The Usurper

17

Cornhair fought the close-fitting metal circlets on her wrists, pulling against the three short links that fastened them together.

“Free me!” she cried. “I do not belong here! It is a mistake! I am a free woman! Clothe me!”

Her hands were braceleted before her so that she, as the others, could reach into the gruel bowl to feed herself, when it was available.

Her hands, now, were clenched on the coffle chain before her, at her neck. The chain ran from the coffle collar to the back ring of the collar of the girl before her, rather as, from the back ring of her own coffle collar, the chain ran back to the front ring on the girl’s collar who followed her. Her position in the coffle, which consisted of forty girls, was rather toward the center, as the coffle was arranged in terms of height, the tallest girls first.

“I am a free woman!” she cried.

But her thigh, as we noted earlier, bore the small, lovely, delicate slave rose.

To be sure, she wore no personal collar, and certainly not the clumsy chain collar of the Heruls, with the bulky, attached slave bell, obviously suggested by the cattle bell, or herd bell, by means of which Heruls were occasionally wont to mark out particular beasts, as of one kind or another. The bell might also, upon occasion, obviously, assist in locating the animal, following it, keeping track of it, and so on. Too, in the case of certain animals, the bell, as would a normal collar, serves to keep the animal in mind of what it is, and only is, an owned animal. She had been placed, as the reader might recall, in a market collar outside the Herul camp. And while White Ankles had been knelt, bound, delightedly at the knee of the wagon driver, the dealer, Cornhair had endured the trip to Venitzia, bound and foot, prone or supine, or on her side, as she might turn, on the rough planks of the wagon bed. Things were not much better at the overnight camps, for there Cornhair had been freed of her ropes but had been close-shackled, and put about gathering grass for bedding for the dealer and White Ankles, drawing water from a nearby stream, and bringing in wood for the supper fire, and, later, the watch fire. White Ankles cooked the food, and was permitted to feed as soon as the dealer had taken the first bite. How privileged she was, though yet in a mere market collar, like Cornhair. Had she won the heart of the dealer? Surely his hands were often on her. Did she dare hope he would lock his private collar, his personal collar, on her neck? But Cornhair must wait until the dealer and White Ankles had finished, and then, when she herself had finished, she must attend to the simple pots, bowls, and utensils, after which she must prepare the bedding for the dealer and White Ankles, after which her shackles were removed and she was chained by the left ankle to a tree. Hearing the gasping, delighted cries of White Ankles, thrashing about in the blankets with the dealer, did not further render her more fond of White Ankles, not that she had been that fond of her ever, even in the Herul camp. As White Ankles had not been bound, Cornhair wondered why she had not run away. Did a stronger chain than one of iron fasten her heart to the dealer’s foot? Early in the night, Cornhair was certain that, should she herself be freed of bonds, she would have run away. But then, sometime in the middle of the night, seeing a pair of bright, baleful eyes, bright in the darkness, just beyond the watch fire, she revised her view. At Venitzia Cornhair was sold, having been placed on a table and assessed. To her astonishment, and chagrin, she had brought only fifteen darins. She had then been placed in a house collar, and put in a storeroom with other girls. White Ankles, she noted, was kept by the dealer. She looked well at his feet. Cornhair, feigning congeniality, a ruse she had thought it wise to adopt following her unfortunate experiences with other girls in the Herul camp, was soon apprised of an abundance of information. Most particularly, she learned that she, with several others, was to be freighted to Point North, which is in the vicinity of the city of Lisle, on Inez IV. She was owned by a company known as Bondage Flowers, which had assets on several worlds. Many companies dealing with a particular form of merchandise used the expression “Flowers” in their company name, for example, “Hermione’s Flowers,” “Love Flowers,” “Pleasure Flowers,” “Flowers of Gathrol,” “Desire’s Flowers,” and “Flowers of the Six Yellow Stars,” and so on. To be sure, most companies dealing with goods of the sort in question took pains to eschew allusions so common and obvious, such as “Sendex’s” and “The House of Worlds.” The “House of Worlds,” for example, licensed on more than a hundred worlds, processes tens of thousands of girls, of diverse species, annually, indexing the year to the orbit of Telnaria. Its hunters and slavers, with their purchase coins, and ropes and cages, are familiar on a thousand worlds within and outside the empire. In the wake of war, harvestings are particularly plentiful. Many young females who might otherwise have been summarily slain are now kept for sale. It might be noted that Bondage Flowers was neither the smallest nor the largest, neither the least known nor the best known, neither the cheapest nor the dearest, of such enterprises. Its reputation, with respect to resources, quality of merchandise, and volume of business, would have placed it, we suppose, a bit above the center in most rankings pertinent to such matters. In the days awaiting her shipment, Cornhair, discreetly to be sure, learned much from the banter and idle chatter of her uninhibited sisters, particularly when sitting at the margin of one group or another of young slaves hanging on the words of one perhaps no older than themselves, but one whose neck was no stranger to the collar. Many a time she thought to withdraw in indignation, even to flee away in dismay, scandalized, given the nature of such alarming discourses, but she, perhaps with misgivings, but with rapt fascination, as well, could not be moved from her place. She learned a thousand little things, secrets of the collar, of hair, cosmetics, and perfumes, of the turning of a hip, the extension of a foot, the draping of a tunic, of prostrations, beggings, tiny gestures, movements, smiles, timidities, boldnesses, of caresses of small hands, of lips, tongue, body, and hair, of the bathing of men and the combing of their hair, of dressing them and tying their sandals, of licking their thighs and whimpering, of how to move in chains and a hundred other things, of how to please a Master in a thousand modalities, and how, perforce, submitted and will-less, choiceless and grateful, to open oneself, yielding and enraptured, to a thousand ecstasies a thousand times beyond those a free woman could know, and which a free woman could only dare to suspect. Could it be true, Cornhair wondered, that there could be such a life, one so real, one of being owned, one of submission, service, and love. “No, no, no!” thought Cornhair, her fingers on the band at her throat. “It cannot be!” she thought. “It cannot be!”

“Someone is coming!” said a girl.

Cornhair remembered, only too vividly, the dealer’s account of the alleged downfall of the Larial Calasalii, but surely he had lied, if only to discomfit her. She did recall, from long ago, from a conversation with a high official, one Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol in the Imperial Court, that all might not be well with her family. She had heard, for example, of the burning of the piers at Governor’s Landing, the loss of the cargo contract between Archus and Miton, and such things, but such reverses, or lapses, would be negligible to the wealth of one of the greatest of houses in the empire, surely nothing like the loss of a war, the seizure of assets, its outlawing, and such. “No,” thought Cornhair, “it cannot be true! And even if there were something to it, much must remain!”

And no one need know that she had been put aside by the house. And few, in any case, would know that!

Surely, with wit, she might win her freedom!

Clearly the two bolts on the heavy door to the storeroom were thrust aside.

“Down,” whispered a girl, and Cornhair, and her sisters, knelt, facing the door, their heads to the floor, the palms of their hands flat on the floor beside their head.

“It is too early for the supper gruel,” thought Cornhair.

“Kneel up,” said a man’s voice. Cornhair recognized the voice. She and the others straightened up. It was that of a stocky fellow, with close-cropped hair, who was their keeper. He wore the livery of the company, red, with a chain-encircled flower on the left sleeve. “In the morning,” he said, “you will gather up your straw, you will sweep up your sawdust. You will fill bins. You will be given brushes and water. The boards will be scrubbed. No mark, no stain, no stink, will remain. Everything will be fresh, and clean. Tonight you will have a piece of meat in your gruel. Tomorrow morning you will be ankleted, and your house collars will be removed.”

He then turned about and left. Cornhair heard the two bolts thrust into place.

“What does this mean?” asked Cornhair.

“It is good news,” said one of the girls. “We are not to be sold in Venitzia.”

“I knew we would not be,” said another, “when we were purchased by the company and kept here. We are to be shipped elsewhere.”

“Where?” asked a girl.

“Masters know, not we,” said another.

“Meat in the gruel would tell you something is afoot,” said another.

“Too, he did not speak of changing the straw, or such,” said another.

“Fresh straw, fresh beasts,” said another.

“I am not a beast,” said Cornhair.

“You are a beast,” said a girl, “only a mediocre one, as you sold for only fifteen darins.”

“A—a—thousand!” said Cornhair. “No, ten thousand!”

“The slave, White Ankles, was present, with her Master, and heard,” said a girl. “She told the gruel-bringer, and the gruel-bringer told me.”

“White Ankles is a liar,” said Cornhair.

“What is your name?” asked the girl.

“Publennia, Lady Publennia, of the Larial Calasalii!” said Cornhair.

“We have a great lady amongst us,” laughed a girl.

“Your name is ‘Liar’,” said the first girl.

“You may call me Filene, if you wish,” said Cornhair.

“‘Liar’!” said several of the girls.

“Then, ‘Cornhair’!” said Cornhair, tears in her eyes.

“‘Liar’, ‘Liar’!” chanted several of the girls.

“No one here,” said the first girl, “sold for more than one hundred darins.”

One of the girls gasped in astonishment. “So much?” she said.

“How many sold for as little as fifteen darins?” asked the first girl.

“I did,” said a girl.

“I sold for only eleven,” said another girl.

“Only three then, of us all,” said the first girl, “sold for fifteen darins or less.”

“How many did you sell for!” demanded Cornhair.

“Forty,” said the first girl.

“Now you see, great lady,” said one of the girls to Cornhair, laughing, “what you are worth, aside from robes and pretenses, and jewels, and embroidered purses, weighty with gold, and the artifices of society, if you were ever truly a great lady, what you are worth, as a female.”

Cornhair clenched her fists in frustration.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Understand yourself for what you are, Publennia, or Filene, or Cornhair,” said the first girl. “You are a beast. Only a beast. You, as we, can be bought and sold, and will, as we, be bought and sold, and you, as we, as what we are, as neck-ringed, branded beasts.”

“And you, Liar, are a cheap one!” laughed a girl.

“I do not like house collars,” said a girl. “I will be glad to have it off my neck.”

“They need them for the next girls,” said a girl.

“I want a good collar, a private collar,” said the girl who had spoken of house collars. “It need not be fine, it need not be belled, or plated with gold, or set with jewels. I just want a nice collar, light, simple, and plain, locked on me by a kind, strong Master, who will well master the slave in me!”

“Our ankleting will take place before our collars are removed,” said a girl.

“Of course,” said another.

“Why ankleting?” asked a girl.

“Shipping anklets,” said a girl.

“Why not shipping collars?” asked another.

“Do not fear,” laughed a girl. “Your neck will not be naked long.”

“I do not understand,” said a girl.

“It will wear a coffle collar,” said a girl. “We are to be coffled.”

“Please do not call me ‘Liar’,” said Cornhair.

“On your knees, and beg,” said the first girl.

Cornhair went to her knees. “Please do not call me ‘Liar’,” she said.

“Yes?” said the first girl.

“Please do not call me ‘Liar’, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“What would you be called?” asked the first girl.

“You will be called whatever men name you!” said a girl.

“‘Publennia’,” said Cornhair.

“‘Cornhair’ will do,” said the first girl.

“Thank you, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

Cornhair fought the close-fitting metal circlets on her wrists, pulling against the three short links that fastened them together.

“Free me!” she cried. “I do not belong here! It is a mistake! I am a free woman! Clothe me!”

Her hands were braceleted before her so that she, as the others, could reach into the gruel bowl to feed herself, when it was available.

Her hands, now, were clenched on the coffle chain before her, at her neck. The chain ran from the coffle collar to the back ring of the collar of the girl before her, rather as, from the back ring of her own coffle collar, the chain ran back to the front ring on the girl’s collar who followed her. Her position in the coffle, which consisted of forty girls, was rather toward the center, as the coffle was arranged in terms of height, the tallest girls first.

“I am a free woman!” she cried.

“Be silent!” said the girl before her, turning back. “They will lash us all!”

“I will buy and sell you all!” screamed Cornhair. “I will put you in the fields to draw water for laborers, in pens to swill with pigs, in stables to shovel dung, shackle you in public sculleries, have you fed on garbage and beaten every morning and evening!”

“Be quiet,” said the girl, “or we will all be beaten!”

“What is going on here?” asked a docksman.

“Nothing, Master,” said the girl before Cornhair.

She put her head down, humbly, and Cornhair did so, as well. What might be hoped for, from a simple docksman?

He was soon about his business, and Cornhair raised her head.

It was warm on the loading pier, and, to her left, the immense, vertical hull of the freighter towered above her, gray against the blue sky and white clouds. At its side, open and gantry-like, was a vertical frame, its loading platform now at the pier level.

The sky was bright and the air clear. The world’s star, Inez, was near its zenith. Docksmen called to one another. An official, with his white uniform, was some fifty feet away, turning papers in a ringed tablet. One could hear the trundling of wheeled carts on the pier. Some minutes before, some two hundred yards away, there had been a roar and a geyser of smoke; the pier had shaken, and a blast of heat had swept the pier, and, trailing flame and smoke, a ship, gradually at first, like a thoughtful arrow, and then, as though resolved, ever more quickly, sped away, disappearing in the sky, as though hungry for some unseen, but intended, target.

Cornhair lifted her head.

Somewhere meat was roasting, probably in the pan of a pier vender. She could detect the scent of baled spices, and the scents, too, of a hundred forms of flowering plants, exotic perennials in their potting troughs, for Inez IV, from her noted flower markets, famed throughout the galaxy, exported such things to many worlds, often barren worlds, where guests and neighbors, informed, might come from miles about to look upon a flower, and too, of course, now and again, one might scent, sharp, acerbic, and repelling, the acrid remembrance of combustion.

Beneath her bared feet Cornhair could feel the roughness of the thick planks of the pier. She pulled a little at the circlets of steel confining her wrists. She tossed her head, feeling the coffle collar on her neck, its weight, and how it, moved, returned to its place, and noted the rattle of the attached chain. A slight breeze played on her skin. As a free woman she had traversed life muchly unaware of the bright wealths of sensation about her, of sight, touch, sound, taste, and smell, each so different and precious, each so lavishly bestowed, each so little noted. As a free woman, shod and robed, the natural world, of rain and sunlight, of grass and wind, had been of little interest or importance to her. Muchly she had managed to shut it away, to overlook it. She had scarcely attended to the world in which she found herself. How easy it is to shelter and protect oneself from the world which has given one birth. It is easy to walk inertly, to hear without listening, to see without noticing. It is easy to be a stranger in one’s own world. Cornhair was not trained, of course, or not well trained, but she had learned, in the storeroom, something of the thousand elements involved in a girl’s training, and one was sensitivity to one’s environment or surroundings, to a bit of moisture on a stone, to the cordlike knap on a carpet, to the smoothness of a tile, to the feel of rope on one’s body, to the hands of a Master on one’s skin, and such. To be sure, one can be blinded and dazzled, distracted and overwhelmed, by sensation, but one should be aware that it is always there, even when wisely banished. But surely one can open the door a little, now and then, from time to time.

Cornhair shuddered, feeling the wind on her body, the clasp of the bracelets, the tiny sound of their linkage, the weight of the chain.

It is said that the body of a slave girl is the most alive of all female bodies.

Certainly Cornhair had heard that, in the prison of the storeroom, while she and the others had awaited their shipment.

“But I am not a slave girl!” she cried out to herself.

Yet she knew that on her thigh, tiny, clear, unmistakable, lovely, was a mark, one recognized throughout galaxies, the slave rose.

Cornhair knew, of course, that she was, however often or strenuously, or irrationally, she might seek to deny it, in all the profundities of legality, in all the exactness of indisputable law, a female slave.

But what she more feared was that she was, beyond all the explicit obduracies of legality, beyond the clear implacabilities of the law, as inflexible and mighty as they might be, in her deepest heart and nature, fittingly and suitably, a female slave.

She feared she was such as are born for the collar, and cannot be themselves without it.

“No, no!” she cried to herself.

Surely one can deny oneself to oneself. Do not many do so?

Indeed, are there not societies which recommend, if not require, that one deny oneself to oneself?

Could such societies exist without their hypocrisy and lies?

But might not one, even in such a society, kneel, bow one’s head, and beg the collar, without which one cannot be oneself?

Surely not!

Never!

But what if, in some society, in the midst of one’s confusions, protests, and denials, one should be simply seized, and put in the collar, routinely, in a businesslike fashion, by indifferent, efficient, callous brutes who cared nothing for one’s denials, to whom one’s feelings and protests, whether sincere or fraudulent, were not merely unavailing, but of no interest, brutes whose simple interests were merely those of owning you, or making a profit on you, selling you for others to own?

What could one do?

One could do nothing. One would be on one’s knees, collared.

She then understood how a woman, voluntarily, of her own free will, might prostrate herself, and petition the degradation of the collar, the liberating, fulfilling, joy-bringing gift of the neck-band.

If one is a slave, how can one be happy if not a slave?

Let slaves be slaves; let others be what they wish.

“No, No!” she thought. “I dare not entertain such thoughts! I must not think them! I will banish such thoughts! I will not permit myself to think them! They must be denied! I am not a slave! I am not a slave!”

She put her braceleted hands on the coffle chain, angrily.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

Many men were now on the pier, near noon, coming and going, loitering, passing.

Any one of them, she supposed, might buy her.

Who could not afford fifteen darins?

But surely in such a crowd there might be one, a gentleman, a noble citizen, one sensitive to her fate, one touched by compassion, who might discern her plight, and rescue her!

“Help! Help!” she cried, suddenly. “Rescue me! Save me! I am not a slave! I am a free woman! I should not be here! I should not be here, confined and helpless, as you see me! I should not be naked! I should not be chained! I am a free woman. Help! Help!”

“Be silent!” said the girl before her, frightened.

“Stop! Stop!” said she behind her. “You will get us all punished!”

“What noisy beast is that?” said a man in the crowd about.

“That one,” said a fellow.

“A pretty beast,” said another.

“A curvy beast,” laughed another.

“Perhaps twenty darins,” said a fellow.

“Please!” called Cornhair. “Please!”

“Guardsmen!” said one of the girls in the coffle, tensely.

“What is going on here?” said a gruff voice.

“I am a free woman, officer!” said Cornhair.

“You have the curves of a slave,” said the voice.

“I am a free woman!” said Cornhair. “I am the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”

“Is there trouble here?” asked a man, in the red livery of the company, Bondage Flowers, the patch on his left sleeve, with its chain-encircled flower. He carried a whip, useful in the control of slaves.

“This pig,” said the guardsmen, “claims not to be a pig.”

“Turn your left thigh to me,” said the second guardsman. “Do you dare to meet my eyes?”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Cornhair, looking away. “I mean, ‘Forgive me, sir’!”

“The rose,” said the first guardsman.

“I was marked!” said Cornhair.

“Slaves are often marked,” said the second guardsman.

“But not always,” said the first.

“What is the slave’s name?” asked the first guardsman of the attendant.

“I am Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!” said Cornhair. “I am not a slave!”

“Call her whatever you wish,” said the attendant. “She is a slave.”

“She wears a shipping anklet,” said the first guardsman.

“Of course,” said the attendant. “They all do.”

“Then she is a slave,” said the first guardsman.

“No!” said Cornhair.

“Of course,” said the attendant. “The papers of all of them are in order. Check with the pier officer.”

A whistle indicated that departure was imminent.

“Free me of this hideous impediment!” said Cornhair, shaking the coffle chain with her braceleted hands.

The girl before her put her head down, and shuddered.

The official, he earlier remarked, with the white uniform and the ringed tablet, now approached.

“We have a schedule to meet,” he said.

“You are the loading officer?” asked the first guardsman.

“Yes,” he said.

Almost at the same time another officer, in a blue uniform, that of the pier administration, approached.

The two guardsmen apparently recognized him, for both deferred to him, stepping back.

“What is going on here?” asked the newcomer.

“I gather the slave is disruptive,” said the first guardsman. “She claims not to be a slave.”

“Unfortunate,” said the man in the blue uniform.

“For the slave,” said one of the guardsmen.

“The papers on this lot are all in order,” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers. “They have been reviewed, and certified.”

“I have the certification confirmation here,” said the fellow in the white uniform.

“Then all is in order,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.

“Certainly,” said the loading officer.

“I am not a slave!” said Cornhair.

“Check with the pier officer,” suggested the fellow from Bondage Flowers.

There were then two blasts on the departure whistle.

“Hurry!” said the loading officer, anxiously.

“I am the pier officer,” said the fellow in the blue uniform.

“Sir!” begged Cornhair.

The pier officer then fixed his gaze on Cornhair.

“Sir?” she said, putting her head down.

“Are you aware,” he asked, “of the penalties for a slave impersonating a free person?”

“No, sir,” she whispered.

“It is a capital offense,” he said.

Cornhair was silent, shivering, her head down.

“I am sure,” said the pier officer, “you are intelligent, as well as beautiful. I am sure, too, you know the law, and what you are. I am now going to ask you a clear, simple question, and I require a clear, simple answer. Do you understand?”

“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair.

“Think carefully,” he said. “And answer with the absolute truth.”

“Yes, sir,” said Cornhair, not daring to raise her head.

“Are you a slave?”

“—Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

The fellow in the blue uniform then turned away.

“You should be punished,” said the man from Bondage Flowers to Cornhair.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“A slave,” he said, “is not a free woman. A slave should be invariably pleasing, and perfectly so.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“You called attention to yourself,” he said. “You were disruptive. You dallied, you made a nuisance of yourself, you inconvenienced free men, you delayed our departure. You told a lie, claiming to be free, when you knew better.”

“Please, forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Do you know why you are all front braceleted,” he asked, “though coffled?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“It further reminds you that you are slaves,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

She felt the key thrust into the right-hand cuff lock, and her wrist freed. “Left hand back, behind the small of your back,” said the man. With a jangle of chain Cornhair complied, and felt the opened right cuff strike against her back. A moment later, her freed right wrist was whipped behind her and locked into the dangling cuff. Her hands were then fastened behind her.

“How will I feed, Master?” she asked.

“You should all be whipped,” he said.

“Please, no, Master!” said more than one of the girls.

“Punish Cornhair, not us!” said another.

“She it was who displeased Masters!” said another.

“Leave her to us,” said a girl.

“We will attend to it,” said another.

The fellow from Bondage Flowers raised his whip.

Several of the girls tensed.

“Load, board!” pleaded the fellow in the white uniform.

The fellow from Bondage Towers looked about, and then he lowered the whip.

Time was short, the weather hot.

“Stand as slaves,” he said. “Stand beautifully. Stand as what you are, the most beautiful, exciting and desirable of women, women accepted for bondage, women found suitable for servitude, women found worthy of chains, women found fit for the great privilege and honor of wearing a Master’s collar!”

There was a rustle of chain, down the line, from the linkages, and the braceleting.

“Ah!” said more than one man about.

“May we speak, Master?” asked a slave.

“Yes,” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers.

“Are we to be coffled on the ship?”

“No,” he said.

“But braceleted?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“How are we to be kept, Master?” asked a girl.

“Will we have cells, or stalls, Master?” asked a girl.

“You will occupy a common slave bin,” he said.

“No!” cried more than one slave, in dismay.

“Do not fear,” said the man. “It will be washed down with a hose, once each ship day.”

“Whither are we bound?” asked a girl.

“You will learn in time,” he said. “Pigs need not be informed of where they will be marketed. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

“How will I feed, Master?” begged Cornhair, pulling at the light, but stern circlets which now confined her hands behind her back.

“If at all, as the pig you are,” said the man from Bondage Flowers.

“Board! Hurry!” called the loading officer, from some yards away, near the gantry.

“Move, move!” said the fellow from Bondage Flowers. “Onto the loading platform!”

Some of the lower hatchways had already slid shut. One remained open, at the seventh level.

The forty ankleted, coffled slaves were crowded onto the metal platform. The man from Bondage Flowers flung shut the gate.

There seemed something significant and decisive about that closure, rather as a new slave might find something significant and decisive in the snapping shut of the first collar on her neck.

There was a whirr of machinery, and the platform beneath their bared feet vibrated.

Cornhair, miserable, pulled again, futilely, frustratedly, at the close-linked metal circlets by means of which her small hands, captured, were held behind her back. These circlets, light and tasteful, even attractive, were designed for women. They are designed to be comfortable and lovely, and to enhance a woman’s beauty, rather as bracelets, anklets, armlets, necklaces, and such. They have one additional property, of course. That is to guarantee that their occupant will find herself helplessly and wholly at the mercy and disposal of others.

“Sisters!” pleaded Cornhair.

But she saw no sympathy or pity in the eyes of her fellow slaves. Perhaps they might have all been lashed, with the possible exception of herself, for her indiscretion. Had there been more time, perhaps the leather might have addressed itself in abundant, stinging admonitions to their defenseless softness. It is not unusual to punish a group of slaves for the fault of one. This keeps surprisingly good order in the pens and bins.

Sometimes the one whose indiscretion has resulted in the punishment of the group, say, its switching or lashing, is not herself punished. That is left to her sisters.

“We are not pleased with you, Cornhair,” said a girl.

“Forgive me, dear sisters,” said Cornhair.

“You may lie on your belly on the plates,” said a girl, “and wait for your superiors to finish, to see if you will be fed.”

“Have mercy,” said Cornhair, pulling helplessly at her confined wrists. “I am back-braceleted!”

“You can kneel and feed like a dog,” said a girl.

“Perhaps we will let you lick the pan, when we are finished. Perhaps there will be some gruel left. You may hope so, Cornhair,” said a girl.

“The trip may be long, and you may become quite hungry,” said another.

“It will not hurt you to lose three or four pounds,” said another. “You may then be trimmer on the block.”

“Some men prefer a trimmer slave,” said a girl.

“Others prefer a more generous, ampler buy,” said another.

“It depends on the taste of the Master,” said another.

“Please be kind to me, Mistresses,” begged Cornhair.

“You will have a pleasant trip to the market,” said another.

The platform shook a little beneath their feet, and it began to slowly rise. Many of the slaves now crowded more closely together, toward the center of the platform.

The man from Bondage Flowers had informed her that the front-braceleting was to assist in reminding them that they were slaves. What then would be indicated by the disciplining of back-braceleting? Surely she was not a new slave, who might be back-braceleted, shackled, and even belled. Let her now, then, assess her status, not only as a slave, but as a slave amongst slaves.

“No,” she thought to herself, in misery, “he would not punish all, here or on the ship, but, instead, in the unchallengeable wisdom of Masters, as he chose, would use all to punish me! He has seen to my punishment, and, indeed, excellently well!”

“How foolish I was,” she thought. “Do I not understand what I now am? I am now only a slave!”

The platform was now rising. There was the feel of the corrugated, sun-warmed metal beneath her feet.

The hull of the freighter seemed to be sinking behind her.

The pier was far below, and the men and carts on it, seemingly small. She could see the roofs, with red tiles, of the warehouses.

Looking out over Point North, she could see Lisle in the distance, and roads, some bearing vehicular traffic, and a small lake.

The roar of departing ships, though, she thought, would carry even to distant Lisle.

The platform then stopped.

“Here, here!” called a voice from within the freighter.

Cornhair turned about, and looked within, to a dimly lit steel corridor. There were two men there, brawny fellows, with bare arms. Clearly, they were not members of the ship’s crew. They were keepers, stock keepers. They carried whips.

“A pretty bouquet of roses, slave roses,” said one of the men.

“Weeds,” said the other.

“Forward,” said the first, gesturing down the hall.

The lead girl, the tallest in the coffle, though small compared to the keepers, hastened forward. There was a rattle of chains as the others followed.

Suddenly there was a snap of a whip, sharp, unmistakable. Several of the girls cried out in fear, but Cornhair did not believe that anyone had been struck. The cry of a struck woman is quite different from that of a merely frightened woman. But the message of the whip was quite clear.

The coffle hurried down the hall.

A bit behind them, Cornhair heard the smooth sound of the hatch’s closing.

Cornhair did not know it, of course, nor did the others, but they were on their way to Telnaria, and, indeed, even to Telnar itself, the capital itself, the seat of the empire, for the holiday sales associated with that world’s spring equinox.