crew cooking and sleeping ashore. Indeed, most Gorean mariners, when practical, like to keep in sight of land. The moods of Thassa are capricious, and the might of her winds and waves prodigious.
Some small groups of armsmen, probably mercenaries, drifted past us. There was no discipline, no formation. Some carried spears on their shoulders, and others crossbows.
All seemed wary, dangerous men.
As I had scouted this portion of the dockage in the past, I knew that gear of war, as well as bundles of other supplies, whatever they might contain, had been put aboard one ship or another, sometimes in abundance. One could see how several had rested lower in the water. Sometimes it had been easy enough to identify the goods, as tools, such as axes, adzes, planes, wedges, clamps, and saws, or materials such as tar, turpentine, canvas, paint, and cable. One might have supposed them bound not for the northern beaches and forests but a shipyard, such as the arsenal of Port Kar.
“Ho!” I said, suddenly, softly.
“May I see?” she said.
“Remain on your knees,” I said.
From the yard of a dark building, behind the wharves, through a double wooden gate, wide enough to exit a wagon, a scribe, in his blue work tunic, carrying a tablet, had emerged. As I had expected, for I had seen this before, he was followed by a coffle of stripped slaves, fastened together by the neck on a single rope. Their hands were tied together behind their back, and they were blindfolded.
The coffle would be halted outside the building, where it would wait, until it was met by an officer from one of the ships.
Three guards were with the coffle, one on one side, two on the other, the two on the side facing the approach to the wharves.
I looped the leash about the neck of my slave, and tucked in the strap.
“Master?” she asked.
I approached the coffle, as I had the others, to place myself between it and the ships. In this way, I could, with others, survey its components.
I was followed by my slave.
Doubtless she was grateful for her tunic. I had arranged with the cloth worker that it be “slave short.” She had nice legs. Why should a master not display them? As with the common slave tunic it was sleeveless, and, naturally, as most slave garments, lacked a nether closure. This helps the slave to better realize that she is a slave, that she is always at the convenience of the master.
Several men, mercenaries, docksmen, and others, had gathered in the vicinity of the coffle.
“Good!” I said.
“Master?” asked the slave.
I was sure it was she.
Men, as is their wont, were examining the slaves, and commenting on them. Slaves, unless new to bondage, are accustomed to being publicly viewed, and spoken of, as the goods they are. Verr, kaiila, tharlarion, and such, do not object to this, so why should slaves?
“I wager that one is hot,” said a fellow.
“Ten Ehn and I could make this one weep, buck, and beg,” said a fellow.
“Consider the flanks of the tall brunette,” said another. She was first in the coffle.
“The ankles of the redhead,” said another.
“Excellent,” said another, “I would like to see them shackled.”
“There is a pudding that would juice at a touch,” said another.
“Pretty vulos,” commented a man.
“Tastas, each of them,” said a fellow, “a confectioner’s delight.”
“Put them on their sticks,” said another.
Remarks, as well, suggestions, and such, were addressed to the slaves, but they could not speak, as they were forbidden speech in coffle. I did see some tears run below the blindfolds on more than one slave. The lips of two or three trembled. Did they not know they were slaves?
I went to the one in which I was interested.
Sensing someone near her she stood more straightly, more beautifully. She may have supposed it a guard, and did not wish to invite the instructive stroke of a switch.
One expects much of slaves. They are not free women.
As I had expected, I could still see the residue of her lot number, now much faded, as was that of the others, on her left breast.
It was 119.
I went a bit to the side, to examine her small wrists, crossed, corded together, closely, behind her back. The opaque cloth of the blindfold had been wrapped twice, snugly, about her head, and knotted in place, behind her head. She could see nothing. She could feel the planks of the walk with her feet, and the breeze on her body. She was on