11 The Lady Yanina Is Included in the Act

"You cannot do this to me!" cried the Lady Yanina.

"Behold," called Boots meaningfully to the crowd, "not a slave, but a free woman!"

"Stop!" cried the Lady Yanina. "I am free! Save me! Someone save me!"

"Should we attempt to rescue her?" asked one stout youth of another.

"Do not be silly," said his fellow. "It is all part of the act."

"Of course," agreed the first. "How stupid of me to fear otherwise."

"Help!" shrieked the Lady Yanina.

I now fastened Lady Yanina's left wrist in its place on the colorful red, trimmed-in-yellow, backboard. I had already buckled her right wrist in place.

"Gather around, good friends, good people," Boots encouraged the crowd. "Look closely upon her. Examine her!"

The crowd, thus encouraged, pressed in about us.

"See her throat," cried Boots. "It is innocent of the collar! See her thighs! No brand is upon them!"

The crowd pressed closely about, some of the men skeptically, roughly, examining Lady Yanina for slave marks. Certainly her costume, incredibly brief and brightly spangled, bared most of the common brand sites utilized by Gorean slavers in marketing women.

"Help!" cried the Lady Yanina. "Help!"

"You are doing very well," I congratulated her.

"I am not acting!" she cried. "Help! Help!"

One of the men pulled the top edge of her lower garment out and down a bit from her body, peering within. "What are you doing?" she cried.

"She is not branded on the lower left abdomen," he informed the crowd.

I desisted from buckling her right ankle in its place on the backboard while a fellow checked the backs of her legs. She cried out in misery. "There is nothing here," said the fellow. I then fastened her ankle in place.

"Oh!" she cried. The fellow who had checked her lower left abdomen was now expanding his explorations to check her buttocks. "Stop!" she cried.

"There are no brands here," he said.

"Interesting," said a man.

Another fellow was thrusting up the fringe dangling from the narrow, twisted strip of cloth, covered with sequins, which was bound about her breasts, this serving to conceal her nipples.

"Take your hands off me!" she cried.

"There is nothing here," said the fellow.

With difficulty I caught her left ankle and buckled it, too, in its place, against the colorful backboard.

"Stop!" she cried. "Stop!"

"Nothing here," said the fellow, pushing back her head against the backboard. She was not branded either on the left side of the neck, behind and below the left ear.

"As you can see, Ladies and Gentlemen," said Boots, "on her lovely throat she does not wear the light collar of inflexible steel, that beautiful circlet proclamatory of absolute bondage. Similarly her beauty has not, as yet at least, as you can see, been graced by the imprinting upon it of some delicate emblem indicative of the status of property, some device recollective of the unmistakable, transforming kiss of the blazing iron! As advertised, as proclaimed, as announced earlier, she is a free female!"

"She cannot be a free female," said a man. "Otherwise she would not be used in this fashion."

"Come now," said Boots. "Surely you have all known free women whom you would have enjoyed treating in this fashion."

There was a great deal of laughter. One of the free women in the audience struck the fellow next to her with her elbow.

"Take your hands off me!" cried the Lady Yanina to one of the men standing near her, a fellow who had perhaps decided to resume the discontinued investigations of his peers. She then, to the horror of the crowd, spit virulently in his face. "Sleen! Sleen!" she cried at him. Then she turned her head to the crowd. "Sleen!" she screamed. "You are all sleen!" She spit out at the crowd, twice. Then she stood there in the straps, helpless, sobbing. The crowd observed her, in stunned silence.

"As you can see," said Boots, swiftly, enthusiastically, thinking like lightning, "she is, as advertised, as certified, a free woman! What more proof could you possible desire? What salve would dare to behave so?" It was an excellent point which Boots was making. No slave would be likely to behave in a fashion like that, or at least more than once. Such a behavior would be likely to be followed by hideous punishments, if not death by torture. How should I put this delicately? Perhaps, thusly: Insubordination in any form, of any sort, in even the tiniest, least significant degree, is not accepted from slave girls by their Gorean masters.

Suddenly, as it had become clear what had occurred, the crowd began to turn ugly. "Give her to us!" called a man. "Let us buy her!" called another. "We will take up a collection!" cried another, looking about himself. "Yes!" said a man. "Yes!" cried another. "I want her!" called a man. "She can pull my plow!" "We will brand her and put her in a collar quickly enough!" cried another. "Sell her to us!" called another. "If he will not sell her, let us seize her by force!" cried another.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, ladies!" called out Boots, jovially. "Let us remain calm. No harm has been done. Let us get on with the show. Step back, step back, please."

Grudgingly the crowd stepped back a bit, clearing a half circle around the heavy, braced, upright structure of painted planks. I regarded the Lady Yanina. She was now trembling, terrified, in the straps. There were certainly enough fellows in the crowd, if they became unruly, to take her away from us. Also, of course, Boots would never have approved of vigorous altercations with paying customers, and certainly would have frowned upon slaying them, even a few of them. That sort of thing is not good for business.

Boots motioned me forward. I approached, the multiple sheath of saddle knives at my left hip.

"May I present Tarl, he of the Plains of Turia, he of the Lands of the Wagon Peoples, master of the mystic quivas, the famed saddle knives of the southern barbarians, come to us at great expense and in spite of many perils by special arrangement with Kimchak, Ubar San of the Wagon Peoples!"

"That's Kamchak," I said. I thought I owed at least that much to my old buddy of the south. I supposed that if Kamchak had known his name was being used in this fashion, and mispronounced at that, and Boots was within his grasp he might have, as a joke, for Kamchak was fond of jokes, had Boots put in a sack and put out in front of the bosk, curious to see if they would movein that direction on that particular morning. On the other hand, perhaps he would only have challenged him to a spitting contest or one in which the number of seeds in different sorts of tospits were guessed and then, if Boots lost, put him out with the bosk, to see what way they might move that day.

"Is it true," asked Boots, "that you never miss?"

"Well, actually no," I admitted.

"What!" cried Boots, in horror.

"You must understand," I said, "that I have no intention of hitting her. She is, after all, a free woman."

The Lady Yanina regarded me, wildly. "I thought you were an expert!" she cried.

"I have never done this before," I admitted.

"Good," said a man. I am not sure, but I think he was the one she had spit upon. He, at any rate, did not appear pleasantly disposed towards her.

The Lady Yanina regarded me with horror.

"Never," I admitted.

She stood there, buckled in place, against the bright red, yellow-trimmed backboard. She then, suddenly, frenziedly, began to struggle. I did not much blame her. In the end, of course, she stood precisely as she had before. I had not buckled her in in such a way as to permit her to free herself. She was a lovely woman. The costume, too, set her off nicely. Her throat required only a collar. Her thigh required only a bran. She whimpered a bit, pulling at the straps. She knew herself absolutely helpless. It was important, of course, that she was a free woman for this bit of showmanship. Who in the crowd would have been that interested, or concerned, or thrilled with horror, to see a slave in such jeopardy? What sort of take would that have brought in? Not many coins, I feared, would be likely to rattle in the kettle on behalf of so unimaginative an offering. Also, of course, slaves generally have some value, at least to the master, even if not much. They, at least, can be bought and sold. Who would want to risk one in such a foolish manner? Free women, on the other hand, being priceless, have for most practical purposes no value whatsoever.