by Robert Adams
She had signed, for, as Djordj had pointed out, few honorable professions or crafts were open to mere women, and apprenticeship under so renowned a master was a priceless opportunity. That night, he had had her one last time in his tender, gentle way. In the morning, he had set her off into the city with a guardsman to guide her to Master Lokos’ shop-residence, his manservant having delivered her clothing and effects there earlier.
In her eighteen months with Djordj, he had taught her many things — to read and write in both the principal languages of the Confederation, Ehleeneekos and Mehrikan (in her homeland, Kehnooryos Mahkedohnya, well-bred girls learned household skills and nothing more; most could not write their own names); how to ride astride a horse. He was a mindspeaker and had encouraged and helped her to develop and train her own powerful, but latent, mindspeak abilities; he had also, from time to time and in a spirit of fun, taught her the essentials of good close-in knifework and the accurate casting of knives, darts and light throwing axes.
She and Djordj had often ridden their horses through the city, so she had a fair general knowledge of the various sections and streets. And she and her “guide” had not walked a half mile from the fortress when she realized that this route could not possibly lead to the area where the well-to-do craftsmen’s shops were situated. When she spoke of this to the man, however, he smiled and nodded agreement.
“The captain sez to take you, lady, but he don’ say how we gotta go. It’s a long walk, it is, but I got this friend, y’see, as has this ass cart an’ goes that wav ever mornin’. Ifin he ain’ lef yet, we can save our pore feet a bit.”
The tale sounded plausible, so Neeka nodded assent and continued to follow the scaleshirted guardsman. As they passed the mouth of a narrow alley between two stone warehouses, the guardsman stumbled and half-fell. Neeka bent to give him a hand up and, as she straightened, a thick sack was dropped over her head. Despite her struggles and her muffled cries, several pairs of strong, ungentle hands bound the mouth of the sack tightly about her, pinioning her arms firmly against her body. An unseen man lifted her clear off the ground, and another bound her at knees and at ankles with scratchy rope. A thrill of burning agony shot up her arm as the tight-fitting silver ring-given to her by Djordj, at the midwinter Sun-birth Feast-was jerked off her finger and she screamed.
But screams gained her nothing, nor did demands or entreaties. Rough hands lifted her, bore her up the alleyway, the stone walls scraping her. Then she was unceremoniously dropped into a fishy-smelling cart and, with the snap-crack of a whip and a shout and the shrill protest of a grease-starved axle, the conveyance began to move. Over the cobbled streets, the springless vehicle provided a swaying, bumping, jolting and thoroughly uncomfortable ride. Each time Neeka tried to sit up, a horny hand slammed her back down onto the slimy boards. The last time, her head struck the wood with enough force to fill it with flashing light before a total blackness descended.
Chapter XI
Djoy Skriffen had been miscast by nature. Only her genitali and her huge breasts imparted a hint of female appearance; otherwise her physique was masculine-broad shoulders and muscular arms ending in big square hands, narrow hips and once-flat buttocks. Her jaw was square and her chin prominent; prominent too was her nose, and when she allowed them to grow out, her eyebrows were bushy. Nonetheless, twenty years before, she had been a highly successful camp whore, following condottas and armies on the march and to the rear of siegelines, ready and willing and able to take on a dozen or more men in a night.
Then, during the great rout at the Field of Hats, as she leaned forward on the seat of the cart she had hurriedly stolen to lash the mules to a full gallop, a war dart near the end of its cast had penetrated her hipbone after tearing through the flesh of her right buttock. Due to its angle, she had been unable to get either hand in position to remove it and so had, perforce, ridden the jolting cart on away from the lost battle, screaming with agony.
Eventually, the cart lost a wheel and she was thrown from the seat, to roll down a steep bank. This stress caused the ill-tempered dart point to snap, leaving only the few millimeters of steel that were imbedded in her bone, while the shaft and the rest of the head were jerked out of her flesh. Fortunately, she was shortly found by a small condotta of Freefighters from the victorious forces of the Count of Keelzburk. The men knew Djoy of old, and seeing her grievously hurt, they halted, kindled a fire and doctored her on the spot, laying a red-hot spearblade to her lacerated, blood-spouting buttock.
Even after her burned wound was become only puckered, purplish scar tissue, Djoy found sitting on the seats of wagons or carts or sitting even the best-gaited mule pure torture, and such activities or even damp weather would cause her right hip to swell and to ache intolerably, so she knew that her days as a camp whore were numbered. She spent her last few months in her initial profession servicing the winter siege lines around beleaguered Balzburk and, when at last a general attack proved successful and the camps were almost deserted, she and a pack of carefully chosen noncombatant ruffians murdered the guards at the pavilion of the siege commander and made off with the army’s pay chest and everything else valuable-looking and portable.
In the course of the long flight from Balzburk in the western mountains, across the widths of both the Kingdom of Pitzburk and the Kingdom of Harzburk, to the port city of New Filburk, on the seacoast, almost all of the ruffians had met with “accidents” and a large part of the loot had been frittered away. Even so, after she had paid for the murders of the last two of her original companions, Djoy still had enough gold to establish and set herself up as madam of a fine bordello, wherein she prospered for a number of years.
But then came the night when, in a drunken rage, she stabbed one of her silent partners-several dozen times. He was not the first man or woman she had slain in New Filburk, but he was not just some nobody of a seaman or whore who could be dumped into a convenient cesspit or weighted and dropped into the harbor. She packed a small trunk with the contents of her strongbox, her jewel chest and her victim’s well-stuffed purse, a few items of clothing and a few personal possessions.
She bought passage on the first ship she found and, thus, came ashore in Esmithpolis, where she scouted about, greased the proper hands with gold and set herself up in another bordello. After twelve years of her experienced, ruthless operation, Djoy Skriffen was more than prosperous and had run to fat, being almost as broad as a huckster’s table, though there still were hard muscles, a harder heart and a cold, calculating mind lodged within the mounds of jiggling adipose tissue.
Neeka was not the first kidnapped girl she had bought, but most of her whores were in her house on a voluntary basis, originally at least, though they all soon found to their sorrow that getting in was much easier than was getting out — alive, at least. Djoy handled some of the inevitable discipline problems herself: most she left in the hands of her four resident goons, all former Freefighters and sadistic murderers, all with prices on their heads in the Middle Kingdoms. Recalcitrant “recruits” were given to the foursome for a day and night, sometimes for a weekend; few visible marks were ever left on their flesh, but subsequently a girl so treated would accept, would perform, any act a customer demanded, rather than chance being again turned over to Stoo, Neel, Djimi and Iktis.
On her way down to the lowest cellar to inspect the girl offered for sale by three city guardsmen, a servant reminded his mistress of the unfortunate incident of the previous night — a valued and regular customer had been bitten by a rat.
“Send a boy to the fortress,” she snapped. “Tell them to send me a hungry fencat — maybe two, since we have no idea how many rats we have.”
*
As Neeka’s consciousness slowly returned, she thought at first that she was back in that horrible, freezing cell in the fortress wall, for she had been stripped of every shred of her clothing and she lay on a narrow cot set against a stone wall. Then, as things became a bit clearer, she could see differences. This cell was
wider and she was lying on a true bed, not in a trough of straw. Two walls were of stone, but the other two, including that in which the door was set, were fabricated of wide, age-darkened boards; the board walls reached to within a couple of feet of the timber ceiling, fourteen feet up, from which hung a large brass oil lamp. The cell was comfortable — cool, but not cold. Aside from the bunk, there was a covered slop bucket, a box of hay balls, a stone jug and a clay cup.
She heard voices from somewhere beyond the door, but could not understand what they were saying. The language sounded much like Confederation Mehrikan, but also differed in many ways. Her first attempt to sit up resulted in a sick dizziness. But her mouth felt dry as sand and she was just mustering herself for another effort at reaching the water jug when the door was flung open, then shut and bolted behind a guardsman.
She was taken quickly, brutally. Then, while her ravisher lay still atop her, he said, “Likely you don’t know me, bitch, but you will, oh, how you will. I’m Loo Fahlkop and it wuz my own first cousin, Garee, was striped and sent off to fight in the friggin’ mountins ’cause of you. Damn barbarian run a spear right through his dang belly ’cause of you.
“Well, I done fixted you good, now, bitch. You ain’ no off’ser’s piece no more. I done sol’ your ass to ol’ Djoy Skriffen, and ever payday I means to come back here and screw you silly. Now, turn your ass ovuh, I ain’ done yet. I’m gon’ plow your othuh hole.”
He rolled off to stand beside the cot, one hand on her shoulder and the other on her hip, leering cruelly. Suddenly, Neeka spun on her buttocks, flexing her legs, then driving both her heels into the man’s lower belly with all her force. The guardsman was slammed into the board wall so hard that there were crashes and thuds from the other side. Neeka sprang to her feet and leaped for the door — only to find it secured, immovable.
Neeka spun about. The man was staggering toward her, face red, eyes shining hate, lips twisted into a snarl. But her lover had taught her well. She ducked beneath the extended arms, arose on the outside. Grasping his hairy wrist, she slammed the heel of her other hand into the back of his elbow, hard. The guardsman screamed once and staggered backward. Neeka got one leg behind him and pushed. Good arm flailing wildly, he fell back onto the cot, half of him still on the floor.
The guardsman’s canvas breeches had become but two separated legs, the center seam having parted. With all her weight behind it, Neeka slammed her small heel down on her rapist’s genitals, then began working on his face with the nails of one hand while fending off his good arm with the other. She was still at it when his screams brought in three more people.
She was dragged off her erstwhile attacker and held as easily as if she had been a child by an immensely fat, immensely strong woman, who all the while laughed uproariously and made cutting jests at the expense of the crippled, battered guardsman. His face streaming blood, the half-nude man had to be literally carried out of the cell, groaning and sobbing.
When the men had gone, the big woman released Neeka and pushed her down to a seat on the edge of the cot. Wiping at her eyes with the backs of her big, blubbery hands, she chuckled a bit more, then addressed the girl in tolerable if thickly accented Ehleeneekos.
“What’s your name, girl?”
“Neeka. Neeka Mahreemahdees. Is what that … that man-thing said true? Has he sold me to some brothel?”
The fat woman showed yellowed teeth in a broad grin.
“Not just some brothel, Neeka, the very best brothel this side of Kehnooryos Atheenahs. My brothel, mine, Djoy Skriffen’s.”
Neeka felt lost, then, helplessly sinking, but she spoke strongly. “Then you’d better get whatever you paid him back before he leaves … because I warn you, I’ll kill the next man to lay hands on me!”
The fat woman chortled again. “I believe you would, Neeka, if what you done to ol’ Loo is a example. ’Course, we have ways to gentle frac’shus fillies, in this house. But I like you, girl, you got spirit, more’n any other Ehleen girl I ever seed. You’n me’ll talk some more in a day or two, whin it’s safe to bring you upstairs. I think we can strike us a bargain.”
Some hours later, she was brought a tray of food-fresh-baked bread, roast pork, cabbage boiled with onions and caraway, a pint of wine-by an attractive, red-haired girl who looked to be some years older than Neeka. That same girl returned later for the tray and dishes, but also brought a low stool on which she perched.
“You’re a kath-ahrohs, aren’t you?” she asked.
“Yes,” Neeka replied, “I’m pure Ehleen. Why?”
The ghost of a smile flickered briefly over the redhead’s full lips. “I never heard tell of a Ehleen woman could mess up a grown man as bad as you did that guard bastid. He couldn’ even walk when they took him away from here. They had to lug him in a cart. An’ they think you done blinded one of his eyes, too. Lady Djoy like to died a-laughin’ at him. She ’lowed whatall you done to him and her gettin’ a chancet to see it was worth what she paid for you, by itself.”
As her visitor was garrulous, Neeka just let her talk on, glad for the harmless company and anxious to learn all she could that she might plot her escape.
Hohp Leebos claimed to be twenty-two, but looked a bit older. She was three-quarters Ehleen. Both her parents were long dead and her husband, a fisherman, had been lost at sea only a few months after their marriage, leaving her almost destitute. Finally, near starvation and having exhausted the charity her late husband’s former mates could afford, she had taken to the streets, whoring in the dockside taverns, as had Neeka, briefly. One night, having narrowly escaped being taken by the infamously brutal city guards, she had asked the advice of a friendly tavernkeeper, and so had made her way to Djoy Skriffen’s house.
Honest, kind and merry in her quiet way, Hohp Leebos was now possessed of a large clientele of regular, faithful customers and was one of the very few of her whores whom Djoy Skriffen trusted to leave the house unescorted by one of her goons, or to serve food to secret purchases such as Neeka. And Neeka soon found out why.
Hohp shook her dark-red head and said, “Aw naw, Neeka, I couldn’ do nothing like that. Lady Djoy, she’d jest skin me alive and, for all we’s friends her and me, likely she’d hand me to them house guards of hern, an’ I sure don’ think I could tek that; them fo’ treats women like animals.”
Leaning forward, she patted Neeka’s hand. “Listen, honey, Lady Djoy’s gonna bring you up in a coupla days, soon’s the fella you’s the mistress of gits outa Esmithpolisport. Things’ll be a whole lot better, then, you’ll see. ’Cause Lady Djoy, she really likes you, honey, likes your spunk an’ likes the way you tore inta thet bastid guardsman. You jest do whatall she tells you to an’ you gonna make out just fine. Most the customers is good men and with Lady Djoy bein’ your friend an’ all, like she’s mine, you won’ have to lay with any lessin’ you likes ’em, an’ too, Stoo an’ the rest will halfway kill any bastid what tries to mark you up.”
Neeka reiterated with cold intensity, “Hohp, I shall kill the next man who lays hands to me. Believe that, for I mean every word of it.”
Hohp shook her head again. “Aw naw, honey, like I done tol’ you, mosta the men is real fine fellas, Lady Djoy, she don’ let no town trash or dock scum in here. O’course,” she puckered her lips as if to spit, “them friggin’ guardsmen is another breed of cat, they is.”
Then her face brightened. “Come to speak of cats, honey, did you ever see a fencat kill a ol’ wharfrat? I tell you, that’s a pure pleasure to watch. Them cats moves like pure light-nin’. I wuz watchin’ one of them what come down from the fortress chase this here rat out’n the house an’ kill im in the back courtyard whilst I ’uz awaitin’ for cook to make your tray up.
“Well,” Hohp stood up and lifted the tray, “I better be a-gittin’ back. We’ll talk some more after you had your nex’ meal, honey.”
It had been long since she had mindspoken one of the fencats, and Neeka carefully framed her mental projection. Almost im
mediately, dear Ratbane was there.
“What are you doing in this unhealthful place, friend Neeka?”
“Oh, Ratbane, please, you must go back to the fortress and tell Djordj what has befallen me. Three guardsmen kidnapped me and have sold me to the evil woman who owns this house.”
“The male two-leg called Djordj is no longer in Esmithpolisport. He and his man rode north as we fencats were coming here,” replied the animal sadly, for she had been very fond of the young captain. “And the new chief of the fortress cannot mindspeak.”
Neeka thought hard and frantically. “Then … then, Ratbane, do you know Master Lokos Prahseenos? I have signed a contract of apprentice-indenture with him. Surely he would deliver me from this place?”
“Friend-of-fencats Lokos?” beamed Ratbane. “His is the most powerful mindspeak in all of the Thoheekahtohn of Esmith. Yes, I shall go and find him.”
Neeka caught Ratbane’s instructions to the younger cat to continue exploring the house until she returned. Then the fencat’s mind was gone, and Neeka could but lie and worry and wait.
Hohp Leebos brought her next meal-several small rolls, half a baked guinea hen swimming in a rich sauce, peas stewed with garlic and young carrots, a dish of pickled vegetables, a steaming pudding of breadcrumbs and dried fruits with spices and honey, a full half-leetrah of really good wine-the heavy tray was fitted with a baked-clay cover and Hohp indicated that the food was to last her needs until midmorning when the kitchen came to life. Despite her earlier promise, she did not linger this time; as soon as she had unfolded the stubby legs of the tray and disjointed the fowl with the knife from her girdle, she departed.
Aside from greetings and goodbyes, her only comments were, “Soon’s you git upstairs, you’ll be able to carve your own vittles, honey. Lady Djoy, she ain’ the leas’ bit afeared you’ll kill yours’f, thet bein’ why we don’ give othuh new gals enythin’ sharp,” the redhead chuckled. “Aw, naw, honey, she r’spects you; she’s afeared you might use it to carve up me or somebody ’nd try to git away.”
