The Usurper

44

Cornhair, standing, alone, frightened, in the deserted street, Palace Street, several hundred yards from the palace, did not know which way to turn. She stood, uncertain, on the paving.

By the time she had been ordered to leave the palace, the many vehicles which had crowded the courtyard had withdrawn, doubtless to rendezvous with the waiting ships, outside the walls, in the large, much-avoided area of the noisome pits.

She had fled through the great portal, now unguarded, and had made her way down the several broad steps, more than fifty, to the level of the courtyard, then deserted.

Several fountains still sprayed their cascading rainbows of perfumed water. In the general silence one could hear the soft falling of water into water.

Then her small, lonely figure, had sped away, down Palace Street.

Now, out of breath, she stood in the street, far from doors on each side. Who knew what might issue forth from a door?

She pulled at the thongs which held her wrists behind her back. She was helpless. It is not even easy to run when so bound.

But she was alive!

But she wore no collar.

This made her decidedly uneasy.

Slaves are to be in collars. Free persons are clear on that. An uncollared slave could be in considerable jeopardy. Who is it who owns her? It is much safer for a slave to be in her collar. Too, of course, there is much security in the collar. It makes her status perfectly clear and it identifies her Master. Slaves know they must belong and the collar makes it clear they do belong, and to whom they belong. It says, in effect, this is not a stray. It tells us she has a home, that there is a pan from which she eats, a ring to which she is chained, a Master at whose feet she will warmly and happily curl.

To be in her Master’s collar is reassuring to a slave.

It makes clear the nature of the proprietorship to which she is subject, that she is her Master’s property.

Let free women scorn the slave, despise her, and beat her, but they do not know the joys of the slave, who lives to be owned and to submit to her Master. They do not know the wholeness of a submitted femininity, the rewards accruing to the female who is her Master’s slave. She rejoices, knowing that she is owned, wholly, as a dog or shoe is owned; that she must obey and will be punished if she is not pleasing. She has a perfect identity, sanctioned by culture and grounded in nature.

In the collar, choiceless, owned, serving, she finds her fulfillment.

No woman can be truly happy who is not collared.

But, as we recall, Cornhair was not collared.

To be sure, she, barefoot, lovely, marked, half naked, her hands tied behind her, was in no danger of being mistaken for a free woman. Iaachus had assured her of that.

She started, hearing the creak of a hinge, on a door, to her left.

“Have they gone?” inquired a free man, through a crack in the doorway.

Addressed, she went to her knees. “Yes, Master,” she said. “I think so, Master.”

He emerged a yard or so into the street, and looked to the left and right. He then withdrew into the domicile. Cornhair had glimpsed a woman behind him, and a child. The door was narrow, and stout. There were no windows on the street level, but there were windows on the second level, the third, and fourth level. One was unshuttered, as she knelt.

She sensed a door opening some yards away, on her right. There would probably be others, shortly.

She sensed no one was now concerned with her. She leapt up, and hurried farther along Palace Street. As suggested earlier, she had no destination in mind, other than, perhaps, to put the palace, and its terrors, far behind her. She did not know what to do. Certainly she would not wish to return to the outlet of the House of Worlds, on Varl Street, as she had been sold from that house, and might be returned to the very Master who had planned to dispose of her in a particularly hideous and efficient manner. Indeed, it would have been as though she had never been. His two agents, of course, were dead, one killed by his companion and the other, the murderer, incinerated in his attempt to reach the city.

“Who owns me, or owned me,” she wondered. Surely not even a madman would buy a slave simply to dispose of her. And the agents had been paid in gold, which betokens someone of affluence. Who would profit from her disappearance? She had mostly feared Iaachus, of course. He knew much, he had resources. The knowledge she bore, she had feared, if injudiciously broadcast, might put his role, his power, even his person, at risk. Yet now, from her experience in the palace, she no longer feared Iaachus. He had dismissed her. She was no longer important. Too, Julian, of the Aureliani, and his mighty friend, the barbarian, were clearly aware of his schemes, but, apparently, intended no prosecution or vengeance for several reasons, not simply for lack of evidence, and for recognition that his work would be likely to have been approved at higher levels, but, most significantly, because of their desire to recruit the Arbiter and what influence he might retain in some common cause. This left the three who had been given the charge of abetting the projected assassination, those who had brought her, on the freighter, Narcona, to Venitzia on Tangara, who had placed her in the remote camp in the wilderness near the Otung forest, who had supplied the poisoned dagger, those who had abandoned her, those who had doubtless given assurances to the Arbiter that the barbarian, Captain Ottonius, was no more, thus precluding the success of the plan of Julian, scion of the Aureliani, to recruit barbarians, and perhaps personal liegemen, in the imperial forces. These would be Phidias, who had been captain of the Narcona, and two of his officers, Lysis and Corelius. Surely these would have much to fear from Iaachus and his power, if he learned of their presumed incompetence, and, surely, of their duplicity. Indeed, she had learned in the palace that these three had been rewarded for a service they had failed to perform, and one whose failure they had concealed. It would be, then, she was sure, that one or more of these three had discovered her in Telnar and arranged for her disposal. Too, it seemed that these three, either for gold, or for fear of exposure, had betrayed their posts, permitting the safe landing of the six Lion Ships of Abrogastes. She did not know for certain, of course, of the present whereabouts of these three. As their lives would be forfeit in Telnar following their treachery, it seemed likely that they would have withdrawn from Telnaria with Abrogastes in the Lion Ships. This supposition, as it turned out, though she could not have been sure of it at the time, was correct. One may despise traitors; one may deny them trust; but one is well advised to reward them well and see to their security and welfare. Else it may prove difficult to recruit others in the future.

Cornhair was reasonably sure that no one in Telnar bore her ill will, at least to the extent of seeing fit to cast her into one of the vast refuse pits outside the city. One who is dissatisfied with a slave commonly beats her and sells her. After all, she is a commodity and, like any other domestic animal, has some value, however negligible. Iaachus had had her in his power, and released her. And Phidias, Lysis, and Corelius were presumably no longer in Telnar, or even on Telnaria.

She was now making her way, uncertainly, confused, anxiously, bound, down Palace Street, presumably because she had no idea what else to do. She was very much afraid she would be stopped. Frighteningly, there was no collar. Too, if the name of her Master was demanded, what could she do, or say? She did not know who had bought her. And who would believe that? Presumably it had been one or more of three traitors who had facilitated the raid of Abrogastes, but she could not know that for certain.

Various individuals were now emerging from the buildings. Shortly it would be generally known that the Lion Ships had departed.

She wondered if the abduction of the princesses, Viviana and Alacida, would be made public. She guessed not. Not immediately. But it would surely be difficult to conceal their absence.

The intruders had behaved with purpose and dispatch. They had not burned the city. They had done little, if any, looting. Speculation would be rampant as to their motivation, torrential with respect to what they had done, what they had taken, if anything.

Yes, it would be difficult to conceal, overlong, the absence of the princesses.

Cornhair now kept to the side of the street, hurrying along, not meeting the eyes of free persons. She kept her head down. Her hair, she hoped, would conceal to some extent her lack of a collar. The fact that she was bound did not excite much attention. Some Masters will keep a slave bound in the streets, sometimes as a punishment or a discipline, or merely to help her keep in mind that she is a slave. Naturally, being bound muchly increases a slave’s sense of vulnerability. A slave is the most vulnerable of all women, and a bound slave, roped, thonged, chained or such, is the most vulnerable of slaves. Interesting, as well, is the fact that vulnerability in a slave muchly increases her sexual sensitivity, her readiness for the attentions of a Master. Many a bound slave writhes at the Master’s feet, begging for the assuagement of her needs. Too, of course, many errands on which a slave may be dispatched do not require the use of her hands, for example, the communication of a message on behalf of her Master. It has also been suggested that a slave whose hands are tied behind her back is less likely to help herself to, say, a fruit from a vender’s cart, the vender’s attention being elsewhere directed. A small fruit, of course, might be seized in the teeth. A girl caught in such a peccadillo, of course, bound or unbound, is likely to be well switched. Even worse, her indiscretion might be recorded in an ink or grease marking on her body to be read by her Master on her return, quite possibly with unpleasant consequences.

More men and women were now about in the streets. Sometimes they picked their way amongst bodies.

As suggested earlier, in many districts of Telnar, there had been unrest, arson, looting, and such. The individuals, sometimes crowds, engaged in such activities had been largely, and deliberately, ignored by guardsmen, under orders from the palace. The consequences of the destruction of businesses and the burning of buildings, of general looting and widespread violence, were thought to be less politically grievous than would be firing on citizens. It also seems clear that such unruly activities may have been encouraged in certain quarters, in order to further some agenda. Certainly some of the looters, arsonists, and such, left graffiti about which suggested their actions were in accord with a variety of moral and religious principles, justice, restitution, and such. Somewhat paradoxically, an act which in one instance is accounted a crime and its perpetrator heinous is, in another instance, accounted a noble deed and its agent praiseworthy. We leave these mysterious matters to the ponderings of the reader. In any event, the intruders, in their approach to the palace, doubtless unfortunately, did not suffer from the same compunction, or orders, as the Telnar guardsmen, and did not hesitate to clear the streets, which put an instant end to a variety of miscellaneous civil disturbances.

Cornhair saw a body, most of a body, being dragged away.

Perhaps things would soon return to normal.

A shopkeeper was unchaining his guard planks, removing them from their grooves in the ceiling and floor of his shop.

Some of the planks had been struck by axes.

The shopkeeper glanced at Cornhair, and she hurried on.

She passed a two-wheeled hay cart being drawn by a single horse. Four bodies were heaped in the cart.

A small boy was casting a ball against a wall, and catching it as it rebounded. “Twenty-seven!” he said to a sandaled, robed fellow passing by.

Cornhair put down her head, being scrutinized by a free woman, leaning on the sill of a second story window, the shutters flung back.

There had been no mistaking the hostility in that glance.

Cornhair saw two guardsmen approaching, with bows.

Would they see that she was uncollared?

She moved to the other side of the street, keeping her head down.

They were making their way toward the palace, which was now well behind Cornhair. Had she turned, she could have seen it, small in the distance.

“Hold, slave!” said a sharp female voice, clearly that of one who knew she was Mistress.

Cornhair immediately knelt, her head down.

Cornhair knew that tone of voice. Often she had used it herself, when free, doubtless to the terror of frightened, instantly kneeling, small, exquisite, red-headed Nika, the single slave to which she had been reduced in her time of nigh destitution, abandoned by the Larial Calasalii, save for a pittance. That tone of voice was normally a prelude to a switching or whipping.

The hatred of the free woman for the female slave is well known. The cruelty of the Mistress to the female slave is legendary. All women are, in a sense, competitors for the attentions of men. Even women who claim, however hysterically, to hate men wish, it seems, to be found attractive by them. Surely that is of interest. And does not each woman hope to be found more beautiful, and more desirable, than the other? Take then this natural rivalry of woman and woman, and see it as it is manifested in the relationship of Mistress to slave. Here, the Mistress has all power and the slave none. Her rival is subordinate to her; her rival is at her mercy; she owns her rival. Exacerbate this relationship then with the understanding that the most desirable men, powerful, virile, intelligent, ambitious, possessive, aggressive men, are not immune to the charms of slaves. They want them, and can have them. They can buy them, and work them, and do what they want with them, exacting inordinate pleasures from their lovely bodies. Indeed, not every woman is collared; the collar is usually a badge, a certification, of female desirability. Indeed, many a free woman must face the annoying fact that men may find her slave not only her superior in beauty and desirability, doubtless much to the fear of the slave, whose skin may suffer for this, but may also find her more desirable simply in being a slave, the men understanding all that is involved in that lowly status.

One courts the free woman, commonly for gain; one buys the slave, invariably for pleasure.

Too, of course, if one should entertain an interest in female responsiveness, attention to the slave may be commended. In the slave, orgasms are easily elicited, often irrepressible, successive, and profound. Indeed, being a slave is to be in a state of incipient, global, sexual readiness; she is a needful, sexual creature. One supposes all this has something to do with the collar, with being subject to the whip, with the condition of being a slave in itself, with being owned, with having a Master.

“Hold, slave!” had said the woman.

How often had Cornhair used that tone of voice to Nika!

That had been a bitter, frustrating time for Cornhair, before her recruitment by Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol, her credit blasted, her jewelries and possessions muchly sold, little more than a handful of pennies in her purse at any one time, forced to wear the same gown over and over, unable to buy new slippers, ignored by former acquaintances, tended by only one slave. Cornhair would have been a demanding, difficult Mistress even in her days of plenty, of station and affluence, but, in the miseries of her ostracization and penury, her normally arrogant, acerbic temper had considerably worsened.

She had not seen Nika since Tangara, when Nika, accompanied by Julian of the Aureliani and his colleague, Tuvo Ausonius, had been forced to identify her as her former Mistress. Where was Nika now? Cornhair had no idea. Slaves are commodities, and can be traded about, sold and so on, as other commodities. Doubtless Nika was still in a collar. Men kept beauties like Nika in collars. They wanted them that way. She also suspected that Nika wanted to be in a collar, though, she supposed, she would have preferred to pick the man whose collar she wore. But, of course, the slave is in no position to do that.

Cornhair was aware of a purple-hemmed robe before her, and small, golden slippers.

“You changed your position on the street,” said the woman, “doubtless to evade the guardsmen. Why?”

“Oh, no, Mistress!” said Cornhair. “I search for an address.”

“What address?” said the woman.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” whispered Cornhair.

“I thought so,” she said.

“May I proceed, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.

“Ah! I see!” said the woman. “Your collar! Where is it?”

“It was taken, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “The barbarians!”

“They took it, and not you?” she asked.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“Liar!” she said. “It is the same with all you sluts. The less clothing you wear the more you lie!”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair. Actually, of course, the penalties for lying in a slave are grievous, whereas in a free woman they are nonexistent or negligible. Cornhair, sensing herself in severe straits, dared not speak the truth.

“Why are you tied?” asked the woman.

“Masters were pleased to have it so,” she said.

“Who is your Master?” asked the woman.

“Forgive me,” said Cornhair. “I do not know, Mistress.”

“Absurd,” said the woman. “Have you had a fall? Are you drugged? Are you a runaway?”

“I am bound, Mistress,” said Cornhair, weakly.

“Speak up,” she said, “who is your Master?”

“I do not know, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“I see you are a slave,” she said. “Need I examine your thigh?”

“No, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I am a slave.”

“But you are uncollared.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“That is a serious matter,” said the woman. “I shall summon a guardsman.”

“No, please, do not, Mistress!” begged Cornhair.

“You are at my mercy, wholly,” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair, in misery.

“Your Master!” demanded the woman.

“I think, Mistress,” said Cornhair, “I was purchased by an unknown traitor, who fled with the barbarians.”

“That is a rich story,” she said.

“I think it is true, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“I pronounce you a loose, unclaimed slave,” said the woman.

“Mistress?” said Cornhair.

“I claim you,” she said.

“Mistress?” said Cornhair.

“Get your head up, slave,” she snapped, “and look at me!”

Cornhair raised her head.

“I thought so!” said the woman. “Excellent!”

“Mistress?” said Cornhair, bewildered.

“You are claimed, and owned,” she said. “Like a loose dog.”

Cornhair looked about, wildly, from her knees.

“You do not recognize me, do you?” asked the woman.

“No, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“What have your Masters called you, worthless slut?” she asked.

“‘Cornhair’,” said Cornhair.

“Excellent,” said the woman, “an excellent slave name for you, a name based on a physical characteristic, as in many animals. I like it much better than ‘Publennia’.”

Cornhair groaned.

“Yes,” she said, “I knew you well, though from afar, when you were so proud, so superior and beautiful in your gowns and jewels, sparkling at the races and gambling tables, witty in the galleries and salons, esteemed at banquets, applauded in the streets, beleaguered by suitors, celebrated by sycophants, the jewel of the society of a dozen worlds, until the crash of your fortunes, the Larial Calasalii’s loss of patience with your profligacy, and now you have come to this, a trembling, marked, tunicked slave kneeling on the pavement in Telnar.”

“Be merciful, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“You still do not know me, do you?” said the woman.

“No, Mistress,”’ said Cornhair.

“Even in the days of your triumphs and glory,” said the woman, “I saw through the finery and show to the worthless slut beneath, who deserved no better than a collar, and a minute or two on a cheap slave block.”

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I do not remember you.”

“I remember you well enough,” she said. “You declined my overtures of friendship. Though I extended you invitations you would not respond in kind. I might not attend your salons, nor would you attend mine. You mocked my state, you would not greet me, you ignored me in public. I, though of the honestori, was too small for you, of the noble patricians, even of the senatorial class! What pleasure you must have taken in humiliating me! How pleased I was at the reversal of your fortunes, and now, what a triumph, to have you on your knees before me, a meaningless slave.”

“Please, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “Be kind!”

“To a slave?” she laughed.

Cornhair moaned.

“I now own you, slave,” she cried.

Some men, and two women, had gathered about.

“Behold my slave!” said the woman to the small crowd. She then returned her attention to Cornhair. “Bend down, slave,” she snapped, “head to the pavement, and cover my slippers with kisses.”

Cornhair, miserable, terrified, bent down, and, again and again, desperately, pressed her lips, kissing, to the golden slippers of the Lady Gia Alexia.

“Whose property are you?” demanded the Lady Gia Alexia.

“I do not know,” wept Cornhair. “I do not remember you.”

“Stupid slave!” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“I am the Lady Gia Alexia, of the Darsai, of Telnar!” said the woman.

“Oh, yes, yes!” cried Cornhair, in misery.

“You remember?”

“Yes, Mistress,” wept Cornhair.

“There were doubtless many such as I,” said Lady Gia Alexia.

“Forgive me, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“So, speak!” demanded the Lady Gia Alexia. “Whose property are you?”

“I am the property of the Lady Gia Alexia, of the Darsai!” wept Cornhair, her lips barely lifted from the slippers of her Mistress.

“Of Telnar!” demanded the woman.

“Of Telnar!” said Cornhair.

“Minister again, to my slippers,” said the woman.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“She is not collared,” observed one of the men.

“On the way home,” said the Lady Gia Alexia, “I will purchase a collar, and a whip.”

The small crowd then dissipated.

“On your feet, slave,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.

Cornhair struggled to her feet.

“Get your head up,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“Good,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.

“What are you going to do with me?” begged Cornhair.

“Treat you as the slave you are,” said the woman. “And then I shall sell you and make some coin on you. In this way, you will be good for something, perhaps for the first time in your life, if not much.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“We will now go to my domicile,” said the Lady Gia Alexia.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“But, first,” she said, “we will stop by a shop I know, and buy a collar and a whip.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“That way, move,” said the Lady Gia Alexia, gesturing.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.