Provident Son

Perhaps one day the warrior in man would die, and with him, the fighter, the wanderer, the wonderer, the explorer, the adventurer, the rover, the doer, and hoper. The days of the lonely ones, the walkers and seekers, would then be at an end. Men might then become, as many wished, as cattle and flowers, and be free to spend their days in placid grazing, until they died beneath the distant, burning, unsought suns.

But it was difficult to know what the mists of the morning would bring.

I contented myself with the thought the deeds had been done, which now, whether recollected or not, or however viewed, were irrevocably fixed in their fullness and truth in the fabric of eternity. They had been. Nothing, nothing ever, could change that. The meaning in history lies not in the future but in the moment. It is never anywhere but within our grasp. And if the history of man, terminated, should turn out to have been but a brief flicker in the midst of unnoticing oblivions let it at least have been worthy of the moment in which it burned. But perhaps it would prove to be a spark which would, in time, illuminate a universe.

It is difficult to know what the mists of the morning may bring.

Much depends upon what man is.

Much depends upon what he shall decide himself to be.

___________________

(Explorers of Gor 193-194)

A Free Woman

"Do not make me come for you," I said to her.

There is a saying, 'Within every woman is both a slave girl and a free woman.' I think that is mostly true, as the world works best with both types of women, and the potentiality of all women to be either. Or both. All women, of course, by nature, are slave girls. This, for me, is irrefutable. What, then, would life be if all women, in the legal and literal sense, were made slaves? Wake up tomorrow to find the proclamation that all women, effective immediately, are to be stripped, branded, and subject to ownership to the first man to place a collar about her throat. Or, perhaps, it would be better to make arrangements with neighboring cities that equitable exchanges might be made. In any case, this is not a favorable situation. Not all women are pleasing enough, whether inwardly or outwardly, to be slave girls. Too, who would be the mothers of our children? Also, it is true that many free women make valuable contributions to society. I have known brilliant Scribes, for example, that just happened to be free women. I knew a woman of the Bakers who was rumored to be a beauty, that was ambitious, hard-working, and also a free woman. They were slaves, of course, inherently, because they were women, but their contributions as free women to society were not unworthy of mention. The ultimate point I am making is simple. If a woman makes a contribution to society and comports herself in a manner fitting a free woman, she should be able to retain the dignity of her robes.

There is always the possibility, however, that she will fall to a man trying his chain luck. Or she might attract the attention of a man that desires her.

"You are mine to chain," I said to her.

I permitted her to leave. In time, she will understand the truth of that statement. In time, she will accept that there will be no compromises. I will relate to her as a man to a woman. Not as equals. I want her to retain her freedom, having felt the whip. She will return, in time.

Jealousy

"I am hungry, Master," Mina said to me as I entered the villa, and found her much as I left her the previous evening, chained by the ankle to the foot of my couch.

I left before Lar Torvis set, and returned just as it rose. I saw to the sleen first, of course, finding her curled up on the back porch. She greeted me with a yawning maw, and no immediate complaints about sustenance. Sleen, of course, have the benefit of an evolved metabolism, that they may, when put on a scent, hunt tirelessly for days on end. Missing her supper would not have given her much cause for concern.

"Did you find her pretty, Master," Mina said to me as she ate her breakfast. I had her fry the eggs of vulo, traded for in the markets of Venna. There was flatbread, and some ka-la-na fruit set aside from the previous day's harvesting for my meal. Mina, of course, ate her gruel.

"Did I find who pretty?" I asked her, dabbing a bit of yolk from the corner of my mouth with the back of my hand. Mina licked at it gratefully when I offered it to her, and then answered.

"The free woman, who remained here the other night. After the Merchant took his leave," she answered. She spoke quietly, staring at her bowl.

"It would have been rather scandalous, would it not, to have glimpsed upon her bare face, even for something so inconsequential as to gather the objective information to make such a determination?" I asked her.

She paused for a moment, brow furrowed. I suspect Mina was somewhat jealous of the attention I paid the free woman who remained behind after Ibrahim of Tor left the villa with his wards and his retinue. She asked another question.

"Did you call on the free woman last night, Master?"

"Are you curious as to my whereabouts, Mina?"

"Yes, Master," she said, straightening, emboldening herself. She did not elect, I noted, to meet my eyes.

"Perhaps you should be beaten," I said.

"Whatever pleases you, Master," she answered. I did not much care for her tone.

"Would you have preferred we remained in Port Kar, above the tavern, in the rented room?"

I saw her breath catch, and the corner of her left eye moisten.

"Yes, Master. I would have preferred we remained in Port Kar, where Mina kept your room tidy and did your shopping," she said.

"I am not of Port Kar," I answered. It was a simple enough answer, and a true one. However, I do look back on my time in Port Kar, truth be told, fondly. Perhaps I will return one day.

Mina pushed her bowl aside, having finished it. I could see she had more to say, but feared the saying of it.

"You were with her, the free woman, last night!" she shouted. It was a sudden thing. I admit it caught me off guard. I choked a bit on a swallow of wine, and then turned my head curiously as I dabbed my lips.

"You left Mina here! Alone, and hungry!" she continued, her boldness growing as it found a voice. "And now I must hurry my breakfast! And bathe! And tie up my hair! And stomp the grapes! Squish! Squish! Squish! I hate the grapes! I hate the grapes!"

"I was unaware," I said to her, as if she hadn't just shouted at me.

Suddenly, then, realizing she had lost control, she threw herself forward. Her hair about my feet, her forehead creasing with the leather of my sandals. Her hot tears were flowing freely now, and she shivered. Would I beat her? Would I sell her? Would I throw her to the sleen on the back porch? She did not know.

"Forgive Mina," she said with a shaky voice. "Please, Master."

"Lick your bowl clean, slave girl." I said to her. "Tend to the dishes, mine and your own, and then bathe yourself. Tie your hair up. Put a strip of rep cloth about your hips. See to the grapes," I said to her.

"Yes, Master," she said.

Later, after I had taken a nap and she had finished with the grapes, I would whip her.

Ibrahim of Tor; Mina is given a camisk

"Does it please you, Master?" Mina asked me, unsure of herself.

I could understand her trepidation. Most of the time, she is kept nude or thrown a piece of rep cloth to wrap about her hips. If I take her into the city, I might allow her a girl tunic that shows off her legs. She stood before me this morning, however, modeling a rather plain camisk that fell to just above her knees. It was sleeveless, of course, as she is a slave. The neckline, unusually, did nothing to display the curve of her bosom.

"I am pleased," I assured her.

I will have guests this evening. I reacquainted myself with the Merchant, Ibrahim of Tor, while I was at the markets of Venna, bartering wine and olives for cheeses and bread. The Merchant had accompanying him several wards, a dozen or more free women. As they were free women, I did not bother to take an accurate count. Where free women are concerned, estimates suffice. Accordingly, Ibrahim and a dozen or so free women will be guests at my Vennan domicile. I thought it was only polite to give Mina something somewhat modest to wear. I will have to encourage her to reacquaint her right knee with her left knee, as well. They've scarcely touched one another since I locked steel on her throat during my stay in Port Kar.

"Have you spoken with Turianus?" I asked. "Locutius? Alcobiades, perhaps?"

I was speaking with Vesutto about the theater. Plays, actors and such. Of the three actors mentioned, one was of Torcadino, another was of Ar, and one, specifically Locutius, was said, simply, to be 'of Gor.'

"I have not," he confessed, "but such can be arranged, surely."

"I have written a new play," I told him.

"Excellent," he answered.

It was the mid-afternoon. Vesutto and I dined on olives, cheese, and a round of sa-tarna. The wine, as it was the middle of the day, was cut with water. Vesutto is a wealthy Merchant of Venna. He speaks of things such as 'intellectual property' and 'calculating ratios of profitability.' He was not amused when I, quite seriously, asked him what fishing had to do with the theater. Apparently, 'net income' is not at all related to the number of fish one can scoop from the water on a single cast. Mina knelt quietly in the corner, waiting to be of service. If she was curious as to the nature of our conversation, she masked it well. In the several months I have owned her, she has not been permitted to know my name, nor my caste. When my guest left, and I had retired for the evening, she spoke to me. It was quite late in the evening.

"I saw a play once," she said, her voice somewhat forlorn.

I was not sure what business she had being forlorn, neck-chained to the floor of a perfectly lovely villa. What with her captor, the fellow that owned her, raping her more that he beat her most days. I had to pause for a moment, thinking this might have something to do with profitability ratios, but I dismissed the notion as unlikely and conversed with the wistful slave.

"Surely, in a city as refined as Ko-r0-ba, a Lady called Philomena attended the theater on a regular basis," I answered.

"No, Master," she replied. "The only play I...the Lady Philomena...saw was at the Fair of En-Kara."
I whistled. "That is a long way to go to see a play."
"It was my first trip to the Sardar," she said. "The play was called..."
"...Fall of Agamedes," I said, finishing her sentence, venturing an educated guess.
"Yes, Master," she said. "How did you know, Mas..."
"Go to sleep, Mina," I answered.
I watched her for a time. It is pleasant to watch her sleep, nude and chained, at the foot of my couch. She is a distraction, as most slaves worthy of the collar are. There is much on my mind these days. The olives cure in their pots on the back porch. The last of the ready ka-la-na fruit has been harvested, and stomped. By the time the skin of Mina's pretty calves and feet are completely free of the stains, there will be more fruit for her to harvest. More fruit to be crushed beneath her toes. Vesutto has arranged for the ripened olives to be taken to Ar on his wagons. The wine, when there are bottles to send, go with his wagons, too.
"It is quite good," he said to me. "With a dozen or so kajiri, refinement in the method of production..."
I thanked him, but I am not interested in furrowing more fields, 'maximizing my earning potential,' or even 'diversifying my portfolio.' As Merchants go, Vesutto is a good fellow. He keeps to his codes, always placing profit above all else. He makes for an unlikely friend, but a perfectly logical business partner. He does not appreciate aesthetics in the way I do, in the way I like to think most men do. There is more to a rolling field than the number of plots one might seed. One would lose the beauty of dew-soaked blades of grass in the morning, were one to plow every hort of property and place stakes for planting. On the other hand, as Vesutto has tried vainly to explain to me on a number of occasions, without the Caste of Merchants; Builders would build, Scribes would study, Potters would make clay goods, Peasants would labor in their fields, Warriors would defend the walls of their given cities, and so on, but there would be no one to ensure the economy remained viable in relation to other cities. He will go on, at times like these, to explain weights and measures, the value of precious metals, the store of a city's wealth, the quality of exported goods and on and on until he realizes that it is not necessary for me to understand such things, at least to the degree that he does.
"You are of the Merchants," I say to him. "I am a Poet."
I think of Ar, just south of Venna, beyond the great forests. Gleaming, and glorious. There is no finer city, none that I have visited in my extensive travels. There are many fine cities. Many beautiful cities. Many exotic and thrilling places, but none finer. There is still a twinge now and again, and were I a romantic I would say it is a tugging on the strings of my heart, but I know better. The ribs have mended and the ripped flesh has knitted together beneath the scar tissue, but I do not think I am healed after all of this time.

...I was silenced, at the moment of declaration
I met an old woman with young eyes

She scrubbed the stain of rebellion from my hands
Struck once, I was not struck again...

Acquired Tastes; Delicious Morsels

"I do not care for the olives, Master," Mina said to me.

With the groves tended to, and Tor-tu-Gor starting to give way to the moons, I am frequently on the back porch of the villa working on the olives. I do not mind the preparation, but it takes a few hands before one may enjoy the fruit one has harvested, so to speak.

"They are an acquired taste," I answered, as I squeezed a bit of tospit juice into a pot of sufficiently soaked and rinsed olives. "Doubtless, they do not compare to the ambrosia that is your gruel."

Her nose wrinkled. It could not be a non-verbal, nonplussed response to the notion that her gruel was delicious. Once, having complained that her gruel was cold, and having been subsequently denied nourishment for two days, she assured me that her gruel was highly pleasing to her. Eminently palatable, even when cold.

"Am I an acquired taste?" she asked. I had to think on that for a moment.

"One makes do with what one has," I said with a shrug, as I sliced garlic for the brine.

"Master makes do with what he has," she pressed. "Often."

"It is often foolish to assume there are correlations, based on insufficient and inherently biased data," I countered.

"Master?"

"For example, you assume that I have 'acquired a taste' for you due to the fact that I make use of you, when and where I please, and frequently," I said.

She bit her lip, and squirmed a bit. 'Yes, Master."

"Further, you have attempted to draw an analogy to the fact that most, if not all, must acquire a taste for olives to yourself, implying that most would not like the taste of you from the first bite."

Her eyes widened a bit, briefly, and she blushed.

"That is patently false," I continued. "You are a delicious, little tart. Soft, and moist. Fragrant. Like the flaky crust of a tart, you are delicate. Easily crumbled."

"Master," she whispered, scandalized. I found it humorous, after all I have subjected her to in these past months, that Mina might still be, quite easily, scandalized.

I shrugged.

"Am I any good?" she asked.

I paused for a moment, and considered the question before I replied. "You are adequate. One could own worse."

"I do not understand," she said. I suppose it could be confusing, to be told she was delicious, but also only adequate.

"There are sweet tarts, and savory tarts. There are tarts baked in the kitchens of Ko-ro-ba, Torcadino, and such. And there are tarts baked in the kitchens of Ar," I said. "There are bakeries here, in Venna, that draw men from hundreds of pasangs."

I placed a cork in the pot of olives I had been preparing, having added garlic and the juice of a tospit to the brine, and used a grease pencil to note the date of preparation. These things are important. Once must allow the ingredients time to come together.

"I am a delicious, little tart," she said.

"Quite," I agreed.

"And adequately pleasing?" she asked.

"Just," I confirmed.

"I will endeavor to be sweet," she said. "And sometimes savory."

"You have no choice in the matter," I informed her.

"Have me, Master," she begged, suddenly. She is only a girl. Her needs come upon her like that, not infrequently.

"Perhaps later," I said.

"Please, Master," she sued. "Taste Mina."

"In an ahn or two," I said. "Or tomorrow, maybe."

"Am I not delicious?" she asked.

"Quite," I assured her as I corked another pot of olives and set it on a tray to cure with the others. "You will be tastier, I think, in an ahn or two. Tastier still, tomorrow."

She wept a bit, genuinely I thought. How attractive the vulnerability of a slave can be! I resolved myself, however, to wait a bit. To let her simmer. To let her, not unlike the olives in the clay pots, cure in her own juices for a bit. Yes, she would be tastier in an ahn or two. Tastier still, tomorrow.

"Please," she begged, her upper body bent between her spread thighs, her cheek on my bare thigh, beneath the hem of my tunic, licking at my leg as she could.

A devious slut, I thought, for I knew she would derive pleasure from this, even if she were not touched or caressed herself.

"Tomorrow, I think, is soon enough for having you," I said, fixing my hand in her hair.

Admittedly, I considered advancing her cheek further up my thigh, with the intention of feeding her something other than gruel, but I steeled myself against this. Mina, I realized, was becoming a slave girl, inwardly and outwardly. She was beginning to understand what she was for, what all women, essentially, were for. I would have to chain her tonight, wrists behind her, and gag her. Tomorrow would be soon enough. Early in the morning, when she had finally, fitfully, succumbing to exhaustion, fallen asleep, I would slap her awake, startling her, causing her to whimper behind the gag. Then, at her most helpless, gagged and bound, I would make use of her. Then, having contented myself, she would attend her chores for the day.

A Cup Raised

I let myself get drunk about a hand or so ago. Well and truly drunk, the way I used to with men like Seth Gage, Plythias, and Russ Finn. My brother, Varhan, and I, too, used to drink to excess now and again. And Sal DeVade, wherever he may be. I raised a cup to them all. It was the first bottle from the vineyard, you see, that aged two years without turning to piss. I've since sent a few crates to the Marketplaces of Ar, along with several small pots of olives. There isn't any profit in this endeavor, nor is there meant to be. Not that I intend to drink myself out of any potential profits, just that the margins for such an enterprise are best understood by the Vintners; men whose business it is to grow, harvest, ferment, and bottle ta-grapes, and the succulent fruit of ka-la-na trees. I have a modest grove, nothing more than a testament to vanity, perhaps. I am a vagabond Poet, sometimes a playwright, once a politician and whoremonger. I know plenty about turning a phrase, twisting a plot, the realities of red-tape, and turning a slut out. I know very little about how one becomes wealthy from the growing of fruit, nor do I care to know. It is enough to have the wine and the olives, and to have enough to share. And while I had raised a cup to my brother, and friends I once called brother, I raised my cup first to a mere girl. She followed along with me to wipe the sweat from my brow as I tilled the field and plotted the stakes. Her hands picked the first harvest with me, and her feet later stomped them. After pressing, and filtering, she handed me the nails when I hammered the lid to that first barrel, sealing it shut for fermentation.

Were she here today, she would have been permitted to drink this first bottle with me.

Poetry in the Margin

Just a little softer, for
I know your secret, and
I feel it, dull and aching
Throbbing there
Beside my heart, where
You kissed and slipped away

Blood and bone, I alone
Know the unknown, and
I felt it, rent and breaking
Pouring freely
Soaking the stones, where
You watched me fade away

Yesterday and Today

"Master," she whispered from her place at the foot of my couch.
The day had been long for her. Every day is long for her. She is a slave. I no longer own a brothel full of slaves to put to tasks both menial and mundane. There is only Mina, and she is enough. She wakes at dawn most days, often with a kick to her flank. I suppose I am strict. I have been many things to slaves in the past. Harsh, at times. Loving, at others. Understanding, on one hand. Unreasonable, on the other. I have walked hand in hand with a girl down a public street, illiciting murmurs of 'coddler' from the more judgmental of my peers. I have walked down that same street with a girl bent at the waist, her head to my hip and her hair grasped roughly in my fist. I have had girls branded, and chosen not to do so with others. I have freed a slave or two in my day, and kept others in the most abject positions on my chain with little or no hope for a better lot in life, let alone the notion of existence out of the collar.
"Please have me," she begged, tears welling.
I have had slaves intensely devoted to me, and others that I frustrated so deeply that they ran from me. Of those that ran, I hunted a few. Others, I let run. I have had women that were nothing more than physical diversions, used for the desire their scent and their curves provoked in me. I have had others that I enjoyed speaking with, at length, on a variety of subjects. These were women that were obviously thoughtful, and laudably intelligent before they became the property of men. I have taught whores and barbarians to read and write The Language, and play musical instruments. A few times in my life, I allowed a mere slave girl to assume the role of 'every woman' to me. I took the time to learn everything about her, physically and emotionally, stripping her bare before me, leaving her utterly vulnerable beneath me.
"Please," she said.
Her cheek was on the bare floor, staring boldly at me. She was nude. Her shoulders were low and her hips were high. After an exhausting day, she was yet restless. She wound the heavy chain I secure her with about her body, circling her waist with it. There are times she fights me, asks too many questions of me. There are times she earns the whip that I put to her on a regular basis. And there are times she simply submits, both to me and to herself. Mina is not very good, but she is hungry. And she is learning.

Questions

The sky opened up last night. The rain fell in wet, constant sheets for several ahn. I stood on the porch at dawn, when all had abated. The fields were intensely verdant, beautifully alive. I could hear Mina inside, singing as she bathed in the metal tub. The songs she knows all have to do with Ko-ro-ba, mostly having to do with the way the sun bathes her pastel cylinders at the start of each day. They call the place ‘The Towers of the Morning’ for a reason. Objectively, it is one of the finest things I have seen in all my travels, so I indulge a slave and let her sing of what was once home. Tasta is not much for the rain, so I imagine it was a restless night on the porch for the sleen. She only chuffed and then rolled over, slipping back into her slumber when I stepped out on the porch with her.

When Mina finished with her bath, she had work ahead of her. The same work she has had since the second day of En’Kara.
“Must I stomp the grapes, Master?” she asked. She wore her hair up in a kerchief. I allow her a rag to cover her hips, but only her collar past that.
“Do you question a command, slave girl?” I said.

“No, Master! Certainly not,” she said quickly. The sound of the grapes, squishing underfoot, was oddly pleasant. “I only meant, is there not a better way to extract the juice?”

I thought of stating the obvious, that getting Mina’s juices extracted was not a difficult process at all, but refrained and merely smiled. Judging by the way she blushed, and looked down, I noted that she sensed the double meaning of her words as swiftly as I did.
“There are presses, and other such machinery, yes,” I answered her. “...but the best wines are produced this way, with the fruit crushed by the foot of a woman before the fermentation process.“
“I am a woman,” she said. There was a hint of pride in her voice, as she took a turn at stating the obvious. However, she was not merely stating that she was of the female gender. She was admitting to the fact that she was a woman. Those that have had a slave, a true slave, one completely submitted and free of all pretense beneath them know the difference.
After staring directly at her bare breasts, I lifted the rag about her hips and feigned a cursory observation. “You seem to have the requisite parts,” I agreed.
“Yes, Master,” she answered.
“Do not take all morning,” I advised her. “When you have finished here, you have a full day ahead of you in the fields.”

I imagine the Lady Philomena, high born in the city of Ko-ro-ba, would choke at the notion of a man putting her to such menial work. Mina, a slave I acquired in the city of Port Kar, Jewel of Gleaming Thassa, however, seemed fittingly content. Delighted, at times.

Sentiment

The sun is rising in Ar just now, as it is rising here. The bars are ringing, and they will continue to ring for the better part of an ahn. People are crowding out onto the bridges and into the streets. People are wearing their finest clothing, and they will sing and dance, drink and feast the entire day.

I've painted my door green.

When she rises, I will set Mina to the task of burning the brak branches in a small tin. I let her sleep, finding myself unable to do so. She is a beautiful girl. A distraction at times, but a comfort at others.

Saw the world, turning in my sheets

And once again I cannot sleep

Walk out the door and up the street

Look at the stars beneath my feet

An auburn-haired girl used to paint the door of Samsara on the first of En'Kara each year. It had served as home and hostel for wandering souls, itinerant artisans, family, and friends for many years. A mere slave, a barbarian, she was the heart and soul of that home on Aulus Street. I won't hesitate to say that I miss her, and that I always will. As I rose to prominence in the theater, in business, and in politics, she waited patiently. Most nights, I did not make it back to Aulus Street. Some would say such sentiment for a girl is the mark of a fool. I have never denied it. I am a fool. Some days, like today, the first day of En'Kara, I allow myself to be a sentimental fool. She has been gone over a year, and I miss her.

Remember rights that I did wrong

So here I go.

Hello. Hello

There is no place I cannot go

My mind is muddy, but my heart is heavy

Does it show?

I lose the track that loses me

So here I go.

I do not know how long I will stay here, in the hills northeast of beautiful Venna. Vesutto has seen to the upkeep and maintenance of the home and modest vineyard over the last few years. I look forward to resuming our friendship, and sorting out business matters between us. For the duration of my stay, I think I will find pleasure in the brining of olives and the pressing of grapes. So starts another chapter in a life I am only beginning to learn to live.

And maybe someday we will meet, and maybe talk and not just speak

Don't buy the promises, 'cause there are no promises that I keep

And my reflection troubles me

So here I go.*

*Excerpts from 'Same Mistake,' by James Blunt

End of the Road

It is good to be home.

When the Argentum Road offered a choice, the Vosk or the Viktel Aria, the Merchant's Wagons headed south toward Ar. I parted ways with them, heading north.

"Master?" she said, struggling to keep up. She is a little pack animal, carrying my burdens on the road. Sometimes I forget that she was a free woman not so long ago, unaccustomed to being used thusly.

"What is it, Mina?" I asked.

"They travel south, toward Ar," she said. A statement, not a question.

"And how have you ascertained this?" I said curious-like, my eyes on the road ahead.

"A girl in one of the wagons said so," she answered. "A blonde one with blue eyes."

"The one with freckles across the top of her cheeks?" I asked.

She paused a moment. I suppose, in retrospect, were I attempting to be kind, I would not have identified the girl in question so quickly. However, the girl in question was made to dance between the campfires on more than one evening. Also, I do not always endeavor to be kind. And, in the interest of full disclosure, I had noticed Mina talking to the slut on several occasions over the last few hands on the road out of Argentum.

"Yes," she said, her tone a bit indignant. "That one."

I am not sure what the purpose of her question. or rather her statement, was. I suppose she wished for me to confirm that the wagons were heading into Ar and we, for some unfathomable reason, had decided to walk in the opposite direction.

It is good to be home.

I had not seen the villa in the hills northeast of Venna in some time. Mina may have been surprised by the way I abruptly unburdened her of my pack and threw her to her hands and knees in the rich, dark soil. There between the stakes bearing pendant bunches of succulent ta grapes ready to be plucked from the vine, I raped her. The sun was setting. I could see a panoramic silhouette of the distant, majestic Voltai on the horizon. Another journey had come to an end. I had a clear picture in my mind how lovely she would look in that position, the garment I allowed her to wear lifted to facilitate my use of her. As it turns out, I was correct. She was perfectly lovely, exposed so. And while she is not very good, as I have said, she is beautifully eager.

Sometime later, chained to the floor at the foot of my couch in the villa, she broke the silence.

"Master?" she whispered.

"What is it slave girl?" I asked. In the dark, I spoke to the ceiling.

"They will sell the blonde girl, the one with the freckles," she said. It was a question this time, much as she tried to phrase it otherwise.

"Yes," I confirmed. There was little doubt the dancer was bound for service in one of the better taverns, perhaps on Wagon Street.

"Thank you," she said quietly.

While her gratitude is fitting, I guessed at why she might be thankful. "You would not bring a very high price, Mina."

"Oh," she said. "Mina will endeavor to improve, Master."

I believed her. She was not only an eager slave bundle, but an earnest one.

"Then," I said to her, "you might be worth selling."

"Master?" she asked timidly. "Might a girl worth selling also be a girl worth keeping?"

I smiled in the dark, and then ended the conversation for the night. "Go to sleep, slave."

It is good to be home.

No, this is not the place of my birth. The Home Stone to which I am pledged is not housed here. Samsara, Aulus Street, the domicile in the Anbar are not located here. This hillside does not contain the Great Square, nor the Stadium of Tarns. This is neither the city of Marlenus, nor the Theater of Pentilicus Tallux. This is, however, for the time being, the end of my journey. I am not ready to return to Ar. Tomorrow begins the Waiting Hand. I will paint the door of my villa white, and nail to it the branches of the brak bush. I will reflect on my travels for the next hand, ruminate over the past, and consider what the future holds. I will welcome the first day of En'Kara from the porch of this villa on a hillside northeast of Venna. For now, Venna is home. It is good to be here.

Are we there yet?

The North is to South what the Clock is to Time

There's East and there's West and there's everywhere life

I know I was born and I know that I'll die

The in-between is mine. I am mine.

East of Argentum. En'Kara is on the horizon, but the mornings are anything but temperate. It is rainy and cold. I find little to complain about, however. I have the company of Merchants and those in their employ, the camaraderie of good men. Camp food, to a man with simple tastes, is palatable. Mina, as it turns out, is becoming blanket-worthy. What she lacks in formal training, she makes up for with a fervent desire to please, and be found pleasing. However, despite these simple and sustaining pleasures, I know now that I have been gone far too long. I feel the pull of Home.

And the feeling, it gets left behind

All the innocence, lost at one time

Significant, behind the eyes

There's no need to hide. We're safe tonight.

"I am cold, Master," she said to me just this morning.

"I am not surprised," I replied. "You are not properly dressed for walking in this weather."

"I mentioned this to my Master," she said.

"And what was his response, pretty Mina?"

"He beat me," she said. Her words were whispered, not only to emphasize her meek demeanor at the prospect of being beaten again, but also to mask her frustration. And probably her anger. I lose track of her grievances, honestly. 'I am cold.' 'I am needy.' 'I am hungry.'

The ocean is full because everyone's crying

The full moon is looking for friends at high tide

The sorrow grows bigger when the sorrow's denied

I only know my mind. I am mine.

"Men can be impatient when their methods are questioned," I told her.

She mumbled something imperceptible. It sounded expletive-laced, but I did not choose to press the matter. She was already walking with a hitch in her step. If I beat her again, I might have to carry my own pack. After a brief pause, she let out a huff and answered.

"Yes, Master."

"We are almost home," I said charitably. I thought this might buoy her spirits.

"Master?" she said hopefully, with an endearing and altogether feminine grunt as she tugged the strap of my pack, to reset it on her shoulder.

"I aim to be home by The Waiting Hand," I said to her. She would have no idea precisely when that would be, or how long we had yet to walk. Still, it was enough to put a smile on her face and a new determination in her stride.

It might be another five or six hands, but there was no need to dampen the girl's mood.

And the meaning, it gets left behind

All the innocents, lost at one time

Significant, behind the eyes

There's no need to hide. We're safe tonight.*

*'I Am Mine' lyrics by Eddie Vedder

My two girls

"Where are we going, Master?" she asked me.

"Down this road for a while," I answered. It was not the most helpful of answers, but strictly speaking it answered her question. Mina is a slave. She does not need a detailed itinerary in order to serve.

"Are there others?" she asked. Slaves ask a lot of questions. All of the time. Beating them helps, but nothing short of a gag silences them.

"Others?" I asked.

"Girls, Master. Do you own other girls?"

"Curiosity is not becoming in a kajira," I answered. "You might be beaten for it." It is a common thing to say to an inquisitive girl, and takes less effort than removing one's belt. Still, I was leaving my options open. Tasta, bless her heart, weighed in with a menacing growl and a nudge of her snout against Mina's flank.

"Oh!" she cried.

I own two girls. Tasta is my first girl. And the bitch knows it.

I acquire a slave; I leave Port Kar

"Was it really necessary, Master?" Mina asked me, shuddering in a decidedly uncomfortable fashion as she met Tasta's golden-eyed, serpentine gaze.

"It was the prudent thing to do," I answered her.

"I do not like the sleen," she said.

"Tasta is very thorough," I granted.

"Do you think I will run from you?" she asked.

"It would be foolish," I said.

She could only guess at just how foolish it would be to run. The sleen had taken her scent. If she ran, it would follow her. It would continue to follow her until she was found. She would then be herded back to my feet. Or eaten. Sometimes sleen misinterpret your commands. It is understandable. They are only sleen. Mina, too, is tender about the flanks. One could hardly blame a ravenous carnivore for the lapse in discipline. These things were explained to Mina. I would not want her to misinterpret my commands. She is not a sleen. Lapses in discipline are tolerated far less in slave girls than sleen.

"You put a collar on me," she said.

"A simple block collar," I said.

"You had me branded," she said.

"Your thigh is marked with the standard kef," I said.

"I belong to you," she said.

"That is known to me," I said.

Before I left, I purchased her from the Tavern Master. I suppose it was inevitable. She is not very good, but she tries. And she is eager. Also, she has a nice ass. And she was sold at a discount.

"I will not run from you," she assured me.

"You will consider it from time to time," I said.

"Master?" she replied.

"You are a slave," I answered. "You will test the length of your chain."

"I will not run, Master," she reiterated.

"You are a slave," I answered. "You will try to manipulate me."

"Master?"

"Yes?"

"Why did you leave Port Kar?" she asked.

"I am not of Port Kar," I said. This should have been obvious, really.