“Yes,” she said, “that is it!”
“But you feared to be caught, unengaged in labors, lest Pertinax, your master, beat you for dalliance?”
“You have found me out,” she said, sadly. “Please do not inform my master.”
“Your severe master?”
“Yes,” she said, head down, “I do not wish to be beaten.”
“You have never been beaten in your life,” I said.
She looked up, angrily.
“It is hard to know whether there is a man in Pertinax or not,” I said. “If there is, it is hard to see, for the spineless urt.”
A flicker of a smile crossed her countenance.
How she despised him!
Women despise men for weakness, and fear them for strength.
“And I doubt you have ever looked on anything,” I said, “without considering how it might be put to your advantage.”
“That is not true!” she said.
“Perhaps when you were younger,” I said.
“Let me go!” she said.
“You are a mercenary, of sorts,” I said.
“I am a mere, worthless slave,” she said, humbly, “only a Gorean slave girl.”
“We are going to have a talk,” I said.
“Release me!” she demanded.
I stood back, and, for a time, regarded her.
“Do not look at me like that!” she said.
“Why should I not do so?” I inquired.
“It, it makes me uncomfortable!” she said.
To be sure, the tunic was a bit long, and heavy, but her arms, at any rate, were bared.
“Please,” she said.
“A slave,” I said, “should hope that she would be so looked upon, and should hope that she would find favor in a man’s eyes.”
“Beast!” she said.
“You are a slave, are you not?” I asked.
“Certainly!” she said.
“And your master is Pertinax?” I said.
“— Yes!” she said.
“What is your brand?” I asked.
“I am not branded!” she said. “That is a cruel thing to do, and Pertinax, my master, has not had it done to me.”
“A slave should be branded,” I said.
“I am not branded,” she said.
“Do I have your word on that?” I asked.
“Certainly!” she said.
I then went to her tunic, and, on the left side, lifted the tunic to the hip.
“Monster!” she wept, and pulled at the ropes.
The common branding site is the left thigh, just under the hip. The common tunic, of course, covers the brand. A side-slit tunic makes the brand easily detectible, and certain other garments, as well, for example the common camisk.
“Do not!” she said, pulling away.
Some masters, after all, are left-handed.
“Beast, beast!” she said.
I smoothed down the tunic, on both sides, and she pressed back, against the slim trunk of the tree, and turned her head, angrily, and looked to the side.
“You are not branded,” I said, “at least not obviously.”
“I told you that,” she said, angrily.
“I thought you might be lying,” I said.
“I was not,” she said.
“A slave should be branded,” I said. “It is an explicit recommendation of Merchant Law.”
“My master is too kind to brand me,” she said.
“It is not a matter of kindness,” I said. “It is simply something to be done with a slave, routinely.”
“Well, I am not branded,” she said, turning to look at me, angrily.
“You are sure you are a slave?” I asked.
“— Certainly,” she said. “If you look closely, perhaps you can see that I am in a collar!”
“Do you like your collar?” I asked.
“Of course not,” she said. “It is humiliating, degrading, and hateful.”
“Is it uncomfortable?” I asked.
“No,” she said.
“Most slave girls love their collars,” I said. “Many would not trade them for the world.”
“I see,” she said.
“They are certificates of their attractiveness, that they are of interest to men, that they have been found worth collaring.”
“I see,” she said.
“Collar!” I snapped.
“What?” she said.
She had not lifted her head, exposing her throat and the encircling collar.
I approached her and examined the collar. “This collar is not engraved,” I said. “Should it not identify you as the property of Pertinax, of Port Kar?”
“It is a plain collar,” she said.
“Doubtless it is locked,” I said.
“Certainly,” she said. “I am a slave.”
I turned the collar, and tested the lock, and then turned it, again, so that the lock was at the back of the neck.
“You see!” she sniffed.
That she seemed so calm about this convinced me that she had access to the key, that either it would be within the hut, or, perhaps, more likely, on her person. It seemed clear to me, from what I had seen of her relationship with Pertinax, her supposed master, he would not have it.
I was reasonably certain she would be terrified if the key were not in her own possession.
In the hut, it might be available to others.
I supposed, then, that the key would be about her person, somewhere.
“What are you doing?” she said.
“Here,” I said, “at the hem.”
“Do not!” she wept, trying to pull away.
It was a moment’s work, with the point of my knife, to free the key, which I then held before her.
She averted her head, in misery.
I wondered if she knew the penalties to which a Gorean slave might be subject, for such a crime.
I supposed not.
“Come back!” she cried.
I had turned about and walked down, toward the shore, and stood there, my ankles in the lapping water.
“No!” she begged.
I spun the key far out into the waves.
“No, no!” she called.
I then returned to where I had left her.
“The collar is locked!” she said. “I cannot take it off!”
“That is common with female slaves,” I said.
“You do not understand!” she hissed.
“What do I not understand?” I asked.
“Nothing, nothing,” she said, sullenly.
“Do not fear,” I said. “With proper tools the collar may be easily removed. Any metal worker, with the proper tools, could manage the business without difficulty.”
“Beast!” she said.
“How does it feel to be collared, truly collared?” I asked.
“I hate you!” she said.
“Now that you are truly collared,” I said, “I think certain other adjustments would be in order.”
“Stop!” she said.
But, tied, as she was, she could not deter my work, and I carefully, without being extreme, or excessive, in the matter, shortened the skirt of her tunic in such a way that it would be more typical in length for that of a Gorean slave girl.
“Beast, monster!” she hissed.
“I do not think Pertinax will mind,” I said. “And if he wishes to shorten it further, to make it truly ‘slave short,’ or ‘slave delightful,’ he is free to do so.”
“Do you not understand!” she exclaimed. “If someone sees me like this, they will take me for a slave!”
“You are a slave, are you not?” I asked.
“— Yes, yes,” she whispered.
“And I did not slit the skirt at the left thigh,” I said, “so Goreans will assume it is branded. If it were discerned that it lacked the brand, they would doubtless soon see that the oversight, one scarcely pardonable, was remedied.”
In her distress I do not think she even understood what I was saying.
I then fastened my hands at the neckline of the tunic.
“No,” she said. “No!”
“Why not?” I asked.
“I am not a slave!” she said. “I am a free woman!”