“How did you come to the north?” I asked the slave girl, Miss Stevens.
“I was sold in Ar,” she said, “to a merchant from Cos. I was chained in a slave ship, with many other girls, on tiers in the hold. The ship fell to four raiding vessels of Torvaldland. I have been, by my reckoning, eight months in the north.”
“What did your last Jarl call you?” asked the Forkbeard.
“Butter Pan,” she said.
The Forkbeard looked to Gunnhild. “What shall we call this pretty little slave?” he asked.
“Honey Cake,” suggested Gunnhild.
“You are Honey Cake,” said the Forkbeard.
“Yes, my Jarl,” said Miss Stevens.
The Forkbeard then left the bond-maid shed. We all followed him. He did not restrain Honey Cake in any way. She, nude, in her collar, back straight, accompanied him. Her head was high. She was a bought girl. The other girls, still on the chain, regarded her with envy, with resentment, hostility. She had paid them no attention. She had been purchased. They remained unbought girls, wenches left on the chain; they had not yet been found desirable enough to be purchased.
Few suspected, on this day, in the thing, that something unprecedented would occur.
After we had left the bond-maid shed I had let the Forkbeard and his retinue return to their tent. Honey Cake, when last I saw her, dared to cling to his arm, her head to his shoulder. He, with a laugh, thrust her back witht he other girls that she, as they, might heel him. Happily she did so.
I watched them disappear among the crowds.
Ivar had won siv talmits. He had done quite well.
Honey Cake, too, I thought, would make him a delicious little slave.
We would all enjoy her.
I was at the archery range when the announcement was made.
I had not intended to participate in the competition. Rather, it had been my plan to buy some small gift for the Forkbeard. Long had I enjoyed his hospitality, and he had given me many things. I did not wish, incidentally, even if I could, to give him a gift commensurate with what he had, in his hospitality, bestowed upon me; the host, in Torvaldsland, should make the greatest gifts; it is, after all, his house or hall; if his guest should make him a greater gifts than he makes the guest this is regarded as something in the nature of an insult, a betrayal of hospitality; after all, the host is not running an inn, extending hospitality like a merchant, for profit; and the host must not appear more stingy than the guest who, theoretically, is the one being welcomed and sheltered; in Torvaldsland, thus, the greater the generosity is the host’s prerogative; should the Forkbeard, however, have come to Port Kar then, of course, it would have been my prerogative to make him the greater gifts than he did me. This is, it seems to me, an intelligent custom; the host, giving first, and knowing what he can afford to give, sets the limit to the giving; the guest then makes certain that his gifts are less than those of the host; the host, in giving more, wins honor as a host; the guest, in giving less, does the host honor. Accordingly, I was concerned to find a gift for the Forkbeard; it must not be too valuable, but yet, of course, I wanted it to be something that he would appreciate.
I was on my way to the shopping booths, those near the wharves, where the best merchandise is found, when I stopped to observe the shooting.
“Win Leah! Win Leah, Master!” I heard.
I looked upon her, and she looked upon me.
She stood on the thick, rounded block; it was about a yard high, and five feet in diameter;she was dark-haired, long-haired; she had a short, luscious body, thick ankles; her hands were on her hips. “Win Leah, Master!” she challenged. She was naked, except for the Torvaldsland collar of black iron on her neck, with its projecting ring, and the heavy chain padlocked about her right ankle; the chain was about a yard long; it secured her, by means of a heavy ring, to the block. She laughed. “Win Leah, Master!” she challenged. She, with the archery talmit, was the prize in the shooting.
I noted her brand. It was a southern brand, the first letter, in cursive script, of Kajira, the most common expression for a Gorean female slave. It was entered deeply in her left thigh. Further, I noticed that she had addressed me as “Master,” rather than “my Jarl.” I took it, from these indications, that she had learned her collar in the south; probably originally it had been a lock collar, snugly fitting, of steel; now, of course, it had been replaced with the riveted collar of black iron, with the projecting ring, so useful for running a chain through, or for padlocking, or linking on an anvil, with a chain. The southern collar, commonly, lacks such a ring; the southern ankle ring, however, has one, and sometimes two, one in the front and one in the back.
“Will you not try to win Leah, Master?” she taunted.
“Are you trained?” I asked.
She seemed startled. “In Ar,” she whispered. “But surely you would not make me use my training in the north.”
I looked upon her. She seemed the perfect solution to my problem. The gift of a female is sufficiently trivial that the honor ofthe Forkbeard as my host would not be in the least threatened; further, this was a desirable wench, whose cuddly slave body would be much relished by the Forkbeard and his crew; further, being trained, she would be a rare and exquisite treat for the rude giants of Torvaldsland; beyond this, of course, commanded, she would impart her skills to the best of her abilities to his other girls.
“You will do,” I told her.
“I do not understand,” she said, stepping back. The chain slid on the wood.
“Your name, and accent,” I said, “bespeak an Earth origin.”
“Yes,” she whispered.
“Where are you from?” I asked.
“ Canada,” she whispered.
“You were once a woman of Earth,” I said.
“Yes,” she said.
“But now you are only a Gorean slave girl,” I told her.
“I am well aware of that, Master,” she said.
I turned away from her. The target in the shooting was about six inches in width, at a range of about one hundred yards. With the great bow, the peasant bow, this is not difficult work. Many marksmen, warriors, peasants, rencers, could have matched my shooting. It was, of course, quite unusual in Torvaldsland. I put twenty sheaf arrows into the target, until it bristled with wood and the feathers of the Vosk gull.
When I retrieved my arrows, to the shouting of the men, the pounding of their bows on their shields, the girl had been already unchained from the block.
I gave my name to the presiding official. Talmits would be officially awarded tomorrow. I accepted his congratulations.
My girl prize knelt at my feet. I looked down upon her “What are you?” I asked.
“Only a Gorean slave girl, Master,” she said.
“Do not forget it,” I told her.
“I shall not, Master,” she whispered.
“Stand,” I told her.