
"What then are you?” he asked.
"I am a free woman,” she said.
"A free woman, shackled,” he said.
"Yes!” she said.
"Have you been named?” he asked.
"I have chosen my name,” she said. “I call myself ‘Ubara'."
"That is not a name,” he said. “It is a title."
"Does it not mean Great Woman, Magnificent Woman, Most Important of Women, such things?"
"Your Gorean is still lacking,” he said.
"It suggests such things, does it not?” she inquired.
"Perhaps,” he said.
"Then I am ‘Ubara,'” she said.
"Many a Ubara,” said he, “conquered, stripped, learns to belly, and lick and kiss, as the most abject of slaves."
"Then what should my name be?” she asked.
"You wish a noble, refined, dignified, exalted, priceless name, do you not?"
"Surely,” she said.
"Then,” said he, “what of ‘Bina'?"
"Good,” she said. “I am Bina!"
He thought that would be a good name for taking her off an auction block. ‘Bina', in Gorean, is a common word for slave beads, usually of colored wood, with which a low slave might be permitted to bedeck herself. It is also a not uncommon name for a low slave.
She smiled, satisfied, arrogantly.
He, too, smiled, though, one supposes, at her arrogance.
"We have been chained together,” he observed, “in this soft, pleasant place. And to the side I see some wine, it seems, some larmas, some grapes, some wedges of soft bread."
"We are to breed,” she said.
"Why?” he asked.
"It is the will of our superiors,” she said.
"They are not my superiors,” he said.
"You need not fear for your honor,” she said, “for I am acquiescent, and will authorize your touch."
"You are generous,” he said. “But why would you do this?"
"It is the will of the superiors,” she said.
"I see,” he said.
"I know little of these things,” she said, “of breeding, and such, but even were I not acquiescent, I gather, you might, eventually, do your will upon me, in some fashion or another."
"Quite possibly,” he said. “Eventually. I am only human."
"I see,” she said.
"Come to my arms,” he said.