The Usurper

29

There are many varieties of dogs, or what we have, for convenience, tended to speak of as dogs, from various worlds, rather as we have spoken of “horses,” “pigs,” and such.

Cornhair, then, did not know, really, what lay behind the vertical door.

She was familiar, of course, with the savage, or half-trained, “dogs” from the Herul camp. She knew she might be torn to pieces if she left the camp, but there was not much to fear when one remained within the assigned perimeter, usually within the circle of wagons, and the dogs had been fed within the week. Indeed, even Heruls would be in jeopardy if such creatures grew lean and impatient. Sometimes she knew that prisoners were run naked for the dogs.

She watched the dog gate, waiting for it to lift.

“Just one dog, at first, Cornhair,” called Lady Delia. “We do not want it to feel challenged, that it must act in haste. We want to see it circle you, and frighten you, and harry you. If you run, it will pursue you and bring you down, instantly. So do not run, not right away. To be sure, you will run soon enough, if you have the opportunity. Then you will be dragged down. Then, when the dog has you, we will release the other dogs and watch them fight over you.”

Cornhair, of course, knew enough not to run, not immediately, unless shelter might be reached. Even the Herul dogs were not likely to attack an immobile target, not immediately. Too, if one did not move, one might have somewhat longer to live. Stillness can confer invisibility, of a sort. Visual predators are particularly sensitive to movement, but may fail to notice the rabbit, paralyzed with fear. This behavior seems to have been favored, at least in the case of the rabbit. To be sure, if detected, it flees, instantly, darting away, with its sudden, difficult-to-predict changes of direction, and such. A Serian oolun can starve to death before a plate of dead crawlers, but, if one should move, the oolun strikes. The dog sees but not with the acuity of the hawk. It hears well, but not as well as the vi-cat. It does inhabit a world rich with scent, and may locate prey which the hawk does not see and the vi-cat does not hear.

Cornhair stood very quietly, in the sand, rather to one side of the arena.

The vertical door had lifted only a foot, when a snarling shape, eager, squirming, impatient, on its belly, thrusting up on the bottom of the door with its shoulders, scratched its way onto the sand. Its fur was flattened back, where it had scrambled under the door.

A small sound of fear, and dismay, escaped Cornhair, quite inadvertently.

Across the sand she saw the head of the beast instantly turn toward her, and the large, pointed ears rise, and turn toward her, like eyes.

It was similar to the Herul dogs, as large, as quick and agile, but it was more heavily furred, particularly about the head.

About its neck was a heavy leather collar, probably to protect it against competitive feeders, should the division of the prize be contested.

Dogs are trained for many purposes, war, herding, tracking, guarding, game location, game retrieval, pit fighting, torodont baiting, warning, message bearing, and such. These animals, or their sort, Cornhair had gathered had been bred for, and trained for, the hunting and killing of men.

The stands were quiet, and expectant. Many of the women leaned forward.

The beast padded toward Cornhair, some yards across the sand.

Cornhair knew she must not run, but it is one thing to know that, and another not to run.

The beast stopped, and looked about itself.

It was alone, save for Cornhair.

Doubtless it welcomed this intelligence.

It padded softly toward her, another three or four yards.

“She is afraid,” said a voice in the stands.

“See her tremble,” said another.

“She cannot run, even if she wished,” said another voice. “She is too frightened.”

“She is pretty, is she not?” said a voice.

“Just wait,” said another voice.

There was laughter.

“You may move, if you wish,” called a woman.

There was more laughter.

Cornhair’s collar had been removed. She recalled that it was not to have been soiled, and that one would not wish to risk injuring the jaws of a fine animal.

Cornhair lifted her hand, timidly, to her throat.

The beast growled, and padded a step closer.

It had not circled Cornhair.

It had not feinted toward her, snapped, bitten and drawn back, to bite again.

Perhaps Lady Delia was not really used to such dogs. Perhaps she did not know their training, their dispositions. Perhaps this was the first time she had purchased, or rented, such beasts. Perhaps a smaller animal might have circled, circumspectly, considering the prey, assessing it, or harried it, testing its reflexes, seeing if it would threaten or strike back, perhaps trying to stimulate it to flight, when the leaping, the seizing and clawing, the bite through the back of the neck, would be facilitated, but this animal, crouching down, only watched Cornhair, who backed away a yard or so, which interval the beast closed immediately, crawling forward its yard or so.

It was not clear why the dog, which was a large, trained animal, weighing perhaps three or four times what Cornhair weighed, did not rush upon her, knocking her from her feet, sprawling her to the sand, and then seizing an arm or leg, shaking her, dragging her about, and then, having tasted blood, working its way, grip by shifting grip, to the throat. Certainly it would have been hungry enough. Its keepers would have seen to that. Our speculation is that it was unaccustomed to prey of the sort constituted by such as Cornhair. It had been trained on, and was habituated to, larger, stronger, more fearsome prey, prey which might resist, and fight, prey on which more than one dog at a time would be likely to be loosed, prisoners of war, criminals, and such, uniformly, men. Cornhair, on the other hand, was much different. Her entire form and demeanor was unfamiliar. She was slight, slender, small, and soft.

The eyes of the beast were on Cornhair.

They blinked, and then they were on her, again.

Slave girls seldom figured in arena sports, save as prizes to be bestowed on victors. Whereas free women might be slain, slave girls, as they were domestic animals, were no more likely to be slain than other domestic animals. They had value. They would merely change hands. Too, of course, there were better things to do with slave girls than feed them to dogs. That option, of course, was always at a Master’s disposal, should a girl prove a poor slave.

The beast had not yet attacked. But it was, of course, quite hungry. That, as we noticed earlier, had been seen to.

Had there been more than one dog on the sand, say, two or three, this delay, most likely, would not have taken place. Each beast would have been apprehensive that the other might first seize the prey, and then stand over it, to defend it. Too, it was not as though several had attacked at once and a frenzy had ensued, in which each, with tearing, bloody jaws, must fight for its share of the common spoils.

“Why does it not attack?” queried a woman in the stands.

The beast growled. Cornhair could see fangs at the side of its mouth. Some saliva dropped to the sand, dampening it.

Cornhair’s body tensed to run.

She wanted to stay still.

She wanted to run.

She knew she must not move.

She knew she would move.

She knew she must not run.

She knew she was going to run.

Perhaps she could reach a railing and clamber to safety.

“We paid good money for these beasts,” said Lady Virginia.

“Be patient,” said Lady Delia.

“Are you afraid, female slave?” called a woman.

Cornhair dared not respond, for she feared the slightest sound, or movement, might tip a precious, invisible balance, precipitating the beast’s charge.

“Open the gate!” cried a woman in the stands.

“Loose the dogs!” cried another.

Then Cornhair noted a subtle change in the demeanor of the beast, difficult to place, but indisputable. The fur rippled, almost unnoticeably. Muscles were moving, tensing. She saw the hind legs move a little deeper into the sand. The head of the beast lowered some inches, but the eyes remained fixed on her.

“It is going to charge,” thought Cornhair.

“Run, Cornhair!” cried Lady Delia. “Run!”

“She wants me to run,” thought Cornhair. “I must not run. It is going to charge. I am close. I see it. I must run!”

“Run!” cried Lady Delia.

Cornhair, in misery, crying out, terrified, turned and ran.

She heard the shriek of the crowd, the sudden, scrambling scratching of paws in the sand behind her, the great beast speeding forward.

She sensed the great body in flight, as she threw herself to the sand, was conscious of a sharp, hissing sound, the shadow of the beast above her, wild, hawklike, then its furred weight half on her, half beside her, her tunic and body spattered with blood.

She heard cries of alarm and dismay from the stands.

She struggled to free herself from the weight of the dog, half on her. She pulled herself free, and stood, unsteadily, bewildered, in the sand, beside the beast. It was half torn apart. She could see bones, half of its head. The sand was drenched with blood. She looked to the box of the hostess, the box where Lady Delia had presided over the sport. A man stood there, large, roughly clad, bearded, behind the railing, in his arms a rare Telnarian rifle, a weapon seldom found these days except in the possession of members of the imperial guard and certain elite forces.

The free women were on their feet, and were being thrust, and herded, at gunpoint, toward one of the exits from the stands, except one, the Lady Delia, who was held in place, standing alone, in the box of the hostess.

There were perhaps twenty or thirty men about, in shabby garments, in the caps of boatmen, variously armed.

Perhaps there were others, elsewhere.

Cornhair saw the last of the free women, saving the Lady Delia, disappear through one of the exits of the stands.

“Slave!” called the fellow with the rifle, perhaps the leader of the strangers.

“Master!” responded Cornhair, and ran quickly to the sand before the box, and fell to her knees. How natural, and right, that now seemed to her.

The fellow with the rifle gestured to a confederate, and he unlooped a rope at his belt and flung its loose end over the railing to the sand.

“Hold to it!” he called, and Cornhair seized the rope and was soon pulled up to, and over, the railing. She instantly knelt and put her head down before the man with the rifle, and pressed her lips to his boots.

“Stinking slave,” hissed Lady Delia.

“Thank you, Master,” whispered Cornhair.

“You are sweaty, filthy, covered with blood,” said the man with the rifle. “Do you know where you can wash, and clean yourself?”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. She recalled the room of the bath. To be sure, it was little more than a cistern, a bath for slaves. Doubtless, in the domicile, there were facilities fit for free women.

“Do so,” said he, “and then return here, naked.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Doubtless,” said Lady Delia, bitterly, fixing her contemptuous gaze on the man with the rifle, “you like to look on the bodies of slaves.”

“Yes,” he said.

“You have done well, for robbers and pirates,” said Lady Delia. “We here, your captives, are not merely free women, but each of us, each one, is a woman of station and means.”

“That is known to us, fine lady,” said the man.

“We may be exchanged for handsome ransoms,” she said.

“Doubtless,” said the man.

“You seem strange fellows, for river men,” said Lady Delia.

“We are not river men,” said the man.

Cornhair then rose, and hurried to the room of the slave bath.

On her way she passed several cells. Many were empty. In one cell, now crowded together, frightened, were the twenty or so slaves who had served with her at the suppers. They were still in serving tunics. The eyes of one, wildly, regarded her. Clearly none, Cornhair realized, understood what had transpired, nor, really, did she. They saw her bloody, in a brief, bloodied tunic, hurrying by, feet and legs covered with clinging sand. They would not know she had been in an arena. Probably they did not even know there was an arena. Nor, Cornhair supposed, would they realize what the free women had held in store for them, that they would be given knives and set on one another. They did not speak, nor, in her uneasiness, did Cornhair. They had not been given permission to do so. Speaking without permission, as slaves were well aware, could bring the whip. A bit later, on her route to the bath, Cornhair passed several cells crowded with free women, still in their abundant, expensive finery. So closely were they packed into the small cells, that they could scarcely move. Several, bodies pressed against the bars, cried out to her.

“Free us, slave!”

“On the wall, across the way, see, keys! Take them! Undo the locks! Free us!”

“Open the cells!”

“Now!”

“Obey!”

“Obey!”

Cornhair hurried past, frightened. Free men had turned the keys in those locks! How could she, a slave, dare to undo their work?

Soon Cornhair had finished her bath, and, with a few hasty strokes, had brushed and combed her hair.

As she was hurrying back, making her way through the domicile, to ascend the internal stairs leading up to the stands, several of the strangers, certainly looking much like rough river fellows, passed her, apparently on their way to the cells below, that of the slaves, those of the free women.

Cornhair kept her eyes down. It is not always wise to meet the eyes of a free man.

“Thirty darins,” said a fellow.

“Thirty-five,” said another.

“Perhaps forty,” said another.

Cornhair, who had last sold for five darins, was quite ready, perhaps in her vanity, to welcome such enlarged, unsolicited assessments of her likely block value. Whereas free women quite commonly compare themselves to one another with respect to beauty, and have very clear views on the matter, most such estimations remain speculative. The value of the slave, on the other hand, is what men will pay for her.

In a moment, Cornhair had made her way up the stairs, and emerged amongst the tiers of the small arena.

The man with the rifle was still in the box of the hostess. He was with four or five of his fellows. The Lady Delia was also in the box, standing, proudly, disdainfully, looking across the arena, over the sand, to the now-empty tiers on the opposite side.

At a gesture from the man with the rifle, Cornhair hurried to him, and knelt before him, humbly, head down.

“I note that the stinking slave has returned,” said Lady Delia.

“Not stinking, Lady,” said the man with the rifle. “She is now cleaner than you.”

“Doubtless,” said Lady Delia.

“A free woman may be careless in such matters, even slovenly,” said the man, “but a slave may not. A slave is to keep herself fresh, clean, and well-groomed, that she may be the more pleasing to her Master.”

“Yet,” said Lady Delia, “I have seen them sweaty and filthy, naked, chained by the neck, in coffles, being herded through the streets. I have seen them stinking on slave shelves, standing, in rags, their wrists bound before them, or behind them, placards hung on their necks. I have seen them filthy, too, standing on such shelves, displayed, not even in rags, but naked, not even bound, held in place simply by the Master’s will, their placards hanging about their necks.”

“Perhaps, too,” said the man with the rifle, “you have seen them laboring under burdens, pulling plows in the fields, carrying water, tending pigs, cleaning stables.”

“They are slaves, despicable slaves,” said Lady Delia.

“Slave,” said the man with the rifle to Cornhair, kneeling before him, “are you a despicable slave?”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

Lady Delia laughed merrily.

Were not all slaves despicable? But why, then, would men buy them, and prize them? Of course, because they might then be lovely, domestic animals.

“Perhaps the slave would be less offensive,” said the man, “if she were clothed?”

“Perhaps,” said Lady Delia.

“You are richly robed,” said the man.

“I patronize only the finest shops in Telnar,” said Lady Delia.

The man gestured, curtly, to one of his fellows. “A length,” he said.

“Yes, Lord,” said the man.

“Stop!” cried Lady Delia. “What are you doing?”

The fellow’s knife, moving swiftly, removed a swath of cloth from the outer, silken, summer robe of Lady Delia.

He threw the fruit of his work to the floor, before Cornhair.

“Slave,” said the man with the rifle, “twisting, tearing, and tying, fashion for yourself from that material the semblance of a tunic.”

“Do not!” screamed Lady Delia.

“I must, Mistress,” moaned Cornhair.

“Make it short,” he said, “slave short.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Despicable slave!” said Lady Delia.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“What is your name, slave?” inquired the man with a rifle.

Cornhair, kneeling, grasping the light, silken cloth cut from Lady Delia’s outer summer robe in two hands, instantly put her head down. “Whatever Masters or Mistresses please,” she said.

“She is Cornhair,” said Lady Delia.

“That will do,” said the man. “You are Cornhair.”

“She is already named,” said Lady Delia.

“I have renamed her,” said the man. “What is your name, slave?”

“‘Cornhair’, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Contrive your garment, slave,” said the man.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair, stretching the cloth out.

“If I think it is too long,” he said, “you will be lashed.”

“Yes, Master,” whispered Cornhair.

“Clothe them in revealing, degrading brevity,” said Lady Delia.

“If they are to be clothed, at all,” said the man.

“Doubtless,” said Lady Delia, coldly.

“I have seen no men here,” said the man.

“There are none,” said Lady Delia.

“That scarcely seems wise,” said the man.

“Two keepers of dogs will return for their animals tomorrow. The day after, pilots, with hoverers, will arrive, to return my party to Telnar.”

“Still,” said the man.

“We are no more than a hundred miles from Telnar,” said Lady Delia. “We deemed ourselves safe.”

“Still,” said the man.

“We are here on woman’s business,” she said, “the business of free women.”

“What sort of business?” he asked.

“Vengeance,” she said, “vengeance on slaves.”

“May I speak, Master?” asked Cornhair.

“Yes,” he said.

Cornhair rose to her feet, and smoothed down the ragged hem of her improvised tunic. “Is Master pleased?” she asked. “I can make it shorter.”

“You have lovely legs, pleasant flanks,” said the man.

“For a slave,” said Lady Delia.

“Surely, for any woman,” said the man.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Perhaps,” said Lady Delia. “I understand men buy them with such things in mind.”

“So you gathered here for vengeance on slaves?” said the man.

“Yes,” said Lady Delia, angrily.

“And how were you injured by slaves?” asked the man.

“It is a personal matter,” she said.

“But on its nature it is not difficult to speculate,” said the man.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“The women here, in your party,” he said, “seem uniformly young, and rather attractive.”

“We are a sisterhood, of sorts,” she said.

“You have much in common?” he said.

“Yes,” she said.

“And perhaps you share a grievance?”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“The members of your party seem of an age, and such, where they might be interested in contracting useful alliances, fortunate and profitable relationships, with males of prominence, means, and station.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“And so, in the way of women, you thought to dangle your charm and body before men, to improve your prospects, and win treasure.”

“Do not be vulgar,” she said.

“But, in each case,” he said, “your intended conquest brought home something in a collar, to crawl about his feet, to fear his whip, and beg to please him.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“This frustrated your mercenary intentions,” he said.

“Perhaps,” she said.

“And what is your name, fine Lady?” asked the man of Lady Delia.

“‘Delia Cotina’,” she said, “of the Telnar Farnacii.”

“So you are she?” he said.

“Yes,” she said. “You know of me?”

“By reputation,” he said.

“Strange that you should know that, unusual intelligence for a river pirate,” she said.

“I am not a river pirate,” he said.

“I assume you are in touch with, or can soon be in touch with, certain parties in Telnar, through whom ransoms can be arranged.”

“Possibly,” he said.

“I shall give you specifics on the matter,” she said, “as will other members of my party, on their own behalf. I am sure we will all wish this matter to be concluded as expeditiously as possible.”

“I expect it will be,” he said.

“I am curious,” she said. “What had you heard of me?”

“I had heard that you were one of the most beautiful women in Telnar,” he said.

“I see,” she said, pleased.

“And, it seems,” he said, “that the other members of your party were also noted beauties in the society of the city.”

“Perhaps,” she said.

“Otherwise how could they have hoped to trap such fine game?”

“I object,” she said, “to the crudeness of your discourse.”

“It is surprising, is it not,” he asked, “given your beauty, and that of your friends, that the males whom you sought to interest and entice, from whom you hoped to win position and treasure, failed to succumb and languish, failed to surrender to your charms, failed to lift you to the heights you hoped to reach, failed to fall prey to your plots?”

Lady Delia turned away, angrily.

“How could it be?” he asked.

Lady Delia spun about, in fury. “Slaves!” she cried. “Meaningless, worthless, buyable, stinking slaves!”

She then flung herself on Cornhair, her small fists flying, striking her, again, and again, pounding on her, until two of the men pulled her away.

“Steady, steady, fine lady,” said the man with the rifle.

Cornhair, her head down, almost to the floor, her hands held over her head, cringed in fear.

“Forgive me, Mistress!” she begged.

“And so,” said the man with a rifle, “you and your friends gathered together, and would have your vengeance on slaves.”

“They are only slaves,” said Lady Delia. “Now let us discuss terms of ransom.”

“Gundlicht,” said the man with a rifle, “you may now have the slaves brought up to the tiers. See that they are neck-roped. They will not object. They are slaves. And it would not do, of course, to have one wander off, carelessly. Hendrix, you may have the free women put in the arena.”

“The arena?” said Lady Delia.

Two of the rough fellows left the tiers. They departed by means of the same exit which had been used earlier by Cornhair.

“Yes,” said the man with the rifle. “Now the slaves will sit in the tiers.”

“I do not understand,” said Lady Delia, apprehensively.

“You will, shortly,” he said.

“You are not a boat man,” she said, “not a river pirate!”

“No,” he said.

“What are you?” she said. “Who are you?”

“You are beautiful,” he said, eyeing the Lady Delia.

“Oh?” she said.

“For a free woman.”

“‘For a free woman’?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Surely you know that the most beautiful women are taken for slaves. Men will have it so.”

“How could the beauty of a slave compare with that of a free woman?” she said.

“Quite favorably,” he said. “Where do you think slaves come from?”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“To be sure,” he said, “in a collar, given the nature of things, a woman becomes far more beautiful.”

“Why are members of my party to be conducted to the arena?” she asked. “What has that to do with ransoms?”

“Nothing,” he said.

“I do not understand,” she said.

He turned to the men about.

“Strip her,” he said. “And use that scarf to tie her hands behind her back.”

“No!” cried Lady Delia, as rude hands tore the clothes from her body. A moment later her hands were confined behind her back, wrapped in folds of her scarf, that she had used to give the signal to open the dog gate. One of the men thrust her to her knees, and forced her head down to the floor.

“Remain as you are, female,” said the man with the rifle.

Cornhair realized that, as Lady Delia had been positioned, she could not be seen from the sand below, onto which, even now, the members of her party, in consternation, were filing.

“What of ransoms, noble sir?” said Lady Delia, frightened, kneeling, her head down to the floor.

“How many are in your party?” asked the man.

“One hundred and fifty-two,” she said, “including myself.”

“Free men,” he said, “do not approve of the killing of slaves.”

“They are only slaves,” said Lady Delia.

Meanwhile the several slaves who had assisted at the suppers with Cornhair, each on the same long rope, a section of which would be looped and knotted about the neck of one, and then taken forward and looped and knotted about the neck of the next, and so on, had been positioned in the front row of the tiers.

They had been brought up to the level of the tiers by the man who had been addressed as “Gundlicht.”

“What of ransoms, noble sir!” beseeched the Lady Delia, more urgently.

“Not all men are stupid,” said the man. “And very few are stupid who are rich, powerful, and significantly situated, the sort you and your friends chose for your victims, your dupes, and quarries.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Yet,” he said, “being men, being strong men, they doubtless recognized that you and your party had certain attributes of interest, lovely features, intelligence, possibly stimulatory curves.”

“What are you saying?”

“And such men,” he said, “might be willing to pool certain resources to perpetrate a joke, one worth the telling, and retelling.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“I have already been paid,” he said.

“What of the ransoms!” she cried.

“One does not ransom slaves,” he said.

“We are not slaves!” she cried.

“One sells them,” he said.

“We are free women!” she said.

“Then you have nothing to fear,” he said. He then turned to the fellow he had addressed as “Hendrix.” “Hendrix,” said he, “are the free women now in the arena?”

“Yes, Lord,” said the man. “All, and the arena exit portal is locked.”

The man with the rifle then went to the railing before the box of the hostess, and surveyed the women in the arena.

“Ladies!” he called down to them.

“Release us!” he heard. “Let us go!” “Filch! Pirate, boor!” Some of the women shook their fists upward. “Beware!” cried others.

He extended a hand, in a gesture for silence.

“Thank you, ladies,” he said.

The women looked uneasily to one another.

“Slaves, though worthless, though meaningless, though mere commodities,” he said, “are the most female, the most perfect, the most luscious and desirable of women.”

“No! No!” several cried.

“That is why men buy them,” he said.

“Release us!” cried a woman.

“Yet,” he said, “you would waste such pleasant beasts, such silken, curvaceous objects, of such interest to men, in the arena.”

“Let us go!” cried a woman.

“It is not enough that you, in your hatred, would own, terrify, and beat them, but you would destroy them, even cast them to beasts.”

“They are slaves,” cried a woman.

“Gundlicht,” said the man with the rifle. “Exhibit Lady Delia to the free women below.”

“Oh!” cried Lady Delia, as Gundlicht yanked her to her feet by the hair, thrust her rudely to the railing, and then held her there, his right hand in her hair, holding her head up, and steadying her with his left hand, it grasping her bound, upper left arm.

Cries of dismay escaped the many women on the sand.

“My dear Lady Delia,” said the man with the rifle, softly, the words not audible beyond the box of the hostess, “it is my intention to throw you now, as you are, naked and bound, to the sand below, and release the dogs. There are four left. Doubtless they will attack you first. This should be instructive to the other women in the arena.”

“Do not do so, great and noble sir,” wept Lady Delia. “I am helpless.”

“Cast her to the sand,” said the man with the rifle to Gundlicht, who then swept the Lady Delia up easily into his arms, and readied himself to cast her over the railing.

“No, no, Master!” wept Lady Delia.

“‘Master’?” said the man with the rifle.

“Yes, yes!” wept Lady Delia.

The man with the rifle indicated that Gundlicht should stand the Lady Delia behind the railing.

“Publicly, and loudly, slut,” said the man with the rifle, “so that all may hear.”

“I am a slave!” she cried. “I beg to be made a slave! Make me a slave! I beg the collar! Keep me, Masters!”

Many were the cries of dismay, and outrage, from the sand below. “No, no!” cried Lady Virginia, and others. “Treason!” cried others. “You betrayed us!” cried a woman. “Contemptible baggage!” cried another.

Gundlicht, at a sign from the man with the rifle, pulled the former Lady Delia back and flung her to her knees behind the railing. “Untie her hands,” he said to Gundlicht, who did so, promptly.

“Go to all fours here, beside me,” said the man with the rifle, “and await your collar.”

“Yes, Master,” said the slave.

“Bring two,” said the man with the rifle, to another fellow, glancing at Cornhair, who instantly, too, unbidden, went to all fours, which is a common position in which a slave is collared.

“Now, dear ladies,” called the man to the women on the sand, “I am going to release the dogs.”

“No!” cried many. “No! No!”

“No, no, our ransoms! Our ransoms!” cried more than one.

“I have been well paid,” said the man with the rifle. “But not to hold you for ransoms. And you have not been pleasing. I shall now release the dogs!”

“No, no!” cried many of the women.

“Let us be pleasing!” cried a woman.

“Yes, yes,” cried others. “Let us be pleasing!”

“Pleasing, as women?” asked the man with the rifle.

“Yes, yes!” cried several.

“But you are free women!” said the man with the rifle.

Several of the women had fallen to their knees in the sand. Did they not realize that that was undignified, and might sully or injure their garments?

“Yes, yes,” cried several of the women. “We beg to be pleasing, as women, as women!”

“Remove your garments, every stitch,” called the man with the rifle from the box of the hostess. “Then, go to all fours, and, in line, crawl slowly to the exit portal from the arena. There, one by one, you will be collared, and chained.”

“Good,” said Gundlicht, after a bit, looking over the railing. “They are block naked,” he said.

“We have clothing!” cried one of the neck-roped slaves down to the sand.

“Lash her,” said the man with the rifle. “She did not request permission to speak.”

“It will be done,” said a man.

The slave who had called out, loudly, derisively, to the women below, so triumphantly, moaned in dismay. She had not requested permission to speak. She would be lashed.

“We shall proceed as planned?” asked Gundlicht.

“Yes,” said the man with a rifle. “We will take them downriver, through the delta, in a covered barge. Then, as we have arranged, they will be distributed, and sold.”

At this point the fellow whom the man with the rifle had sent for the two collars had returned to the tiers.

“Collar them,” said the man with the rifle.

“Hold still,” said the man.

“Yes, Master,” whispered the former Lady Delia.

There was a click and the new slave was collared. She put her head down.

“Hold still,” said the man, again.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. She closed her eyes, briefly. She felt the metal being placed about her neck, and adjusted. She waited. Then she heard the click, and she, too, was collared. She opened her eyes, on all fours, her neck once again encircled with the badge of bondage.

“I am now, again, in a collar,” she thought. “I am pleased. How can I be pleased? I am collared. Why do I not mind this?”

“You are Delia,” said the man with the rifle to the former Lady Delia.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“How fitting it is,” Cornhair thought to herself, “that we are collared. We are so different from free women. Who could mistake a girl in a collar? It is so clear, what she is. I would not want to be mistaken for a free woman, for I am not a free woman. I am so different. I am a slave.”

“What is your name?” the man with the rifle asked the former Lady Delia.

“‘Delia’, Master,” she said.

“Strange,” thought Cornhair to herself, “I welcome the collar. I am happy that I have been put in it. I am choiceless. I want it that way. What has become of me? I am a slave. I know that now.”

She heard the snap of the silken canopy over her head. Part of the arena was now in the shade.

“I love it that men are strong, and will do with me, as they will,” she thought. “I do not mind being sold. I hope to have a good Master. But I will have whatever Master buys me. I am a slave.”

One of the men was now leading the string of tunicked, neck-roped slaves down from the tiers.

She was not sure they would be mixed with the new slaves. Perhaps they would be sold in Telnar. That was apparently not to be the case with the new slaves.

“What will be done with me,” wondered Cornhair. “I will be given away, or sold.”

It occurred to her quite naturally now that she would be given away or sold. She had stood on a slave shelf, bared, with a placard on her neck. She had been exhibited, stripped, on a sales block, displayed as goods. There was now no doubt that she might be given away or sold. She now understood herself, wholly and deeply, as what she was, a slave. Her hopes and fears were now those of a slave. Her consciousness was now the consciousness of a slave

She now wished to be a slave, and to belong, and obey, and serve.

“I am a slave,” she thought. “It is what I am. It is what I want to be. Let others have their freedom. I have experienced that. Now I want to be owned, to belong. I want to be handled, dominated, exploited, and ravished. I want to be vulnerable and helpless. I want a Master. I need a Master.”

“May I speak, Master?” asked the slave, Delia, of the man with the rifle.

“Yes,” he said.

“What is to be done with us, with myself, and those who were with me?”

“For the most part,” he said, “you will be scattered amongst a hundred markets on a hundred worlds.”

“I have gathered you are not a boat man, not a river man, not even a river pirate,” she said.

“No,” he said.

“The names ‘Gundlicht’ and ‘Hendrix’,” she said, “are not Telnarian names.”

“No,” he said.

“May I inquire as to the nature of my Master?” she asked.

“I am Alemanni,” he said, “or, as you will have it, of the Aatii.”

“No!” she cried.

“It is so, pretty animal,” he said.

“A barbarian owns me!” she cried in misery. “I am the property of a barbarian!”

“Amongst the Alemanni,” he said, “my tribe was the Drisriaks. I was high amongst them. I broke away, to form a new tribe, the Ortungen. We fared badly, muchly struck down by the forces of Abrogastes.”

“Abrogastes,” she said, “the great barbarian lord whose fleets and armies attack and plunder worlds, which threaten the empire itself, Abrogastes, he called the Far-Grasper? His very name is scarcely dared spoken in Telnar!”

“He is my father,” said the man with the rifle. “I am Ortog, his son, no longer in his favor.”

“Woe,” she wept, “I am not only fallen into the hands of a barbarian, but into the hands of the son of the dreaded Abrogastes himself.”

“As a woman of the empire,” he said, “it makes little difference as to what barbarian you might fall. We all know what to do with women of the empire.”

“Please sell me, Master,” she said. “Please sell me soon, to someone of civilization.”

“Perhaps,” he said. “But barbarians enjoy owning women of the empire, particularly former high women. They look well in rags, or less, tending pigs, and such.”

“Have mercy,” she pleaded, on all fours, head down, collared.

“I may keep you,” he said.

“Please, do not, Master,” she begged.

“Who, slave,” asked Ortog, “was second to you, when you were free?”

“Lady Virginia Serena,” said Delia, “of the lesser Serenii, of Telnar.”

“Then I may keep both of you,” he said, “that you may compete for my favor.”

“Have mercy, Master,” she said.

“It is pleasant to own slaves,” he said. “Who do you think would be my favorite, amongst you two?”

“Doubtless we would both try to be pleasing to our Master.”

“The whip will see to it,” he said. “And then, later, when you are aroused, aroused as slaves, the whip of your needs.”

“Surely not!” she said.

“It will be pleasant, to see you naked on your belly, begging for a caress.”

“How could such a thing be?” she said.

“Wait until you are longer in a collar,” he said.

She put her head down, trembling.

“Why is it,” she whispered, “that one who was once high amongst the Drisriaks, a captain or chieftain, even a king perhaps, stooped to raid a small compound on the Turning Serpent?”

“Even a man of great wealth,” he said, “may pick up a coin found on the street, and I am not of great wealth. The Ortungen have fallen far. I have men to feed, and ships to fuel. Remnants of scattered followers are to be regathered. The banner of the Ortungen must be once more unfurled.”

“And gold is needed,” said Delia.

“Of course,” he said, “and even copper, and silver.”

“I see,” she said.

“But the costless acquisition of one hundred and fifty two slaves, Telnarian slaves,” he said, “young and lovely slaves, formerly of significant station, is scarcely a negligible coin to be picked up on the street. I am paid to acquire them and, once they are acquired, I may distribute and sell them as I please.”

“Treating us as properties,” she said, “as loot, and plunder!”

“Women are properties,” he said, “loot, and plunder. It is the way of nature. They belong to men, kneeling, collared, their lips to our boots. Surely you have suspected this.”

“Yes, Master,” she whispered.

“It is true,” thought Cornhair. “We are slaves.”

“May I speak?” asked Cornhair.

“Yes,” said Ortog.

“When I was put into the arena,” said Cornhair, “the noble free women, in their cruelty, promised that if I could climb from the arena, I would be spared and sold in some nice market in Telnar.”

“So?” said Ortog.

“May I not then be sold in such a market,” asked Cornhair, “a nice market, one which might be frequented by men of modest means, in the capital, in Telnar?”

“You will be sold when, where, and how I wish,” said Ortog.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“How helplessly female I am,” she thought. “How helplessly female are slaves! Yet I would not have it otherwise, for I am a slave. How disturbed and outraged, and bewildered, and frightened, I was, as a free woman, when such thoughts, so frequent, telling, and persistent, intruded into my thoughts and dreams! But now I am collared, and content.”

“Master,” said Delia.

“Yes?” he said.

“What is it to be a slave?”

“Tonight, in your chains,” he said, “you will learn.”

“Yes, Master,” she said.