The Usurper

48

Cornhair lay curled at the feet of her Master, Rurik, in the Farnichi enclave, overlooking the Turning Serpent, somewhat northeast of Telnar. A silver chain ran from the ring on her silver overcollar to the ring set in the floor to the left of his thronelike chair, in which he received visitors. Beneath the overcollar she wore a simple close-fitting collar bearing the Farnichi emblem, the five petaled Pin Flower, native to Larial VII. She was not clothed. This was partly, doubtless, because she was lovely, and her Master enjoyed seeing her naked, and partly because she had once been a scion of the Larial Calasalii.

“We await guests,” said Rurik.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I am curious as to their business,” he said. “It is interesting. They come incognito.”

“Master may have me removed,” she said, “or he may unchain me, and I shall hurry to my cage, and crawl within.”

“You will remain,” he said. “I enjoy displaying you, a pretty slave, once a woman of the Calasalii.”

“As Master wills,” she said. “I am his slave.”

Some days ago Cornhair had been laden with heavy chains and put naked into a wagon. A few hours later the wagon had been admitted behind the first gate of a high-walled enclave. When the gate had been closed behind the wagon, Cornhair was relieved of her chains, and placed, kneeling, on the paving stones between the first and second gate. The officer in charge of the gate guard, which consisted of four men, made his mark on the delivery receipt and the wagon was turned about, and, the gate opened, took its departure. Cornhair heard the gate close behind her, but did not look, as she had been knelt facing the second gate. She saw a small door open in the second gate, which door would permit the passage of only one person at a time. Through this door emerged a fellow clad in normal Telnarian garb, perhaps a constable or bailiff. Dangling from his left hand was an opened collar.

He approached Cornhair and stood before her, and she lowered her head.

“Look up,” he said.

Cornhair looked up.

The collar was held before her.

“Do you know this design?” she was asked.

“It is the five-petaled Pin Flower,” she said.

“It is the mark of what great family?” he said.

“It is the mark of the Farnichi,” she said.

“So it is a Farnichi collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“And you are going to wear it, are you not?”

“If Masters please,” she said.

“Assume the posture of a bitch,” he said, “slut of the Calasalii.”

Cornhair went to all fours, her head down.

The collar was then snapped about her neck.

“You are one of the few sluts of the Calasalii who have long avoided the collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“But now you are in it, where you belong,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Wait here,” he said, “as you are.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

He then exited through the small door in the larger gate.

As the reader may recall, the Calasalii and the Farnichi, both originally native to Larial VII, maintained private armies, devoted to their interests on more than one world, interests which were occasionally incompatible. These private armies, on more than one world, met in the fierce adjudications of war. Eventually the empire saw fit to intervene, an intervention apparently, at least partly, in response to an invitation of the Farnichi, which saw little profit to be reaped from a continuance of hostilities, hostilities which seemed likely to be indefinitely prolonged, with the obvious diminution of resources on both sides and an ever-mounting toll of burned and gutted cities and towns, and planetwide widths of barren, untilled fields. This invitation to imperial forces, it was rumored, this repast of harmony and conciliation, was sweetened by substantial condiments of Farnichi gold. Surely it was more in the interests of the empire, to restore order, to side with one foe or another, thereby increasing the power and leverage of the favored faction, rather than try to impose its will on two intransigent parties, each of which might, particularly on certain worlds, more than overmatch any imperial cohorts likely to be applied in the appropriate sectors. In any event, abetted by the empire, the Farnichi brought the war to a brief and bloody close. Calasalii forces were disbanded. Calasalii property was confiscated by the state, and divided between the empire and the Farnichi. In this way each of the original Farnichi gold pieces was multiplied several times, an outcome more than justifying the original investment. After the war the Calasalii family was stripped of rank, and the associated perquisites of rank. The family was reduced to the humiliori. Later, as we earlier noted, presumably at the instigation of the Farnichi, who may have had long memories and apprehensions concerning the future, the Calasalii were outlawed, an outlawry kept secret until its consequences were enacted without warning. Men and women of the Calasalii were seized by the state. The men were largely consigned to the mines and quarries, the women to the collar.

A short while after the exit of the attendant, perhaps the enclave constable or bailiff, a tunicked slave came through the small door in the gate.

Cornhair noted, to her apprehension, that the slave carried a switch.

“You are the new girl,” said the slave.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“As I understand it,” she said, “you are a bitch of the Calasalii.”

“I was once of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair. “I am now a slave, only a slave.”

“Like the other bitches in your family,” she said.

“I do not know,” said Cornhair.

“What are you here for,” she asked, “for the kitchen, for the fields?”

“I do not know,” said Cornhair.

“Kneel,” said the slave. “Get your head up.”

Cornhair knelt. She wanted to touch her collar, but did not dare do so.

“Back on your heels, straighten your back, keep your head up, your hands, palms down, on your thighs!”

Cornhair complied.

“You are pretty,” said the slave, “in a cheap way.”

“I was of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair, “of the honestori, the patricians, even of the senatorial class!”

“Yes,” said the slave, “you are pretty, in a cheap way. Remain as you are.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

Even had she been a free woman, she would have felt herself a slave, kneeling so.

“What would it be like,” she wondered, “to be a man and see a woman kneeling before him so, and knowing she was a slave?”

She suspected then, something of the heat of the male.

“And what would it be like, to kneel so before a man, one who is your Master?” she wondered.

“And can the man,” she wondered, “suspect something of the heat of the slave?”

How it excited a slave to be a slave!

Dare men know that?

“Split your knees,” said the slave.

“Surely not!” exclaimed Cornhair.

The switch was lifted.

“Good,” said the slave.

The switch was lowered, to Cornhair’s relief.

“I do not see you for the kitchen, or the fields,” said the slave. “I see you, Calasalii bitch, as a Thong Girl, a Couch-Ring Girl, a Split-Knees Girl. Rejoice, or despair, as the notion strikes you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“Do you think you can please a man?” she asked.

“I do not know, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I am a slave. I will try to be found pleasing. I do not wish to be beaten, or tortured.”

“I know your type,” she said. “You need not fear being beaten or tortured. You will fear only that he may not touch you.”

Cornhair tasted a drop of blood on her lip. She had bitten herself.

“Follow me,” said the slave, turning about.

Cornhair leapt up, and followed the slave. As she sped forward, she felt, touching it, the collar on her neck, the lock at the back of the neck. It was a light, close-fitting collar, and was comfortable, as most slave collars. The point of the collar is to identify its occupant as a slave and, commonly, her owner. It also, to be sure, enhances the beauty of its occupant. It is designed, in part, with that in mind. The common slave collar is so light and comfortable that one would often forget that it was there. But it would be there.

The slave, at the small door fixed in the large second gate, turned, and faced Cornhair.

“Adjust your collar,” she said.

Cornhair did so, carefully. She knew that she was so slave, and so vain, that she would wear her collar well. Slave girls are entitled to their vanity as well as free women.

“It is a Farnichi collar,” said the slave. “You are now a Farnichi girl. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“I do not envy you, Calasalii bitch,” she said.

“Mistress?” said Cornhair.

“Follow me,” she said, turning. “We must clean you up and feed you, and make you presentable.”

“Your tunic is lovely,” said Cornhair. “May I hope to be so clothed?”

“You will probably be kept naked,” said the slave.

“Why, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.

“Because you were Calasalii,” she said. “The Farnichi enjoy owning the women of their enemies.”

The slave then exited through the small door in the large, second gate, and Cornhair followed her.

Cornhair stood behind the large, double doors leading to the audience chamber, waiting to be formally presented to her Master, and selected retainers. She had been washed, and brushed and combed, and well fed, on fresh, hot bread and warm slave gruel. There are many forms of, and recipes for, slave gruel, as one would expect, and the mixtures and consistencies vary considerably, ranging from little more than thickened water to rich, weighty porridges. Whereas some slave gruels, usually weak, with inferior ingredients, may be fed to prisoners and slaves under discipline, most, as one would expect, are substantial and nourishing. Certainly a husbandman will normally take care to see that his stock is well cared for. Most slave gruels, the primary ingredients for which, grains, are commonly sold in bulk, in large sacks, are intended to constitute a portion of a carefully supervised, controlled diet with the end in view of the stock’s vigor, health, and general wellbeing. Accordingly, the quantity and quality of provender supplied to the slave is regulated, as is the case with other domestic animals. An enslaved free woman commonly finds her figure, whether she wishes it or not, is becoming slave lovely, of greater interest to Masters, and the slave finds she is in little danger of losing a figure which would sell well off the block. Masters see to such things. There is little to be surprised at, that the average slave is trim, healthy, energetic, and appetitious. The average slave’s diet, of course, as that of her Master, is likely to be varied and delicious. Indeed, most private slaves eat substantially the same meals as their Master, if only because they are likely to have prepared those meals. Mealtime differences are usually independent of the food. For example, the first bite is to be taken by the Master, the slave may feed on her knees, the seat of a chair serving as her table, and so on. Slave gruels do tend to have one thing in common. They are bland. They may be seasoned of course, if the Master permits it. Too, meat, fruit, and vegetables may be mixed with the gruel. Indeed, a slave’s diet often contains generous amounts of fruits, nuts, and vegetables. A slave’s zeal to obtain occasional treats and rewards, such as a candy from her Master’s hand, may be attributed, one supposes, at least in part to the frequent plainness of her diet, and, in part, one supposes, to the fact that she is a slave.

“They make me wait,” said Cornhair, standing before the heavy, varnished, paneled double door leading to the audience chamber.

“Do not complain, do not be in a hurry,” said the slave with the switch, she in the lovely tunic. “Inside, you may be whipped.”

“What are they doing inside?” asked Cornhair.

“Business, discussion, a meeting, conferring,” said the slave. “Who knows what the Masters do. When they are finished with the work of men, that will be time for you.”

“What shall I do?” asked Cornhair.

“We are slaves,” she said. “We will kneel, and wait.”

Cornhair and the slave then went to their knees, to the side of the door.

Cornhair stood alone, small, forlorn, nude, collared, in the portal, at the end of the long carpet leading toward the thronelike chair at the far end of the audience chamber, the large, double doors now closed behind her.

“The slave,” said he whom, earlier, between the two outer gates, Cornhair had conjectured to be the enclave’s constable or bailiff. It was he who had put her in her new collar.

“Approach your Master,” said he whom we shall now refer to as the constable, “on all fours, naked and collared, as befits a woman once of the Calasalii, before one of the Farnichi.”

Cornhair went to all fours. She raised her head to look to the far end of the room. There, on a dais, was a large, thronelike chair. On this chair, though now in informal robes, simple house robes, not a uniform, was the officer she remembered from Tenrik’s market, he whose subordinate, on his behalf, had dealt with Tenrik. Flanking the thronelike chair were several men, some in uniform, some in house robes, as well. Of these men, some were to the right of the chair, others to the left of the chair, some on the dais, others on the floor. She was the only woman in the room.

“Head down,” said the constable.

So, head down, on all fours, Cornhair began the long journey down the long carpet to the foot of the dais.

The constable accompanied her.

“Stop,” he said.

Cornhair could see the first step of the dais before her, the robes and sandals of the constable to her left. She kept her head down.

“A bitch, once of the Calasalii, naked and collared, fittingly so, before her Masters, the Farnichi,” said the constable.

“Speak your former status, slave,” said the figure on the thronelike chair.

“I was once the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii,” said Cornhair, “of the honestori, of the patricians, of the senatorial class.”

“How is that?” he asked.

“Master?” she said.

“You were not on the rolls of the Calasalii,” said the officer.

“I fear not,” said Cornhair.

“We utilized these rolls to prepare the Morning of the Great Apprehension, that morning on which, on three worlds, every identifiable, locatable scion of the Calasalii, male, female, and child, was taken into custody.”

“I was removed from the rolls,” she said, “for profligacy, for irresponsibility, for scandal, for bringing disgrace, discredit, on the family. I would no longer be recognized or received. I was allotted a pittance, and denied all contact with the family.”

“Unfortunately,” said the officer, “we did not seize you on the Morning of Apprehension, in the full glory of your freedom. It would have pleased us to strip and brand you, and then fasten your neck in its first collar.”

“I fear,” she said, “I was already marked and collared before what you call the Morning of Apprehension.”

“How came you to the collar?” he said.

“I was party to a political intrigue,” she said, “in which I thought myself, in judicious masquerade, to play the part of a slave girl, but I later discovered that the legalities inflicted on me were authentic, and I had been truly enslaved.”

“Where did this take place?”

“On Inez IV,” she said.

“Continue,” he said.

“I first discovered myself truly a slave,” she said, “on Tangara, when the plot of the intrigue was foiled. I was then marked. I was sold to Heruls, a dreadful, fearful form of life, who later sold me to a dealer from Venitzia, the provincial capital of Tangara. In Venitzia I was sold to an agent, or agents, of Bondage Flowers. I and others were shipped to Telnar. I subsequently found myself in various collars. Most recently, as Master is aware, I was purchased from the sales shelf of Tenrik’s Woman Market, in Telnar.”

“We will want a name for you,” he said. “What were you most recently called?”

“Cornhair, Master,” she said.

“It will do,” he said. “What is your name?”

“‘Cornhair’, Master,” she said.

“The highest women of the Calasalii,” he said, “are worthless tarts and belong in collars, at the feet of Masters. Their noblest and finest deserve no better than to be the degraded slaves of the Farnichi.”

“I fear, Master,” said Cornhair, “that I am not amongst their noblest and finest. Indeed, I have been removed from the rolls of the Calasalii.”

“But once?” he said.

“Yes,” she said, “once.”

“Do you know what this is?” he asked, lifting an object which had been reposing on the right arm of his chair.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “it is a slave switch.” Surely there was no mistaking the nature of the artifact. Any Telnarian would be familiar with such things. And surely she knew it well from her miserable days in the collar of the Lady Gia Alexia of the Telnar Darsai.

The officer then cast the switch to the side. “Fetch,” he said, “and bring it to me, in your teeth.”

Cornhair crawled to the artifact, put down her head, and picked up the object in her teeth. She held it crosswise between her teeth, evenly, and aesthetically, as is expected, when a slave is put to this simple task.

“See the Calasalii bitch,” laughed a man.

Cornhair, the switch between her teeth, crawled to the dais, and climbed upon it, and, when she was before her Master, at his knees, she lifted her head, proffering him the implement, which he took, and put across his knees.

“You may now beg to be beaten,” he said.

“I beg to be beaten,” she said, “Master.”

“Do you truly wish to be beaten?” he asked.

“No, no, Master!” she said. “Please do not beat me.”

Men about the thronelike chair laughed.

“But you are a slave,” said the officer.

“Even so, Master!” said Cornhair.

“Why do you wish not to be beaten?” he asked.

“Because it hurts,” she said. “Because it hurts, terribly, Master.”

“Back off the dais,” he said. “Go down, to the floor, some feet before the dais, where we can all see you, and well.”

Cornhair, shuddering, complied.

“On your belly,” he said.

Cornhair then lay prone before her Master.

“A fitting posture of a Calasalii woman before one of the Farnichi,” said a man.

“You are unclothed,” said the officer.

“I have not been given clothing, Master,” said Cornhair.

“On your back,” he said.

Cornhair could now see the vaulted ceiling above her. She felt very vulnerable, lying so.

“You, and you,” said the officer, addressing himself to two of the men in uniform. “Fetch each of you a slave whip, and position yourselves a few feet from the slave, one on each side.”

A minute or so later, perhaps following some sign given by the officer on the thronelike chair, which chair Cornhair could not see, both whips were suddenly unexpectedly, snapped.

Cornhair, startled, cried out in misery. She had not been touched.

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

“No, Master!” said Cornhair.

“We shall see,” he said. “Are you willing to try not to be beaten, and try in the way of the slave?”

“Yes, Master! Yes, Master!” said Cornhair.

“You are not to rise to your feet,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Begin,” he said.

A few minutes later, the officer said, “Stop,” and Cornhair lay on the carpet before the dais, on her belly, gasping for breath, drenched with sweat. She realized, half failing to understand it, that the leather had not touched her once. She also tried to grasp what had occurred, and what might be its import. She knew she had never felt more female than she had before these men, unclothed, and collared, writhing, begging, rolling, kneeling, extending limbs for scrutiny, casting glances, engaging in the display behaviors of the female slave. How thrilled she was to be so free, to exhibit herself as the purchasable object she was. How devastatingly was she then aware of her sex, and its fundamental, radical difference from that of the male. How could it not be so, as she was naked and collared, vulnerable and helpless, commanded, under the will of Masters. She was not exploited. She was owned, and must obey. Never before had she been so aware of her sex, its nature, and its meaning. She was satisfied with herself, and lay there gasping, and sweating, joyful to be a woman and a slave, rejoicing that she wore a man’s collar.

It was so much what she wanted, and it was on her neck, and, owned, she could not remove it.

“You have been trained,” said the officer.

“No,” said Cornhair, gasping, “no, Master.”

“You belong in a collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” whispered Cornhair, “I belong in a collar.”

The officer turned to a subordinate. “Take her away,” he said, “and see that she is cleaned, rested, and fed. Then, tonight, at the tenth hour, bring her to my chambers. There, on her knees, this woman, naked and collared, once of the Larial Calasalii, will serve me kana.”

Several men laughed.

“And then,” said a man, “have a pleasant time with her, Rurik.”

“I will,” said the officer.

So Cornhair lay curled at the feet of her Master, Rurik, in the Farnichi enclave, overlooking the Turning Serpent, somewhat northeast of Telnar. A silver chain, as we recall, ran from the ring on her silver overcollar to the ring set in the floor to the left of his thronelike chair, in which he received visitors. Beneath the overcollar she wore a simple close-fitting collar bearing the Farnichi emblem, the five petaled Pin Flower, native to Larial VII. She was not clothed, quite possibly for reasons we earlier suggested.

“We await guests,” had said Rurik.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I am curious as to their business,” he said. “It is interesting. They come incognito.”

“Master may have me removed,” she said, “or he may unchain me, and I shall hurry to my cage, and crawl within.”

“You will remain,” he had said. “I enjoy displaying you, a pretty slave, once a woman of the Calasalii.”

At that point a staff, presumably that of the constable, or some other official, smote thrice, in a measured fashion, on the outside of the large, double door leading into the audience chamber.

“Enter,” called Rurik.

The two doors swung open, and three men approached, in nondescript garb; the first was blond, handsome, and well-formed, whose bearing, despite his garmenture, suggested that of the military; the second was a very large man, with bold, coarse features which suggested barbarian blood; the third was the slightest of the three and seemed more suited to accounts and records than traversing the possibly dangerous precincts of a Farnichi enclave in the vicinity of Telnar.

“We are gown-and-jewel merchants from Tinos,” announced the young man with military bearing.

Behind them, at the end of the long carpet, the double doors closed.

“Scarcely,” said Rurik.

“Sir?” said the young man.

“We are alone,” said Rurik. “You may speak openly.”

“I gather we are expected,” said the young man. “Our credentials have been transmitted?”

“Yes,” said Rurik, “but not the purport of your call.”

“I am Julian, of the Aureliani,” said the young man, “cousin to the emperor, now embarked on imperial business of the greatest moment.” He then indicated the large form to his right. “This,” he said, “is Ottonius, captain in the imperial auxiliaries, and this,” and here he indicated the third of the visitors, “is Tuvo Ausonius, formerly of the imperial civil service.”

“I am Rurik,” said the host, “Tenth Consul of Larial VII, Rurik, of the Larial Farnichi.”

“Forgive me, sir,” said Julian, “but I find it strange that the Tenth Consul of Larial VII should be on Telnaria.”

“And perhaps also,” said Rurik, “that a foreign enclave this redoubtable should be located so close to the imperial palace and senate?”

“Doubtless there is a purpose,” said Julian.

“There is,” said Rurik, “but I suspect that it is only now that the purpose will become clear.”

In the exchange of introductions, Cornhair, a slave, was no more to be introduced than a dog lying at his Master’s feet.

Needless to say, Cornhair was much disturbed to see Otto and Julian, whom she had not seen since the palace, and Tuvo Ausonius, whom she had not seen since the trouble in Orik’s camp, on the shore of the Turning Serpent. She kept her head down, and lay very still, hoping not to be noticed. To be sure, the beautiful curves of a chained slave are not likely to escape notice.

“We have been referred to you,” said Julian, “by a high personage, close to the throne.”

“Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol,” said Rurik.

“Possibly,” said Julian.

“It is interesting,” said Rurik. “One would suppose that an arbiter of protocol would be a minor officiant, little more than an authority on the etiquette of receiving and announcing visitors, a determiner of seating arrangements at state banquets, and such.”

“The title of an office and its power are not always congruent,” said Julian. “Sometimes an office or role is instituted which, over time, in the hands of the bold and ambitious, arrogates to itself functions and powers never envisaged by its founders, indeed, functions and powers which would be likely to have dismayed its founders.”

“Let us suppose your principal is Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol,” said Rurik.

“There seems no harm in the supposition,” said Julian.

“Proceed,” said Rurik.

“You are aware, of course,” said Julian, “that a raid, brief and fierce, took place recently in Telnar.”

“Batteries failed,” said Rurik.

“By intent,” said Julian.

“The point of the raid was to assassinate the emperor?” said Rurik.

“Better for the enemies of the empire that the emperor should thrive,” said Julian, “given his weakness and simplicity, his gibbering inanity.”

“The emperor is well?” asked Rurik.

“Yes,” said Julian.

“What, then, could be the point of the raid?” asked Rurik. “Merely an endeavor to inform the empire of its vulnerability?”

“Bold dynastic pretensions,” said Julian. “The princesses, Viviana and Alacida, have been abducted, to be wedded to the sons of Abrogastes, king of the Drisriaks, high tribe of the Aatii.”

“Surely this is not known,” said Rurik, leaning forward.

“It is not generally known,” said Julian.

“Surely such a matter cannot be long concealed,” said Rurik.

“We fear not,” said Julian.

“I begin to suspect the point of your presence here,” said Rurik, leaning back.

“As I understand it,” said Julian, “Larial VII and certain worlds were ravaged by internal strife, the clash of large, well-equipped, private armies.”

“Those of the Larial Calasalii and the Larial Farnichi,” said Rurik.

“Strife appears to have been costly, and indecisive,” said Julian.

“Worlds were in flames,” said Rurik. “It was madness.”

“Truce would seem to have been in order,” said Julian, “some sensible demarcation of territories, some rational division of authority, some acceptable allotment of spoils.”

“Certainly,” said Rurik. “To a neutral observer, outside the bloody compass of war, to one who has not been in the field, who has not suffered, some such solution appears obvious, even necessitated. But you do not know the Calasalii and the Farnichi, the bad blood, the history of animosity, the century of strife, the hatred, the tradition, how they view one another.”

“The empire intervened,” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Rurik.

“At the invitation of the Farnichi,” said Julian.

“As it happens,” said Rurik.

“It is rumored,” said Julian, “that Farnichi gold was involved.”

“I have heard that rumor,” said Rurik.

“And you know, I assume,” said Julian, “that it is true?”

“Who knows?” said Rurik. “It is difficult to say about rumors.”

“And it seems that more than gold was involved,” said Julian.

“Oh?” said Rurik.

“Your enclave is located near Telnar,” said Julian.

“Consider it an embassy,” said Rurik.

“Abetted by the empire,” said Julian, “you crushed the Calasalii.”

“The contribution of the imperial forces were, of course, welcome,” said Rurik.

“But, later,” said Julian, “there was a surreptitious outlawry of the Calasalii, subsequently, suddenly, made public, complete with pervasive seizures and arrests.”

“It was time their outlawry, practiced for a century, was legally recognized and acted on,” said Rurik.

“There would seem, in the view of many, in such a respect,” said Julian, “little to choose from, amongst the Calasalii and the Farnichi.”

“All are entitled to their opinion,” said Rurik.

“Men to mines and quarries,” said Julian, “women to the slave block, the chain and collar.”

“A condign resolution to the inequities of the Calasalii,” said Rurik.

“You have a well-curved slave at your feet,” said Otto.

Cornhair, her legs drawn up, kept her head down, hoping not to be recognized. She had shaken her hair a bit about her face.

Rurik nudged her with the side of his foot, and she whimpered a little, but kept her head down.

Rurik bent down and brushed the hair away from the back of her neck. In this way the silver overcollar was more clearly seen.

“This is a woman once of the Calasalii,” he said.

“I cannot see her well,” said Julian, “but I assume her features are delicate, feminine, and exquisite, slave-acceptable.”

“I find them so,” said Rurik. “Large, gross, plain, masculine women, if collared at all, which is presumably a mistake, for who would want them, are best put in the fields, the kitchens, and laundries.”

“Surely,” said Julian. “The collar is for the most desirable of women.”

“Yes,” said Rurik, “for true women, fit slaves.”

“They need only acknowledge to themselves that they are slaves, fit slaves,” said Julian, “and they will learn themselves, find themselves, and be happy.”

Cornhair, trying to hide her face, trying to keep her body small, trembled.

“She seems frightened,” said Otto.

“She is a slave,”’ said Rurik.

“The outlawry seems to go beyond the simple matter of alliances and the outcomes of battles,” said Julian.

“Perhaps,” said Rurik.

“More gold exchanged hands?” asked Julian.

“Who would know?” asked Rurik.

“I suspect an independent consideration was involved,” said Julian.

“What would lead you to suppose that?” asked Rurik.

“An armed enclave of the Farnichi on Telnaria,” said Julian, “under the command of the Tenth Consul of Larial VII.”

“Proceed, conjecture,” said Rurik, pleasantly.

“I suspect that in exchange for imperial help against the Calasalii, and perhaps, in particular, afterwards, for the outlawry of the Calasalii, more was involved than Farnichi gold.”

“A favor, or favors, perhaps,” suggested Rurik.

“Iaachus, the Arbiter of Protocol, should he be involved in this,” said Julian, “is an extremely clever and, I fear, unscrupulous man.”

“One hears various things,” said Rurik.

“Statecraft is subtle, and occasionally dark,” said Julian, “and sometimes unseen. It is not all broadcast negotiation, open meetings, public bargainings, flags, banners, proclamations, decrees, and such.

Sometimes one acts when there is no appearance of action.”

“And sometimes,” said Otto, regarding Cornhair, “it resides on the point of a knife.”

Cornhair shuddered, her head down. Had she been recognized?

“I am sure,” said Rurik, “my esteemed guests have something in mind.”

“Which doubtless you suspect,” said Julian.

“Surely you do not expect me to respond to what has not been spoken,” said Rurik.

“As the empire abetted the Farnichi, so, too, might the Farnichi be expected to abet the empire,” said Julian.

“Speak,” said Rurik.

“Why are you here?” said Julian. “The motivation is clear. Events precipitate specifics. Iaachus has brought you here to have a tool at readiness, a weapon which might be used in various ways at various times, to have at his disposal a private army, one outside of official channels, one unrelated to familiar resources.”

“Perhaps,” said Rurik.

“The princesses must be recovered,” said Julian.

“I understand,” said Rurik.