Mariners of Gor by John Norman

down, so that my arms were free. The gate to the cell was open, swung back. I saw nothing beyond it but the wall of the hold, the steps which had led down to this level, the small tharlarion-oil lamp on its chain, moving a bit with the rhythm of the ship. There was no guard behind her, but I did not doubt that one had opened the gate for her, and had then withdrawn. Such as she are not trusted with keys. The gate would lock, if swung shut. It would have been nothing to strike her aside and exit the cell, but there was, in effect, no point in doing so. The vessel at sea, flight would be foolish. Where would one go? Where would one hide? I would remain where I had been placed, at least for now. I must learn more. I must have more information. Those who had incarcerated me, I realized, assumed my likely judgment in this matter. I found this gratifying. In its way, it said they did not think it likely that I was stupid. In its way, it was a token of respect. I had been given enough time to sleep, to recuperate, to become better aware of my position, and my dependence on the will of others. I might have taken her in hand, but she would have little value as a hostage, as she was an animal, and not one of particular value. Her loss could be replaced indifferently with that of any one of a dozen, or hundred, similar beasts. It would be much like trying to bargain with a verr or vulo in hand. Who would take one seriously?
    “Master,” she said, seeing my eyes upon her, “may I approach? I bear nourishment.”
    “Yes,” I said.
    In her two hands she bore a bowl.
    “Broth,” she said.
    “There,” I said, brushing some straw aside, and indicating where she might place the bowl, before me.
    She approached, insufficiently humbly I thought.
    She bent down.
    She started. The bowl had suddenly jerked, and broth had leapt in the bowl, some of it running down the side of the bowl, some spilling to the wood. She looked suddenly frightened. Such as she could be whipped for clumsiness.
    “There,” I said again, indicating, again, the place before me.
    She placed the bowl before me. She now looked down, and to the side, hiding her face from me.
    She then rose up, and facing me, for she knew that much, backed away. She seemed eager to withdraw.
    “Wait,” I said, as one speaks to such as she.
    She then stood back from me, facing me, her head down.
    I had no interest in punishing her. She was not even mine. I supposed she was part of the ship’s furniture, so to speak. I was curious as to why she had started so.
    “You know me?” I asked.
    “Surely I could not know you,” she said.
    I looked up at her. Something seemed familiar about her. Was it her voice?
    “May I withdraw, Master?” she asked.
    “No,” I said.
    Her body stiffened, but she remained in place.
    “Stand as what you are,” I said.
    “Please, Master!” she protested.
    “As what you are,” I repeated. “You have been taught, have you not?”
    She then stood well, lithe and lissome, supple and graceful, her back straight, her shoulders back, her hip turned.
    I examined her lines. I would have guessed a silver tarsk and change.
    In such as she slovenly posture is not accepted. Before men such as she must stand well, move well, and such. If they do not the lash will see to their correction.
    “Lift you head,” I said.
    She complied, but with obvious reluctance. Surely she knew that in such as she acquiescence was to be unquestioning and instantaneous.
    “Do I not know you?” I asked.
    “Surely not, Master,” she said.
    She must remain before me, of course, as she was, as I had placed her.
    She wore a brief ship’s tunic, sleeveless, brown, slit at the hips, with a deep neckline, a feature by means of which certain aspects of her value might be the more helpfully assessed.
    “Come here,” I said to her, “kneel before me.”
    “Please, Master!” she protested.
    “Now,” I said.
    “Good,” I said.
    She knelt with her knees closely together, clenched