Gor - Nomads For Gor Part 22

Elizabeth Cardwell also had her head up, kneeling very straight, obviously not unconscious that she herself was the object of a look or two.

I noted that, in spite of the fact that Aphris had now been in the wagon for several days, Kamchak had not yet called for the Iron Master. The girl had neither been branded nor had the Tuchuk nose ring been affixed. This seemed to me of interest. Moreover, after the first day or two he had hardly- cuffed the girl, though he had once beaten her rather severely when she had dropped a cup. Now I saw that, though she had been only a few days his slave, already he was permitting her to wear the camisk. I smiled rather grimly to myself and took a significant swallow of Paga. "Wily Tuchuk, eh?" I thought to myself.

Aphris, for her part, though the quivas were still available, seemed, shortly after having begun to sleep at Kamchak's boots, for some reason to have thought the better of bury- ing one in his heart. It would not have been wise, of course, for even were she successful, her consequent hideous death at the hands of the Clan of Torturers would probably, all things considered, have made her act something of a bad bargain.

On the other hand she may have feared that Kamchak would simply turn around and seize her. After all, it is difficult to sneak up on a man while wearing collar and bells. Also, she may have feared more than death that if she failed in an attempt to slay him she would be plunged in the sack again which lay ever ready near the back, left wheel of the wagon.

That seemed to be an experience which she, no more than Elizabeth Cardwell, was not eager to repeat.

Well did I recall the first day following the first night of Aphris as the slave of Kamchak. We had slept late that day and finally when Kamchak managed to be up and around, after a late breakfast served rather slowly by Elizabeth, and had recollected Aphris and had opened the end of her sleep- ing quarters and she had crawled out backward and had begged, head to boot, to be allowed to draw water for the bask, though it was early, it seemed evident to all that the lovely wench from Turia would not, could she help it, spend a night again similar to her first in the encampment of Tuchuks. "Where will you sleep tonight, Slave?" Kamchak had demanded. "If my master will permit," said the girl, with great apparent sincerity, "at his feet." Kamchak laughed.

"Get up, Lazy Girl," said he, "the bask need watering." Grate- fully Aphris of Turia had taken up the leather buckets and hurried away to fetch water.

I heard a bit of chain and looked up. Kamchak tossed me the other hobble. "Secure the barbarian," he said.

This startled me, and startled Elizabeth as well.

How was it that Kamchak would have me secure his slave?

She was his, not mine. There is a kind of implicit claim of ownership involved in putting a wench in slave steel. It is seldom done save by a master.

Suddenly Elizabeth was kneeling terribly straight, looking ahead, breathing very quickly.

I reached around and took her right wrist, drawing it behind her body. I locked the wrist ring about her wrist. Then I took her left ankle in my hand and lifted it a bit, slipping the open ankle ring under it. Then I pressed the ring shut. It closed with a small, heavy click.

Her eyes suddenly met mine, timid, frightened.

I put the key in my pouch and turned my attention to the crowd. Kamchak now had his right arm about Aphris.

"In a short time," he was telling her, "you will see what a real woman can do."

"She will be only a slave such as I," Aphris was respond- ing.

I turned to face Elizabeth. She was regarding me, it seemed, with incredible shyness. "What does it mean," she asked, "that you have chained me?"

"Nothing," I said.

Her eyes dropped. Without looking up, she said, "He likes her.

"Aphris the Slave?" I asked.

"Will I be sold?" she asked.

I saw no reason to hide this from the girl. "It is possible,"

I said.

She looked up, her eyes suddenly moist. "Tart Cabot," she said, whispering, "if I am to be sold buy me."

I looked at her with incredulity.

"Why?" I asked.

Kamchak reached across Elizabeth and dragged the Paga bottle out of my hand. Then he was wrestling with Aphris and had her head back, fingers pinching her nose, the neck of the bottle thrust between her teeth. She was struggling and laughing and shaking her head. Then she had to breathe and a great draught of Paga burned its way down her throat making her gasp and cough. I doubt that she had ever before experienced a drink stronger than the syrupy wines of Turia.

She was now gasping and shaking her head and Kamchak was pounding her on the back.

"Why?" I again asked Elizabeth.

But Elizabeth, with her free left hand had seized the Paga bottle from Kamchak, and, to his amazement, had thrown back her head and taken, without realizing the full import of her action, about five l.u.s.ty, guzzling swallows of Paga. Then, as I rescued the bottle, her eyes opened very wide and then blinked about ten times. She exhaled slowly as if fire might be sizzling out instead of breath and then she shook, a delayed reaction, as if she had been thumped five times and then began to cough spasmodically and painfully until I, fearing she might suffocate, pounded her several times on the back. At last, bent over, gasping for breath, she seemed to be coming around. I held her by the shoulders and suddenly she turned herself in my hands and, as I was sitting cross-legged, threw herself on her back across my lap, her right wrist still chained to her left ankle. She stretched insolently, as well as she could. I was astounded. She looked up at me. "Because I am better than Dina and Tenchika," she said.

"But not better than Aphris," called Aphris.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, "better than Aphris."

"Get up, Little She-Sleen," said Kamchak, amused, "or to preserve my honor I must have you impaled."

Elizabeth looked up at me.

"She's drunk," I told Kamchak.

"Some men might like a barbarian girl," Elizabeth said.

I hoisted Elizabeth back up on her knees. "No one will buy me," she wailed.

There were immediate offers from three or four of the Tuchuks gathered about, and I was afraid that Kamchak might, if the bids improved, part with Miss Cardwell on the spot.

"Sell her," advised Aphris.

"Be quiet, Slave," said Elizabeth.

_.

158.

NOMADS OF GOR.

- Kamchak was roaring with laughter.

The Paga had apparently hit Miss Cardwell swiftly and hard. She seemed barely able to kneel and, at last, I per- I misted her to lean against me, and she did, her chin on my j right shoulder.

"You know," said Kamchak, "the Little Barbarian wears your chain well."

"Nonsense," I said.

"I saw," said Kamchak, "how at the games when you thought the men of Turia charging you were prepared to rescue the wench."

"l wouldn't have wanted your property Kamchak," I said.

"You like her," announced Kamchak.

"Nonsense," I said to him.

"Nonsense," said Elizabeth, sleepily.

"Sell her to him," recommended Aphris, hiccuping.

"You only want to be First Girl," said Elizabeth.

"I'd give her away myself," said Aphris. "She is only a barbarian."

Elizabeth lifted her head from my shoulder and regarded me. She spoke in English. "My name is Miss Elizabeth Cardwell, Mr. Cabot," she said, "would you like to buy me?"

"No," I said, in English.

"I didn't think so," she said, again in English, and put her head back on my shoulder.

"Did you not observe," asked Kamchak, "how she moved and breathed when you locked the steel on her?"

I hadn't thought much about it. "I guess not," I said.

"Why do you think I let you chain her?" asked Kamchak.

"I don't know," I said.

"To see," he said. "And it is as I thought your steel kindles her."

"Nonsense," I said.

"Nonsense." said Elizabeth.

"I suppose," said Elizabeth, "I could hop all the way on one foot."

I myself doubted that this would be feasible, particularly In her condition.

"You probably could," said Aphris, "you have muscular legs"

I did not regard Miss Cardwell's legs as muscular. She was, however, a good runner.

Miss Cardwell lifted her chin from my shoulder. "Slave,"

she said.

"Barbarian," retorted Aphris.

"Release her," said Kamchak.

1 reached into the pouch at my belt to secure the key to the hobble.

"No," said Elizabeth, "I will stay."

"If Master permits," added Aphris.

"Yes," said Elizabeth, glowering, "if Master permits."

"All right," said Kamchak.

"Thank you, Master," said Elizabeth politely, and once more put her head on my shoulder.

"You should buy her" said Kamchak.

"No," I said.

''I will give you a good price," he said.

Oh, yes, I said to myself, a good price, and ho, ho, ho.

"No," I said.

"Very well," said Kamchak.

I breathed more easily.

About that time the black-clad figure of a woman ap- peared on the steps of the slave wagon. I heard Kamchak hush up Ahpris of Turia and he gave Elizabeth a poke in the ribs that she might bestir herself. "Watch, you miserable cooking-pot wenches," he said, "and learn a thing or two!"

A silence came over the crowd. Almost without meaning to, I noticed, over to one side, a hooded member of the Clan of Torturers. I was confident it was he who had often followed me about the camp.

But this matter was dismissed from my mind by the performance which was about to begin. Aphris was watching intently, her lips parted. Kamchak's eyes were gleaming.

Even Elizabeth had lifted her head now from my shoulder and was rising on her knees a bit for a clearer view.

The figure of the woman, swathed in black, heavily veiled, descended the steps of the slave wagon. Once at the foot of the stairs she stopped and stood for a long moment. Then the musicians began, the hand-drums first, a rhythm of heartbeat and flight.

To the music, beautifully, it seemed the frightened figure ran first here and then there, occasionally avoiding imaginary objects or throwing up her arms, ran as though through the crowds of a burning city alone, yet somehow suggesting the presence about her of hunted others. Now, in the back- ground, scarcely to be seen, was the figure of a warrior in scarlet cape. He, too, in his way, though hardly seeming to move, approached, and it seemed that wherever the girl might flee there was found the warrior. And then at last his hand was upon her shoulder and she threw hack her and lifted her hands and it seemed her entire hotly was wretchedness and despair. He turned the figure to hen and, with both hands, brushed away hood and veil.

There was a cry of delight from the crowd.

The girl's face was fixed in the dancer's stylized moan of terror, but she was beautiful. I had seen her before, of course, as had Kamchak, but it was startling still to see her thus in the firelight her hair was long and silken black, her eyes dark, the color of her skin tarnish.

She seemed to plead with the warrior but he did not move.

She seemed to writhe in misery and try to escape his grip but she did not.

Then he removed his hands from her shoulders and, as the crowd cried out, she sank in abject misery at his feet and performed the ceremony of submission, kneeling, lowering the head and lifting and extending the arms, wrists crossed.

The warrior then turned from her and held out one hand.