He then walked beside me as I made my way, on all fours, into the darkness of the kennel.
I recalled that my “keeping” was in his charge.
It took a little time for my eyes to adjust to the dimness of the kennel, which was of stout planking, and logs.
There were empty blanket spaces but, too, there were several slaves within. As nearly as I could tell none were secured.
My attention, when my eyes became better accustomed to the light, was arrested by one slave who sat to the side, her head down, her long black hair over her knees, about which she had forlornly clasped both arms. She seemed an image of hopelessness, and misery. What struck me most about her was that she, of all the slaves in the stockade, was gowned. The gown was sleeveless, of course, for she was a slave, but its length, if she were to stand, must have fallen almost to her ankles. It was a slave garment, but it was not a tunic, not the common, brief garment in which masters place their girls to remind them that they are slaves and which, to the pleasure of men, leaves little doubt as to their purchasable charms, or the far more scandalous common camisk, outlawed in public in certain cities, both garments for which a slave will be grateful, and beg piteously to be permitted. Rather it was the sort of slave garment in which a matron might insist her slaves be clothed if she was entertaining her sons. I was sure it was the only garment the slave wore. Too, it would doubtless lack a nether closure. The only slave garment I knew which was permitted a nether closure was the Turian camisk. I did not understand why this slave, and not the others, was permitted a garment so tasteful and modest. A slave walked past her and said something to her, which caused her to raise her head, angrily. Two of the other girls laughed. The gowned slave, obviously, did not stand high in the kennel order. Surely, I thought, her gowning would be likely to produce contempt and amusement amongst her kennel sisters, if not actual envy and hostility. Perhaps, I thought, it is a joke that she is so garbed, a mockery of sorts. I wondered about the gowned slave, apparently so alone, and despised. What of nudity to mark out prize slaves, and diminish the possibility of their flight, I asked myself. Why is she not stripped, as the others? Then I realized she was more marked out, or as marked out, as the others. In such a gown she stood out prominently amongst them, and even amongst tunicked or camisked slaves. And, if she should slip it away, she would have no other, and would then be as easily noticed as any other stripped kajira.
“Oh!” I said, thrust back, sitting, against the back wall of the kennel. My captor tossed a bundle of chain on the boards beside me. The leash collar was unbuckled from my throat and put to the side, with the coiled leash. To my dismay a heavy metal collar was placed about my throat and snapped shut. There was a ring in the back of the collar and, in a moment, by a chain and two snap locks I was fastened to a heavy ring behind me, set deeply in the logs of the kennel. Then manacles were snapped about both my right wrist and left wrist, separately, and by these, and chains and rings, my hands were chained, one on each side, to wall rings. I could not even feed myself. Then my ankles were grasped and each, in turn, was encircled with iron, independently shackled, and, by chains run to floor rings, one on the left, and one on the right, I was fastened in place.
My captor then retrieved the leash and leash collar, stood up, and looked down at me. I could not well see his expression, as he was outlined against the light from the opened door of the kennel behind him.
I shook the chains in misery, looking up at him, unbelievingly. I tried to lean forward but was held by the wall collar.
“Now, slut,” he snarled, “escape!”
“I did a foolish thing,” I said. “It was terribly foolish. I am sorry.”
“What did you think to accomplish?” he asked. “You were tunicked, half naked in a scrap of rep cloth, and collared. You were marked. Where would you