The Usurper

13

The month of Igon was now long past. The snows had melted long ago from the flats of Tung, or, if you prefer, the plains of Barrionuevo. The lush cattle grass had sprung, thick and green from the black, moist soil in the spring, and the Herul herds, as was the seasonal indulgence of their herdsmen, had drifted south, wading to their knees in the long, wide river of grass flowing between the foothills of the heights of Barrionuevo on the east, and the winding Lothar River on the west. One could still see, however, even now, in the summer, from the wagons of the Herul camp, snow on the distant heights of the Barrionuevo range, amongst which, far to the east and south, might be found the allegedly schismatic festung of Sim Giadini. One could hear the lowing of cattle, the play of children, and the occasional rattle of a slave bell. The Herul wagons, in the ancient fashion, were circled, that a wall of sorts might be formed, to discourage the entry of cattle, and to give pause to nocturnal, prowling vi-cats, and any other intruders which might be so unwise as to attempt an unwelcomed entry into the camp. Now, however, during the long summer days, before nightfall, two wagons, to the Lothar side, were drawn back, affording between them, one on each side, a portal into the camp, through which an occasional rider, his watch done, might enter, or a peddler with his pack or cart, or a trader with his wagon, were he willing to risk his wagon in such a camp, such visitors usually from the provincial capital, Venitzia, or Ifeng, as the Heruls would have it, for Tangara, of course, had been claimed long ago by the empire. Many years ago the camp portal would have remained sealed, even in the daylight hours, but there was little to fear now, as the Otungen were now no longer mounted, and were no longer in a position to dispute the lush grasslands of the flats of Tung. Years ago the lance-bearing Otungen, with their heavy swords and ponderous steeds, had been defeated by the fleet, swiftly encircling, attacking and withdrawing enhorsed archers of the Herul nations, and driven west of the Lothar into the abutting forests. Heruls seldom entered the forests for they were unfamiliar, thick, dark, and dangerous, a milieu so dense that horses could scarcely penetrate, let alone maneuver or race, where branches might sweep an unwary rider from the saddle, and death might lurk undetected in the shadows at one’s stirrup. Indeed, in such places the empire, on various worlds, had lost legions. In these days, of course, a truce, or standing-off, of sorts existed between the grassland-roving Heruls and the forest-dwelling Otungs.

As is often the case with splendid enemies, the Heruls and the Otungs, or Otungen, for the most part, respected one another. Each, for the most part, with the sensitivity likely to accompany presently sheathed blades, accorded the other the respect it is common amongst warriors to accord a valuable and worthy foe. Only against the finest stone can one’s blade be best sharpened. To be sure, it remained dangerous for a Herul to enter the forest and for an Otung to cross the Lothar. Trade, and converse, amongst these two species, which sometimes occurred, usually took place on the shores of the Lothar, or on trade islands, which, here and there, divided the river. It was rumored in the camps of the Heruls that the Otungs had, within the past year, despite the injunction of the Herul council of chieftains, elected a king, not a year king, emerging from the bloody conflict of clans, which so divided the Otungen, but a king whose authority and leadership did not end with the killings following the winter solstice. This development, assuming it had actually taken place, was not likely to improve the somewhat delicate relations between the two nations.

Cornhair crouched between the wheels of one of the wagons. Her fingers held to the clapper in the bell hung about her neck. To be sure, that was forbidden, as much so as stuffing the bell with grass. It was to be free to swing, and sound, as a slave bell must. This was a large, heavy, dull, plain bell, tapering and rectangular, nothing like the tiered, locked or tied, slave bells with their charming, stimulating jangle, which might be fastened about a slave’s ankles, wrists, or neck, bells the jangle of which proclaimed the presence to all within earshot of a helpless, vulnerable pleasure object, bells designed to arouse male interest and passion, and bells cunningly designed to stir the belly of the slave herself, as well, bringing her to a state of readiness and need, a state in which she will kneel and beg for a slave’s relief, hoping to be granted the lengthy and exquisite raping which, with fortune, may be accorded to one such as she, a slave, a purchasable animal and property.

Cornhair muchly feared Borchu and her switch.

So she stayed between the wheels, hiding, holding the clapper of the bell, crouching down. She did not dare, of course, leave the wagons without being accompanied or having been ordered to do so, say, to gather hineen for the common kettles. For such a lapse a slave might be hamstrung or fed to the dogs. One of the other camp slaves, White Ankles, had told her Borchu was searching for her. She had not yet, however, been seen by Borchu nor had Borchu called her name, at least within her hearing. Cornhair trembled, and clutched the clapper of the bell even more tightly. Where was Borchu? Was Borchu really seeking her, or was it a cruel joke played on her by the other slave, for Cornhair knew she was not popular with the other girls. Perhaps because she was so obviously superior to them? Should she have sought out Borchu? Would that have been safer, and meant fewer strokes of the switch? She did not know. Borchu, too, seemed to hate her, so much, even more than the other slaves. She did not know why that should be. Perhaps it was because of her hair color, or eye color, which were unusual, even amongst humans? Surely it could not have to do with her character or personality, such as they were. These would have been of no more interest or concern for a Herul than the character or personality of a pig. Perhaps it had to do, then, with her carriage, attitude, or bearing, for it seems possible that, at that time, some trace of her former station and quality, its haughtiness and insolence, the recollection of the arrogant height of her birth, perhaps hinted at now or then in a gesture or expression, might have lingered in Cornhair’s demeanor.

Perhaps at that time she did not fully understand the transformation effected in a woman by the affixing of the collar. Perhaps at that time she thought herself a slave only in a legal, or nominal, sense. Perhaps she had not yet realized her collar, had not yet learned it. The time would come when she, as other slaves, would understand that no bit of her was free, that no particle of her was free, that every cell in her body was a cell in the body of a slave. One morning the slave awakens, and realizes she is a slave, helplessly and irremediably, and should be a slave, that this condition is hers, and rightfully and perfectly so, and then she has changed forever. She kneels, and is transformed; the war is done, and may not be renewed; she is ecstatic in the defeat for which she has longed; she experiences the liberation of submission; she has freed her deepest self. She embraces her bondage humbly, gratefully, and joyfully. She has then come home to her being and sex. She is then content at her Master’s feet. But, of course, it was common enough for Herul women to hate slaves. In this, Borchu was not unusual. This may have had to do with some Herul men, some of whom found soft, fair skins of interest, as an oddity, if nothing else; surely they were different, at any rate, from the shimmering, tinted scales of their women, resistant to the scratching of brush, thorns, and knife grass. She had cut the calf of her left leg on such grass, and was now alert to avoid its yellow, innocent-appearing patches. Accordingly, not only Borchu, but many of the Herul women, as well, hated the small, soft-skinned beasts about whose neck was chained the slave bell. Too many men, perhaps, seized and sported with such stock, and used it liberally for their pleasure, even as the inclination of the moment might move them. Did the Herul women not note slaves being dragged up the steps of wagons or being put to the dirt between the wheels? In any event, by the Herul women, the smooth-skinned wearers of the slave bell were commonly despised even more than the tiny, raiding filchen which would try to gnaw through the sacks of hineen. And, unfortunately for the slaves, they found themselves generally under the supervision of the Herul women, for the men, in general, paid them little attention, save when they were moved to do so. Now, usually, Borchu was diligent and tenacious, but there had been the incident, and that had apparently distracted her, that is, if she had been looking for her at all.

Cornhair did not fully understand the incident, even though the Heruls spoke a dialect of Telnarian, or something which seemed part Telnarian, and part something else, something low-pitched and sibilant. Indeed, Cornhair, to her grief, had had difficulty understanding the Heruls at first, and had not immediately grasped that they were speaking Telnarian, or something like Telnarian. Other camp slaves, at first, had translated for her, and, later, helped her to recognize and expect the phonemic substitutions which brought the Herul stream of sound into something recognizably Telnarian. Happily for her, the Heruls found her Telnarian intelligible, possibly because her phonemes were sounds with which the Heruls were familiar, from prisoners, slaves, tradesmen, administrators and officials at Venitzia, and such. Cornhair had never thanked the other slaves for their assistance in her linguistic acclimatization, which is understandable, as they had been clearly of the humiliori, at best, and she had been not only of the honestori, but of the patricians, and even of the senatorial class. Indeed, two of her uncles had served in the senate itself. Shortly after she had made it clear that they were owed nothing, as they had merely, appropriately, served their better, one who had been of a much higher station than theirs, they had withdrawn from her. She did not have anything further to do with them. They were inferior. Too, she did not need them any longer.

It was extremely important, of course, for a slave to understand the language of her Masters. She is to be docile and submissive. She is to obey instantly and unquestioningly. Masters tend not to be patient with stupid or ignorant slaves. Even a claim of noncomprehension, however justified, or a pathetic plea for clarification, or repetition, might bring the lash, or worse. The slave struggles with all her intelligence and application to learn the language of her Masters, and to learn it quickly, and well. She is a slave.

Her first sense of the incident was when a fellow went to the steps of a wagon, followed by several other fellows, and called out to a putatively unseen occupant. Others had soon gathered about, too, amongst them women, and children.

“Hunlaki is old,” she had heard.

She did recognize Hunlaki, now and then in the camp. He was one of the few male Heruls in the camp who seemed old. He did seem clear-eyed, and strong, and agile, but, it was true, he was old, or, at least, older than most of the males in the camp. There were several middle-aged and old women amongst the Heruls, and many children, of both sexes, but very few old men. She had speculated that Herul males were not long-lived, at least on the whole. In a sense, she was correct. We, at our distance, and with our familiarity with the annals, are in a much better position to understand what occurred than the slave, Cornhair.

“The wagon is mine!” had called the fellow, at the foot of the stairs leading up to the wagon. “Emerge from my wagon! It is mine, by claim!”

“Blood!” had cried an old woman, to others, as she hurried toward the wagon, soon joined by others, and swarming children.

Indeed, there were one or two Telnarian traders, from Venitzia, as well, in that small crowd.

“Hunlaki is done,” announced a short, thickly bodied fellow, his horse tied to a nearby wagon.

“Let us watch, and see if he dies well,” said another.

“He will,” said another. “He is Hunlaki.”

“The dogs have not fed in two days,” said another.

“They will feed tonight,” said another.

“Excellent,” said another, “or they would soon drag down a steer.”

“Come out, decrepit one!” called the fellow, in helmet and fur, at the foot of the stairs to the wagon.

But the door to the wagon did not open.

“Come out, old one!” cried the fellow at the foot of the stairs. “The dogs are hungry!”

“Hunlaki was a great warrior,” said a man.

“Long ago,” said another.

“Depart from my wagon, old one!” demanded the fellow at the foot of the stairs. “I have a throat to cut!” And, indeed, he had in his hand a Herul knife, with its blade from Venitzia, and its handle of yellow bone.

The reason that, to the puzzlement of Cornhair, there were few old men in the Herul camp was that the Heruls, as certain other species, tend to eliminate the old and weak, particularly older and weaker males. There seem to be several strands of consideration which feed into this particular practice, cultural, and, possibly, biological. First, there is an examination of newly hatched offspring. Those deemed unsuitable are thrown to the dogs. Second, there is competition amongst the wagons, for wagons, particularly fine wagons, rather like that in some species for territory. And, as territory is acquired, in many species, so, too, as a consequence, are females. Amongst the Heruls, the possession of a wagon, particularly a fine wagon, confers position and status, and the possessor of a large, strong, well-built wagon is likely to have a choice amongst young females. There are also, of course, as in many species, competitions for dominance, with its usual concomitant of access to females. Sometimes conflicts occur amongst males, with females as, so to speak, the prize. Many Herul females are pleased to mate with a male who has killed to possess her. Even old women, nursing precious memories, proudly tell their grandchildren of such things. One then adds to such things the fact that, throughout much of their tribal histories, the Heruls have faced the natural selections of hunger, disease, and war, and in primitive war, war in which intelligence, keen senses, and physical skill are likely to make the difference between life and death, natural selections take place, selections which, in their way, strengthen certain bloodlines conducive to group survival. As with various peoples, all males are expected to be warriors and face enemies, aggressors, invaders, and such. It is not the case with the Heruls, as it is with more civilized folk, that the healthy, intelligent, adept, and strong are sent forth to die whilst the sickly, stupid, clumsy, stunted, and weak remain at home, in safety, to propagate their kind. In any event, nature, with its blind, unplanned wisdom, the fruit of millennia of harsh selections, for better or for worse, has produced certain animals, such as the vi-cat and arn bear, and certain peoples, such as the Heruls.

“Come out, old one!” cried the fellow at the foot of the stairs leading up to the wagon of Hunlaki. “You have lived long enough! Come out! I have a throat to cut!”

Scarcely had these words left his throat when a hand, from behind, seeming to emerge from the crowd, closed over his mouth, tightly, and pulled his head up and back, exposing the throat, and the knife, with a swift, clean draw, cut back to the base of the spine.

“I am out,” said Hunlaki. “And it is you who have lived long enough.”

The fellow twisted in the dirt and blood at Hunlaki’s boots.

“I, too, had a throat to cut,” said Hunlaki.

“He did not see you,” said a fellow.

“It was not my intention that he should,” said Hunlaki.

“You are cunning,” said a man.

“I keep my saddle,” said Hunlaki. “I keep my wagon.”

“Excellent, dear friend,” said one whom Cornhair had heard called Mujiin.

Mujiin, it was said, had long ridden with Hunlaki, even from the time of the last, great battle with the Otungen, following which the Plains of Barrionuevo had become the Flats of Tung.

Mujiin seemed much pleased.

He had not, of course, interfered in the business at hand. It was not the Herul way.

“Strip this,” said Hunlaki, gesturing to the gasping, choking figure at his feet, its hands clutched about its throat, the blood running between the tentaclelike digits. “The dogs are hungry.”

“Tonight they will be fed,” said a fellow.

“We will gamble for his helmet, his furs, and horses,” said a man.

Mujiin had ascended the steps of Hunlaki’s wagon. He carved a deep notch in the right doorpost of the wagon. It was one of six such notches.

The figure at Hunlaki’s feet was now inert.

Its helmet, furs, and boots were being stripped away.

“It seems you still live, old warrior, old Hunlaki,” said a man.

“As of now,” said Hunlaki.

“I thought he would kill you,” said a man. “But he did not.”

“And you lost a silver darin?” said Hunlaki.

“Two,” said the man.

“I hope to die in battle,” said Hunlaki, “and hope to be killed by a greater one than he.”

“Who?” asked a man.

“A greater one than he,” said Hunlaki.

He watched the stripped body of the Herul being dragged toward the gate. There was a line of blood marking the furrow of its passage. Outside the gate, one could hear the howling of the dogs, doubtless excited by the smell of blood, a scent which their keen nostrils can detect, even in the summer, at a range of several hundred yards.

Hunlaki wiped his blade on his fur boot.

A Herul youth, perhaps no more than five years of age, looked up at Hunlaki.

“Learn from this, young warrior,” said Hunlaki. “Be not boastful, be not vainglorious, do not preen like the bright-tailed sunbird. Do not stand out. Do not be easy to see. Be one with the grass and trees. Do not stand upright on high ground. Be always on your guard. Look about yourself frequently. When one faces north, expect the vi-cat to attack from the south. When one faces south, expect it from the north.”

“I will, old warrior,” said the child.

“I must to my watch,” called Mujiin, pleased, from the high step of the stairs to the wagon of Hunlaki.

“I shall accompany you,” said Hunlaki.

The incident had occurred in the neighborhood of noon.

The fortresslike Herul camp was a large one, though many are larger. It consisted of some fifty wagons. The camps are larger in the spring and summer when there is ample grazing for the cattle. That is also a time for trading, converse, courtship, riding contests, martial games, the chanting of histories, and such. In the fall and winter the camps are smaller and, naturally, more numerous. This distributes the herds in such a way as to take advantage of the seasonally reduced pasturage. In the fall the herds begin to grow their winter coats. It is said that the cattle then resemble lumbering, shaggy hillocks, and, when it snows, seem like small, white, living mountains, the air above them steaming with the smoke of breath, crowding together in large circles. The Tangaran winter is often a difficult time for the herds and, in the fall, perhaps anticipating losses, the Heruls thin the herds for meat, hide, and bone, which, in the spring, may be used in trade, usually with the merchants of Venitzia. Fodder is also cut and dried in the summer, by women and slaves, and stored in earthen burrows. This is usually reserved for prime animals, and cows. Many of the steers wax fat in the summer and fall, and live off this fat in the winter. It is common, too, for them to chop and paw through the snow, for grass, lichens, and herbs.

In late Igon, Cornhair, nude, but wrapped head to foot in thick furs, the furs fastened tightly about her with several coils of rope, had been brought to a trade island in the Lothar. There she was flung, from the man-drawn sled, so helpless and wrapped, upon the stony beach of the island, on its eastern side, nearest the Flats of Tung, with other trade goods, for there were several such sleds. Helpless in her wrappings of bound fur she understood little of what was transpiring. After a time she heard the approach of horses, or what we have, for convenience, termed horses, snarling and snorting, apparently breasting the chill stream, several of them, and then she heard their paws breaking the edge of ice, near the shore, and then heard their scratching on the cold, stony beach. Boots struck the beach as riders dismounted. Something, too, or several things, seemed to be dragged over the cold gravel of the beach. She then heard Telnarian, and something else, which she did not at that time recognize. She heard also the cackling of domestic fowl, the squealing of pigs. After a time, she sensed something close to her, and then something was undoing the furs about her head. They were suddenly pulled back and she shut her eyes against the painful, ensuing blast of light, with its concomitant of bitter, piercing cold. She opened her eyes, screamed, and lost consciousness. She had seen her first Herul, the large eyes, the scaled skin, the seemingly earless head. Almost immediately she was returned to consciousness, awakened, slapped again and again, for stockmen, slavers, and Masters tend not to be patient, let alone indulgent, with their beasts, no matter how slight, soft, and fair they may be. “No, no!” she cried. And then, wide-eyed and horrified, she was silent, as a clawlike tentacle was pressed across her lips. She felt the hardness of the monitory digit and realized she was not to speak. Too, in a moment, she felt one of those digits press against the side of her neck. She did not understand this, but, within the digit, then unsheathed at the Herul’s will, was a soft membrane which, even in its momentary contact with her skin, registered her unique biological identity, leaving a trace which, in the Herul’s memory, was uniquely hers, much as a Herul dog might remember her smell, a slaver might take her measurements, and her finger and toe prints, or an imperial warden obtain and file away a record of her hereditary uniqueness, that borne unmistakably in each of her cells, which no disguise or falseness could alter or conceal. Later, when she would be tied naked to the learning post in the Herul camp, many other Heruls, considering her, would make a similar determination.

Cornhair, to her consternation, and misery, in the cold, was relieved of the ropes and furs, and, by two Otungs, dragged to her feet, and, arms held, exhibited to the Heruls. In that instant, shivering, moaning with cold, she realized she was the only female amongst the trade goods. The other women, nineteen of them, who had been brought to Tangara with her on the Narcona had been branded and distributed amongst the Otungs, two by outright gifting, Nissimi and Rabbit, to men named Ulrich and Vandar, and the remainder by lot. The brand, the lovely slave rose, of course, as it had been with the others, had been burned into the thigh of Cornhair. Indeed, the mighty barbarian, the imperial officer, Otto, had personally supervised her marking.

The Otungs released Cornhair and she fell to her knees. Surely now that she had been exhibited, and as a slave is exhibited, openly, fully, and without compromise, she would be again permitted the warming shelter of the furs, but the boot of a Herul was upon them. She put down her head, shivering. She dared not speak, nor, at the moment, reach for the furs. She wisely sensed that such boldness would not be permitted to a slave. Along the beach there were several sleds, which, raftlike, presumably poled or drawn, had been brought to the island from the forest side, with several Otungs. On the river side of the beach, nearest the plains beyond, were a number of Heruls, and a cluster of horses. There were also several light, wheelless platforms of poles, to which some of the horses had been harnessed. Between the sleds and the platforms were heaped or stacked goods of various kinds. On the forest side were such things as bundles of pelts, sacks of dried meat, hard-shelled winter fruit, vessels of honey, canisters of salt, mainly from brine springs, and quantities of wood, some cut and smoothed into boards. The salt and wood was of particular importance to the Heruls, as both wood and salt were rare on the Flats of Tung. The wood served mainly for the repair and construction of wagons, and the salt for lick blocks, accessible to the herds. Salt, too, it might be mentioned, might be traded for by the Heruls with the Telnarians of Venitzia, but that tended to be expensive as it was imported. Pelts obtained from the Otungs might be traded, in turn, with merchants, usually those of Venitzia, for any number of manufactured articles. The Heruls, for their part, had with them such things as crates of domestic fowl, pigs crowded into small wooden cages, and, from Venitzia, axe heads, knife blades, beer and kana, and a great number of bolts of cloth, of diverse qualities. The thicker, finer, and more ornate cloths were favored by the higher women of the Otungen, and the coarser fabrics were allotted to the lesser women and slaves. Cornhair, head down, her knees half in the sand and grit of the cold beach, shivering, clutched her arms about herself. She listened to the voices. She knew she was being bargained for. She heard the tiny sound of coins, surely not darins, but pennies. She saw four cast down on the furs beside her. They were kicked back, and the Herul, hissing, snatched them up again. One of the Otungs pulled her head up and back, and, with his free hand, lifted and spread her hair. Her hair color she had learned, in the hall to which she had been led, bound and leashed, from the Telnarian wilderness camp, through the forest, was not that unusual amongst Otung women. But then Otung women were seldom slaves. It was more common that they owned slaves. Such slaves, as those brought with her to Tangara, were more likely, like most slaves, to be dark haired and dark-eyed. Certainly a hair and eye color such as hers, blue-eyed and blond-haired, was not unknown in the markets, but, too, it was not that common in most markets, particularly in those of the colonial worlds.

After her branding, she had been knelt, nude, hands tied behind her, her ankles linked but some inches apart in thong shackles, her thigh still afire with pain, before the barbarian captain, Otto.

“I am branded,” she said.

“As were the others,” he said.

“I gather then,” she said, “that I am not to be immediately slain.”

“Perhaps,” he had said, “you were branded merely that you might be slain as a marked slave.”

“I think not,” she said.

“Where are you?” he asked.

“On my knees,” she said, “before a free man.”

“You will grow familiar with such a posture, before the free,” he said.

“I am not to be immediately killed,” she said.

“No,” he said. “Even a slave such as you, as worthless as you, might have her uses, putting herself, for example, instantly, at a snapping of fingers, at the disposal of the free, wholly and helplessly surrendered, as a slave is wholly and helplessly surrendered, hoping that lengthy and inordinate pleasures may be derived from her body, that Masters might then feed her and permit her to live. A dead slave is good for little but food for the dogs.”

“I see,” she said.

“Surely when you were free, you must have wondered what it would be, to kneel as you are now, naked, helpless, bound, a slave, before a free man.”

She was silent.

“You will be trade goods,” he said.

“I?” she said. “I? Trade goods? Trade goods! I am not to be kept?”

“No,” he said.

“You are a king!” she cried. “Am I not to be a king’s slave?”

“No,” he said.

“I am not trade goods!” she said. “I cannot be traded! I was the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

“We will see what we can get for you,” he said. “But, if nothing, then we will give you away, or leave you bound naked on the beach, for animals, or to die of exposure.”

“You cannot do this to me!” she cried.

“Put her with the other goods,” he said, turning away.

She tried to spring to her feet, but, as she was tied, her ankles fastened but some six inches apart, that she might be well apprised of her bondage, she fell, to her left shoulder. She looked after him, wildly. Hands were then put upon her, and the stock tender, Qualius, had lifted her in his arms, and carried her to a storage area.

She remained kneeling on the beach, shivering with cold, her head down, her arms held about herself.

“Sell me, sell me!” she thought.

Her captors wanted a darin for her.

One of the Heruls snorted, explosively. She would later understand that noise as a Herul laugh.

Attention then seemed diverted from her.

She recalled the words of the barbarian, that, if she were not sold, she would be given away, or left helpless on the beach, perhaps for the nibblings of filchen, if not of larger beasts, or left to die of exposure.

Surely they would not tell the Heruls that!

The Heruls must suppose her captors might hold her dear, hold for at least a darin.

“A darin!” she thought. “I should sell for a thousand darins, for ten thousand darins!”

“I am freezing,” she thought. “Sell me soon, for a penny, for the peeling of a fruit, for a crust of bread, for anything, but sell me, sell me soon!”

The tradings were taking place, offers and counteroffers, bargainings and negotiations, these strung out for better than fifty yards along the beach.

The slave necklace was no longer on her neck, with its metal pendant.

Suitably clothed, the brand covered, might she not pass as free, somewhere, somehow?

She thought of trying to rise and run, but where, and to what? Too, she doubted that her legs would hold her. She feared, even, she could not move her legs, that they were too cold to serve her.

“If escape were possible for me,” she thought, “it would be here, in the wilderness, into the forest! This would be my chance, here, not in civilization, where I, marked, would be clothed as a slave, where I would be known, recognized, and identified as a slave, where I would be collared, but, alas, even here, there is no escape for me. I could run only into darkness, cold, and death. I would be eaten. I would starve!”

Then she put aside the foolishness of even contemplating flight.

She did not think she could even rise to her feet.

No, she realized, there was no escape for the female slave, not in the cities, not in the forests, not in the fields, nowhere. She had known that when she was free, that was understood, and it had amused her, but, then, she had never thought that she would be a female slave, and that there would never be any escape for her.

“At least I am not in a collar,” she thought. “My throat is bare!”

No one seemed to be about.

Her hand reached out, just a little, slowly, to clutch the furs, and, almost at the same time, the knout fell on her body, and then again and again, and she put her head down, covering it with her hands. “Forgive me, Master!” she cried. “Forgive me, Master!”

“Are you cold?” asked he who then was to her as keeper and captor.

“Yes, Master!” she cried.

“Do you wish to speak?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, Master!” she cried.

“Speak,” he said.

“I am cold, Master!” she wept. “I freeze! Please let me cover myself with the furs!”

“Do you petition permission to enclose yourself in the furs?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, Master!” she said.

“You reached out for the furs,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Without permission,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Forgive me, Master.”

“Your petition is denied,” he said.

Shuddering, Cornhair kept her head down.

She should not, of course, have reached for the furs. Such things, as should have been understood, are not permitted to a slave.

Cornhair was not merely a beautiful woman, but a highly intelligent woman. Yet she had much to learn about her new status, that of the female slave. Given her intelligence, of course, she should learn very quickly.

The barterings and exchanges now seemed less. Indeed, more than one sled, with new burdens, had been drawn back into the forest, and more than one spread platform of poles, heaped with goods, drawn by its horse, slid over the edge ice and splashed into the chill waters of the Lothar, to ascend shortly the far bank, bordering the now-snowy plains beyond.

Cornhair heard the squealing of a pig and looked up, startled. A fellow was walking back to a sled, the pig under his arm. Also, at almost the same time, a heap of cloth was cast before her by a squat Herul. How fine such fellows looked, how at ease, mounted, as they left the island, some alone, some, mounted, tending the platform-drawing horses beginning to cross the river, and how ungainly afoot.

“Dress,” said an Otung.

Cornhair seized up the garments and eagerly, gratefully, drew them on. How precious they were to her. Had she ever worn anything so warm? She was familiar, in her way, of course, with such garments, as they were such as the Otung women wore, and such as she had often donned and worn in and about the hall of the Otungs. To be sure, these were plain, and shabby, worn, and such, but they were long, and thick, and layered. She also drew on the thick woolen hose. Although she, and the other slaves brought from Inez IV to Tangara on the Narcona, had become familiar with such garments, she and the others slaves had not always been so sedately and concealingly clad. At the evening suppers and feasts in the hall, the Otung women dining apart, in the woman’s hall, a long shed adjoining the greater hall, she, and the others, had served the men naked, hurrying to and fro, responding to their cries, hastening to bring them meat and drink, in particular, spiced and honeyed bror, brewed from golden lee. That slaves should serve so, stripped, and commonly collared, is, incidentally, a not unfamiliar custom amongst not only barbarians, with their rude ways, but is popular, too, amongst many refined gentlemen of the empire. Men, civilized and barbarous, being men, enjoy being served by naked slaves. It is one of the pleasures of ownership, and the Mastery, and few things, it might be added, given the contrasts involved, clothed and unclothed, serving and being served, and such, better impress upon a slave her femaleness and its meaning.

A tentacled appendage seized the now-dressed Cornhair by the back of the neck, and forced her down, to her knees, her head down.

She whimpered, frightened.

She heard a surprising sound, the striking, the clanking, of a clapper within metal, and sensed something under her neck. There was another such sound, and a chain was drawn up about her neck, and behind her neck, closely, and she heard the snap of a lock behind the back of her neck.

It was the first she had known of, or heard of, the Herul slave bell.

The point of the bell was not, in particular, to designate its wearer a slave, for all human females in a Herul camp were slaves. Rather it was, first, to remind the slave that she was a slave, and a beast, for such bells were sometimes hung about the necks of cows in the herds, and, second, to mark her movements. Interestingly, even in civilized areas, slaves are occasionally belled, though seldom so simply and crudely. The jangle of bells fastened about a girl’s ankle, wrist, or neck well impresses upon her that she is not like other women, that she is not free, but a slave. Too, it is not unusual that a new slave, one who is not yet sexually subdued, one not yet sexually owned, one who has not yet fully learned her collar, might be belled. This not only helps her to keep in mind, with each jangle, that she is a slave, but is useful for a variety of other reasons, in particular, those associated with location and tracking. How can she conceal her presence when each of her movements is betrayed by the bells put upon her by Masters; and how could she contemplate escape, however absurd such a musing, however foolish such a fancy, where each step would be clearly marked, bright with the informing music of her bondage? Too, as suggested earlier, bells have their effect upon the passions, both those of slaves and Masters. A belled slave, gasping and begging, brought cruelly to the incomparable ecstasies of the slave orgasm, is pleasant to listen to, wild-eyed and gasping, as she bucks and writhes in her chains.

Cornhair, now clothed, on her knees again, as free men were present, straightened her body, and the bell sounded. She then held it, with two hands, though it was cold, that it not sound. “Master!” she begged. “May I speak?”

“Yes,” said the fellow.

“I have been sold?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said. “You now belong to Heruls.”

“How many darins did I bring?” she asked, clutching the bell.

“Vain slut,” he said.

“Please,” she said, “Master.”

“You went for a pig,” he said, “which is more than you are worth.”

The tentacled appendage of a Herul then fastened itself in her hair, and, as she cried out, she was dragged to her feet, and, bent over, her head at his hip, her hands on his wrist, the bell clanking, was conducted to the shore of the island. There, she was thrown to all fours before one of the platforms of spread poles, on which were some empty crates, or coops, which had housed domestic fowl, vardas, in this area, and a long, low, narrow, stout, wood-barred structure, also now empty, one of several in which pigs had been brought to the island.

A gesture from a Herul’s claw indicated that she should crawl upon the spread platform, then not harnessed to a horse, and enter the wood-barred structure. She hastened within. The bell clanked. She moaned. She clutched it. The smell of the structure’s former denizens assailed her. She heard, behind her, the closing of the structure’s gate. It took but a moment to thong it shut. The Herul then, his hand in its mane, or neck hair, positioned the horse between the draw poles and adjusted its harnessing. Cornhair could turn about only with difficulty. Kneeling, grasping the wooden bars, she saw Otung sleds, laden, being thrust into the water. Some men stood upon them, waiting, with poles. Some sleds, having crossed from the island, now again being drawn, were already vanishing into the forest.

“Return!” thought Cornhair, clutching the wooden bars. “Come back! Save me! Rescue me! Do not let this be done to me! I acknowledge myself a slave! I have long known it in my heart! I now confess it openly! I will kneel docilely, head down, at the foot of your couch! I will hasten to serve! I will strive to please, as the least of slaves! Keep me! Keep me! I beg it! Keep me!”

Cornhair was half thrown from her knees in the cage, as the platform on which it was fastened jerked forward. Only her hands on the bars prevented her from falling. She heard the paws of the horse break through the ice at the edge of the island, and then, a moment later, its broad chest was cleaving the chill waters. The boots of the rider were high in the stirrups. Water surged about the beast. Cornhair moaned, as water emerged between the close-set poles of the platform, and, in a moment, as the platform departed further from the bank, it washed over the platform, and through the cage. Her knees and hose were soaked. The wind rose. A large, flat piece of ice, broken loose from the shore upstream, struck, grating, against the platform, and then, as the platform continued its progress, spun slowly away. She could see snow being lifted and blown about on the bank being approached. Then, after a time, the paws of the horse, the rider’s mount, broke ice at the farther shore and the platform, unevenly, was being drawn across stones and sand, and, shortly thereafter, it had ascended the higher bank, and lurched into the seemingly endless, broad stretches of wind-carved snow.

Cornhair had arrived at the Flats of Tung.

“You now belong to Heruls,” had said the Otung.

She clutched the bell, to keep it from clanking.

Cornhair remained, crouching, between the wheels of one of the wagons. Her fingers held to the clapper in the bell hung about her neck. To be sure, that was forbidden, as much so as stuffing the bell with grass. It was to be free to swing, and sound, as a slave bell must.

Cornhair was miserable, hiding beneath the wagon.

To be sure, she had not been summoned, at least not personally, not explicitly, to her knowledge, and certainly she could not be accused of, and had not dared, an unauthorized departure from the camp. That was forbidden. Too, there were hungry dogs about, little better, if at all, than wolves.

She had been told that Borchu was looking for her. On the other hand, that might not be true. Cornhair was not popular with the other girls. Was it a joke, so cruel a joke? Did they want her to seek out Borchu, and present herself, unbidden, to Borchu’s switch? That would surely give Borchu a pretext to vent her feelings on a human female, not that she had ever needed a pretext, and, indeed, a human female against whom, for whatever reason, she seemed to bear a particular animus. But what if Borchu was indeed looking for her, and the other slave, White Ankles, should inform her that the message of her summons had been duly transmitted, and yet that Cornhair had not fled to her feet, begging, as was required, to do her bidding?

Cornhair remained where she was, trembling.

It was now an hour or so past noon.

Whereas some female slaves in a Herul camp are owned by particular Masters, and wear appropriate identifying disks fastened to the chain of their slave bells, most slaves are what is known as “camp slaves.” For example, Cornhair was a camp slave. Camp slaves, rather as many of the dogs, are the common property of the camp. It is much more prestigious to be a private slave. A particular advantage of being owned by a particular Master is that one is more likely to be fed. It is easy to see why camp slaves look up to, and envy, private slaves. A camp slave, who has no specific owner, must beg, and give pleasure, of one sort or another, before she is fed. That is required. Camp slaves, also, as they are not privately owned, may be disposed of by anyone in the camp, rather as anyone might slay and eat a dog that is not privately owned. It is easy to see why camp slaves are particularly zealous to please Masters, which, in their case, is any free Herul, even a child. They prostrate themselves eagerly. On their belly they hope not to be beaten, and to be spared.

Most worlds in the Telnarian empire, saving some “same worlds,” in which, interestingly, men and women are supposedly identical, and other worlds, beyond the current borders of the empire, which wax and wane with political and military fortunes, accept, favor, and celebrate, the institution of slavery, with all its personal and public benefits, economic, social, biological, psychological, and so on. For example, it well serves the woman who can be fulfilled only if she finds herself at the feet of a man, his, owned and mastered, and it well serves the man who, in the proud might of his lust and health, chooses to be himself, and own and master his female, rather than be a stranger to his blood and heart. On the other hand, the Master/slave relationship, with its terrors and pains, its pleasures and fears, its values, rewards, and joys, commonly obtains, as seems appropriate, given the selections of nature, within a single species. It is there that the woman finds the man, her Master, and the man finds the woman, his slave. That would not be the case with the humans and Heruls, of course. Each of these species is alien to the other. The complementarities which, in the habits of nature, have been selected for within a single species are seldom selected for between species. Accordingly, within the Herul camp, Cornhair’s loveliness, now, to be sure, somewhat disheveled and sullied, had little relevance to her fate or treatment. Herul males, on the whole, saw little point in protecting her from the excesses of Herul females, no more than a pig, and Herul females, in turn, on the whole, needed not concern themselves with the possible intervention of the camp’s males, short of, perhaps, her killing or maiming. She had, after all, some value. She had cost a pig at the trade island.

The relation of female to female within a single species is interesting, human female to human female, Herul female to Herul female, with respect to intraspecific competitions, for example, with respect to attractiveness, prestige, status, appeal to males, mate acquisition, and such. Along these lines, within the human species, the free woman commonly resents, and, I fear, is jealous of, the interest of the males of her species in female slaves, whom they may buy, own, and use for their pleasure, and, I suspect, resents, and, I fear, is jealous of, the fulfillments and joys of the owned, mastered slave, she lovingly, content, wholly surrendered and submitted, at her Master’s feet. Then, when dealing with the possible interactions of females of diverse species, not those without commonalities, as, say, those of female pigs and female filchen, but those where some commonalities are involved, for example, speech, rationality, sexual dimorphism, paired appendages, and such, as in the case of humans and Heruls, the natural contempt which, say, a Herul female might feel for a human female can be exacerbated, as was the case with Borchu, by a recognition that Herul males occasionally find the small, soft, well-curved, smooth-skinned bodies of their human female slaves, however surprisingly or peculiarly, of sexual interest. Thus, in such a case, the natural contempt of the Herul female for the human female, which she regards as a despicably inferior sort of thing, rather as she might regard a pig as a despicably inferior sort of thing, is upon occasion, as it was with Borchu, somewhat intensified, if not multiplied exponentially.

From her position, Cornhair could look to her right, and see the wide, dusty expanse about which the wagons were arranged. Somewhere, she knew, at least one wagon was moved aside, to leave an opening. This arrangement, a wagon gate, makes it possible for armed men to issue forth from any part of the camp, perhaps unnoted from a given direction. It also makes it possible, if several wagons are moved simultaneously, for a large number of men to pour suddenly, perhaps unexpectedly, into the field, an advantage not obtaining with fixed walls and a gate or gates which might be kept under surveillance. There were women and children in sight, some six horses, tethered, a slave, yoked, carrying water to a trough, in two metal pails, doubtless from Venitzia; and another slave tending to a large, camp kettle, of which several could be seen, slung on their iron racks. It took four men to lift some of the camp kettles. Most slaves would be out, somewhere, under the supervision of free women, picking hineen, using their lifted skirts as baskets. In two places Herul men were sitting, cross-legged, facing one another, playing with marked bones, these cast on a blanket between them. Herul men did not attend to camp matters, save for such things as the repair and decoration of the large, colorful, enclosed wagons, like houses on wheels. They tended cattle and horses; taught boys riding and weapons, primarily the bow and lance; hunted, and, as the occasion arose, did war. Occasionally they raided other Herul camps, for horses and women. Beyond the wagons to her right, to the east, she could see, in the far distance, some of the snow-capped heights of the Barrionuevo Range. She looked to her left; somewhere to her left, far off, would be the Lothar River. To the north and south, bending in the wind, were seemingly endless waves of grass. She drew back, further, under the wagon. One of the large, maned dogs was watching her. She would not reach toward it, lest her hand be snapped off. Heruls use dogs to herd cattle, horses, prisoners, and slaves. The dog growled and moved away.

Cornhair was hungry.

She was often hungry in the Herul camp.

She had crawled to Borchu yesterday evening, begging to be put to work, that she might be fed, but Borchu, the Herul female into whose care she had been placed, had declined to offer her work. White Ankles, her arms in the wooden washing pail submerged to her elbows, had smiled, washing Borchu’s hose. She had begged Borchu to cast her even a scrap of garbage, but Borchu, instead, had switched her, reminding her that one such as she, a worthless camp slave, was not to be fed for nothing. One such as she must earn her food. She had then hung about the camp kettles, until she, with some dogs, had been driven away by the Herul women. She had fled, weeping. The supple branch had muchly stung. The life of she who had once been the rich and spoiled Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii, of the honestori, of the patricians, even of the senatorial class, had muchly changed. She who had squandered property was now herself property; her silks had been exchanged for coarse cloth, her jewels for a slave bell locked on her neck. Most devastatingly, she had been marked; on her left thigh, high, under the hip, fixed in place, burned in, was the small, lovely slave rose. She well knew its meaning, and so would others, within the empire, and elsewhere. She was goods, a slave.

The men were mostly out with the herds. Many left early in the morning, to return at dusk, passing others who were then leaving the camp, who, in turn, would return to the wagons near dawn.

A slave such as Cornhair, a camp slave, was more likely to be fed by the Herul men than the Herul women. One might always beg to braid a rope, which might be used to bind them; to smooth out the fur of a fellow’s boots with teeth and tongue, to rub down saddles, to polish accouterments, and such. And sometimes they had made her remove her clothes, and perform the “pleading dance” of the female slave. In the empire, there were many “pleading dances,” pleadings to be spared, to be permitted to live, sometimes permitted to female captives, pleadings to be forgiven, pleadings not to be whipped, pleadings to be retained by a Master considering her sale, pleadings to be fed, pleadings for sexual attention and sexual gratification, and such. Among the Heruls, the pleading dances of human females were usually pleadings to be fed. Needless to say, it is one thing for a human female to perform a pleading dance before Heruls who, for the most part, regard her as an alien life form, and quite another to perform such a dance before free males of her own species. The common outcome of such a dance before males of her own species is that she will be dragged away from the fire, into the darkness, usually by the hair, and reminded of what it is to be a slave in the arms of a Master. Such dances are often performed on the slave block, to intensify bids. Many slave houses, naturally, provide instruction in such dances, and several others, and woe to the slave who does not learn them well. In such dance, she is to transform herself into an unabashed, shameless, lascivious object of desire. Such dance well impresses upon her that she is a slave, and only that. Too, such dance has its effect not only upon Masters, but upon the slave herself, such that she is now likely to beg for their touch, that they may relieve her inevitably aroused needs. A trained slave, too, of course, is likely to bring more on the block. So, as would be expected, dance, slave dance, of course, constitutes an integral portion of a slave’s curriculum. This is natural, as it is the very raison d’être, the very reason for being, of the slave to serve men, and provide them with great pleasure. That is what she is for. Sometimes the Heruls would have the human female slaves remove their clothing, and roll about, twisting, and squirming, on the ground. The point of this, for the Heruls, at least commonly, seems to have little or nothing to do with the girls, for they are, after all, slaves, but seems rather to have more to do with some sort of satisfaction they derive from having the women of the enemy at their feet, obedient and prostrate. On the other hand, from their point of view, the exhibition of diverse forms of plunder, say, gold and silver vessels, marble statuary, jewels, paintings, rich, well-woven carpets, and such, would serve much the same purpose, an exhibition of acquired goods, preferably taken from enemies. A visiting Otung, for example, a merchant, ambassador, or such, treated by Heruls to such an exhibition, is less likely to be humiliated or insulted, as to be pleased, as the women are slaves. Indeed he may appreciate the matter as a spectacle thoughtfully presented for his entertainment. On the other hand, should this behavior be inflicted on a free woman, blood might be shed. Lesser things have initiated raids, even wars.

Cornhair, crouching under the wagon, pondered approaching the men who were intent on their gambling. They might not wish to be interrupted. But she was very hungry.

“See! See!” cried White Ankles. “There, hiding under the wagon!”

“Come out, Cornhair!” screamed Borchu.

Miserable, and trembling, Cornhair crawled out from under the wagon, the slave bell clanking, and put herself to her belly before Borchu.

“I told her you wanted to see her!” said White Ankles. “She did not rush to the wagon! She dallied! She hid herself!”

“No, no, Noble Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I knew nothing of your pleasure!”

“Liar, liar!” cried White Ankles.

“No!” wept Cornhair.

“Which of you is lying?” asked Borchu.

“Cornhair!” cried White Ankles.

“White Ankles!” cried Cornhair.

“You are both filthy pigs, both liars!” said Borchu.

“No!” said White Ankles.

“No!” said Cornhair.

“Kneel up, look at me!” said Borchu, and Cornhair rose to her knees, but feared to look into that narrow, long, scaled face. The eyes were round and bright. The head was smooth, oval, and elongated, the nostrils no more than a pair of holes in the face. No ears were visible, but there were two holes, listening holes, one on each side of the head. The eyesight of Heruls was much akin to that of humans. Their hearing and sense of smell seems to have been more acute.

Borchu adjusted Cornhair’s head with her switch, so that it was lifted and looking up at her.

Cornhair’s neck hurt.

“How ugly humans are,” said Borchu.

Why, one wonders, would this have been of interest to Borchu?

Notions of beauty, one supposes, would tend to vary from species to species, naturally enough, as most humans would not bid avidly for most female Heruls, nor would most Heruls risk a dozen hides for most human females, but, one supposes, attractiveness and beauty are not always a matter of idiosyncratic species preference. For example, both Heruls and humans might respond to the glory of grass, to the ruggedness of mountains, to the force of rushing streams, to the turbulence of clouds, to the rhapsody of a sunset, to the unsheathing of the cold knife of dawn. Do not Heruls and humans both see beauty in the dog and wolf, in the bull and horse, in the vi-cat and hawk? And certainly, as we have noted, some Herul males have viewed certain of their human properties with interests transcending those of a purely utilitarian nature.

Borchu, it must be confessed, had not been much sought for by male Heruls, with seeding in mind.

“Get your clothes off, pig,” said Borchu to Cornhair.

“Please do not beat me!” said Cornhair.

“Now, pig!” said Borchu.

White Ankles laughed.

Cornhair now wore but her slave bell.

“White Ankles,” snapped Borchu, “remove your waist cord, and bind the wrists of Cornhair together, and then take her to the wagon wheel, put her on her knees, and tie her wrists to a spoke.”

“Please, no, Mistress!” said Cornhair.

“Yes, Mistress,” said White Ankles, untying her waist cord, and hurrying to Cornhair.

Shortly thereafter Cornhair faced the wagon wheel, on her knees, her wrists tied to a spoke.

She looked behind her, terrified, but saw no hint of mercy in the visage of her custodian.

“May I beat her?” inquired White Ankles.

“Perhaps it is you who are the liar,” said Borchu.

“No, Noble Mistress!” said White Ankles.

“Fetch me the waist cord from the dress of Cornhair,” said Borchu.

Swiftly, White Ankles complied.

The waist cord on the dress of a slave is such that, by intention, the slave may be bound with it. Commonly it encircles the waist twice, snugly, and is tied at the left hip, as most Masters are right-handed. This is a common feature of many slave garments, on many worlds. There seems to be three aspects to this practice; first, as a utilitarian measure, the slave may be conveniently rendered helpless, bound, hand and foot; second, carrying her bond about her body, knotted, reminds the slave of her helplessness, her vulnerability, and bondage; and, thirdly, as her figure is emphasized, attention is called to the fact that she is a sexual creature, no longer secretly and shamefully, but now openly and unapologetically, essentially and radically. Let free women pretend what they wish and deny what they will; such privileges are theirs; they are not permitted to the most female of all women, the female slave. Let them not deny their sexuality; that would be farcical in the case of a slave; it is that for which they are purchased. The slave quickly learns the meaning of her collar, which, to her joy and gratitude, frees her to be herself. Perhaps it is little wonder that free women so hate and envy them.

“Mistress?” said White Ankles.

“Remove your clothing, pig,” said Borchu. “Kneel before me, your head down, your arms lifted, your wrists crossed!”

“Please, no, Noble Mistress!” wept White Ankles, but she hastened to obey. In moments, head down, she could see only the dirt before her. She also felt her small wrists tied together, closely.

Moments later White Ankles was on her knees, beside Cornhair, the large, painted hub of the wheel between them, the wrists of each bound to a spoke.

“Confess!” begged White Ankles. “Tell the noble Mistress I told you she wished to see you!”

“You told me nothing!” said Cornhair.

“She is lying Noble Mistress,” cried White Ankles over her shoulder.

“Who is lying?” inquired Borchu.

“Cornhair!” cried White Ankles.

“White Ankles!” cried Cornhair.

“I will beat both,” said Borchu. “I am thus assured the guilty one is punished.”

“I will tear out your hair! I will scratch your eyes out!” cried White Ankles to Cornhair, pulling at her wrists.

“The Noble Masters and Mistresses would not be pleased,” hissed Cornhair.

White Ankles turned white, sobbed, and pulled again at her tethered wrists.

“I will throw dirt into the pan of your food, dirt into the pan of your water,” said White Ankles.

“And I into yours!” said Cornhair.

“I am larger than you,” said White Ankles. “I will beat you, and beat you!”

Tears sprang into the eyes of Cornhair, and she jerked helplessly at the cords that held her bound to the spoke. Her knees ground into the dust at the side of the wheel. She knew she was no match for White Ankles.

And then the switch began to fall on the both of them.

“Pigs, pigs!” said Borchu, gasping with her efforts.

“Mercy, Noble Mistress!” begged White Ankles.

“Mercy, Noble Mistress!” wept Cornhair.

“Admit that you are pigs!” cried Borchu.

“We are pigs!” cried White Ankles and Cornhair, their wrists bound to a spoke, their heads down between the spokes.

“Admit that you are less than pigs!” screamed Borchu.

“I am less than a pig!” cried White Ankles.

“I am less than a pig!” cried Cornhair. “Please stop, Noble Mistress!”

“You were purchased for a pig!” said Borchu. “A fool purchased you for a pig. He was cheated. You are not worth so much! You are worth less than a pig!”

“Yes, Noble Mistress!” wept Cornhair. “I am worth less than a pig! Please beat me no more!”

“You, White Ankles,” cried Borchu, “were purchased for three pigs!”

“Yes, Noble Mistress!” said White Ankles.

Sobbing, Cornhair jerked at her bonds. Could it be that Heruls had paid three pigs for White Ankles, and only one pig for herself? Was she so poor a slave, that even Heruls would pay so little for her?

She suddenly realized that she was inferior to White Ankles. Free women are entitled, in their vanity, to regard themselves as superior to all other women, but slaves are beasts and commodities, and their value is determined objectively, by what men will pay for them.

“And you, too,” snarled Borchu, “are worth less than a pig!”

“Yes, Noble Mistress!” said White Ankles.

“The Otung robbers, the Otung bandits, the Otung scoundrels!” cried Borchu. “You are both worth less than pigs!”

“Yes, Noble Mistress!” cried White Ankles and Cornhair.

Then, mercifully, the blows ceased.

“I am tired,” said Borchu. “The day is hot.”

Cornhair gasped, and shuddered. The slave bell hung about her neck clanked. Her back and body were afire. Borchu knew something of the beating of slaves. Cornhair put her head down, against the spoke. Yes, she thought, acquiescing, I am less than a pig, for I am a slave. Is there not a sense in which all slaves are worth less than pigs, as they are slaves? You would not even beat a pig. She knew, of course, that Borchu’s assessments were spiteful. Yet, too, she knew, with wars, and such, slaves on many worlds were cheap. But, too, she knew that even a low slave might bring several darins. And some slaves, she knew, sold for many darins, and some even for a dozen rifles, with a thousand cartridges, even a hoverer. But here, she thought, I am worth only a pig, or less! The barbarian, and Qualius, and Ronisius, she thought, have well had their vengeance. She could not expect to be saved by Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol. His minions, Phidias, the captain of the Narcona, and the others, Corelius, and Lysis, had abandoned her, and doubtless had reported the assassination done, and would have supposed her to have been killed shortly thereafter, presumably slowly and unpleasantly. Too, what had she to hope, should she find herself before dour Iaachus, in his dark robes, for she had not only failed in her task but knew his complicity in the affair, which knowledge rendered her a threat to him, one who was not likely to be tolerant of unresolved threats.

Borchu freed White Ankles and Cornhair of the spokes, but kept their hands tied, before their bodies.

“Stand,” said Borchu.

Both could stand only with difficulty.

“Precede me,” said Borchu, pointing toward the center of the camp.

Cornhair and White Ankles preceded her for several yards, until she called for them to stop, near the center of the camp, near the large cooking kettles.

Men in the vicinity scarcely noted them.

A child ran by, pursuing a ball of fur, casting it into the air before him, and then hastening to catch it.

“I am not finished with you,” said Borchu.

“Cornhair was the liar!” said White Ankles.

“White Ankles!” said Cornhair.

“Kneel,” said Borchu.

Swiftly Cornhair and White Ankles assumed the prescribed position.

“Bakaar!” called Borchu, “here! Assist me!”

Bakaar, like many of the Heruls, a short, thickly bodied male, shuffled to Borchu’s side. On horseback Heruls seemed at ease, as we have noted, even graceful, in a menacing way, but afoot, they often seemed ungainly.

“Tie their ankles,” said Borchu.

This was promptly done, with narrow thongs.

“Now,” said Borchu, “fasten their wrists, behind the back of their necks.”

“Noble Mistress?” said White Ankles, as her bound wrists were pulled up, jerked over her head, and then down, back, behind her neck, where they were fastened.

The same was done with Cornhair.

Both slaves then knelt, their ankles crossed and tied behind them, and their hands, bound, behind the back of their necks.

With a common key, Borchu unlocked the slave bells from the girls’ necks, and cast them to the side.

“Noble Mistress?” said Cornhair, questioningly, plaintively.

“Heat two kettles!” called Borchu to a slave, who scurried to obey.

“No, please, no, Noble Mistress!” cried White Ankles.

Cornhair screamed with misery.

At a gesture from Borchu, the Herul, Bakaar, lifted White Ankles first, and then Cornhair, placing each in one of the kettles, where the water swirled about their throats. As their ankles were tied, they could not rise to their feet.

Smoke curled upward, about the sides of the kettles, where the turf grass, the sticks, and dried dung sprang into flame.

“Mercy, Noble Mistress!” screamed White Ankles!

“Spare us, beloved Noble Mistress!” wept Cornhair. “We will be better slaves, the best of slaves, beloved Mistress!”

Some Heruls gathered about, amongst them some women, and children.

“Boil White Ankles! Cook her! Not me!” wept Cornhair.

“No, no!” cried White Ankles. “Cornhair! Not White Ankles!”

“No!” screamed Cornhair, her eyes wild, thrashing about, unable to rise.

“Be silent, Pigs,” scolded Borchu. Then she turned to the slave who had lit the fires. “Bring tallow,” she said, “rags, and brushes.”

“Mistress?” begged White Ankles.

“You are filthy, both of you,” said Borchu. Then she called to two other slaves. “Wash the dirt from their hair, from their bodies, comb them, scrub them!”

“Yes, Noble Mistress!” cried the two slaves.

Bakaar then, by the hair, thrust the head of White Ankles under the water, and shook it, painfully, and then served Cornhair similarly. Both girls raised their heads from the water, half blinded, gasping for breath.

“Stupid pigs,” said Borchu. “If you were to be cooked, your hands would have been bound behind your back, that you might boil more uniformly.”

“Oh!” cried Cornhair, recoiling from the bristles of a stout brush on her body. In moments, she shut her eyes, from the yanking at her hair of a horn comb. To her left she heard White Ankles, sobbing.

Herul men drew the slaves to their feet, and held them in place. The water was then to their waist.

Cornhair had not washed since the wilderness camp.

“Be gentle!” begged White Ankles.

In a few moments the two Heruls released their hold, and White Ankles and Cornhair, unable to stand, fell to their knees in the kettles, putting their heads back, that they not be submerged.

“Are they ready?” asked a voice.

The voice was not that of a Herul. It was a human, male voice.

“Yes,” said Borchu. “Bakaar, hold that pig upright. You, Odai, hold up the other one.”

Both girls were then, again, held upright, the water in the kettles now, again, about their waist.

The human was a large man, muscular, in a sleeveless leather jacket. A knife sheath, at his waist, was empty. Heruls seldom allowed armed humans in their camps. Each large wrist was bound with leather.

Held, Cornhair tried to lift her feet from the bottom of the kettle, as it was becoming uncomfortably hot. A growl from the Herul caused her to remain unmoving.

“I see you have them in an exhibition tie,” said the human.

Suddenly, then, Cornhair flushed with embarrassment. Not only was the behind-the-neck tie an attractive tie, and one of superb slave security, but it lifted the breasts in such a way as to flatter and accentuate the figure.

“We have washed them for you, even in warm water,” said Borchu. “That is better for removing filth, all the dust, the dirt and dung.”

The muscular fellow approached the kettles.

Seldom had Cornhair felt examined, as she then was.

“Mouth open, head back,” said the man.

“Good teeth,” said Borchu.

Cornhair felt her body slapped, variously.

How dare the brute?

She was furious.

Had she not been bound, she would have been tempted to cry out, even to strike at the fellow. At that time, you see, Cornhair was not yet fully aware of what it was to be a slave. She knew the dreadful slavery of being a human female in a Herul camp, but the Heruls were not of her species. In the camp, most Heruls viewed her as they might have viewed a pig, or a dog, something that had little personal meaning to them, and was not of great interest. But then, examined as an animal by a man of her own species, and being considered as an animal by a member of her own species, she suddenly realized, to her terror, that among such, amongst members of her own species, she would be a thousand times more a slave than she had been in the Herul camp. Amongst the Heruls she had been, for the most part, a simple animal, such as a dog or pig, but amongst humans she would be not merely an animal, such as a dog or pig, but a very special sort of animal, an unusually attractive and exciting form of animal, the female slave. The members of her species would understand her bondage and its meaning, only too well, as it was meant to be understood. She would be an object and a commodity, vulnerable to, and helpless before, the free. Men might lust for her, and have their will with her, as they might please. And women would hate her.

The muscular fellow then, to Cornhair’s satisfaction, subjected White Ankles, whom he had saved for last, for some reason, to a similar, thorough, explicit examination.

He then stepped back.

“See, sound,” said Borchu.

“Lift them from the kettles,” said the fellow.

Bakaar and Odai lifted the wet, dripping bodies of White Ankles and Cornhair from the kettles.

Cornhair and White Ankles were then knelt before the muscular fellow. Neither dared to meet his eyes.

Water slipped from their heated bodies, dampening the ground. The soles of their feet were sore and reddened, from the metal of the kettles. Their hair was wet, and coarsely combed. There was water about their knees.

The muscular fellow walked about the pair. “They have been beaten,” he said.

“They are slaves,” said Borchu.

“What do you want for them?” he asked.

“Consider their ankles, their flanks,” said Borchu. “Would they not be of interest to a human?”

“Perhaps,” said the fellow.

“Twenty darins for each,” said Borchu.

“Ten, for the pair,” he said.

“Too little!” cried Borchu.

“Keep them, eat them,” said the fellow, and turned away.

“Pig, human!” said Borchu.

“Take it,” said Bakaar. “Ten darins will buy eight to ten pigs.”

Borchu wavered a moment, her body seething with anger. Then she called out, “Sir! Sir!”

The fellow turned about, perhaps as he had expected to do.

“Agreed!” said Borchu. “But that only for good will, for good will with the dealers of Venitzia!”

“Take them to my wagon,” said the fellow, unslinging the purse from about his shoulder.”

Bakaar undid the thongs on Cornhair and White Ankles. He then put a hand in the hair of each, and, holding them bent over, their heads at his hips, Cornhair on his left, White Ankles on his right, took his way toward the current portal to the camp, where two wagons had been drawn to the side, one to the left, one to the right, this opening the wagon wall, broadly, outside of which waited the dealer’s wagon, drawn by two horses.

“Kneel here,” said Bakaar, releasing them behind the dealer’s wagon and then returning to the interior of the wagon camp.

“We are out of the camp!” said White Ankles, elatedly. “We have been sold! We have been sold!”

“I cannot be sold!” said Cornhair.

“You have been sold,” said White Ankles, “as have I!”

“I can not be sold, not truly,” said Cornhair, “for I am a free woman.”

“Are you mad?” said White Ankles.

“I am the Lady Publennia Calasalia,” said Cornhair, “of the Larial Calasalii!”

“You are whoever Masters choose to name you,” said White Ankles.

“The dealer is from Venitzia,” said Cornhair. “It is a provincial capital. If he knows the empire, he will know of the Calasalii!”

“Once perhaps you were of the Calasalii, whoever they are,” said White Ankles. “But now you are no more than a slave, as am I.”

“No,” said Cornhair.

“They would not want you back,” said White Ankles, “you are now no more than an embarrassment, an insult and a scorn to them. The collar spoils a woman for freedom. Once collared, she can no longer be free. She is then a slave, and knows herself a slave.”

“Not I!” said Cornhair. “I am not a slave!”

“Your left thigh bears the rose, printed in as deeply, and as unmistakably, as mine!” said White Ankles.

“Garmented,” said Cornhair, “no one will know we are marked!”

“And perhaps you will simply ask for the garments of a free woman, perhaps one of quality?” said White Ankles.

“We are not collared!” said Cornhair.

“That is true,” said White Ankles, tensely.

“I need only make myself known,” said Cornhair, “and I will be freed.”

“Then you admit you are not free now?”

“No,” said Cornhair.

“Then you admit you are now a slave?”

“Yes, now,” said Cornhair, “but only until I speak my name and station.”

“Your former name and station,” said White Ankles.

“Yes, if you will,” said Cornhair.

“Will you not speak for me, as well?” asked White Ankles.

“No,” said Cornhair. “You are a natural slave, and should be a slave, and will remain a slave! You are the sort of girl who should crawl about the ankles of a Master, and lick and kiss them!”

“So are you!” said White Ankles.

“I am not one of those neck-ringed sluts who melts in a man’s arms, and lives only to please him!”

“Have I not heard you weep in your sleep for a Master?”

“When I am free, and rich,” said Cornhair, “I will buy you, and then you will see how pleasant your life will be!”

“I fear the dealer will soon approach,” whispered White Ankles, looking about.

“Perhaps we should have fled,” said Cornhair, looking about, as well. “We might have reached Venitzia, on foot!”

Cornhair, on a wild impulse, leaped to her feet, but, warned by a fearsome growl, not feet away, she fell immediately, again, to her knees.

“Do not move, the dogs,” said White Ankles.

Cornhair then realized why the Herul, Bakaar, had simply left them, as he had. Herul dogs, as many others, were often used to control, herd, and monitor slaves. Cornhair and White Ankles had been put on their knees. The dogs, then, would see that they remained in place, pending the arrival of some suitable authority, one who might alter the situation.

“Are we such poor stuff?” asked Cornhair, angry, on her knees. “We brought only ten darins!”

“They must have been divided,” said White Ankles. “Perhaps eight for me, two for you.”

“Nine for me, one for you,” said Cornhair, “if any.”

“I sold for three pigs, you for one,” said White Ankles.

“Filch!” said Cornhair.

“The dealer!” whispered White Ankles.

Both slaves put down their heads.

In the presence of free persons, slaves commonly will not speak without permission.

The dealer went forward, about the horses, checking harnessing, or such. He then came back, about the wagon, and, reaching over the side of the wagon, busied himself with something toward the rear of the wagon. Cornhair heard some sounds of metal.

Then the fellow was near them.

“May I speak?” asked Cornhair.

“‘Master’?” asked the man.

“May I speak, Master?” asked Cornhair.

As I have suggested, Cornhair was not yet fully apprised of the depth and perfection of her bondage, that appropriate for a female such as she.

“No,” he said. “Get on all fours, both of you, heads down.”

Both slaves complied, instantly.

Dalliance is not permitted to female slaves.

That was well understood, even by Cornhair.

“Master!” said Cornhair.

“Keep your head down,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” asked Cornhair.

“Get collars on you,” he said.

“It will not be necessary to collar me, Master,” said Cornhair.

“You are not a bad-looking little filch,” he said.

“Please do not collar me, Master!” begged Cornhair.

“You have been complimented,” said the dealer.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair. “Please do not collar me. I do not look well in a collar.”

“All women look well in a collar,” he said. “A slave collar much enhances the beauty of any woman.”

“Please, Master!” begged Cornhair.

“If you speak again without permission,” he said, “you may expect to be whipped.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

She then felt a circlet of metal placed about her neck, and snapped shut.

How helpless Cornhair felt, on all fours, her head down, now so unmistakably designated!

A tiny moan of dismay, of misery, of utter helplessness, escaped her soft, fair lips.

One might conceal a brand. How could one conceal a collar? Almost any garment might conceal a brand. Who would know what insignia might bedeck the thigh of a woman clothed as free? Who would know in what secret locales might bloom the flower of bondage? The rose of servitude need not bloom publicly. But the collar was another matter. It cannot be hidden. It is visible, prominent, and secure; it is lovely, unslippable, and fastened; it is the ideal symbol of bondage. Brand her, yes, by all means, but see that she is in her collar. There is no mistaking the woman who wears a collar. She is a slave.

Cornhair heard another click.

White Ankles, too, was now collared.

Cornhair, lifting her head a little, a very little, noted that the muscular fellow’s previously emptied sheath now bore a blade. He must have retrieved this from the wagon, doubtless when he was fetching the collars. Heruls, as we recall, did not care to admit armed strangers within the circle of the wagons.

“May I speak, Master?” asked Cornhair.

“Yes,” he said.

“In the camp,” she said, “we were dressed. Our dresses were removed. They must be about, in the camp. We understand that men might wish to buy us naked, that they might the better examine us, perhaps for blemishes, but we have now been bought. Might they not now be fetched? A child might do so.”

“One can hardly see a slave in such sacks,” said the man.

“But they are clothing,” said Cornhair.

“I do not want you in the unchanged, stinking rags of Herul slave girls,” said the man. “That is disgusting.”

“But perhaps something similar,” said Cornhair.

“Slaves will be clad as slaves,” said the man.

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“—if clad,” he added.

“I hope that I may be granted a fetching tunic, Master,” said White Ankles. “I wear the garments appropriate for me well.”

“Surely I will be given more than a tunic,” said Cornhair, “a gown, slippers!”

“Master is strong, and handsome,” said White Ankles. “Perhaps he may keep me for himself.”

“You are not without interest as a slave,” said the dealer. “Do you crawl well to a man’s feet?”

“Yes, Master!” said White Ankles.

“Slave!” hissed Cornhair.

“She is Cornhair,” said White Ankles. “I am White Ankles, but you will name us both, as you please.”

“Slave, slave!” said Cornhair.

“Do not mind her, Master,” said White Ankles. “She does not know how to crawl to a man’s feet. She is nothing, just suet, cold and uninteresting meat, stale bread, tepid porridge.”

“White Ankles!” protested Cornhair.

“Do you deny it?” asked White Ankles. “Are you hot in your collar, do your thighs heat?”

“Slave!” said Cornhair.

“I know I am a slave,” said White Ankles. “That is better than being a slave and not knowing one is a slave! I love men, and want to belong to one of them!”

“I hate you!” said Cornhair.

“Perhaps I made a mistake in purchasing this one,” said the dealer. “Perhaps I should have left her in the kettle.”

“No, no, dear Master,” said White Ankles. “She is just ignorant, and stupid. She does not understand herself. She tries to deny herself to herself. I have heard her weep in her sleep for a Master.”

“Liar!” said Cornhair.

“It is true, stupid little fool,” said White Ankles.

“No!” cried Cornhair.

“Despite what might appear to be the case, Master,” said White Ankles, “she is a female, and needs her Master, and can never be fulfilled without one.”

“No!” cried Cornhair.

“She needs to be owned, wholly and without compromise,” said White Ankles.

“No, no!” protested Cornhair.

“She can never be herself, save at a man’s feet,” said White Ankles.

“It does not matter, one way or another,” said the dealer, “as long as her neck is in a collar.”

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“Keep your head down,” he said. “Stare at the dirt.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“May I inquire, Master,” asked White Ankles, “in what sort of collars we have been placed?”

“Market collars, selling collars,” he said.

“We are to take our place on some block in Venitzia?” she asked.

“I will probably ship you elsewhere,” he said.

“To some other provincial world?” she asked.

“Probably,” he said. “Do you think you will be sold on Telnaria itself?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Why did you ask?”

“I thought that perhaps Master would consider placing me in his own collar,” said White Ankles.

“You are a forward filch,” he said.

“In a collar,” she said, “a girl can only hope that she will be found pleasing.”

“The whip will see to such things,” he said.

“Master has strong arms, and his hands are tanned and large.”

“Do you know how to please a man?” he asked.

“In your arms,” she said, “I could not help myself, even should I wish to do so.”

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You, with flaxen hair,” he said, “do you know how to please a man?”

“No,” said Cornhair, on all fours, head down, staring at the dirt.

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“Can you sew?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“What of you, Dark Hair,” asked the dealer. “Can you sew?”

“Of course, Master,” she said.

“Dark Hair, White Ankles, for now,” said the dealer, “you may rise.”

“Thank you, Master!” said White Ankles, springing to her feet.

“May I lift my head?” asked Cornhair.

“If you wish,” he said, “but remain on all fours.”

Cornhair glared at White Ankles.

“Master,” said White Ankles, “may I sit beside you, on the wagon bench?”

“You may kneel beside me, on the floor of the wagon box,” he said.

“Chained?” she said.

“That will not be necessary,” he said. “You are in a collar.”

“I would hope,” she said, “that Master might one day fasten his chains on me.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I want to wear Master’s chains,” said White Ankles.

“Slave!” said Cornhair.

The dealer reached over the edge of the wagon, into one of the boxes there, removed something, and cast it to White Ankles.

She cried out, with surprise, and delight.

Cornhair heard a brief rustle of cloth.

“See!” said White Ankles to Cornhair. “I am tunicked!”

“It is a slave tunic,” said Cornhair. “In it, you are more naked than without it!”

“Thank you, Master!” said White Ankles.

“It is indeed a garment appropriate for you,” hissed Cornhair. “The meaningful, degrading garment of a slave!”

“I love it!” said White Ankles.

“It well displays my property,” said the dealer, “and as the property she is.”

“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delightedly.

“Turn about,” he said. “I am going to tie your hands together, behind your back.”

Apparently this was soon done.

“I do not trust Heruls, Master,” said White Ankles, pulling a bit at her wrists. “Let us be on our way, and put much distance between ourselves and the camp.”

The dealer then looked about, and to the opened gate between the wagons. Might not four or five riders emerge from that portal, later, after dark, riders which he might encounter later, in less than pleasant circumstances?

“I am known,” said the dealer to White Ankles. “I think I have little to fear, but, it is true, it would not hurt to be on our way.”

“No, Master,” said White Ankles.

“I am now going to lift you into the wagon,” said the dealer, “and put you on the floor of the wagon box, where you will kneel.”

“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delighted.

“Slave, slave!” said Cornhair.

One gathers that White Ankles was soon ensconced, kneeling, bound, beside the driver’s bench, for the dealer had returned to the back of the wagon, where Cornhair waited, on all fours, her head down, rather toward the right-rear wheel of the wagon.

“What of me?” asked Cornhair.

“What of you?” said the dealer.

“Am I not, too, to be clothed?” asked Cornhair.

“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.

“It is my hope that I would be more amply concealed,” she said.

“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.

“Doubtless as well as any other woman,” she said.

“As well as a slave?” he asked.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“And appropriately?” he asked.

“Surely not appropriately,” said Cornhair.

“You have a slave body,” he said.

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“You may thank me,” he said. “You have been complimented.”

“‘Complimented’?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Slave bodies are the loveliest, the most exciting, and desirable of female bodies. Those with such bodies should be slaves, and, obviously, in the way of nature, have been bred for bondage.”

“I?” she said. “Bred for bondage?”

“Yes,” he said, “externally, and internally.”

Cornhair, of course, from the tale of a thousand mirrors, was well aware of her lineaments. She was well aware that they might bring coin off a slave block. Indeed, had it not been for such, she supposed she would not have been recruited as a tool for shaping deeds to the ends of Iaachus, he, Arbiter of Protocol in the court of the emperor, Aesilesius. Surely her beauty, such as it was, had been germane to his projects, a beauty which, as it seems, had not been marred, but, rather, considerably enhanced by being fastened in a collar. But, what of internality? Could she, in virtue of the simple realities of her sex, emotionally, profoundly, psychologically, and needfully, have been bred for bondage? It would be a strange nature, indeed, which would content itself with façades, and leave unattended, neglected, and unfurnished the rooms within, the chambers and housings of the heart and mind. Nigh overwhelming her, there rushed upon her a thousand memories and desires, and readinesses, tremblings, and hopings, feelings which she had tried to cry out against, against which she had tried to levy and lodge a thousand prescribed, acculturated denials, only to be once more afflicted by the persistent, intrusive whispers of a prohibited nature.

“You may thank me,” said the dealer.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair.

She struggled to reject the thought that her body was suffused with warmth when she uttered her response.

Then she clung again, desperately, to the mockery and deceit, the veil, behind which she dared not look, for fear of what might be found.

“In time, you will learn yourself,” said the dealer.

“I now know myself,” she said.

“I think not,” he said, “not yet.”

“Master,” she said.

“Yes?” he said.

“I am not yet clothed,” she said.

“Clearly,” he said. “Keep your head down.”

“And,” she said, “it seems, a mere slave has been given precedence over me, placed forward, near the reins of the horses, at the side of the wagon bench.”

“So?” inquired the dealer.

“Why she?” asked Cornhair.

“It pleased me,” he said.

“I beg permission to speak to Master,” she said.

“You may do so,” he said.

“Master does not understand who I am,” she said.

“You are a slave,” he said. “What else is there to know?”

“I am not a common slave,” she said.

“I see you as common, indeed, as more common than most,” he said.

“Master,” she said, “is apparently unaware of my antecedents.”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“May I kneel before Master, and look up at him?” asked Cornhair.

“Very well,” he said, puzzled.

“I have awaited the opportunity to identify myself,” she said. “It is now at hand.”

“I do not understand,” he said.

“Master is Telnarian?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Master is then well aware of many of the high families of the empire, families which brought about the glories, the victories, the achievements and conquests, of the empire, the thousand families which, in their way, are the historical foundation on which the empire rests, which constitute the entwining, genealogical fibers which bind worlds together, which dignify, ennoble, and enhance the imperium itself.”

“I am aware,” he said, “of the rapacious, high honestori, which seizes land and covets resources, which loots peasantries and buys palaces, which renders land sterile, poisons seas, and, with fumes and noxious vapors, clouds and darkens skies, which manages and ruins worlds, which takes all and gives nothing.”

“No!” said Cornhair. “I speak of the finest and the best, of the true nobility of the empire, of the highest and most glorious of the ancestral lines, such as that of the Larial Calasalii!”

“The worst!” snorted the dealer.

“You have heard of the Larial Calasalii?” she said.

“Yes,” he said.

“Regardless of what you may think of them,” she said, “they are powerful. Their wealth could buy worlds!”

“You think so?” he said.

“Yes!” she said.

“What has this to do with you, a naked little slave, at my feet, in your collar?”

“I am the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

“You tell me,” he asked, “I have such a person before me, kneeling in the dirt, not yards from a Herul camp, collared?”

“I am she!” said Cornhair.

“Your thigh,” said he, “wears, tiny and unmistakable, the rose, your neck the circlet of bondage.”

“Very well,” she said, “if you wish, I was the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

In imparting this information it seems that Cornhair failed to mention that she had been cast from the family, in effect, put aside and disowned.

“Very impressive,” said he.

“So, now,” she said, “have me rise, remove this dreadful, degrading object which encircles my neck, and bring me, as soon as possible, suitable clothing, garmenture fit for a lady of quality.”

“Why?” he asked.

“That I may be restored to my rightful dignity.”

“Ransomed, perhaps?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“Or bought?” he said.

“If you wish,” she said.

“By your family?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“What would they pay?” he asked.

“They will pay any price,” she said.

“Thousands of darins?” he asked.

“Of course,” she said.

“I have seen your sort,” he said, “on many selling platforms, at crossroads, at fairs, at provincial markets, on holidays. You would bring between fifteen and twenty darins.”

From her position forward, in the wagon box, kneeling at the side of the wagon bench, the voice of White Ankles trilled with laugher.

“I do not understand?” said Cornhair.

“On your belly,” said the dealer. “Cross your ankles, and cross your wrists, behind you.”

Dismayed, Cornhair put herself to her belly, and assumed the prescribed position. Shortly thereafter, her crossed ankles were bound together, and her wrists, behind her, as well.

She was then lifted up, over the side of the wagon bed, and deposited on the boards.

“Do not do this to me, Master,” she protested. “I am—I was!—the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

“You know little now of the Larial Calasalii,” said the dealer.

“We are of the exalted honestori, of the high patricians, of the senatorial class!” she said.

“No more,” he said. “It began as a clash of private armies, between the Larial Calasalii and the Larial Farnichi.”

Perhaps it might be noted that private armies were not rare in Telnarian times. There were many reasons for this, given the frequent absences of enforceable imperial authority, the precariousness of life, the lack of, or fragility of, communication, the exhaustion of land, the paucity of goods, the desire to protect and control dwindling resources, the desire to suppress banditry and piracy, the desire to rule and wield power, and such. Indeed, as the empire became ever more expanded and unwieldy its effective power, so attenuated, diminished. And while lawlessness prowled perimeters, and displaced populations fled to cities, to form restless, dangerous, idle, hungry crowds, requiring pacification, if not a velvet suppression, supplied by doles of grain, and plentiful, lavish amusements, spectacles, pageants, plays, races, and games, strong men, here and there, sometimes in barren provinces, took to the saddle and imposed order. Indeed, it is speculated that at the founding of honored kingdoms, if one should seek far enough, one might find something surprisingly inauspicious, a renegade soldier, a local tyrant, an ambitious leader of a handful of armed men, what, at the time, might have been denominated a brigand or rogue.

“Four campaigns were waged,” he said, “on three worlds. Much blood was shed, much gold expended. Then, allegedly to keep the peace, but at the invitation of the Farnichi, an invitation weighted with gold, the empire intervened, intervened on behalf of the Farnichi. The forces of the Farnichi then, now abetted by the striking hammer of the empire, shattered your vaunted Larial Calasalii. Its surviving forces were disbanded. Its goods were confiscated by the state, and distributed, half to the empire, half to the Farnichi. The family was stripped of its titles and privileges. It, reduced to poverty, was demoted to the humiliori. Then, at the request of the Farnichi, it was secretly outlawed, an outlawry which became public, only on the morning after its men were arrested and imprisoned, many to be sentenced to the mines and quarries. Its thousand women were collared and sold at auction, most to be house slaves, and scullery slaves, many to serve in the houses of the Farnichi, and others became field slaves, many then to labor in the fields, orchards, and vineyards of the Farnichi. Many, to be sure, became pleasure slaves, and many of these, doubtless, eventually found themselves chained at the foot of the couches of Farnichi Masters.”

“No, no, no!” cried Cornhair, twisting, writhing, tied, on the boards of the wagon bed.

White Ankles laughed, merrily.

“We must be on our way, slave girl,” said the dealer.

“What is to be done with me?” wept Cornhair, struggling.

“You are going to be marketed,” he said.

In a bit, with a jolt, the wagon lurched forward.

In a few minutes, the wagon was making its way through the grass.

“We leave the Herul camp behind!” said White Ankles, joyfully.

“You are a pretty slave,” said the dealer.

“I am more than pretty, Master!” said White Ankles.

“Stop that!” laughed the dealer.

“I would please my Master,” said White Ankles.

“You are an appetitious little brute,” he said.

“I am a slave, Master!” said White Ankles.

“Stop it!” laughed the dealer.

“Let me please you, Master!” said White Ankles.

“Slave! Slave!” cried Cornhair.

“Later, later!” laughed the dealer.

“As Master wishes,” said White Ankles.

Cornhair thrashed on the floor of the wagon bed. She pulled, futilely, at her bonds.

“Stop twisting about,” called the dealer, from the wagon bench. “You must not abrade your body. We want it to look smooth and pretty on the sales block.”

“Yes, Master,” wept Cornhair.

“You cannot free yourself,” said the dealer. “You are a tied slave. Do you know what it is to be a tied slave?”

Cornhair pulled a little at her bonds, futilely.

“Yes, Master,” she said, sobbing. “I know what it is to be a tied slave.”