The Usurper

9

“Your hands are now free,” said the barbarian. “Perhaps you do not know what to do with them.”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Filene, “but I have recently been free.”

She slipped quickly, gracefully, beneath the furs.

“You conceal yourself,” observed the barbarian.

“Permit me to do so,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I am still timid, and modest,” she said. “Much of the free woman remains in me.”

“It could be whipped out of you,” said the barbarian.

“Be kind,” she said.

“The slave is not a free woman,” he said. “It is a mistake to lavish consideration on her. Soon, as the free woman, she will not appreciate it, but expect it, and take it for granted. Thus, a slave should be kept on her knees.”

“I see,” she said.

“That is what they want, and where they belong,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“They are women, slaves,” he said.

“Join me within the covers, Master,” she said.

“No woman is truly happy,” said the barbarian, “who is not in her collar.”

“Hurry, Master,” she urged.

“You are an extremely pretty slave,” he said.

“That is why you give me my way,” she said.

“Your hair is long, your eyes blue, your features exquisite, your lips soft,” he said.

“And my skin is smooth, and my thigh fair, and unmarked,” she said.

“As unmarked as that of a free woman,” he said.

“That is interesting, is it not?” she asked.

“I find it so,” he said.

“It is my hope that I will please Master,” she said.

“Your hands,” he said, “are small, soft, and fine.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“I freed them,” he said. “I would see them.”

“Join me,” she said. “And let them, within the furs, unseen, concealed, touch and caress you, addressing themselves to your pleasure.”

“I have heard that some call you ‘Cornhair’,” said the barbarian.

“Please do not do so,” she said.

“You wish to please me?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “And you will be well pleased, I assure you, with how I shall please you.”

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“I do not need to be trained,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“I am beautiful,” she said.

“That is pleasant, but, for a slave, far from enough,” he said.

“Master?” she said.

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“I have had little, or no training,” she said.

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“No woman,” said the barbarian, “should be sent to the selling platform without some training.”

“But many are,” protested Filene. “Cities fall, space liners are seized, ships are captured at sea, caravans are intercepted, girl tributes are levied from subdued communities, taxes may be levied in terms of female flesh, edifices are raided, women’s baths are plundered!”

“Who would wish to purchase an untrained slave?” said the barbarian.

“Surely much depends on the slave,” said Filene.

“When one buys a slave, one expects a slave,” said the barbarian, “not simply a piece of chained meat.”

“I have heard, Master,” said Filene, “that some men prefer a hitherto-unowned slave, that they may train her with perfection to their personal tastes.”

“Every slave is trained to her Master’s tastes,” said the barbarian, “but one expects them to know something or other before they are introduced to the whipping ring in their Master’s domicile.”

“Still,” protested Filene.

“And what then,” he asked, “when she is sold to another?”

“I see,” said Filene.

“It is dangerous to the woman to be sold untrained,” said the barbarian. “What if she does not know how to please a man? Some Masters are impatient.”

“I trust that Master is not impatient,” said Filene.

“For you do not know how to please a man?”

“I fear not,” said Filene.

“You are an interesting slave,” he said.

“Every slave hopes to be of interest,” she said.

How horrid, she thought to herself, how dreadful, how humiliating, to be of “interest.” I am a free woman. We do not wish to be found of interest. We are not slaves! How insulting to be found of interest! And yet, too, she recalled, on a dozen worlds, at a hundred entertainments, on the street, in restaurants, in theaters, at races, at arena events, in the gambling palaces, at the tables and wheels, in her gowns and ensembles, she had been smugly thrilled to be found of interest. How she, delighted and keenly aware, had relished the heedful, furtive glances of men, the striking impression she had made, the stir for which she was responsible, had sensed their notice and attention, had basked in their commendatory regard. How she despised men, and yet thrived on their discomfort. Yes, she thought, she had wished to be found of interest! Keenly so, very much so! Could it be, then, she wondered, that in every woman there was a slave? Could it be, then, as the barbarian had asserted, that no woman could be truly happy who is not in her collar? No, no, she thought. But there was a pleasure, doubtless, an exceedingly pleasant gratification, in being a tumult-engendering, exhibited, inaccessible treasure. Let them suffer the starvation and denial of their nature, the frustration of their blood, the pangs of unrequited desire! How horrifying then, she thought, to be a slave, to be owned, to be available and resistless, to be wholly and instantaneously subject, at any moment, to a man’s least wishes, to be the helpless, defenseless source of a thousand pleasures which might be reaped at will from her body, to be at the mercy of a Master! I am not a slave, she cried out to herself. Not a slave! I am a free woman! And yet here I am, she thought, wildly, hidden in the furs of a barbarian’s couch, as stripped as a slave, a chain locked on my neck!

She closed her hand on the handle of the knife beneath the furs.

“What is wrong?” asked the barbarian.

“I languish, Master,” she said. “Join me, in the soft warmth of these inviting, sheltering furs.”

“You beg it?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Why was he not with her, beneath the furs, where the knife, concealed, might move so quickly, like a striking viper, into his side or thigh? A scratch would suffice. He sat upon the edge of the couch, regarding her.

“What is wrong?” he asked, once more.

“Nothing, Master,” she said.

At that moment, they heard, outside the stout tent, beyond the twice-sealed private exit to the chamber, away from the entering tunnel, the hum of a hoverer.

“How is this?” asked the barbarian, as though to himself. “These machines were warmed earlier. What would be the point of doing it again, so soon? And, strange, I hear only one engine.”

Filene was suddenly terrified. Sweat burst forth from her fair skin, heated beneath the furs. Her heart pounded, her breath came quickly. Her hand clenched on the handle of the knife, so tightly it hurt.

“I shall investigate,” said the barbarian.

“No, Master!” she cried. “Stay! Stay! Do not leave me!” He remained on the couch, beside her, regarding her.

Why, she asked herself, frightened, wildly, is the hoverer activated? Is it being warmed for my escape? Should I have managed this business by now? Is this the signal to act? Are my confederates, whomsoever they may be, preparing for departure? Do they think I have finished the business? Surely they wait for me. Surely they will call for me. They must now be outside the private exit. Are they impatient? They must not leave without me! Am I to be abandoned? I must act!

“What is wrong?” he asked, again.

“Nothing, Master!” she said.

If only he would turn away!

“Surely something is wrong,” he said.

“Oh, misery, Master!” she said. “I fear I am a disappointment to a free man! I fear I must be punished!”

“How so?” he asked.

“I hide, I tremble, I am unworthy,” she said. “Correct my behavior! Improve me! I beg it. Beat me! I would be a good slave! Inform me I am a slave! Leave me in no doubt! Lash the free woman out of me!”

Why did he smile?

“Seize up the whip,” she said. “Draw me by the hair from under the covers, throw me to your feet, and lash me!”

The whip, as might be recalled, had been put at the bottom of the couch. It was to the barbarian’s left, as he sat.

Filene almost moaned with fear, for the hum of the hoverer’s engine had become an intense whine. Every indication was given of an imminent ascent.

Do not leave without me, she cried, in her heart.

“The whip, the whip, please, Master!” she cried.

He turned away, as though to reach for the supple tool of instruction, and she thrust aside the furs, springing to her knees, the long fang of the knife raised in her right hand, but to her horror she found herself looking into his stern, blue eyes, her right wrist helpless, held in a grip as obdurate, unforgiving, and merciless as a manacle bolted flush to a common market wall. He had not truly turned away, then, but had given no more than such an indication, and had turned back, quickly, easily, to seize her wrist, even before it could begin its progress toward his body. She struggled, on the furs, on her knees, twisting, weeping. “Oh!” she cried in misery, her small fingers opening, her wrist in danger of being crushed in such a grip, and the lovely knife, with its yellow, oval handle, and its slender blade of some seven inches, fell into the furs. He then drew her from the surface of the couch, holding her by the wrist, and, as he sat on the edge of the couch, forced her to her knees before him, her wrist extended toward him, still in his grasp.

“Unless a slave’s hands are fastened behind her, cuffed, chained, thonged, or such,” he said, “one commonly expects to see her hands. A girl tunic provides little concealment for a weapon, or for the girl herself. And even less opportunity is afforded a naked slave. You see it need not be merely for the simple pleasure of it that one might deny a slave clothing and keep her naked, as the property and beast she is.”

The whine of the hoverer was now shrill.

He then released her wrist, and she sprang to her feet, turned, and tore at the closures on the private exit, and, as she swept them aside, and hurried into the darkness, a blast of cold wind from the night swept through the chamber, and she spun about, in the opening, now pelted by scattered snow and gravel as the hoverer rose into the air, and, amidst the shouts of startled men, sped over the wires of the defensive perimeter.

She stood in the opening, stunned, and shivering.

“You were never to accompany them,” said the barbarian. “I know

not what you were offered, but there was never an intent to pay it. Why should there have been? Too, you would know too much, and would thus be a threat to dangerous, higher men. What if you were suspected, caught, and tortured? Would you not speak on the rack, or under the glowing metal slivers? Too, who would trust one such as you? Might you not intimate catastrophic revelations, that you be further enriched, in gold or position? Perhaps you would like a world? No, you were to be abandoned, left here to our mercy. Perhaps those who fled, and I think I know who they are, think you were successful. Let us hope so, for that might buy time, in which a large comitatus may be secretly formed. If they learn not, that you were not successful, they might justify their flight by the claim they were pursuing you. Perhaps they will claim they found you, and disposed of you. If they do apprehend you, I do not think you need fear being surrendered to a suitable authority.”

Filene cried out with misery and, naked, and barefoot, ran out, away from the portal, into the freezing, brightly lit, snowy yard, weeping, her hands lifted to the sky, to the course pursued by the now-vanished hoverer.

She fled then toward the perimeter of the yard, but stopped short of the lethal wall of wires that enclosed the camp.

Two men, brightly illuminated in the glare of the flood lights, approached her, one from each side.

The barbarian went to the chest, donned the dinner robe, and slipped into his sandals.

“Here she is,” said Ronisius, thrusting Filene ahead of him. Behind him, Qualius refastened the closures of the exit. The heating sheets incorporated in the walls of the tent began to glow.

Filene stood before him.

He sat, rather as before, on the edge of the couch.

“I am a free woman,” she said.

“I am sure you have supposed so,” said the barbarian.

“I am free!” she said.

“There are papers on you,” said the barbarian, “suitably certified.”

“False papers!” she said.

“Names may be false, details might be false,” he said. “But the woman herself was enslaved. The measurements and descriptions, the toeprints, and fingerprints, the body codes, were all registered, and checked.”

“But I am free!” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “Unbeknownst to yourself, you have been as much a slave as the others, the nineteen others, brought with you from Inez IV on the Narcona.”

“No!” she said.

“You are a slave,” said the barbarian.

“No!” she said.

“Rest assured,” said the barbarian. “All is legal, all is in order.”

“No,” she said. “No!”

“Do not fret,” said the barbarian. “You are not unique. Many women are made slaves. It is a common fate for them in thousands of societies on thousands of worlds.”

“No!” she cried.

“Kneel,” said the barbarian.

“As though I might be a slave?” she said.

“As a slave,” he said.

She knelt before him, shuddering. Her fingers were locked inside the chain on her neck.

“Palms of your hands down, on your thighs,” said the barbarian.

She complied.

“You will now be silent,” he said, “until you are given permission to speak.”

“Let me cut her throat,” said Qualius.

A tiny sound of fear escaped the kneeling slave.

“Who fled in the hoverer?” asked the barbarian.

“Phidias, Lysis, and Corelius,” said Ronisius.

“It seems they did not trust the matter, arranging the slave, and such, to a single man,” said the barbarian.

“It seems not,” said Ronisius.

“Why was there no pursuit?” asked the barbarian.

“The other hoverer, and the two treaded vehicles,” said Qualius, “were disabled.”

“It is perhaps just as well,” said the barbarian. “Perhaps they will believe the business was accomplished to their satisfaction.”

“Let us hope so,” said Ronisius.

“Attend to the camp,” said the barbarian. “There will be fruitless speculation, much confusion. Consternation will abound.”

“Officers,” said Ronisius, “were suddenly recalled to Venitzia, due to some unforeseen emergency.”

“Excellent,” said the barbarian. “That will do nicely.”

“The slave,” said Qualius, “may be taken outside the perimeter, and bound naked to a tree. Earlier in the evening I heard, far off, the baying of wolves. There must be such brutes about.”

“Attend to the camp, my friends,” said Otto.

Ronisius, standing, looked to the surface of the couch. “Captain,” he said.

“I know,” said Otto.

The dropped knife lay amongst the furs, half hidden.

The two men then withdrew, taking the tunnel exit which led to the main tenting.

“On whose behalf did you engage in your enterprise?” asked Otto.

She shook her head, frightened.

“You are not a free woman,” said Otto. “A slave may be punished terribly for not telling the truth.”

“I am afraid to speak,” she said.

“He is elsewhere,” said Otto. “You are here. I would expect you to be more afraid not to speak.”

“Have mercy,” she whispered.

“It would be easy to turn you over to Qualius,” said Otto.

“—Iaachus,” she said, “Arbiter of Protocol.”

“So high a personage?” said Otto.

“Yes,” she said.

“So close to the throne?”

“Yes.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes,” she said.

“‘Yes’?” said Otto.

“Yes,” she said, “—Master.”

“Perhaps you find it surprising that one so highly placed, so exalted, might deal directly in this matter,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“It is not so surprising,” he said. “Who would he trust with such a charge? Too, he would not expect you to return.”

“I fear so, now,” she said, “Master.”

Otto stood up, facing the frightened, kneeling slave.

“On the couch,” he said, “you will find a knife. It is there, amidst the furs. Obviously you are familiar with it. Fetch it, and bring it to me.”

“It is dangerous,” she said. “It is painted with poison.”

“Must a command be repeated?” asked Otto. That, of course, can be cause for discipline.

She crawled to the surface of the great couch, ascended it, made her way to the knife, and returned, holding it by the handle, careful not to touch the blade, to the vicinity of the barbarian.

“Stand,” said Otto.

She was small, standing before him.

“Perhaps you would like to drive it into my body?” he said.

“No, Master,” she said, handing it to him.

“On many worlds,” said Otto, “it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.”

“Has Master tricked me,” she asked, “that I may now be slain?”

“No,” said Otto.

“A slave is grateful,” she said.

“One punishes a slave for disobedience,” said Otto, “not for obedience.”

She put down her head, trembling. “Thank you, Master,” she said. “Master is merciful.”

“Perhaps not,” he said.

“Master?” she said, apprehensively.

“On your knees,” said he.

Swiftly she knelt, before him.

“Straighten your body,” he snapped, “belly in, head up, hands down, palms on your thighs; shake your hair behind you; it is not to interfere with my looking upon you. Do you not know where you are? You are before a man. You are not a free woman. You are a slave, a commodity. Be beautiful!”

She looked at him, frightened.

“Good,” he said. “That is how a slave kneels, beautifully.”

“Master!” she wept.

“It is true, you are pretty,” he said. “Yes,” he said, “quite pretty. And you are doubtless aware that a pretty woman is even prettier, far prettier, with her neck in a collar. Yes, the noble Iaachus chose his agent well, an inviting, lovely, supposedly unarmed naked slave. Who would suspect a source of mischief so unlikely? And is this tiny, lovely dagger not a surprising instrument by means of which to address oneself to the commonly crude work of assassination?”

“Beware the blade, Master,” she whispered.

“Beware this unportentous thing,” he asked, “this inauspicious, slight piece of metal, tapering to so negligible a point?”

“Unseen death,” she said, “inhabits its small terrain of steel.”

“Dangerous, this tiny needlelike blade?” he asked, poising its point at her left cheek.

“Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Death reclines there, in covert secrecy, ready to spring forth. Through the smallest portal put ajar swift death rushes in.”

“Shall we see?” he asked.

“No, please!” she wept, drawing back a tiny bit.

“Only a crease, only a scratch?” he suggested.

“Please, no, Master!” she begged.

“Very well,” he said, removing the point from her cheek, under the left eye, drawing back.

“Behold,” he said. He thrust back the sleeve of the dinner robe.

“Master!” she cried.

He had drawn the blade across the inside of his left forearm, and, where it had taken its short journey, there was a thin, bright line of fresh blood.

He wiped the blood away with a small cloth.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“It was clear to several of us, certainly to Ronisius, Qualius, and myself, even on the Narcona, that you, though a slave, did not take yourself to be a slave. What, then, was to be your role on Tangara? It was not difficult to speculate. What was not known were your confederates, one or more, who would abet you in your business. The weapon then, presumably, would be poison. Given the time involved, and your recent freedom, we supposed you were not a poison girl, prepared over a period of years, whose bite would be venomous. Too, in your medical examination, it was determined your teeth were sound, none hollowed to hold poison, thence to be discharged, as though by a fang, into a wound. This suggested, then, either poison to be administered in food or drink, or by a knife. If the deed were to be done secretly, as you fully expected to be extracted from the camp, it would presumably be administered in a private collation or by means of a blade or point. It was easy, even on the Narcona, to determine that no collation would be accepted in circumstances which might favor a conspirator or conspirators. Things became simpler here, in the camp. Ronisius, surreptitiously investigating the gear of officers, discovered the case, with the knife, amongst the belongings of Corelius. We did not know, of course, if others were in league with him. If there were others, and who they might be, had to remain undetermined for at least a time, until the assassination would be attempted. Their identities and number, of course, became clear with the flight of the hoverer.”

“The blade was poisoned,” said Filene.

“That was supposed so,” said the barbarian, “given its slightness, and the strength, nature, and weight of the presumed assassin, a slave not likely to be trained in death skills, skills such that, in the hands of an adept, a needle or sliver can function as a lethal weapon.”

“You removed the poison from the blade,” said Filene, numbly.

“Certainly,” said the barbarian. “The blade was stained, to reveal the poison, which was then scoured away, with coarse cleansers, even acid.”

“You knew all the time,” said Filene, softly.

“We surmised all the time,” said the barbarian.

“Ronisius, then, replaced the cleansed blade in its case,” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

“You let me address myself, futilely and foolishly, to the deed,” she said.

“It was important that the attempt be made, in order, if possible, to flush out the conspirators. I was even prepared to pretend being stricken, to observe the consequences, but the obvious preparation of the hoverer for departure rendered that ruse unnecessary.”

“Yes, Master,” she murmured.

“This is a pretty dagger, a lovely thing, a woman’s weapon,” he said. He regarded the implement, turning it over in his hand.

“Master?” she said.

“Please do not, Master!” she cried.

“Why not?” he asked.

“I do not want to die!” she said.

He then snapped the blade from the handle, and cast the pieces to the side.

She swayed, and gasped with relief.

“May I speak?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“I am in your power, wholly,” she said. “What is to become of me?”

“By your own will, thinking yourself free,” he said, “you would have struck at me with a weapon you deemed of lethal import, though you were in fact naught but an unpleasant, nasty little slave.”

She was silent.

“Slaves are to be pleasing, wholly pleasing,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you think,” he asked, “that you have been wholly pleasing?”

“I fear not, Master,” she said.

“Your crime,” he said, “for a free person, would be heinous. What do you think it is for a slave?”

“I know not,” she said, trembling.

“It is a thousand times worse,” he said.

“Spare me,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I am beautiful!” she said.

“Your body would sell,” he said, “but your heart is worthless.”

“Have mercy,” she said. “I have known, since the Narcona, since being at the command and mercy of men, since kneeling before men, since having a collar on my neck, that it is a slave’s heart!”

“I think,” he said, “that I shall turn you over to Qualius.”

“Please do not do so, Master,” she said. “I do not want my throat cut, I do not want to be put forth, tied to a tree, naked, for wolves.”

“Do you plead for your life?” he asked.

“Yes, yes!” she cried.

“What do you offer?” he asked.

“My body,” she sobbed, “and its pleasures!”

“I see,” he said, his arms folded, looking down upon her.

“I know men have desired me!” she said. “I have been aware of this since puberty, how they look upon me! I have seen their eyes, their interest, their expressions, how they have positioned themselves to see me, how they have sought to frequent my whereabouts, how they have sought introductions, how they have endeavored to win my smiles, how they have striven to please and serve me! I have twisted and diverted many men to my purposes.”

“You are selling goods?” he asked.

“Yes!” she said.

“But you are not a free woman,” he said.

“Master?” she said.

“A free woman can sell her body,” he said. “But you cannot. You are a slave. You own nothing. It is you who are owned. You do not sell goods. Rather it is you who are goods. You have nothing to sell. Rather, it is you yourself who may be sold.”

“Please, no, Master!” she said.

“Do you desire to be a good slave?” he asked.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“I did not think it true before,” he said.

“It is true now, Master,” she said.

“Whether you are a good slave or not,” he said, “will not be decided by you, but by Masters.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I gather you wish to live?” he said.

“Yes, Master!” she said.

“Then you will strive zealously to be a good slave,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am changed now. I would hope to be granted the privilege of polishing your boots, as on the Narcona. I would be pleased, if it were my Master’s will, to have my mouth taped shut, and be tied, kneeling, neglected, to the foot of his couch. I am my Master’s toy, the mat on which he wipes his feet, his towel and footstool. I am nothing! I am worthless! I belong to him! I am his!”

At this point, clearly audible throughout the camp, and well into the forest beyond, like a sudden, alarming, cold flame of sound, pronounced and disruptive, tearing apart the silence of the winter night, came the shrill, oscillating shriek of a klaxon.

“You know the camp,” said the barbarian. “What is this sound?”

“The alerting signal, Master!” she cried. “Something obtrusive has occurred, an attack, an animal at the wire, unannounced visitors or envoys, Heruls or Otungs, a party from Venitzia, some contact from the outside, anything!”

“When I approached the camp,” he said, “no such sound, no such warning, was heard.”

“They were watching for you, anticipating you,” she said. “You were recognized in the floodlights, as you approached the wire.”

“Who is now high in the camp?” asked the barbarian.

“Ronisius!” she said.

“‘Ronisius’?” he snapped.

“Master Ronisius!” she said. Had she not understood that such a lapse might call for a switching?

The klaxon’s disturbance of the night subsided, almost as quickly as it had begun.

The barbarian looked to the slave, fiercely.

“It cannot be an attack, Master,” she said.

“Someone,” he said, “may have been recognized?”

“I know of no one,” she said.

The barbarian whipped away the dinner robe and kicked the sandals to the side. In moments he had gathered together, and drawn on, the hides and furs, the soft boots, which he had worn when first approaching the camp. He then strode to the tunnel exit from the chamber, that leading to the main tenting, that of the headquarters tenting.

“Otto!” cried Julian, elatedly, meeting him at the threshold of the bedding chamber. “You live!”

“I live,” said Otto.

Behind Julian were Tuvo Ausonius and a small, exquisite slave, bundled in furs, whom Otto did not recognize.

“Captain Ottonius!” said Tuvo Ausonius. Behind him, the slave knelt.

“Be greeted,” said Otto, grinning.

“Be shamed, friend,” said Julian. “You were to wait in Venitzia, to proceed in safety, accompanied by trade goods, and imperial troops, to contact Otungs in the forest.”

“I did not do so,” said Otto. “I deemed it best to approach Otungs alone, not accompanied by imperial troops.”

“I was delayed, surely deliberately, in Lisle,” said Julian. “When I arrived in Venitzia I discovered, to my dismay, not only that you had departed alone, but that the supporting expedition, then intent on locating and supporting you, had also departed.”

“You followed, through the wilderness, alone?” said Otto.

“We three, no others,” said Julian.

“You might have encountered Heruls,” he said, “or Otungs.”

“We were pursued from Venitzia,” said Julian, “by enemies, sent from Venitzia.”

“You survived,” observed Otto.

“They did not,” said Julian.

“We heard wolves,” said Otto.

“We fought,” said Julian, “but owe our lives, I fear, to Otung dogs.”

“You are fortunate,” said Otto. “Such dogs are trained to clear the vicinity of wolves.”

“We count ourselves fortunate,” said Julian.

“More than you know,” said Otto. “Such dogs are close to wolves. Occasionally they set upon men.”

“You are all right, dear captain?” inquired Tuvo Ausonius.

“Certainly,” said Otto. “How is it that you ask?”

“We observed women, putative slaves, trade goods, being boarded on the Narcona,” said Julian. “I was troubled. None were marked. It seemed to me that one knew not yet her collar. More troublesome was the sense I had that I had seen this woman before, somewhere, and not on a leash or chain. Curious, we investigated, and found discrepancies involved, falsity of claims and such. Alarmed, I had, from memory, a portrait prepared. Inquiries were conducted in Lisle, at markets, in slave houses, and such. No one recognized the woman. Then similar inquiries were conducted in more prestigious venues, from which I might have recalled the woman. These inquiries bore immediate fruit. Several citizens, particularly high citizens, citizens of the honestori, of the patricians, suggested it might be a likeness of a fallen, nigh-destitute patrician, even of the senatorial class, a Lady Publennia Calasalia, formerly of the Larial Calasalii. We had little doubt that such a person, disreputable and unscrupulous, eager to recoup wealth and power, might prove of interest to men with much to hide and much to protect. Would conspirators not find such a person a likely recruit to further their ends and schemes? And if assassination were in the offing what would better assure its likelihood of success than ensconcing an assassin amongst slaves, a slave who, unsuspected, sooner or later, would be almost certain to be alone with the intended object of her work, and might have hours afterward in which to be sped to safety, and presumed riches.”

“An excellent plan,” said Otto. “May I see this portrait?”

Julian reached within his furs, and, from the inside pocket of his naval jacket, handed the putative likeness of the Lady Publennia to Otto.

“Interesting,” said Otto.

“We feared she might be here, in the camp,” said Julian.

“Have you seen her, captain?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

“One similar,” said Otto.

“Beware!” said Julian.

“Look,” said Tuvo Ausonius, pointing to Nika, kneeling behind the men, to their left.

“Brush your hood back,” said Otto.

The slave complied. A shake of her head spread the wealth of her bright hair about her face and shoulders.

“Pretty,” said Otto. “Where did you buy her?”

“We acquired her by the right of imperial seizure, exigency of the empire,” said Julian. This right, apparently, authorizes a suitable imperial authority, by fiat, to acquire any given slave for the empire, and, interestingly, well beyond this, to reduce free women to bondage. We may speculate that this was the fate of Elena, a brown-haired, gray-eyed former lady-in-waiting to the empress mother, Atalana. She apparently, in some way, a careless action, an unwise expression, or such, had displeased the empress mother. Iaachus may have suggested the discipline. In any event, Elena, it seems, soon learned what it is to be a female collar-wearer, having received this instruction at the foot of the couch of Iaachus.

“She was the serving slave of the Lady Publennia Calasalia in Lisle,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “Interrogated, it was determined, as we had feared, that the Lady Publennia was no longer in Lisle. We brought her with us, then, in case an explicit identification of the mysterious Lady Publennia should prove necessary, or appropriate. I, for example, had never seen the woman in question.”

“I understand,” said Otto.

“If we should suspect deception or subterfuge,” said Julian, “she will be killed on the spot.”

“Come into the bedding chamber,” said Otto, turning about. “There is a slave here you may be interested in meeting.”

“Mistress!” cried Nika.

She then resumed her kneeling position, appropriate for a slave in the presence of free men.

“I gather,” said Otto, “the identification is made.”

“Indisputably,” said Julian, with satisfaction.

“Hold position, you collared slut,” warned Otto.

“One seldom finds women of the honestori, of the patrician class, even of the senatorial class,” said Julian, “so positioned, naked, and neck-ringed.”

“It is not unusual, in the halls of those whom you would speak of as barbarians,” said Otto.

“I feared we might not arrive in time,” said Julian.

“She was suspected, even on the Narcona,” said Otto.

“Who enlisted her?” asked Julian.

“Iaachus,” said Otto.

“Of course,” said Julian.

“I fear,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “there will be no way to prove that.”

“I fear you are right,” said Julian.

“It is dangerous to levy charges against powerful men,” said Otto.

“It could be death,” said Julian.

Otto regarded Filene, or Cornhair, the former free woman, Publennia Calasalia.

“She is pretty in her nasty way, is she not?” asked Otto.

“Indeed,” said Julian.

“Shall I have her split her knees before you?”

“No,” said Julian.

“Why not?” said Otto. “She is less now than a tavern slave, or brothel slave.”

“She is unworthy to spread her knees before a free man,” said Julian. He then unslung his rifle. “I have one charge left,” he said. “Draw her out into the yard, into the snow, and I will do justice.”

“Do not waste a charge on her,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

“True,” said Julian. “Such things on Tangara are valuable. We will take her into the yard and throw her across the wire.”

“Hold position,” Otto warned Filene.

She remained in position, that position in which Otto had placed her, one common for female slaves.

Otto turned to the exquisite, kneeling, red-haired slave.

“What is your name?” he asked.

“I have been named ‘Nika’, Master,” she said.

“Rise, and stand here, beside me,” said Otto.

“I am uneasy to stand,” she said. “Free men are present.”

“Here,” said Otto, indicating the spot.

“You are sure this is your former Mistress?” he asked.

“‘Former’?” she asked.

“Yes,” said Otto. “She is now a slave.”

“Yes, Master,” said Nika. “She is my former Mistress.”

“Doubtless she was a kind, patient, thoughtful Mistress?”

Nika trembled. She did not speak.

“Not at all,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “Inquiries were made. The Lady Publennia Calasalia was an unusually demanding and exacting Mistress. She was noted for her short temper and lack of patience. Frequently did she subject this slave to needless castigations and gratuitous torments. The slave was frequently demeaned, mocked, berated, and ridiculed, even publicly. No matter how desperately the slave sought to please, the Mistress was never satisfied. Fault would somehow be found. Any pretext, or no pretext, would serve to elicit reprimands. The slave was frequently and well acquainted with the admonitions of her Mistress’ switch, openly, publicly, even in the marketplaces, in the squares, and streets. Her life was made a veritable misery.”

“But now,” said Otto to the exquisite, red-haired slave, “you have priority. You are as first girl. That is why you are standing.”

“Master?” asked Nika, frightened.

Otto then turned to Filene. “It seems,” he said, “you abused your freedom.”

“No, Master!” protested Filene, frightened.

“Perhaps you did not realize that the collar would one day be on your own neck.”

Filene regarded him, wildly.

“On your belly!” snapped Otto. “Crawl to this slave who is as Mistress to you, and cover her boots with kisses. Now! Again and again, more, more, as the worthless slave you are! Now, tongue work. More! Lick, and whimper! Kiss those boots, head down, again and again! Cover them with your tears of fear and contrition!”

“Forgive me, pretty, lovely Nika,” wept Filene.

“Oh!” cried Filene, kicked by the barbarian.

“Do you dare soil the name of one who is to you as first girl, letting it escape the portal of your slave lips?” he inquired.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” begged Filene. “I was intemperate and cruel! I muchly wronged you! Be kind! Forgive me! I am afraid! Do not hurt me, Mistress!”

“Shall I call for a switch?” asked Otto.

“No, Master,” said Nika.

“The whip is at hand,” he said. “You could use it, with two hands on the staff.”

“No, please, Master,” said Nika.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” begged Filene.

“I forgive you,” said Nika, “poor, neck-ringed slave.”

Weeping, Filene pressed the side of her face on the fur of Nika’s boots.

“You must be hungry,” said Otto to Julian and Tuvo Ausonius. “Return down the corridor. Make your wants known. If it is in the camp, it will be prepared for you. Take your lovely red-haired slave with you. She will kneel beside you, and see if you choose to feed her.”

“First,” said Julian, bending down and seizing Filene by the hair, and yanking her up, she crying out with misery, to her knees, “we will take this slave into the yard and throw her upon the wire. I know such things, the wires will slice through her, burning, leaving little but shreds of tissue on the snow. Such wire would resist the charge of a torodont.”

“Seek the kitchen,” said Otto. “Feed.”

“The slave!” said Julian, angrily.

“She is my prisoner,” said Otto. “I have a suitable disposition in mind for her.”

“As you will, my friend,” said Julian. Tuvo Ausonius, heeled by Nika, had withdrawn. Julian paused in the threshold. “The comitatus?” he asked.

“It will be formed,” said Otto.

“The matter is arranged?”

“Yes.”

“You can speak for the Otungs,” said Julian.

“The voice of the king is the voice of the Otungen,” said Otto.

“You have bargained with the king?” said Julian.

“I am the king,” said Otto.

“How is this possible?” asked Julian.

“It has come about,” said Otto, “in the ways of the Otungen.”

“In dark ways, I suspect,” said Julian.

“Civilized folk need not inquire too closely into such things,” said Otto.

“The Otungs is the largest and most formidable tribe of the Vandal nation, the Vandalii,” said Julian.

“I have heard so,” said Otto.

“Will not the tribes of the Vandalii follow the lead of the Otungs?” asked Julian.

“I do not know,” said Otto.

“Have you heard,” asked Julian, “of the medallion and chain of the Vandal council?”

“No,” said Otto.

“I had thought you would await me in Venitzia,” said Julian.

“I did not think it advisable,” said Otto.

“After my arrival on Tangara,” said Julian, “I did not proceed immediately to Venitzia. I went, instead, to the festung of Sim Giadini, situated in the heights of Barrionuevo.”

“I was raised in the festung village, at the foot of the pass,” said Otto.

“I know,” said Julian.

“And what did you seek there?” asked Otto.

“The origins of a friend,” said Julian.

“Then you heard of a human child, a newly born infant, rescued from the plains of Barrionuevo, after a battle, delivered by a Herul rider to the festung, many years ago,” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Julian, “an infant, suckled by a dog, an infant who would be called ‘Dog’, who would grow to manhood in that place.”

“It was I,” said Otto.

“I met there,” said Julian, “Brother Benjamin, a salamanderine.”

“I remember him with fondness,” said Otto. “He was kind to me, much as might have been a loving father. I am told it was into his arms that I was given by the Herul rider.”

“Found near the infant,” said Julian, “was a medallion and chain.”

“I know nothing of that,” said Otto.

“Both were given to the salamanderine,” said Julian.

“Did you see this medallion and chain?”

“Yes,” said Julian.

“What do you think it is?” asked Otto.

“The infant may have been of royal blood,” said Julian.

“Unlikely,” said Otto. “Tell me of this medallion and chain.”

“It is of rich stuff, of gold,” said Julian. “It is large, heavy, and loose, and closed, with five great links, each link fastened to others, with no opening, no catch, or lock. It bears an emblem.”

“What do you think it is?” asked Otto.

“I do not know,” said Julian. “I think it may be the symbol of the union of the Vandal tribes.”

These tribes, it may be recalled, are five in number, the Otungs, the Darisi, the Haakons, the Basungs, and the Wolfungs.

“Brother Benjamin would not give it to you?”

“No,” said Julian. “He may hold it for you. He may destroy it.”

“Why would he do that?” asked Otto.

“The brothers are gentle creatures, creatures of peace,” said Julian. “The Vandals, like the Aatii, or the Alemanni, as we know them, are feared. Security in the empire largely hinges on the jealousies and divisions of its enemies. Who knows what might ensue if, say, the medallion and chain were found, if the tribes of the Vandals were to become once more, after a thousand years, a single nation?”

“Then let the chain and medallion rest easy, forgotten, undisturbed, in the festung,” said Otto.

“The festung itself may be destroyed,” said Julian.

“It has stood for centuries,” said Otto.

“Sects grow numerous and powerful,” said Julian.

“I know little of such things,” said Otto.

“The festung may be threatened,” said Julian.

“The festung is a holy place, a retreat,” said Otto. “The brothers are holy creatures.”

“Few holy creatures are regarded as holy creatures by other creatures who think themselves holy,” said Julian.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“The brothers of the festung are Emanationists,” said Julian. “By many, Emanationism is regarded as a heresy.”

“What is a heresy?” asked Otto.

“A view with which one disagrees,” said Julian.

“I do not understand,” said Otto.

“The empire is tolerant,” said Julian. “Fanatics are not tolerant.”

“What is involved here?” asked Otto.

“Power has many faces,” said Julian. “Too, it may wear many masks.”

“It is hard to understand you, my friend,” said Otto.

“You understand the ax, the sword,” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto.

“Not every sword is seen,” said Julian. “Not every ax is visible.”

“Do not speak strangely,” said Otto. “I am a simple man, with simple thoughts, raised in a festung village.”

“You are not simple,” said Julian. “You are cunning and your thoughts are deep, and secret. You have the strength of a torodont, the quickness and agility of a vi-cat, the mind of a mover of men. Sometimes I fear you.”

“And I the empire, and what is hidden in its thousand lairs,” said Otto.

“Civilitas is the hope of the empire,” said Julian.

“And yet,” said Otto, “you would recruit a comitatus.”

“Allow me to take this slave,” said Julian, “and I will cast her on the wire.”

“She is my prisoner,” said Otto.

“She is nasty, disreputable, vicious, shallow, treacherous, and heinous. She would have killed you.”

“She tried,” said Otto. “She did not succeed.”

“The wire,” said Julian.

“I have another disposition in mind for her,” said Otto. “Go, join Tuvo, and the little, red-haired slut. Get her out of those furs, and into a tunic. To see her so should improve the digestion. You could probably get good coin for her.”

Julian, angrily, seized the kneeling Filene by the hair, and contemptuously threw her to the floor.

She looked up, from her side, frightened.

“You look well, fine lady,” he said, “with a chain on your neck.”

She averted her head, fearing to look into his eyes.

“She is at your feet,” said Julian.

“That is where women belong,” said Otto, “at our feet.”

“We shall discuss the comitatus later,” said Julian.

“In the morning,” said Otto.

The men then clasped hands, hand to wrist, wrist to hand.

“I am pleased that you live, my friend,” said Julian.

“And I am pleased, too, that you live, my friend,” said Otto.

Julian then withdrew from the chamber.

Otto turned back to the slave who, trembling, lay prostrate at his feet.

“Master?” she said.

“You realize, lovely conspirator,” he said, “that you have been discovered and apprehended, that you have failed in your murderous project, that you have been caught, like a pig in a trap, that you are alone, without succor, here in the remote, cold wilderness, far from civilization, that you are wholly and helplessly at the mercy of he whom you sought to treacherously slay.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“You were a high lady of the empire,” he said.

“Of the Calasalii,” she said, “of the patricians, even of the senatorial class.”

“How came you to this, lying naked, at the feet of a free man?”

“I was wayward and reckless,” she said. “I misspent resources. I abused my position and station. I lived extravagantly, wildly. I accumulated debts. I courted ruin. I defied creditors. I fled. I betrayed friends. I scandalized my family. I was cast out.”

“You have betrayed the honor of your class,” he said. “You stooped to accept a charge which might have been rejected by the most worthless churls of the humiliori.”

“What was I to do?” she wept.

“Surrender yourself to your creditors, for the collar,” he said.

“No, no!” she wept. “I fled worlds!”

“You continued to live your profligate existence,” he said, “doubtless trading on the dwindling and ever more precarious credit of the Calasalii.”

“Yes,” she said, “until it was denied to me.”

“I regard you at my feet,” he said.

“Mercy!” she said.

“Where now are your robes, your gowns, your jewels?” he asked.

“Mercy, please,” she begged.

“What are you now?” he asked.

“Be merciful,” she said.

“I see at my feet, now,” he said, “only a naked, neck-ringed slave.”

“What is to be done with me?” she asked.

“I have a disposition in mind for you,” he said, “one you richly deserve.”

“I am to be sold?” she said.

“Perhaps, eventually,” he said.

“I shall try to perform well on the block,” she said, “to see that you make good coin on me.”

“You would perform well on the block, in any event, as other slaves,” he said. “The auctioneer’s whip would see to it.”

“I have knelt before men,” she said. “I have experienced incredible sensations, the indescribable, suffusing thrills of what it might be to be owned, dominated, and mastered.”

“Of course,” he said. “You are a human female. Such beasts are bred for the collar. They are never content until it is on them.”

As she lay on her side, her fingers seized at the chain on her neck.

“But you are petty and deceitful,” he said. “You lay in wait, armed. You pretended longing. You would have put me off my guard, you tried to kill me. Do you think I would bestow upon you so simply the warmth, reassurance, and joys of bondage?”

“Do not throw me on the wire,” she said.

“I do not intend to have you thrown on the wire,” he said.

“Am I not to be kept a slave?” she asked.

“You are a slave,” he said, “and you will remain a slave, but there are slaveries, and slaveries.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“But first,” he said, “there are details to which we will attend.”

“Master?” she asked.

“I will teach you a little of your collar,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Go to all fours,” he said. “Crawl to the foot of the couch. Put your head up, over the couch, you may climb a bit, and grasp the whip in your teeth, do not touch it with your hands, and then draw back off the couch, and, on all fours again, crawl back to me, and lift your head, the whip between your teeth.”

He watched the slave fetch the whip. Such simple exercises are useful in apprising a slave of her bondage.

She looked up at him, from all fours, her head lifted, her eyes frightened, the staff of the whip between her teeth.

“Keep the whip as it is,” he said. “Do not release it. You are now going to be bound, hand and foot.”

He then put her to her belly, crossed her wrists behind her back, and, with a slender leather thong, tied them together. He then similarly served her ankles. He then turned her to her back.

“The whip,” he said.

She opened her mouth, releasing the whip.

She looked up at him, frightened.

He, standing over her, shook out the coils of the whip.

“As I recall,” he said, “you petitioned me to correct your behavior, you wished to be improved. You petitioned a beating. You wished to be informed that you were a slave. You did not wish to be left in doubt. Indeed, you begged to have the free woman lashed out of you.”

“No, no, Master,” she said. “It was not my intention that such remarks be taken seriously. It was a ruse on my part, a mere ruse, to distract you, to have you turn away, to gather in the whip, and then I, your back turned, your attention elsewhere, was to strike you.”

“You did not mean such things?” he said.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“It seems your ruse failed of its effect,” he said.

“Clearly,” she said. “I can still feel your grasp on my wrist.”

“You do not wish to be beaten?” he said.

“No,” she said. “Certainly not.”

“Why not?” he asked.

“I fear the whip,” she said. “Its sight terrifies me. It would hurt. I do not wish to be hurt. I can scarcely conjecture what it might feel like on my body. I do not want to be whipped! I will try to be a good slave! Please do not whip me, Master!”

“I understand you were switched on the Narcona,” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“But you have never been put under the whip,” he said.

“No,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I think,” she said, “because I am too beautiful to whip.”

“No slave,” he said, “if she is in the least bit displeasing, is too beautiful to whip.”

“I will try to be pleasing, Master!” she wept.

“Wholly pleasing?”

“Yes, Master!”

“I think I will lash the free woman out of you,” he said.

“I fear, Master,” she said, “there is little of the free woman left in me.”

“It is usually unnecessary and pointless to hurt a slave,” he said.

“Do not hurt me, Master,” she said, eyeing the whip.

“But I think it would be well for you to feel a few strokes,” he said, “a few strokes for your instruction, not so much to hurt you, as to inform you.”

“Please, no!” she said.

“Few things,” he said, “so convince a woman that she is a slave, more than feeling the lash.”

“Please, no, Master,” she said.

“She can no longer then maintain the pretenses of freedom,” he said. “She can no longer lie to herself. Once she has felt the lash she knows that she is truly a slave. She is convinced. She knows it in her deepest heart. All other options are precluded. She knows what she now is, a slave, only a slave, and is zealous to obey, that she not again be whipped.”

“Please, no, Master!” she cried.

As she twisted, and turned, crying out, helpless in her bonds, weeping, ten strokes of the lash were put upon her.

He then cast the whip aside, and bent to her ankles, freeing them, and then cast her bodily, she gasping and startled, on her back, upon the deep furs which covered the surface of the couch.

“Behold,” he said, “how you are honored, with the very surface of the couch.”

She scrambled to her knees, amidst the furs.

He removed his garments, and joined her upon the couch.

She moved back, away from him, as she could, terrified, on her knees. She pulled futilely at her thonged wrists, fastened behind her.

He motioned that she should make her way toward him, bound, over the soft sea of furs.

She could not move.

He then reached out, and seized the chain locked about her throat, and pulled her to him, across the furs, on her knees. The links of the chain struck against one another. The metal disk on the chain, with its message in three languages, including its pictograph, danced beside his fist.

Then, holding her in place by the left hand, grasped tightly on the chain, he cuffed her four times, palm, back of hand, palm, back of hand.

“A slave is to obey instantly, and unquestioningly,” he informed her.

He then thrust her down, back on the furs.

She looked up at him, frightened, wildly.

He seized her ankles.

“No!” she wept.

Then the slave found herself, for the first time, and as a slave, put to a man’s pleasure.

Later he rebound the ankles of the slave and placed her on the floor, at the foot of the couch. He then fetched a chain from the chest at the side of the chamber, and, with two heavy, metallic snaps, fastened her, by the neck, to the ring fixed in the bottom of the couch.

“In the morning,” he said, “you will be branded.”

“Do not brand me,” she said.

“You are a slave,” he said. “All slaves should be marked. You will be marked.”

“No,” she begged.

“Collars might be removed, or changed,” he said. “I am thinking of the slave rose. It is small, tasteful, and lovely, clear, unmistakable.”

“But all would then know me as a slave,” she said.

“Do you not know you are a slave?” he asked.

“I well know I am a slave,” she said. “It has been taught to me. I have felt the whip.”

“But perhaps you would hope to conceal your slavery?”

Her lip trembled, but she dared not speak.

“Speak,” he said.

“Might not my slavery be a kept a private matter,” she said, “something hidden, a secret?”

“Perhaps,” said he, “on a world which denies the rightfulness of slavery for slaves, even if they need and seek bondage, if there is such a narrow, dismal world, but on better worlds, more open worlds, more tolerant worlds, more honest worlds, it should be proclaimed.”

“But, marked, despite what I might wish, apart from my desires, all would then know me as a slave,” she said.

“Yes,” he said, “all would then know you as a slave.”

“My bondage would be fixed on me,” she said. “It would be what I was, openly, publicly, legally. It would be nonrepudiable!”

“Precisely,” he said.

“I would be property, and goods, forever,” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “You would be known so on all the habitable worlds, the mightiest and smallest, the warmest and the coldest, on the most sophisticated and civilized, on the most savage and barbarous, on habitable worlds anywhere, throughout the galaxies.”

“I fear the brand,” she said.

“Appropriately,” he said.

“I do not wish to be branded,” she said.

“It is quite possible that cattle do not wish to be branded either,” he said.

The slave, helpless in her bonds, her neck fastened by a chain to the ring on a free man’s couch, moaned.

“Many slaves,” he said, “are proud of their bondage. They do not wish to be free women. They pity and despise free women, for the emptiness, the aimlessness, the boredom, the banality, the worthlessness of their lives, for their lack of identity, purpose, and meaning, for their lack of a Master. They welcome and desire the brand. They realize that it is a mark of distinction, that it is an inflicted badge of quality, of specialness, of desirability and beauty. It proclaims them wanted, so wanted that they are owned by men. They are proud of their brands. They have been found worthy of being owned, of being branded.”

“I fear I might be such a woman,” she said.

“Some desire and seek bondage,” he said. “They desire to submit, to be owned, to belong, to love, and serve. They desire to put themselves helplessly at the feet of a man, to be done with as he might please. They are not whole, nor content, until they are at a man’s feet.”

“May I speak, Master?” she said.

“Certainly,” he said.

“Surely you will sell me,” she said.

“In no way that you might expect,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“A slave need not understand,” he said, “no more than another beast.”

“Please!” she said.

“Recall that you have been a willing tool of cunning, duplicitous Iaachus, collaborating in schemes of deceit and treachery, that you would have killed me, that you, though a slave, were found less than wholly pleasing.”

“What is to be done with me?” she asked.

“I told you,” he said. “I have a special disposition in mind for you.”

“What?” she begged.

“Perhaps,” he said, “you will have preferred to have had your throat cut, or to have been put out for wolves, or to have been cast upon the wire.”

“What, what, Master?” she begged.

“You will see,” he said.