The King

CHAPTER 11

“Aii!” cried a man, rising to his feet.

Another pounded on the table, his eyes blazing.

The melodies of Beyira II seemed incongruous somehow, at first, in the rough hall, with its high timbers, and smoke holes, and rush-strewn, dirt floor, but in moments these things had seemed forgotten and the venue of what occurred might as easily have been a hundred other places, as a woolen tent, lost among dunes; a tavern on Illyrius, a free planet, an emporium planet, a crossroads for slavers and brigands, where good buys might often be found; a brothel, utilizing slaves, on scorching Torus, where one cannot set foot outside without protective gear; a remote pre-embondment prison where the wives and daughters of traitors, awaiting enslavement, are trained for the collar; a slave farm on rural Granicum, where some slaves do not yet know that men exist, and cannot begin to understand the primitive discomforts which dismay them; or, perhaps, a chamber of state, many-columned, lofty, and marble-floored, somewhere within the white, high-walled, turreted palace of some sand lord, rising above a thousand hovels, and caravansaries, the cruel, waterless desert stretching away on all sides. But, too, as easily, and as well, it seems, might the venue be what it was, a rude hall of the Alemanni, a place of Drisriaks on a world now shielded, now closed away, by a whirling storm of stones, marking the skies with light, like the raking claws of beasts; anywhere would do, really, if there were slaves and men.

“No, no, no!” cried a man, angrily. “Kill her! Kill her!”

“Be still, watch!” cried another.

“Do not weaken!” said a man.

Abrogastes, on his bench, watched, with keen interest.

Former women of the empire shrank back, moaning, terrified to see what a woman might be.

“My thighs flame!” wept one.

“I am a slave, a slave!” cried another.

Many turned away, but turned back again, quickly.

The hands of many were at their bared bosoms. They gasped for breath. Their hearts pounded.

“Oh, oh!” moaned one.

But the boy who was her keeper just put his switch lightly upon her left shoulder, cautioning her to silence, not even looking at her, unable, it seemed, to take his eyes from the floor.

Then he lifted the switch a little, absently, hardly aware, it seemed, that he still held it.

He was a lad, and had not seen such things before.

The woman turned suddenly, as though she could not help herself, and kissed, and licked, the supple disciplinary instrument near her shoulder.

The boy was hardly aware of this.

The attention of both was then returned to the floor.

“See her writhe at the spear!” cried a man.

“Aii!” said another.

The attention, even, of many of the creatures alien to men, was focused upon the floor. Whereas much must have been lost to them surely the vibrations in the air, however they may have experienced them, and the rhythm, and grace, of certain movements, must have had some effect upon them, as they shared with men a world in which there were, should one listen, should one see, should one be attentive, the movements, the songs, of nature, a world in which there were rhythms and cycles, a universe in which there were stars and orbits, and seasons, and days and nights, and tides, even in the earth, drawn by moons, and rain and heat, snow and winds.

She was now on her knees at the massive spear, the spear of oathing, supported, its butt in the dirt, by two warriors, grasping it, caressing it with her body, her small hands, her helpless lips and mouth.

Had it been a man surely it would have cried out, mad with pleasure.

Then she flung herself before it, and, so before it, so prostrated, rolling and twisting, supine, and prone, and on her side, in the rush-strewn dirt, she writhed, sometimes holding out her hands to it, sometimes as though she might half fend it away in unendurable ecstasy, sometimes as though for pity, sometimes as though begging mercy.

“Let me kill her now, great Abrogastes!” cried a man. “Let me cut her throat!”

“There is time enough for that later,” growled another man.

The slave must have heard this, for she moaned in terror.

“Kill her!” cried another man, one who may have cast his pellet earlier into the pan of death.

“Be silent!” said a fellow.

The slave threw the fellow a look of gratitude, but his scowl was such that she was again plunged into misery and terror.

“Dance, dance, slut!” cried men.

Then she knelt before the spear, a yard or so before it, and, slowly, to the music, bent herself backward, until her head was back, upon the dirt floor, her dark hair scattered upon it, in which position she could doubtless see Abrogastes, above and behind her, on his bench, between the high-seat pillars, and then she slowly straightened her body, until she was kneeling, and then knelt forward, until her head was in the dirt again, and then the palms of her hands were on the dirt, too, and she was, as men cried out with pleasure, in a common position of obeisance, and then she lowered herself to her belly, and inched herself to the spear, as in the belly obeisance where the slave hopes to be permitted to kiss the feet of the master, and she pressed her lips to the dirt before it, and then, tenderly, to its sides, the left and right.

“Glory to the Alemanni!” cried a man.

“Glory to the Alemanni!” cried others.

Among slaves and masters there are many such ceremonies, which are meaningful.

The spear, as we have mentioned, may not be touched by free women, but the ministrations of female slaves figure frequently in its rituals.

“She is on her feet again!” cried a man.

The slave then began to dance to the tables, and to individual men, pathetically, at first, almost timidly, begging their attention, their indulgence, but soon she noted, whether it was the subtle effect of those rich, sensuous, exotic melodies which, by themselves, might have swept away the resolve of the coldest and most determined of men, and tempted even the most frigid of free women to tear away their garments, or whether it was something of her own beauty, which she now began for the first time to truly understand might be something precious and remarkable, something of great interest to men, for which they might pay much, or the dance itself, or all these things, that in the eyes of many men there glistened intense interest, heat, and desire. She saw even, in the eyes of some, awe.

I am beautiful, she thought to herself, startled.

She danced before Anton, the short-haired primate, and she saw the knuckles of his hairy hands, beneath the hair, whiten.

She saw a drinking horn whose edge had been half chewed away.

There were furrows in the table of Granicus, of the Long-Toothed People, where his claws had left, as he watched, their marks.

The scales of one of the saurians rippled.

She hastily moved down the table.

The bright, compound eyes of the insectoidal warriors were upon her, but they may have seen a hundred of her.

Before the least human aliens, too, you see, she danced, even before those who had already cast their pellets in the pan of death, as though acknowledging their right to decide as they did, but nonetheless presenting herself before them, for their inspection, and contempt, if they wished, contritely, too, in her dance begging their forgiveness for not having been found by them to be sufficiently pleasing, performing for them, thusly, you see, as for the others, as what she was, in all humility, a slave.

But her greatest strengths, of course, came, as she began to comprehend, almost daring to begin to hope, with the mammals, and mammalian sorts, and, progressively, among these forms of life, with the primates, both those closer to and farther from humans, and then, advancing further, with humanoidal sorts, and even more humanlike sorts, many of whom kept women such as she for labor and pleasure, and with some of whom such women, commonly with certain biological adjustments, would even be cross-fertile, and culminatingly, of course, like explosions and eruptions, like tides and seasons, with those for whom she had been prepared by a billion years of evolution and selection to appeal to and delight, the males of her own species, human males, and these, at the tables, she gratefully noted, were in the vast majority.

I am beautiful, she thought to herself. I am desired. I am wanted, and as a slave!

It is well known how beautiful and exciting women are when they dance the dances of slaves, even a legally free woman, but one who would be, of course, a slave in her heart, dancing before one, out there in the darkness, she hopes is her master. Suppose then that she who dances such a dance is truly a slave, fully and legally, which must be the case in many places in the empire, who can be priced and purchased, who knows herself slave, and is subject to discipline, and must obey. A thousand times more meaningful then is her dance, and her reality! How men might scream for her, and bid for her!

“A gold ring for the slut!” called a man.

“Two!” cried another.

“No!” shouted a man, in fury. “The scales, and lead, will decide her fate!”

On many worlds it is well known, though on others the information is suppressed, that biological realities exist, such as dominance and submission, strength and vulnerability, reciprocal needs, jealousy, possessiveness, protectiveness, sexual dimorphism and its meaning, claimancy and command, behavioral genetics, readinesses to respond to sign stimuli, longings for completeness, the desire to belong to, and yield to, the master animal, and such. Illustrative of one small aspect of these matters, one might consider the matter of sign stimuli and, in particular, what one might speak of as “emphasis sign stimuli.” The lips of a woman, for example, have a natural color and function as sign stimuli, having a role to play, as does the totality of her loveliness, inward and outward, in arousing the male. But it is well known in many cultures for the color of the lips to be deepened and intensified by the application of, say, lipstick. This, in its way, enhances and intensifies nature, and thus, in its way, constitutes a sign stimulus which does not occur in nature itself, or, at least, in nature short of its witting enhancements, taken then as a part of nature. That is an “emphasis sign stimulus.” Cosmetics, generally, and jewelry, and perhaps clothing, on the whole, function as such “emphasis sign stimuli.” Now consider the subtler matter of possession. There is little doubt that the primitive human male, in effect, claimed and owned his mate, much as he might have his tools and weapons, though a legal concept of property is unlikely to have existed at such a time. In such a sense then, the sense of male dominance and female submission, the sense of the possession and ownership of the mate, and of other women captured, one can think of slavery as natural. Women who might, say, evade or flee such relationships would have been less likely, presumably, to replicate their genes, and thus, in time, nature would have selected for the dominant male and the submissive female, his subordinated, serving, treasured prize. As civilization developed, these relationships would tend to be elaborated and complicated, and, for example, the slavery of nature would tend to come, in some of its aspects, at least, to be the slavery, in effect, of merchant law. Thus, just as cosmetics and jewelry, and such, might enhance, as emphasis sign stimuli, the natural female, rendering her even more exciting and attractive, so, too, legalized slavery, in the context of a complex civilization, in the emotive and cognitive dimensions, as emotional and cognitive emphasis sign stimuli, would render the female ever more desirable, exciting, and attractive. This is doubtless one reason the female slave is far more sexually arousing than the free female; her slavery itself is an incredibly powerful emphasis sign stimulus. Add in then the lore of the slave, her skills, her role in the civilization, how she might be marked, or identified, collared, or ankleted, or such, how she is to be dressed, how she is to behave, and such, and considering all these things as emphasis sign stimuli, one begins to suspect something of the secret of her sexual magnetism, something of her incredible desirability, something of the extraordinary power of her attraction. And, too, of course, these things are reciprocal, working as much on the female, perhaps even more, than on the male. The woman who must see males as masters cannot help but find them sexually disturbing, and a thousand times more interesting and attractive than might a free woman. Bondage induces not only interest in the opposite sex in the human female, but primes her with readiness and eagerness. The collar makes her not only the slave of her master, but of her own passion, as well. Too, she longs to kneel and express her devotion in a thousand ways. She longs to love and serve, and give of herself. She is a slave.

“Three rings!” cried a high fellow in one of the Alemanni tribes, the Dangars.

“Five!” cried another fellow, from another of the Alemanni tribes, the Teragar, or Long-River, Borkons.

“No, no!” cried a man, angrily. “See the scale! It tips to the skull! It points to death!”

“No rings of gold for her!” cried a man.

“Would that I had a ring of gray, base lead, to hurl it into the pan of death!” cried another.

Huta hurried to the fellow who had cried this out, and fell to her knees before him, some feet before his table, and then, on her knees, with her body and arms, to the music, lifting her arms to him, so danced, on her knees, in supplication before him.

“Ai!” cried a man.

The fellow tried to turn away, but in a moment, furious, tears streaming down his face, turned again, to regard the slave.

Huta lifted her dark, glorious hair, spreading it about herself, and then shielded herself with it and then, as though timidly, and as if commanded, drew it away from her body, looking at the fellow, as though shyly, frightened, as though he had ordered this done.

“Ai!” he cried, in fury.

And then, to the music, she wrapped the hair about her wrists, as though they might be bound, and then placed her wrists, crossed, behind the back of her head, holding them there, as though they were bound there, and then, before him, regarding him fearfully, surged, and struggled, as though helplessly, as though striving to free herself from bonds, but futilely.

“How now will you cast your pellet?” inquired a fellow at his elbow.

He put his head down, weeping, striking the table with his fists.

And Huta was up, to dance before another. “I will fill your drinking horn with emeralds for her!” called a high fellow of the Aramars, one of many tribes allied with the Alemanni.

“A thousand rubies!” cried another fellow, from the Vessites, the Copper People.

“A diamond from Kolchis III!” cried another fellow, a Buron, from Safa Minor.

There were a great many tribes, and peoples, allied with, or well disposed toward, the Alemanni.

In the Alemanni nation itself, as we have mentioned, there were eleven tribes.

“Dance, slave, dance!” cried a man.

“Yes, Master!” cried Huta.

Huta could not but have been aware of the effect of her dance on the feasters, and, in particular, on the humans, the Alemanni and others, and, indeed, even on certain of the other species as well, some not even closely kindred to the human species. As we have suggested, several of these species kept human females as slaves, putting them to a variety of purposes.

Huta began to suspect, the hope rising in her, suddenly, irresistibly, wildly, elatedly, in her dance, that she might have a chance for life, that she might be able to exert some real influence in her favor, however small, on the dark matter which, only too realistically, hung in the balance.

“Dance!” cried another.

“Yes, Master!” she cried.

I may live, she thought wildly. I may live!

She swayed, meaningfully, before a man.

She read his keen desire in his eyes.

I have power, she thought. I have the power of a slave!

“See! She grows proud!” cried a man.

This terrified Huta, whose slavery then was only too clearly recalled to her.

She flung herself to the rush-strewn, dirt floor, rolling and begging, prostrating herself, piteously.

Her movements said, I am not proud! I am weak and helpless, and I beg mercy!

“Oh!” she suddenly cried, as she lay supine, in the dirt. Her hips suddenly shook, and rocked, uncontrollably. She lifted herself a little, with her hands and her heels. Her haunches heaved, and she was startled. Her hips bucked. She lost the music, bewildered, for a moment, turning to her side, pulling her legs up, in consternation, trying to hide and cover herself.

There was laughter.

“Oh!” cried more than one of the ladies of the empire, moving wildly on her knees. Many of the others turned scarlet, trying to cover themselves.

“Finish your dance!” cried a man.

But Huta, now, could do little more than crawl on her knees, her stomach moving, to reach the foot of the dais.

“Take the vote!”

“Cast the pellets!” cried men.

“Mercy, Master!” wept Huta, beside herself in misery, and bewilderment, her eyes wide, her hands at her hips.

Muchly then was there laughter.

“Behold the needful, helpless slave!” cried a man.

Huta cast a pathetic, helpless glance at him.

“Masters! Masters!” cried one of the former ladies of the empire. “We are yours! Take pity on us!”

“Down!” cried one of the lads, savagely, lashing across the shoulder with his supple, greenwood switch she who had cried out. The former lady of the empire put her head down, bent far over, weeping, clutching her thighs.

Other former women of the empire moaned, looking about themselves, fearfully, wonderingly, at men who might, at a word from Abrogastes, become their masters.

Huta’s hips, despite her efforts, moved.

“Forgive me, Master! Mercy, Master!” she cried.

“The music, slave, the music!” cried one of the musicians, angrily.

Abrogastes regarded her, eyes closely lidded, face expressionless, considering what a mere touch might do to such a slave.

“The music!” cried the musician.

Doubtless for such a lapse, in a tavern or brothel, a girl might be muchly leathered.

“The music!” insisted the musician.

The whip lies always to hand, you see, to instruct such women in deportment, its presence admonishing them to control themselves to the end of the dance.

They may afterward be thrown to those for whom they have been reserved.

It was not unknown, too, that their own girls might, upon occasion, in the dark, woolen, silk-lined, lamp-lit tents, fall to the rugs, weeping, tearing away veils, touching their collars, writhing, begging for the touch of masters.

Such was sometimes permitted, if there were no guests.

But sometimes, even in taverns and brothels, it is recognized that a woman, even one frightened and resolved, cannot always help herself. She is, after all, a slave, and is thus in a state of intensified nature. Some of the manuals recommend lenience, even indulgence, at such times.

What is done depends, of course, on the master.

“Dance!” ordered he who was first among the musicians.

Huta then, in agony, crawled to a few feet before the dais of Abrogastes, and knelt before him, precisely as she had before the spear.

“Good! Good!” said the leader of the musicians.

She then, to the music, leaned backward, until her dark hair was swirled upon the rush-strewn floor, and then, slowly, gracefully, came forward, lifting herself, her hands, and arms and body seemingly entwined with the music, obedient to its beat and caress, helplessly responsive to the melody, exquisitely, vitally vulnerable to it, submissive to it, swept up in it, like living silk in the wind, borne by it, and in it, sensuous and rhapsodic, wordless and eloquent, fluent in the speech of desire and emotion, like the glow of firelight on a brass vessel, the movement of silk, the rustle of ankle bells.

“Good,” said the leader of the musicians.

Then she bent forward, as she had before the spear, and, trembling, performed obeisance, head to the dirt, palms on the dirt, before Abrogastes, and then lowered herself to her belly, and crawled to the dais.

“Down,” said Abrogastes to the rumbling, agitated hound to his right.

The beast subsided, its ears erecting, the bristling, manelike hair, crackling, descending over the knot of muscle at the back of its neck.

Huta then squirmed to the surface of the dais and, putting down her head, began to kiss and lick at the boots of Abrogastes, as she had at the butt of the spear, still held by the two warriors toward the center of the hall.

The music then, suddenly, stopped, Huta’s tiny hands about the left boot of Abrogastes, her lips pressed down, piteously, fervently, to the boot of her master.

Huta trembled.

The furred boot of Abrogastes was damp with her tears, and dampened, and streaked, pressed down, wet, from the desperate, placatory attentions of her soft tongue and lips.

Abrogastes rose to his feet, and, with his boot, thrust Huta from the dais.

She lay then on her side in the rush-strewn dirt at the foot of the dais, trembling.

She drew her legs up, she covered the soft, swelling beauty of her bosom with her hands.

Her hips stirred in the dirt.

She wept. No longer could she help herself.

“Behold the helpless slave!” laughed a man.

There was much laughter.

But the slave, miserable, and in agony, could not, as we have said, help herself.

“The proud Huta has been stripped of her freedom,” said a man.

“And of her clothing,” laughed another.

“And now, too,” said another, “she has been stripped of her pride.”

Huta shuddered.

She sensed that no woman who has so danced can ever again be anything but a man’s slave.

She lay there in the dirt, trying to control herself.

“It remains now only to strip her of her virginity,” said another man.

“Yes,” said another.

“Abrogastes!” cried men. “Abrogastes!”

But Abrogastes descended from the dais, and stepped over the trembling form before the dais, which had, in the plans of Abrogastes, now served its purpose.

“Are you well feasted, and well entertained?” called out Abrogastes.

“Yes!” called men, and other forms of life.

Goblets smote upon the heavy planks of the feasting tables.

“This is nothing,” cried Abrogastes, “only a little food and drink, and the pathetic appeal, in dance, of a meaningless slave.”

Men looked at one another.

“Do you think it is for the sake of such trivialities, such pleasantries, that I have called you here?”

“Speak, Abrogastes,” called a man.

“Behold the spear of oathing!” called Abrogastes, pointing to the great spear, held upright by two warriors.

The hall was silent.

Abrogastes then surveyed the former women of the empire, kneeling, huddled together, frightened, here and there, before the tables.

They shrank back, but well, after the dance of Huta, knew themselves slaves.

She who was the first of the three display slaves, kneeling, raised her hands from her thighs, turning them, and lifting the palms, piteously, to Abrogastes.

Another, she who had been lashed when she had called out for the pity of masters, lifted her head a little, pathetically, but dared not move. Muchly did she fear the switch of her impatient, youthful mentor. Her eyes spoke for her.

Others of the women had their thighs pressed closely together. Some squirmed.

“To the spear, slaves!” called Abrogastes, harshly, waving his hand about.

These women had been well instructed by the example of Huta, and they hurried piteously to the great spear, and desperately, in fear for their lives, and, too, muchly aroused by what they had seen, the dance, and the masters about, and their own vulnerability, and condition, as slaves, ministered to the great spear, holding it, grasping it, pressing themselves against it, pathetically, caressing it, licking and kissing it.

There was much laughter at the tables, as the former women of the empire, with their bodies, their small hands, and their lips, and tongues, bestowed attentions upon the mighty spear.

They crowded about the spear, trying to reach it, kneeling, and bellying, none on their feet, each vying with the other, each striving to touch it, to lick and kiss it, each attempting to do so more lovingly, more zealously, more submissively, than the other.

“Behold the women of the empire!” called Abrogastes. He gestured to the crowd of slaves at the spear, performing the spear obeisance.

The men at the tables looked on, approvingly.

“Do they not attempt to caress pleasantly?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes,” said men.

“Do they not attempt to lick and kiss well?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes!” called men.

“Are they not pretty little things?” called Abrogastes.

“Yes,” shouted men, approvingly.

“Do you not think they could be instructed to squirm well?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes!” laughed men.

“Enough!” cried Abrogastes, sharply, and the lads, who had been alerted to this moment in the feast, long before its commencement, lashed the ladies from the spear and to their bellies, where they then lay in the dirt, clustered about it.

“We are despised, as you know, my brothers,” said Abrogastes, “by those of the empire, we, the lords of stars, by the fat, the haughty and the weak, by the complacent, the petty, the smug, the wealthy, the arrogant.”

Men exchanged glances, uneasily.

“What do they, with their vaunted civilization, their refinements and luxuries, know of hardship, of pain and war, of adventure, of victory?”

“Little, milord,” said the clerk.

“Which of them has swum in cold, restless, black waters, who among them has hunted the long-maned lion, who trekked the ice of the month of Igon, pursuing the white bear, who marched, in the heat of solar fire, a pack on his back, a thousand miles to distant outposts, who braved the flood, who forded, afoot, turbulent rivers, who drawn the oars, or held the tiller, of river vessels, who driven the stakes of the high tents, who lived alone in the forest, who met enemies at borders, and on lonely skerries, who hunted beasts and by them was hunted?”

“Not those, surely, of the empire, milord,” said the clerk.

“They wear silks and linens, and we coarse cloths, and the skins of beasts,” said Abrogastes.

There was silence.

“To whom does the lamb belong?” asked Abrogastes.

“To the lion, milord,” said the clerk.

“To whom the pig?”

“The leopard, milord.”

“To whom the gazelle?”

“The vi-cat, milord.”

“To whom the slaves?”

“To the masters, milord.”

The former women of the empire trembled, lying in the dirt, about the foot of the great spear.

“The empire is vast, and rich,” said Abrogastes, “vast and rich beyond measure.”

“The empire is invincible, and eternal,” said a man.

“Once,” said Abrogastes, “there was no empire.”

Men looked at one another, for the empire was taken much for granted, as might be a mountain or star.

“It is true, milord,” said the clerk.

“The empire is invincible,” said one of the men, uncertainly.

“Let us raid now and then, and return to our worlds, with some loot, for feasting, the telling of stories, the songs of skalds,’’ said a man.

“While the empire strengthens her defenses, and even prepares to send her ships of reprisal forth to follow you?” asked Abrogastes.

“They must find us first,” said a man.

There was some uneasy laughter.

“Are you content to be weasels and scavengers, nocturnal filchen to rush forth, at night, to seize a crumb from the garbage of a palace?”

“To what end do you speak, mighty Abrogastes?” inquired a Dangar.

“Walls may be scaled, ditches may be bridged, portals may be smote down,” said Abrogastes.

Men looked at one another, uneasily. Much as they might hate the empire, they feared it, either as a dim, vast, remote presence just beyond the horizon, one awesome, one fearsome and menacing, or even as a reality, sharp and bright, fierce, which they may, upon occasion, almost as though in the dark, suddenly, their dismay and grief, have touched.

Huta lay forgotten in the dirt, before the dais.

Only gradually did she begin to understand how she had been used by Abrogastes, she responding totally naturally, in every particle of her being, as she must, in her own needs and interest, yet, at the same time, just as naturally, serving simultaneously, as was the intent of Abrogastes, to unite the feasters, giving them a common object to hate and hold in contempt, and to ignite their anger and resentment against any form of treason, any form of divisiveness; in these ways, thusly, she found herself used to serve the purposes of Abrogastes. Too, of course, her reduction to slavery, this reduction in status, from that of a consecrated, sacred virgin, even a priestess, to that of a mere desire object, a slave, who could be bought and sold in any market, must convey its message as well. And, of course, doubtless Abrogastes had enjoyed showing her off, displaying her as one of his properties. And, obviously, she had figured in the feast’s entertainment, as might have any slave. It seemed clear that several of the feasters had not failed to derive some pleasure from her performance. And, too, of course, she had, in her ministrations at the spear, and in her dance, served her purposes, as well. She had set an example for the former ladies of the empire, instructing them, in her way, in what was required of them at the spear. Too, there was no doubt that her dance had taught them, incontrovertibly, not only what she was, but what they were, as well. Many had moaned with helpless arousal and desire. Some had cried out. Many had squirmed in need, some scarcely understanding what was going on in their bodies. Her dance, if such were needed, had readied them, primed them, for slave service. They wanted now their masters’ touch. They, though former ladies of the empire, were now eager for it, now zealous for it. Some were ready even now, though not so long in their collars, to beg for it.

“The empire is not invincible,” said Abrogastes. “We have met her on a hundred worlds, at a thousand ports and cities, and defeated her.”

“Those are border forces, not the mobile forces, auxiliaries, not regulars, conscripts, not professionals,” said a man.

“Even the Vandalii, our hated and hereditary foes, at one time resisted the empire!” said Abrogastes.

“And they are now vanished, or scattered, and meaningless, exiled, banished to distant worlds, some even in rural service to the empire.’’

“Are we, of the Alemanni,” asked Abrogastes, “less than the Vandals?”

“No!” cried men, angrily.

Huta lay in the dirt, small, forgotten, her knees drawn up, her arms about herself. She, overwhelmed with what had occurred, with her dance, with her feelings, her sensations, scarcely dared to move. Never had she been so alive, so frightened, so ready to feel, so real. It was as though she had somehow discovered herself, finding herself to be, in perfection, what she had always suspected herself to be, a woman, more in the state of nature than she would have dreamed possible. She felt an overwhelming desire to please, and serve. She wanted to live to do so, and be held, and mastered.

Yet she lay there on the dirt floor of the hall, huddled up, naked.

Whether the slave is clothed or not is up to the master, but they are often clad, if only in a ribbon, or rag, that it be clear that they are slave, to themselves and others, that their beauty might be the subject of provocative, betraying hints, and that there be something to remove from them, whenever the master wishes it.

But on Huta’s body there was not even a collar.

She wanted the collar, or the anklet, or bracelet, or ring, or chains, anything, something to give her at least a little security, something to confirm upon her her status, something to make it clear that she might be wanted, that she might hope to be kept.

Her hunger now began to return to her. She had not been fed. It had not been seen fit to waste food on her. It had not been clear that she was to survive the evening.

She longed for the reassurance of chains.

Would not such suggest that she might be kept, if only for the night?

But there was not so much as a rag on her body.

To be sure, on her left leg, high, just under the hip, she had been branded, a common brand, the tiny slave rose, one of several standard marks recognized in merchant law, but it had been done shortly after landfall from Tenguthaxichai, she one in a line of several others, no different, being put in the rack, which held the limb immobile, in her turn, as the others. She had cried out, struggling in the cuffs, pinioning her wrists behind her, which would not be removed for several hours, and had seen her thigh marked, saw it hissing, smoking, for a moment, and had understood that she was now something that could be recognized and identified for what it was throughout galaxies. She had hoped to be marked by Abrogastes himself but he did her no such honor. It was a common fellow, a smith, in his dark, stained leather apron, who did the work, he taking one iron after another from the brazier, these being cleaned and reheated by attendants. She had been on a common neck chain, with others. The work was done in a routine, unhurried, methodical, efficient manner. Did the smith, and the others, she had wondered, not understand what they were doing, what an absolute, incredible transformation they wreaked with each placing, and pressing in, of the iron? One might have thought, she had conjectured, that they might have been marking cattle. Then it had occurred to her that, in a sense, that was precisely what they were doing. They were marking livestock. She had, when free, despised slaves, and thought nothing of them. But then she had found herself one.

Abrogastes had had her branded promptly, but had not done the work himself. He had given it over to the smith and his fellows. He himself had scarcely seen her afterward. She had, with others, served twice, her ankles in leather shackles, in his hut.

The mark was on her, of course, and it identified her as a slave. But surely it provided her with little assurance that she might be spared.

She might be thrown, tonight, to the dogs that guarded the camp.

“They think,” called Abrogastes to the tables, he striding about, fixing his fierce eyes upon one of the feasters after another, “that we are weak, that we are afraid of them! Are you weak, Granicus? Are you weak, Anton?”

“No,” responded these creatures.

“You, Ingeld?” inquired Abrogastes.

“No, milord.”

“Hrothgar?”

“No, father!” cried Hrothgar.

“Hensa? Orkon?”

“No, milord,” said these men.

“Who here fears the empire?” called Abrogastes.

“The empire is strong,” said a man.

“Do you fear her?” inquired Abrogastes.

“No, milord!” said the man.

“The empire believes that we cannot fight, that we are afraid to fight, that we are cowards!” said Abrogastes, his eyes blazing.

“Surely she is wrong, milord,” called the clerk.

“Is she wrong, brothers?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes, milord!” cried a man.

“The empire is strong, milord,” said a man.

“The empire,” whispered Abrogastes, “is weak.”

“Milord?” asked the man.

“Weak,” said Abrogastes.

He then turned about and, not more than a pace from the prostrate Huta, returned to the dais, where he stood before the bench, between the high-seat pillars.

“You have spies, milord?” inquired a man.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

“Let rings be brought!” called the clerk.

Men gasped, looking about, many apprehensive.

Huta, ignored, fearing, not knowing her fate, lay before the dais, frightened that no notice was taken of her, not even the blow of a boot, and yet fearing, as well, that she might, at any moment, by some happenstance, even by some caprice, as though by the shifting of a wind, be returned to the attention of the hall.

Chain me, she whispered to herself, chain me.

Abrogastes seated himself on the bench, between the high-seat pillars.

I want chains, she whispered to herself. Chain me, so that I cannot run, chain me to a ring, by the wrists and ankles, by the neck, if you wish, so that I cannot escape, so that I will be secure, so that I know I will be kept, at least for the night! Chain me, my master. I beg chains.

“I have thought long on these matters, and hard,” said Abrogastes.

“Is it wise to have rings brought, father?” inquired Ingeld.

“There is a time to bring the rings,” said Abrogastes.

“Is this the time, father?” asked Ingeld.

“It is the time,” said Abrogastes.

“It is the time!” said Hrothgar, smiting with two fists upon the table.

“But the empire is eternal,” said a man.

“Let it be eternal,” said Abrogastes.

“I do not understand,” said the man.

Two men entered, from the side, bearing with them a coffer, bound in iron.

“The rings, milord,” said the shieldsman, at the left shoulder of Abrogastes, the sword of his lord over his left shoulder.

Huta looked pathetically to one of the musicians, still by the dais.

She could not read his expression.

She shuddered. She had, as she had been urged, danced her secret dreams, her secret thoughts, her needs, herself, her slavery, what she was, who she was. She had danced as a slave, shamelessly, holding nothing back, surrendering everything, releasing all, throwing herself piteously upon the mercy of harsh masters. And she had danced, too, before Abrogastes, and as his helpless, and, to her consternation, so vulnerably, as his needful, slave. What more could she do? What more could she give? Surely she had lost everything. But he had then thrust her with his boot from the dais, and seemed now to have dismissed her from his mind.

Mighty matters were afoot, and she knew herself only a worthless, meaningless slave.

She moved herself a little, and, lifting herself on the palms of her hands, regarded the scale, the pointer of which inclined ever so slightly toward the left side of the semicircular dial, toward the skull at its termination, indicating that the greatest weight, at this moment, lay within the pan of death.

What if they should forget her, and leave matters as they stood? Would not then the men come and, taking her by the arms, conduct her outside, to be thrown to the dogs?

She lay back down, trembling.

“Who here does not want wealth beyond his wildest dreams?” asked Abrogastes.

Men looked at one another, and grinned.

“It is there for the taking,” said Abrogastes. “We need only have the courage to seize it! The empire is like a shell. It is hard on the outside, but once we break through, as I assure you that we, in strength, we brothers together, can, there is nothing to stop us, not until we reach the treasure rooms, the boudoirs, with our chains, the hearths of Telnaria herself!”

“They have ships, thousands, and weapons,” said a man.

“We too have ships, and will have more, as we are joined by disaffected worlds. We are not the only enemies of the empire. Many are sophisticated, technological worlds which will support us with ships, with supplies, with equipment and armament.”

“You have sounded these things out?” asked a man.

“Else you would not have been called to the feast,” said Abrogastes.

“There are many peoples here, milord,” said a man.

“We are strong,” mused another.

“The empire is a burden on many worlds, and places, milord,” said a man. “They would be pleased to be rid of her.”

“The time to strike is now,” said Abrogastes.

“And what will these worlds want of us, who wish us to take their risks, and do their work for them?” asked a man.

“What we give them,” said Abrogastes, “is what they will receive.”

“It will be by our doing?” asked Ingeld.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

“There will be worlds to distribute?” asked a man.

“A billion worlds,” said Abrogastes, “to be distributed, to the brave, the faithful, the loyal, to owe their duties to their lords.”

“The empire is eternal,” said a man, his voice shaking.

“Let it be eternal, or not,” said Abrogastes. “What does it matter? It is a house into which we may, if we wish, enter. Do you think the empire, if she is to endure, cares who governs her, who is her master? Do you not think that power has not changed hands within her a thousand times, by poisonings, by assassinations, by untimely deaths, by intrigues, by palace seizures, by riots, by civil wars, in her long history? That there is a throne is all that is required, that and someone to sit upon it!”

“But we are not of the empire,” said a man.

“So much the better,” said Abrogastes. “Our blood is fresh, and hot. We are young, and the heat of our youth is upon us. We are a newer, more ambitious, more adventurous, more determined, stronger people. I will not be content until I ride my horse into the throne room of Telnaria, and wash my blade in the blood of the emperor!”

“Beware, milord!” cried a man.

“I have not gone mad,” said Abrogastes. “What is required is courage.”

“We are only warriors,” said a man.

“Such,” said Abrogastes, “stand at the beginning of all dynasties.”

Abrogastes rose to his feet.

“Milord,” said the clerk.

Men gasped, for the clerk had drawn forth, from a chest at the back of the dais, a long, purple robe, of the imperial purple, trimmed with white fur, from the pelt of the ice bear.

He draped this about the shoulders of Abrogastes.

Abrogastes himself fastened the large, golden penannular clasp.

The robe was so cut, in two leaves, that its length fell before and behind, leaving the arms free.

In such a way a sword may be wielded.

“Such robes may you all wear,” said Abrogastes.

Men regarded one another, wonderingly.

“Let rings be distributed,” said Abrogastes.

The men who had brought the rings, in the iron-bound coffer began to distribute them.

They were large, and of gold, such as might be worn on the upper arm, or wrist.

Men drew back, fearing to accept them.

“Do not be afraid, my brothers,” said Abrogastes. “See. I do not ask that you kneel before me, and accept rings from my hand. These are tokens of the feast, and of my good will. Surely those who have accepted rings from me know who they are, and many of you, I know, have accepted rings from another. I ask no forswearing of allegiances. We are all brothers. These are gifts. No obligation attends them.”

“Our thanks, milord!” called a man.

The rings then were distributed, though some were accepted with reluctance.

It is a serious thing, the taking of rings.

There was, you see, as Abrogastes well knew, something in the nature of an implicit understanding involved in such an acceptance, even though it might be formally denied.

Abrogastes then resumed his seat upon the bench, between the pillars.

“Bring gifts!” he called.

Men rushed out and returned with rich gifts, drawn from chests, some of which required four men to bear. There was rich cloth, much of it cunningly woven, and satins and brocades for free women, and subtle silks, many diaphanous, with which to bedeck slaves, and there were jewels, of a dozen kinds, and golden wire, and brooches, buckles, strap ends, coins, plates, vessels, candelabra, lamps, swords, daggers, bracelets and necklaces, many such things. Much of this was heaped upon the tables. Men, and others, grasped these things, taking them to their places, putting them about themselves, thrusting them into their belts and garments.

Abrogastes watched, with satisfaction.

He witnessed men, and others, accepting his gifts, even eagerly.

Too, he was the lord of the Drisriaks, the foremost tribe, the largest and fiercest, of the Alemanni nation. To accept gifts from him was not the same as from some minor lord.

Abrogastes called to himself, while the gifts were being distributed, the chief of the lads in the bright livery, with the switches, and spoke with him.

He then, the lad, went to the prone women, crowded together, radiated in their semicircle about and before the spear, and, with deft, significatory touches of the supple wand in his hand, brought three to their hands and knees and herded them, with a touch here and there, unobtrusively, on an arm, or flank, to a position before the dais, to the left, before the bench of Abrogastes. These were the three blondes who had, often, even on the Alaria, served as display slaves, the sort with which a barbaric court might be bedecked, as an indication of the wealth and power of a rude sovereign, one of a powerful, ruthless people among whom the complete mastery of slaves was a commonplace. At a nod from Abrogastes, a keeper chained them, the three of them, hand and foot, to a ring, it set in the side of the dais.

This business was not muchly noticed by the men at the tables, boisterous, vying, arguing, reaching out, gathering in their gifts.

“There is more than enough for all!” cried out one of the distributors of this largesse.

The leader of the display slaves, shackled with the others, looked at Abrogastes fearfully, hopefully. She pressed her lips to her manacles, looking above them, timidly, to Abrogastes.

A wave of hatred and jealousy swept through the small, exquisitely curved body of Huta, but then she put down her head in fear, in misery, and moaned.

On her own throat there was not so much as a collar.

The eyes of the hound, green, and alight with fire, that crouched to the right of Abrogastes, were upon her.

At the merest word from Abrogastes, she knew the hound would be upon her, and tear her to pieces, its muzzle and fangs awash with blood, it feeding eagerly before the dais.

Huta looked to the scales, and to the pointer, indicative of the weightier burden borne within the pan of death.

She shuddered, and pressed the right side of her cheek into the dirt, against one of the broken reeds, or rushes.

Muchly did she envy the display slaves their shackles.

It seemed, at least, they had been found worth chaining, that they would be kept.

“Behold!” called Abrogastes, rising from the bench, and gesturing expansively to the side, where, from an entrance, men filed in, bearing oblong boxes.

“What is this, milord?” called a man, a Buron, from his home world of Safa Minor.

“See!” laughed Abrogastes.

The boxes were torn open, the boards splintered by swift, prying bars.

“Aii!” cried feasters, for within there were Telnarian rifles.

Such weapons were superior to those of most border troops, many of which, given the losses of resources over more than a billion years, were reduced to primitive weaponry, suitable for little more than the ordering, and pacification, of peoples scarcely less advanced than themselves. A quarrel, an arrow, may be reused, and, indeed, many charges, and the forcings of ground, had as their main intent the recovery of just such missiles from the field, some gathering them up, others maintaining the hurdles or shield walls behind which this harvesting might take place. A cartridge, on the other hand, once expended, is gone. A gallon of fuel burned is lost. A bomb, once exploded, has done its work, its reality then vanished in the debris of its birth and death. In these times, you see, a rifle might be worth a kingdom, and an unexploited world, newly discovered, rich in minerals and arable soil, worth a star. Resources, once carelessly conceived as if they might be infinite in nature and quantity, used upon occasion even to shatter and destroy worlds, had proved, over billions of years, finite, potentially exhaustible, and many were scattered, remote, and to most intents and purposes inaccessible. Small wonder then that simple metal, which might be fashioned into blades, and wood, that gloriously renewable resource, which might be fashioned into arrows and bows, began again to appear in the mixed arsenals of a million worlds.

“Beware,” laughed Abrogastes, as men eagerly seized these precious devices, “one must learn to use them!”

“Do not unlatch that catch,” said one of the more civilized of the feasters, to a second Buron, one to his left, fumbling with the contrivance.

“They are loaded,” cautioned one of the fellows who had distributed the weapons.

“Each contains but a single charge,” said a man, inspecting a spring-actuated loading panel.

“Outside, to be distributed,” said Abrogastes, “there are a thousand charges for each weapon.” Men regarded one another, marveling. Such a weapon, with only five charges, might suffice for the governance of a city. A single charge might crash the wall of a building.

“And there are ships, and heavier armaments than these,” said Abrogastes.

“With such weaponry,” said a man, “one might challenge even the empire.”

“With such weaponry,” said Abrogastes, “we are more than a match for the empire!”

“We can attack her upon a thousand fronts!” said a man.

“Those who rule the empire,” said Abrogastes, “are soft and weak. We are hard, and strong. They are satisfied. We are lean and hungry. The empire, and everything within it, by the decree of nature, belongs to those who are strong enough to take it!”

“Yes, yes!” cried men.

The tables resounded with acclamatory pounding.

Then Abrogastes pointed to the prone women, the former ladies of the empire, by the spear.

“Huddle,” cried he, harshly, “sluts!”

Swiftly the women, terrified, rose to their knees, and, guided by the switches of the boys, crowded closely together.

“More closely, in a circle!” said Abrogastes.

And then the women, the more than fifty of them who had served at the long tables in the great hall, who were all the women in the hall other than Huta and the three display slaves, already huddled, already crowded and pressed closely together, weeping, to the jangle of ankle bells, were forced into an even smaller space, a tinier round space, one they could scarcely occupy.

“Behold the beauty of their bosoms, the narrowness of their waists, the width of their hips,” said Abrogastes. “Are they not pretty?”

“Yes,” cried out more than one man.

“And they have slave collars on their necks, and slave bells on their ankles,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes!” said men.

There was much laughter.

“What are they?” asked Abrogastes.

“Slaves!” cried men.

Abrogastes made a sign to one of the men who had brought in the rifles and he, adjusting the device, suddenly, walking swiftly about the crowded women, holding the weapon down, tore, at their very knees, in a swift, but extended torrent of fire, a close ditch about them, which, better than a yard deep, smoked, and was bright with fused stones. The women screamed, the bodies of many reddened from the heat, the knees of some scorched, and clutched one another, and drew back, the tiny bit that they could. There was a piteous jangling of bells.

Abrogastes turned to the horrified leader of the display slaves, in her chains, to his right, at the foot of the dais.

“To whom do you belong, all of you?” he asked, gesturing to her, to the other two display slaves, and, broadly, to the weeping, crowded, huddled slaves within the circle, smoking, cut by fire in the floor of the hall.

“To you, Master!” she cried.

“To whom do you belong, all of you?” he inquired again, fiercely.

“We belong to our barbarian lords, Master!” she cried.

“Is it fitting?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she cried.

“For what do you exist?” he asked.

“To serve our masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!” she cried.

“Yes!” cried men.

There was pounding on the tables.

“Those of the empire,” said Abrogastes, addressing the tables, “hold us in contempt. They call us ‘dogs’!”

Men, and others, cried out in fury.

“But these,” said Abrogastes, gesturing to the women, those huddled before the spear, and the three, the display slaves, chained to his right, neglecting only the prostrate Huta, “are all high ladies of the empire!”

There was laughter.

“They call us ‘dogs,’ “said Abrogastes, “but their high ladies, as you can see, are no more than the lowest of our bitches!”

“Yes!” cried men.

“Do you think we can find uses to which to put them?” inquired Abrogastes.

“Yes!” said a man.

“Yes, Abrogastes!” cried another.

“Yes, milord!” said another.

Abrogastes then, in the purple robe, of imperial purple, trimmed with the fur of the ice bear, viewed the tables, as a huntsman, a warrior, a statesman.

“My brothers,” he said, “many of you were apprehensive, seeing the spear of oathing brought to the hall. That is understandable. It is brought here tonight only that you may remember it, and think upon it.”

“No, father!” cried Hrothgar.

“Many, too, are reluctant to accept rings, though they are accorded here, this night, only as tokens of fellowship and esteem, of hospitality and good will. Your reluctance in this matter, too, is understandable. Surely we have fought amongst ourselves so long, and quarreled so frequently, that jealousy and suspicion are only to be expected. Indeed, is not our division, and our differences, one of the mightiest weapons of the empire, and mightier even, perhaps, than her ships and cannons? What a fearsome fate it must be for her the moment we should band together as the brothers we are. Together we outnumber her by thousands. She is mighty only as we are weak, only as we are many, and not one, and one not as abandoning our chieftains or kings, not as forgoing ourselves, not one as coming to be of one tribe or people, but one as being a thousand tribes and peoples with but a single purpose, the conquest of Telnaria.”

The tables were quiet.

“It is true,” said Abrogastes, “that I have invited you here tonight that we may think upon our enemies, upon the empire, and consider whether or not we are cowards, or warriors. I, myself, have long enough prowled the perimeters of rich countries. I, and my people, and yours, have long enough been shut away from well-watered pastures and black fertile fields. I have seen new worlds before me. The future has called to me. It calls to us. I will answer. I do not know if you will answer or not. Tomorrow I will learn.”

Men looked at one another.

“Tonight,” said Abrogastes, “we have feasted. Tomorrow, at noon, when you have slept, and thought, and your minds are clear of bror, so none can accuse me of imposing upon you, of cozening you to unwise pledging while in the pleasant delirium of drink and gifting, tomorrow, outside this hall, on the summit of the mountain of Kragon, on its lightning-smitten, seared stones, I, and those who follow me, will swear upon a ring, and upon the spear, our vengeance on an empire, and our undying determination to make her ours. We will swear brotherhood, and vengeance, and war.”

“In twenty days,” said a man, “the stones will leave the sky.”

“Then let the lionships be unleashed,” said a man.

“Much planning is in order,” said Ingeld.

“Who would be the leader of this thing?” inquired Farrix, a chieftain of the Teragar, or Long-River, Borkons. The Borkons were the third largest of the tribes of the Alemanni nation. The second largest was the Dangars. There were several branches of the Borkons, the largest being the Lidanian, or Coastal, Borkons.

“Whoever is lifted upon the shields,” said Abrogastes.

“But only as lord of war,” said Farrix.

“And for a time appointed,” said another man, a high fellow of the Aratars, a people from Aratus, in the constellation of Megagon.

“We shall see!” said Hrothgar.

Two men sprang to their feet, but, in a moment, cautioned by their fellows, returned to their bench.

“I shall retire now,” said Abrogastes, “and leave you, if you wish, to your deliberations.”

“What of the sluts?” called a man.

“Ah,” said Abrogastes, “it seems I had forgotten them.”

There was a jangling of bells as the former ladies of the empire, crowded together in the small space, like an island within the encircling ditch, now naught but stripped, collared, belled slaves, trembled.

“Gamble for them,” said Abrogastes, laughing.

No sooner had he spoken than several of the men who had brought in the rings began to distribute dice among the tables. Another, with the heel of his boot, scraped a small circle, some three feet in diameter, outside of, and before, the larger, ditched circle. In another instant another of the men had reached over the ditch and seized one of the women by the hand and dragged her from her knees into the ditch and out of it, unceremoniously, and put her on her feet, in the smaller, just-scraped circle, in front of the ditched circle. He held her small wrists together, pinioned over her head, in one hand, and turned her about. Dice rattled on the boards.

“What of that one?” called a man, indicating Huta, who shuddered.

“Let the hound have her!” called another.

Those who scored the highest in the first roll of the dice rolled again, and so on, until a winner was established.

“Twenty!” called a fellow.

“Twenty-two!” cried another.

Abrogastes, standing upon the dais, seemed bemused by the gambling.

“What of the slut, Huta!” cried a man.

The first of the former ladies of the empire was soon won and was put down upon her hands and knees and hurried, by a boy’s switch, to her new master. She screamed, for it was an insectoidal creature, alien to mammals.

‘’You, quickly, to the circle!’’ cried one of the men to another of the former ladies of the empire and she, weeping, scrambled down into the ditch, and then up, out of it, and put herself in the smaller circle, and, once again, the dice danced, scattering about, on those broad, rough planks.

“Stand straight!” said a man. “Turn!”

“Do not leave the circle without permission or you die,” said another.

“Let me cut the throat of the abettor of treason, Huta,” said a man.

“No!” cried another.

The second of the former ladies of the empire, indeed, former high ladies of the empire, though perhaps we should now speak of them indiscriminately as slaves, for none, in her new condition was more than any other slave, any rural maid caught in the horseman’s noose, any fleeing, netted debtress, to be sentenced to a slave brothel, any scullery thrall, any dirty-faced guttersnipe who, rounded up by the police in the alleys of some teeming metropolis, her days of vagrant parasitism abruptly concluded, was then sold. She was won by Granicus, whose snout now was moist, and beaded with sweat, and, in an instant, she was thrust beneath his table, to be tethered there by an aide, by the neck, the leash tied to one of the supports of the table, to crouch there, fearfully, amongst gold and other possessions, at her master’s massive, leather-beribboned, clawed feet. And already Granicus scattered the dice from his mighty paw, for another woman, a brunette, on all fours, cowered within the tiny circle. And another woman was summoned forth, into the ditch, bells jangling, and then up, slipping at its side, to take a designated position, on all fours, near the circle, to be the next won.

“Huta!” cried a man.

“Huta!” cried another, howling it out.

Abrogastes seemed not to hear.

A fellow came from behind a table, bearing a double-headed war ax. “See the scale, mighty Abrogastes!” he cried. “It points to death!” He brandished his ax over Huta, who trembled beneath its heavy, tapered edge. A blow from such an implement can cut a shield in two. “I am your cousin, noble Abrogastes,” said he. “Do not give her to the dogs! Let me have her first, piece by piece! I shall begin at the left ankle!”

“No!” cried a fellow, his sword half-drawn.

“She danced well,” said another man.

“She abetted treason!” said the fellow who had earlier asserted this charge, one which surely none in conscience would care to dispute.

“Kill her!” said another.

“Her body is not without interest,” observed one of the more civilized of the guests.

“I know markets in which she would bring a good price,” said a merchant, Cang-lau, of Obont, he who had, incidentally, in a series of masked transactions, and at considerable risks to his shipping interests, from imperial inspectors and patrols, arranged for the delivery, from the client world of Dakir, via putatively neutral Obont, of the Telnarian rifles.

“Kill her!” repeated he who had cried out before.

“I will give you a ruby for her, a Glorion ruby!” called out a man. Such rubies are the size of a man’s fist.

Huta’s heart leapt.

She had value!

“Kill her! Cut her throat!” screamed a fellow.

Another woman, in the background, the brunette, was gambled for, and won. She went to a man, to whom she hastened eagerly, on all fours. Another was then put in the small circle, and another, bells jangling, brought to the place of readiness.

“Death is too good for her!” called a fellow. “Let her be the slave she is!”

“Slavery! Slavery!” cried a man.

“Keep her as a slave!” called another.

“Put the collar on her, Abrogastes!”

“Sell her!”

Were men so foolish, Huta wondered, to think that, for a woman, death was preferable to slavery. Did they know so little of women? Did they not realize, so many of them, the sweet, simple fools, why women made such perfect slaves?

“Kill her! Cut her throat!”

“Put her on a slave block!”

Huta pressed her tiny body into the rush-strewn dirt, terrified, while these cries rang about her.

She was, in legality, already a slave.

Too, she had begun to sense, deeply, the wonder of chains, and the whip, and obedience, and subjection to the master. She had begun to sense what it might be to be under discipline, with its identities, with its realities, its perils and ecstasies. Already a profound transformation of her consciousness had begun to come about. From puberty on, in its own inexorable time of unfolding maturations, of insights and intuitions, she had begun to suspect, and to be aware of dim mechanisms within her, genetic preparations, latent responses, awaiting longed-for, releasing stimuli, biological destinies and fittingnesses. She had begun to long for the unswerving master beast to whom her desirability and beauty would be categorically and uncompromisingly subject. Even as a girl, frightened and resistant, she had unaccountably begun to long for the mighty master of her dreams, the man before whom she could never be more than an eager, impassioned slave. She had begun to sense, you see, what it might be to be truly free to feel, and to be sexually free, truly, wildly and helplessly, as no woman can be who is not subject to command, and to love and serve, as she must, and as no free woman could.

In the background women were being gambled for, and won.

“Like this!” cried the fellow who was the cousin of Abrogastes, driving his ax into the dirt not more than an inch from Huta’s left ankle.

She screamed.

He looked up at Abrogastes, eagerly.

But Abrogastes seemed to give him no attention.

Another woman was forced into the tiny circle, on down upon her knees, and a fellow, his hand in her hair, bent her backward.

Well was she displayed.

Numbers were called out.

“She is a beauty, milord,” said the clerk.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

“Milord!” protested the cousin of Abrogastes.

“What of Huta?” called men.

“Throw her to the dogs!” called a man.

“Sell her!” demanded another, clutching a bag of coins, yet was not each, now, at those tables, rich? Had not Abrogastes, and the coffers of the Drisriaks, seen to that?

“Put her on the slave block!” called a man.

“Sell her to the highest bidder!” called another.

“Kill her! Kill her!” cried others.

Huta’s body shook with terror and tears.

One of the women in the tiny circle, throwing her head about, seemed mad with fear. She rose up, suddenly, staggering. “Do not leave the circle or you die!” snarled a fellow. She knelt down then, sobbing. She was soon sold.

“Huta! Huta!” called men.

“Abrogastes!” called others, pressing for his attention.

“This is not happening to me!” cried a woman in the small circle, but, in moments, she was on her belly, and her new master, kneeling across her body, was binding her hands behind her back. When he stood she turned, on her side, bound, and looked up at him, and then swiftly pressed her lips to his boot.

Another woman was put in the circle.

“Put your hands behind the back of your head, and bend backward,” she was told by the fellow at the circle. “Now put your hands on your hips, and flex your knees!”

Wonderingly, frightened, the woman did so.

“Now, move!” said the man at the circle.

“Surely not, Master!” cried the woman.

“Now!” he said.

“Oh!” she cried.

“There,” said the man, “now you have moved as a slave before men. I do not think you will ever forget this moment.”

“No, Master!” she said, flushed, wonderingly, knowing she could never again, after that movement, be anything other than what she now was, a slave.

“Slut! Slut!” cried one of the women in the larger circle.

“Yes, yes,” wept the woman in the smaller circle. “I am a slut! I am a slave. I cannot now be anything different.”

“I, too, am a slave!” cried one of the women in the larger circle.

“I, too!” said others.

“Take me next!” cried one. “I would be won!”

“I am hot!” wept the woman in the smaller circle.

“Yes, yes, I, too!” said another woman in the larger circle.

Many held out their hands to be the next to be permitted to the smaller circle, but the one selected was she who had cried out, “Slut! Slut!”

“You will have nothing from me!” she cried, as she was dragged, standing, to the circle. “I will be inert!”

“The whip,” said a man, putting out his hand, into which the implement was promptly placed.

“No, Master!” she said. “Please, no!”

“Shall our little critic be lashed?” inquired the fellow, of the tables.

“Let her perform!” called a man.

“Interest them,” said the man with the whip.

“Please, no!” she wept.

The whip snapped.

The men laughed as the distraught beauty attempted to interest them.

“Is that the best you can do?” inquired the man with the whip. Again the whip cracked.

“More,” said the man with the whip.

There was laughter.

“It seems the next stroke must be upon your body,” said the fellow with the whip.

“No, no, Master!” she wept.

He held her left arm with his left hand, and was behind her.

“Aii!” she suddenly cried.

There was, again, laughter, but this laughter was one not only of amusement, but one also of genuine interest.

Gently, but surely, and unexpectedly, had the whip, coiled, touched her.

The proud woman was now no more than a humbled, scarlet mass of shame in his hand.

“It seems your body betrays your mouth,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Lying is not permitted to a slave girl,” he said.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Do you think, truly, you are different from other slaves?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Do you think you will be an inert slave?” he asked.

“No, Master!” she said. “Please, Master, let me be won swiftly!’’

“Inertness is not permitted in a slave,” he said.

“No, Master!” she said.

She was soon won.

Swiftly, eagerly, she crawled to her new master.

Another woman, one eager to be won, was brought to the circle.

“Hold, Abrogastes!” called Farrix, of the Borkons, who had risen to his feet.

The woman in the circle shrank down, tiny.

The dice stopped rattling.

Abrogastes turned toward Farrix, for Farrix was on his feet, and a chieftain.

“Let the pellets be cast,” said Farrix, grimly.

“Beware, father,” whispered Ingeld.

Abrogastes gave no sign he had heard the warning of Ingeld, Ingeld, who kept his thoughts muchly to himself.

Huta, lying in the dirt before the dais, trembled, sensing suddenly that her fate might cease to depend on such simple matters as guilt or justice, or her desirability or lack of desirability as a female slave, but on other matters, subtle political matters, on rankings, on contests of will, on maneuverings for power.

“Of course,” said Abrogastes, affably.

She knew that Abrogastes despised and hated her, for her role in the business of the Ortungs, but she also suspected that he, the thought both alarming and stirring her, found her not without interest as a slave. Surely more than once she had detected in his eyes, or thought she had, keen desire, even fierce desire, as for a slave to be uncompromisingly mastered and ravished. She had no hope of winning his love, that hope of almost every slave girl, to win the love of her master, but hoped that she might, if only by years of an abject slave’s service and devotion, win perhaps at least some particle of a begrudging sufferance.

“How will Abrogastes, lord of the Drisriaks, cast his pellet?” inquired Farrix.

“Sacrifice her, father,” whispered Ingeld.

“How will Farrix cast his pellet?” inquired Abrogastes.

“She is not worth the collar!” said another Borkon.

“But she is not without interest,” said another Borkon, evenly.

The hand of Farrix went to his dagger, but he withdrew it, and it was almost as though he had not moved.

“The matter is trivial, and it had escaped my mind,” said Abrogastes.

He nodded to the clerk.

“Let the pellets be cast!” called the clerk.

Huta was pulled to her knees, and turned to face the scales, that she might witness the deciding of her fate.

“Death to her!” cried a man.

“Life!” cried another.

The feasters then, the women in the circle forgotten, even she in the smaller circle, waiting, small, kneeling there, to be won, began to leave the tables and file, one by one, to the table of pellets, and then each, to cries of acclamation, or anger, or derision, cast their pellets, those small, leaden counters, into the pan of their choice.

Huta could scarcely kneel.

“Straighten your body, head up,” said the fellow who had positioned her. “Place your hands, wrists crossed, as though they were bound, at the small of your back.”

She tried to comply.

Pellets struck into the pans.

The pan of death began to descend even more.

“See she who was once the proud Huta!” laughed a man.

“See the slave,” said another.

“She trembles,” said another.

“She cannot even hold herself upon her knees,” laughed another.

“Tie her wrists behind her back,” said Abrogastes.

“Blindfold her,” said Abrogastes.

“Put her on a double leash,” said Abrogastes.

These things were done, that she might better hold her position, and then she knelt much as she had, save that now her small wrists, in reality, were fastened behind her back, her eyes were now bandaged, with a folded scarf, and on her neck were two leashes, the straps, short and taut, extending from the two leash collars on her neck to the fists of her keepers, one on each side. The residual lengths of the straps were muchly coiled, the higher coils wrapped about their fists.

Huta moaned.

The pellets, unseen by her now, continued to strike into the pans.

She could not now, held as she was by the leashes, slip from her knees.

“You can see the pans, father,” said Ingeld. “Give her up.”

“What is she to me?” said Abrogastes.

“Give her up,” said Ingeld.

“No!” said Hrothgar. He rose from his place and cast a pellet into the pan for life.

“See how Hrothgar casts his pellet,” said Abrogastes to Ingeld.

“He sees only the shapely limbs of a slave,” said Ingeld.

“How shall I cast my pellet?” Abrogastes asked the clerk.

“You will cast it as you wish, milord,” said the clerk.

“How should I cast my pellet?” Abrogastes asked his shieldsman, his own great sword in its sheath, over the fellow’s left shoulder.

“I shall defend my lord to the death,” said the shieldsman, “whatever he does, whatever be his decision.”

Hrothgar returned to his place, casting a dark glance at Ingeld.

“Hrothgar is a fool,” said Ingeld. “He cares only for his horses and falcons.”

“And, it seems,” said a man, “for slave girls.”

“Yes,” said Ingeld, scowling, “and for slave girls.”

The pellets continued to be placed into the pans.

Huta trembled. Tears ran from her eyes, beneath the blindfold, to stain her cheeks.

The warriors, the merchants, the envoys, all, filed past the scales.

“The matter is evening itself,” said a man, wonderingly.

Huta lifted her head, startled. She strained, as if to see through the dark layers of the blindfold. Her small wrists moved helplessly in the tight, confining thongs.

“Now it inclines again toward death,” said a man.

The hall was now muchly silent, the eyes of the men upon the scales.

The guests filed past, each putting his pellet into the pan of his choice.

“Remove her blindfold,” said Abrogastes.

The blindfold was removed, and Huta saw that the pointer on the scale was poised, as though indecisive, restless, wavering, at the midpoint of the scale.

“It seems your beauty is not without interest, slut,” said a man.

“She danced well,” said another.

“I think she might make an excellent slave,” said another.

“Not everyone who may has cast a pellet,” said Farrix, quietly.

He looked at Ingeld.

Ingeld looked at Abrogastes.

Ingeld then went to the pan and cast his pellet.

“He casts it for life!” said a man.

Abrogastes then descended to the floor and went to the table.

The scale, still, was delicately difficult to read, so many pellets there were, so evenly were they distributed, so small the weight of each.

“It points, does it not, to the collar,” said a man.

At one termination of the dial on the scale there was the representation of a skull, at the other the representation of a slave collar.

Abrogastes picked up a pellet.

“Remember Ortog, remember the Ortungs, remember the division of the nation, remember treason,” said Farrix.

“I remember those things,” said Abrogastes.

“How then will you cast your pellet, mighty Abrogastes?” asked Farrix.

“As I please,” said Abrogastes.

The hall was silent.

Abrogastes then tossed his pellet into the pan of life.

“Aii!” cried men, and others.

“Shieldsman,” said Abrogastes.

The shieldsman came to him.

“My sword,” said Abrogastes.

The weapon was unsheathed, and placed in his hand.

Abrogastes then threw the mighty weapon into the pan of life, and it bore the balance of the scale almost to the vertical. Pellets spilled from the pans. The pan of life, that of the collar, was borne as low as it might be, without breaking the small chains which held it to the balance.

“And how will you, noble Farrix, cast your pellet?” asked Abrogastes.

“For life, of course,” he said. He cast his pellet into the pan of life, it now so much descended. “Hail to the Alemanni,” he said.

“Hail to the Alemanni,” said Abrogastes.

The keepers who held the leashes of Huta played out leather, lowering her to the ground.

“Continue your gambling, my friends, my brothers,” said Abrogastes, raising his hand.

“Up, on your knees, slave!” said a fellow at the smaller circle, to the woman waiting to be won.

Again there was shouting.

“Forty!”

“Forty-six!”

Abrogastes looked down at the slave who, overcome, had lost consciousness.

“Take the leashes off her neck,” he said. “Leave her bound. Revive her.”

Then he said to another fellow, “Bring a common slave collar for her.”

Dice rattled upon the boards.

Another slave was won.

And another was put to the circle, and another summoned, bells jangling, from the ditched island to the place of readiness.

Cold water was splashed upon the unconscious, fainted, overcome, bound Huta, who, coughing, gasping, frightened, comprehending that her hands were still bound, regained consciousness.

She looked wildly at Abrogastes, the earth muddied about her.

Abrogastes retrieved his sword from the pan in which it lay, withdrawing it from amongst the three tiny chains, and gave it to his shieldsman, who returned it to its sheath.

He then returned his attention to Huta, while the gambling went on, in the background.

Huta scrambled to her knees, and put her head to the ground before Abrogastes.

“Collar her,” said Abrogastes.

One of his men crouched by the slave, her head still to the muddied dirt, and fastened a slave collar on her neck. It was a common slave collar. It fit closely. It locked in the back.

“Now that she has been collared, throw her a piece of meat,” said Abrogastes.

“On your belly, slave,” said a man.

Huta went to her belly and the meat was thrown into the mud, before her.

Eagerly, starving, her hands bound behind her, she seized the bit of meat in her small, fine teeth and, pulling it about, gnawing, trying to get it in her mouth, fed on it.

The leader of the three display slaves, as well as her two companions, all chained to the ring on the dais, frightened, watched her. She, and her companions, commonly fed from pans, put on the floor, their heads down, on all fours. In such small ways, and others, a woman can be reminded she is a slave.

Another woman was won, and another brought to the small circle.

Much attention was on the gambling.

Granicus had won a second slave.

She was now tethered, like the first, beneath his table.

Huta, ravenous, finished the bit of meat, but there was no more.

She looked to the keeper, beggingly.

“We must be concerned for your figure,” he said. “Let us keep it trim.”

“May I have water, Master?” she begged.

“You have water,” he said.

She put down her head and lapped at muddied water.

It had not been thus when she was a consecrated virgin, and priestess.

Ingeld regarded her. Her flanks, it was true, were not without interest.

Another woman was won, and another put to the circle, and another readied.

“My lord will retire now?” asked the clerk.

“Yes,” said Abrogastes.

Two men, secondary shieldsmen, rose from their places, to accompany Abrogastes, and his shieldsman, from the hall.

Abrogastes indicated Huta to one of the keepers. “See that she is washed, and combed, and perfumed, and given a slave rag, and bring her to my hut tonight.”

Huta looked up, wildly, frightened, gratefully, to her master.

“You may kneel,” said a keeper, kindly.

Huta scrambled up, and then, on her knees, unbidden, crawled to Abrogastes.

She put her head down to his feet.

He seemed not to notice.

“That one,’’ he said, indicating the chief of the display slaves to a keeper, “prepare her, and bring her to my hut tonight.”

“Master!” cried the blonde, joyfully, lifting her small, chained wrists, to the extent that her chains permitted.

“Master!” cried Huta, raising her head, in disappointment, in protest. “Is it not I who am to be brought to your hut?”

“No, I!” cried the blonde.

“I!” said Huta.

“I love you, my master!” said the blonde.

“I love you, my master!” cried Huta.

“Is it true?” asked Abrogastes of Huta, looking down upon her.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered, putting down her head.

“With the hedged-in, qualified, partial, careful, incomplete love of a free woman?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“With the profound wholeness of a slave’s love?” asked Abrogastes.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I juice when you but look upon me, Master!” said the blonde.

Her companions gasped.

How dare she admit such a thing! But then she was now only a slave.

Then her companions blushed and put down their heads. They, too, were only slaves. They, too, had knelt before masters. Their bodies could be easily checked. And if they lied, they would be beaten.

“And what of you, little slave?” asked Abrogastes of Huta.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Many times, at your least glance, I have juiced.”

Abrogastes regarded her.

“Though you have not deigned to touch me,” she said, “you have conquered me, and I am yours.”

“Before I met men such as you, Master,” said the blonde, “I knew men only of the empire. Before I met men such as you, I did not know that such men existed, men before whom a woman can be naught but an obedient and eager slave.”

“You will share my couch tonight,” said Abrogastes, to the blonde, “and you,” he said to Huta, “will be our serving slave.”

“But what of my needs, Master?” asked Huta.

“You have not even begun to experience needs,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, Master,” said Huta.

Abrogastes then turned to the assemblage. “Continue with your sport,” he said. “And outside, there are more than four hundred more, and though they are not high ladies, yet they are delicate and refined, and of the empire, and will serve as well as any, I ween, in the furs, and at the ovens, and the laundry troughs, and in the pantries and butteries. They are to be distributed to any who did not win in the hall.”

Cheers met this announcement.

Men were gambling, too, among themselves, for many of the other gifts which had been distributed. Only the rifles, it seems, were not put up as stakes.

One man, leading two of the slaves on tethers, their wrists bound behind them, passed Abrogastes, eager, it seemed, to get to his quarters.

“Hail, Abrogastes!” he said.

“Lash them, that they may understand that they are slaves, and then enjoy them,” said Abrogastes.

“Yes, noble Abrogastes,” said the man. “Hail, Abrogastes!”

A keeper had freed the three display slaves, and their leader, her arm in the grasp of another keeper, was being hurried from the hall, doubtless to the heat shed, with its large wooden tubs.

As Abrogastes left the hall, Farrix, the Borkon, standing by the side door, spoke to him. “Hail to the Alemanni,” he said.

“Hail to the Alemanni,” said Abrogastes and, in the purple cloak, trimmed with the fur of the ice bear, took his leave, followed by the clerk, and three shieldsmen.

“On your feet, slut,” said a keeper to Huta.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“You are to be congratulated, on surviving the decision of the scales,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

She shuddered as he touched her, with the freedom of a keeper.

“It seems you will live,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“At least until morning,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, trembling.

“Among the Drisriaks,” he said, “we throw those who are not good slaves to the dogs.”

“I will try to be a good slave.”

“See that you do,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She was about to be conducted from the hall by the keeper, when she found her way barred by Ingeld.

Swiftly, confronted by a free man, she knelt.

She kept her head down, that she not risk meeting the eyes of a free man.

“If you are to be sent barefoot, in a slave rag, to the hut of a noble,” said Ingeld, “you must be brushed and combed, and washed.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Ingeld frightened her, even more than Abrogastes.

“Do you love your master?” inquired Ingeld.

“Yes, Master!” said Huta.

“You will love whomever the whip tells you to love,” said Ingeld.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“Take the slave away,” said Ingeld.

“Yes, milord,” said the keeper.