The Usurper (17 page)

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

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

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

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

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

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

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

Then she put aside the foolishness of even contemplating flight.

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

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

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

No one seemed to be about.

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

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

“Yes, Master!” she cried.

“Do you wish to speak?” he asked.

“Yes, yes, Master!” she cried.

“Speak,” he said.

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

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

“Yes, yes, Master!” she said.

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

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Without permission,” he said.

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

“Your petition is denied,” he said.

Shuddering, Cornhair kept her head down.

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

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

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

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

“Dress,” said an Otung.

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

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

She whimpered, frightened.

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

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

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

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

“Yes,” said the fellow.

“I have been sold?” she asked.

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

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

“Vain slut,” he said.

“Please,” she said, “Master.”

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

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

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

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

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

Cornhair had arrived at the Flats of Tung.

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

She clutched the bell, to keep it from clanking.

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

Cornhair was miserable, hiding beneath the wagon.

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

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

Cornhair remained where she was, trembling.

It was now an hour or so past noon.

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

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