and, holding her by the arm,
her wrists still tied behind her, led her to the rear of the wagon, and up the
steps. She then stood beside her judge, barefoot on the flat-topped, wooden
wagon. Her head was down.
“Lady Tina,” requested the judge, “go to the rack.”
Wordlessly, the girl went and stood by the rack, her back to the curved stone.
The man who had brought her to the wagon now knelt before her, locking metal
clasps on her ankles.
He then went behind her, and unbound her wrists. “Place your hands over your
head,” he said. She did so. “Bend your elbows,” he said. She did so. “Lie back,”
he then said, supporting her. She did so, and was stretched over the curved
iron. He then took her wrists and pulled her arms almost straight. He then
locked her wrists in metal clasps, similar to those, though smaller, which
confined her ankles. Her head was down. He then bent to metal pieces, heavy,
curved and hinged, which were attached to the sides of the rack, and a bit
forward. Each piece consisted of two curved, flattish bands, joining at the top.
He lifted them, and dropped them into place. Then, with two keys, hanging on
tiny chains at the sides, he tightened the bands. They were vises. She might now
be branded on either the left or right thigh. There was ample room, I noted,
between the bands on either side, to press the iron. She was held perfectly. Her
tanned thigh could not protest so much as by the slightest tremor. She would be
marked cleanly.
The man, placing heavy gloves on his hands, withdrew from the brazier a slave
iron. Its tip was a figure some inch and a half high, the first letter in
cursive script, in the Gorean alphabet, of the expression Kajira.
It is a beautiful letter.
The judge looked down upon the Lady Tina of Lydius. She, fastened over the rack,
stripped, looked up at him, in his robes, those with two borders, one of gold,
the other of purple. Her eyes were wild.
“Brand the Lady Tina of Lydius,” he said. “Brand her slave. Then he turned, and
departed from the platform.
The girl gave a terrible scream.
There was a shout from the crowd.
The man now, swiftly, brutally, released the girl, spinning open the vises, and
dropping them against the rack, unfastening her wrists and ankles, and dragged
her to her feet. Her hair was over her face. She was weeping.
The man’s hand was strong on her arm. “Here is a nameless slave!” he cried.
“What am I bid for her?”
“Fourteen copper pieces!” cried a man.
“Sixteen!” cried another.
I spied, in the crowd, two men from my ship. I gestured that they should join
us, Rim, Thurnock and myself. They worked their way through the crowd.
“Twenty copper pieces!” cried a leather worker.
The judges, I noted, had left. The musicians, those who had played the drums and
flutes, escorting the judges and the prisoner, had also left.
The slave girls who had drawn the wagon, stood about, watching the crowd.
“Twenty-two copper pieces,” called a metal worker.
The girl, stripped, stood on the platform, her arm in the grip of the man. Her
hair, was sill over her face. But her tears were now only stains on her body.
Her mouth was slightly parted. She seemed numb. It was as thought she scarcely
understood that it was she, who was being bid upon. Her thigh, sill, much have
burned with searing pain. Yes, of all her body, it was only her eyes, dull,
glazed with pain, that acknowledged that she had been branded within the Ehn.
She did not seem, otherwise, fully aware of what was happening to her. Then
suddenly she threw back her head and screamed, and tried to twist away from the
man. He threw her to her knees on the boards and she knelt there, bent over, her
head in her hands, fully and wildly weeping. She understood now, fully, that she
was being sold.
“Twenty-five copper pieces,” called a pastry vendor.
“Twenty-seven!” screamed a seaman.
I looked about. I could now see there were more
A. L. Jackson
Peggy A. Edelheit
Mordecai Richler
Olivia Ryan
Rachel Hawkins
Kate Kaynak
Jess Bentley, Natasha Wessex
Linda Goodnight
Rachel Vail
Tara Brown