The Usurper (24 page)

“You speak strangely,” said Otto.

“There was a medallion and chain, deeply cut, profoundly formed, weighty and gold, with the babe, the found infant,” said Julian. “I saw it. Brother Benjamin had held it for years. It is the symbol of office of the King of the Vandal Nations.”

As I may have mentioned, the most likely origin of the word ‘Vandal' is from “Vanland,” or “woodland,” or “forest land.” The Vandals, thus, would be the “woodland folk” or the “forest people,” or such. Later semantic accretions to the term should not be allowed to reflect on the etiology involved. Such accretions have more to do with historically acquired associations.

“The Wolfungs, of whom I am chief, and the Otungs, of whom I am King, are Vandal nations,” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Julian, “and so, too, are the Darisi, the Haakons, and Basungs.”

“True,” said Otto.

“And there are other nations, too,” said Julian, “who are related to the Vandals, or look up to the Vandals.”

“Perhaps,” said Otto.

“The greatest threat to the empire,” said Julian, “is the threat of the Aatii, as they are referred to in the imperial records. You know them as the Alemanni, a nation which consists of eleven tribes, though I fear it influences and enleagues others, as well. As you are well aware, the largest, the mightiest, and most fierce of the Alemanni tribes is the Drisriaks.”

“The Vandals and the Alemanni are traditional enemies,” said Otto.

“That is known to me,” said Julian.

“You would use me for your purposes,” said Otto.

“For our purposes,” said Julian.

“But, perhaps, trained and armed, we will turn on you,” said Otto.

“Do you think the Alemanni would share worlds with the Vandals?” asked Julian.

“No,” said Otto, “nor with the empire.”

“The empire is sick with a thousand poisons,” said Julian. “Men do not love her. They hope to thrive in her body as parasites. They suck blood they refuse to replenish. Virtue is mocked; honor derided, trust forsworn. Weapons rust; barracks are empty. Patriotism is jeered, loyalty scorned. Incense no longer perfumes our temples; the smoke of burnt offerings no longer rises to the sky; ancient altars are bereft of gifts.”

“The empire is done,” said Otto, “even if it should take a thousand years to die.”

“No!” said Julian.

“Small men,” said Otto, “will not do the work of giants. They will concern themselves with small things.”

“The empire was the work of giants,” said Julian.

“The giants are no more,” said Otto.

“A miserable fate, that the heritage of lions must be bequeathed to
filchen
.”

“There are few lions, many
filchen
,” said Otto.

“I fear the sky will become dark with the coming of ships.”

“What is that to me?” said Otto.

“The loss of
civilitas
, the beginnings of chaos and tramplings, the rise of a thousand tyrannies,” said Julian.

“You would pit Vandals against Alemanni,” said Otto, “your enemies against one another. Let them erode and exhaust themselves, and then, wounded and weak, drained of blood, succumb to the mace of the empire. It is an old trick, one remembered in the tents and halls.”

“Rather,” said Julian, “let fresh blood enliven the empire, let forceful, clean winds sweep rot away. Let new giants be enlisted in noble, antique causes, let new swords be forged.”

“Where is the medallion and chain?” asked Otto.

“You are interested?” said Julian.

“Where is it?” asked Otto.

“You could use it for your own ends, but I would that it be used for the needs of worlds, for the promotion of
civilitas
, for the cleansing and rebirth of the empire.”

“The empire,” said Otto, gesturing to the cool, white, quiet, desolate expanse before him, “did this.”

“Forces within the empire,” said Julian, “which must be thwarted and overcome.”

“Let the empire perish,” said Otto.

“And with her the walls beyond which hungry beasts lurk, walls which for ten thousand years have kept the thoughtless, encroaching, teeming forest, and its creatures, at bay?”

“Where is the medallion and chain?” said Otto.

“I do not know,” said Julian. “I have had it much searched for. Officers have combed the ruins, moved stones, sorted rubble, pried up tiles, raked and sifted ash, all to no avail.”

“Then there is nothing to be done,” said Otto. “Without it the Vandals cannot be gathered. The empire must deal with the Alemanni, and its allies, as best it can.”

“It must exist,” said Julian. “I saw it. It would not be destroyed.”

“It must be concealed, perhaps in the ruins,” said Otto.

“It was not hidden. Brother Benjamin kept it in a box, a leather case, in his cell. I saw it there. The attack was not anticipated. It was sudden and unexpected, fierce and thorough. There would have been no reason, nor time, to hurry it into hiding, to take special precautions on its behalf.”

“Then it was destroyed in the attack,” said Otto, “the blast, the heat.”

“The search was thorough,” said Julian. “Not even a droplet of gold, not even a bead, was found in the ruins.”

“It was stolen?” said Otto.

“I fear so,” said Julian.

“By a brother?”

“Unlikely,” said Julian.

“After the attack, by peasants, by Heruls?”

“Perhaps,” said Julian. “But there is no reason to believe so. Inquiries have been made, rewards offered. Nothing has materialized.”

“Then by whom?”

“A visitor, a spy,” said Julian.

“It matters not,” said Otto.

“It matters much,” said Julian. “He who possesses the artifact might rally the Vandals to any cause.”

“Not the Wolfungs, not the Otungs,” said Otto.

“Perhaps even they,” said Julian. “You do not know the portent of the medallion and chain.”

“I knew not that it existed,” said Otto.

“If nothing else,” said Julian, “its loss might well prevent another from rousing the Vandals.”

“Such as Otto, King of the Otungs?” said Otto.

“Yes,” said Julian.

“Look before you,” said Otto. “See white snow. It covers blackened stone. Where there stood a mighty edifice now reposes a bleak summit. The wind here is cold and the clouds bright. A hawk soars overhead.”

“I am sorry, dear Ottonius,” said Julian.

“Do you think the empire can be conquered so easily?” said Otto.

“Not easily conquered,” said Julian, “but easily seized.”

And then the two men turned their mounts to the backtrail, leading down, far below, to the Plains of Barrionuevo, or the Flats of Tung, leaving behind them the ruins of a great house, the
festung
of Sim Giadini.

Chapter Seventeen

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

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

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

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

“I am a free woman!” she cried.

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

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

“Someone is coming!” said a girl.

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

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

Surely, with wit, she might win her freedom!

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

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

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

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

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

“What does this mean?” asked Cornhair.

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

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

“Where?” asked a girl.

“Masters know, not we,” said another.

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

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

“Fresh straw, fresh beasts,” said another.

“I am not a beast,” said Cornhair.

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

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

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

“White Ankles is a liar,” said Cornhair.

“What is your name?” asked the girl.

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

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

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

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

“‘Liar'!” said several of the girls.

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

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

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

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

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

“I did,” said a girl.

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

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

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

“Forty,” said the first girl.

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

Cornhair clenched her fists in frustration.

Tears ran down her cheeks.

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

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

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

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

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

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

“Of course,” said another.

“Why ankleting?” asked a girl.

“Shipping anklets,” said a girl.

“Why not shipping collars?” asked another.

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

“I do not understand,” said a girl.

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

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

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

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

“Yes?” said the first girl.

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

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

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

“‘Publennia',” said Cornhair.

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

“Thank you, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

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

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

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

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