The Usurper (29 page)

Chapter Twenty-Three

Huta stirred at the foot of the high seat, her hands on the neck chain fastened to the ring set in the planks to her right.

Ingeld, seated in the high seat, of his own hall, awaiting his guest, pressed his boot against her thigh.

“Oh, yes, Master,” she whispered, and leaned toward him, to press her lips, swiftly, to his knee.

“Back,” he said, and she whimpered, but quickly drew back. The lash is not pleasant.

Ingeld smiled to himself.

How different she was, from months ago, from the time when she had, as the proud, aloof, lofty, white-gowned high priestess of the Timbri, claimedly the servant of the ten thousand gods, by means of prophecies and false signs, abetted the ambitions of Ortog, first son of Abrogastes, or, as some would have it, led him astray into treason. Ortog had been popular, a lusty, laughing, hardy fellow, a natural leader of men, one born to rally followers, one from whom men would gladly accept rings. It seems, too, he was not only the first son of Abrogastes, but his favorite son, as well. But Ortog, it seems, was too like his father, a man of large appetites, a warrior of vaulting ambition, of sovereign interests, one not honed by nature to follow in the tracks of others, one who would be the lord of new, fresh countries. He would govern his own fleets, command his own armies, found his own nation. And so, as it happened, he had withdrawn his allegiance from his father, Abrogastes, the Far-Grasper, lord of the Drisriaks, the major tribe of the Alemanni nation, commonly known in the imperial records by the Telnarian name, the Aatii. He, Ortog, had founded the secessionist tribe to be known, from his name, as the Ortungen. And thus a prince of the Drisriaks had become a king. His venture had, however, not been long-lived, as, mere months following the secession, his forces had been defeated and scattered by the pursuing, implacable Abrogastes. He himself, Ortog, with several followers, unaware of the recent fate of his cohorts, had been surprised and apprehended on a meeting world, a neutral world, at a place called, in Alemanni, Tenguthaxichai, which, it seems, might be brought into Telnarian as, say, Tengutha's Camp, or the Camp, or Lair, of Tengutha. The justice, or vengeance, of the betrayed Abrogastes had been violent and bloody, leaving few survivors. Abrogastes himself had dealt an apparently lethal blow to Ortog, his rebellious son. But Otto, a chieftain of the Wolfungs present, had cast a robe over the body, as it was to be borne from the meeting tent on blanket-wrapped spears. In this way it was concealed that the body borne away on the spears yet lived, at least at the time. It had been speculated that Abrogastes, no stranger to the killing of foes, had directed his stroke in such a manner as to convey to his followers the semblance of justice, while simultaneously permitting his son at least a tenuous possibility of life. The ties of blood are strong, and fast. It was generally understood amongst the Alemanni and their allies that Ortog had perished at Tenguthaxichai. Ingeld and Hrothgar, two other sons also, as we understand it, believed Ortog dead; on the other hand, Abrogastes himself, if we are correct, after dealing his grievous blow, would have remained unaware of his first son's fate, being ignorant of either his demise or recovery.

Abrogastes, as the records have it, had several sons, doubtless by various wives. On the other hand, only three are dealt with by more than brief references in the Annals. Indeed, we know of some only by name. The three we encounter more substantially in the Annals are Ortog, the first son, Ingeld, the second son, and Hrothgar, who may have been the third or fourth son. Hrothgar seems to have been a straightforward, uncomplicated, congenial, cheerful, boorish fellow, one disinterested in politics and power, one surely more fond of the pleasures of the feasting board than of the intricacies of councils or the ardors of windswept, muddy fields; it is suggested, as well, that he was fond of drink, horses, falcons, and women. Ingeld, the second son of Abrogastes, on the other hand, seemed composed of a darker, less tangible, subtler stuff. He was apparently hard to know, hard to fathom. Perhaps none knew him; perhaps none fathomed him. Surely he kept his own counsel. He spoke little. It seems he was an unlikely giver of rings. Few sought his hall. Men were often uneasy in his presence. He was never seen drunk. Abrogastes feared Ingeld.

Ingeld, on the high seat in his hall, watched the large double-doors at the far end of the hall.

An unusual visitor had sued for an audience.

“Why not,” Ingeld wondered, “with my father, in his hall?”

Huta whimpered, again.

“Silence, pig,” said Ingeld.

But he was not displeased to hear her tiny signal of need.

It had been done to her.

“How helpless they are, and needful,” he thought, “once it is done to them, once Masters ignite their bellies, once they know themselves in collars.”

Yes, men had done it, clearly, transforming her, casually, routinely, giving the matter, though she had been a priestess, no more thought than would have been bestowed upon the least of block girls. She, as they, had been dragged down a path of reality and comprehension from which there was no return.

“How pleasant it is,” he thought, “to have them at your feet, as piteous, begging, kneeling beasts.”

He looked down on the former priestess, the white skin, the long black hair, now unbound, the chain on her neck.

“Good,” he thought. “Excellent,” he thought.

She, Huta, the former priestess, was no longer a person, no longer the Mistress of her own body. She was now a beast, and her body was the body of a beast, an owned beast, a lovely, owned beast. She who had once prided herself on her superiority to sex, on her disdaining of biology, on her denial of nature, on her repudiation of her deepest self, on her immunity to need, on her frigidity and inertness, now found herself, originally to her shock and dismay, brought home to the fact that she was, and would be henceforth, profoundly, radically, helplessly, and needfully, a sexual creature. She was now, as others, the victim of her own needs, liberated and aroused, released and stimulated; she, as others, was now helplessly subject to the incendiary tortures of desire. She who had held men in contempt for their insatiable, brutish nature now found in herself the response to, and the complement of, whether she willed it or not, such gross, signal appetites. Not only that, but she found now that her responsiveness to the very presence of men, let alone to their touch, was weakness, helplessness, a readiness for yielding, and a hoping, and even a plea, to be wanted, and, given the touch of even a hand or tongue, this responsiveness could become uncontrollably explosive, even violent. It was difficult, moaning, crying out, whimpering, and thrashing, to even comprehend what she had become. Yet the answer was simple. She had become a slave.

“Is your body your own?” asked Ingeld.

“No, Master,” she said.

“Is anything your own?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“What of your least thought, or feeling?” he asked.

“They, too, are owned,” she said.

“Who owns you?” he asked.

“Men,” she said.

“But who, in particular?” he asked.

“Your father,” she said. “I am afraid to be here. Does he know I am here?”

“No,” said Ingeld.

“I am afraid,” she said.

“Why should you be afraid?” he said. “You are chained to a ring.”

“I fear Master wants Huta,” she said.

“Perhaps,” he said. “Would you object?”

“Master is young and handsome,” she said. “And I am only a slave.”

“You look much better now,” he said, “than when you were a priestess. Nudity and a chain become you.”

“I belong to your father,” she said.

“As of now,” he said.

“Your father,” she said, “is possessive, a man of great power, a man of temper, of wrath, of mighty fury.”

“As of now,” he said.

“Might we not both be slain?” she asked.

“I am heir apparent to the high seat in the great hall,” he said.

“So, too, was Ortog,” she said.

“Ortog did not plan well,” he said. “He managed his business badly.”

“There is your brother, Hrothgar,” she whispered.

“Hrothgar is a fool,” he said. “He is often in his cups. He would rather have a falcon on his wrist than a scepter in his hand.”

“I am afraid,” she said. “I fear your words, I fear your voice, your eyes.”

“Why?” he asked.

“Behind your eyes,” she whispered, “I think there are secret thoughts.”

“Nonsense,” said Ingeld, “I am merely another simple, pleasant fellow.”

“Subtle, ambitious thoughts,” she said.

“Of treason?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“I speak no treason,” he said.

“Who would be so unwise as to do so?” she said.

“Why are you afraid?” he asked.

“In the presence of treachery, or treason, who would not be afraid?”

“Only the free need be afraid,” he said. “Beasts, dogs, horses, slaves, need not be afraid.”

“Even the beast of a traitor, his dog or horse, might be slaughtered,” she said.

“True,” he said. “Once loosed, it is sometimes difficult to restrain the sword of anger and vengeance.”

“Too,” she said, “I am your father's property. He does not know I am here. I do not belong here.”

“But you like the touch of a boot on your thigh, do you not?” he asked.

“Master Abrogastes, my Master,” she said, “hates me, and suspects it was I who seduced Ortog into the paths of secession.”

“Was it not?” asked Ingeld.

“One such as Ortog does not follow well, or long,” she said. “He wanted signs, and prophecies. Assurances of success. I supplied such things.”

“Hastening defection,” said Ingeld.

“I fear so,” she said.

“And hoped to gain concessions thereby, recognitions, status, and profits for your fraudulent rites and claims.”

“Yes, Master,” she said, “but now I am naked, on a chain.”

“If you were to be found here,” said Ingeld, “it is possible that Abrogastes would hold you accountable, suspecting that you hoped to ply your wiles once more, hoping to seduce yet another of his sons into the paths of secession, into the country of deceit and treachery.”

“It is not true, Master!” she said.

“You and I know that,” he said, “but my father does not.”

“Master?” she said.

“He might not be pleased to learn of your new stratagem,” said Ingeld.

“I have no stratagem,” she said. “I am a slave!”

“But perhaps a sly slave,” said Ingeld. “I need only hint such a thing to my father.”

“You would not do so!” she said.

Ingeld smiled.

“Have mercy on me, Master,” she said. “I am now only a girl, marked, and fastened to a ring at your feet.”

“You are afraid, are you not?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“Do you know why you have been brought here?”

“No, Master!”

“Surely you suspect,” he said.

“No, Master!” she said.

“Are you not a slave?” he asked.

“I belong to your father!” she said.

“As of now,” he said.

“I beg to be sent back to my cage!”

“Perhaps I shall have you on the planks at the foot of the high seat,” he said.

“What if the shriek of my ecstasy should carry to the ears of Abrogastes?” she said.

“Surely, as a slave,” he said, “you are familiar with gags.”

“Have mercy on me, Master,” she wept. “Beat me, if you wish, but return me to my cage!”

“When I touched you,” he said, “you responded.”

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“Do not fear,” he said. “I will have you in my arms, and as the slave you are, when I wish. But I have not brought you here for such a purpose.”

“Master?”

“I am expecting a guest,” he said. “And when he is admitted, and welcomed, I want you at my feet.”

“As I am?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said, “exactly as you are.”

At this point, there were three loud knocks on the left side of the double door, as one would face it from within, from the high seat, what would be the right side of the door, from the outside. These sounds were the result of the measured striking of a spear butt three times against the heavy wood. The Drisriaks, as many other peoples, even in a day of hoverers, rifles, and sky ships, were fond of traditions and antique usages. For example, the vaulted ceiling of the hall was of timbers, and its floor was of earth, strewn, in the ancient fashion, with rushes.

“Enter,” called Ingeld.

Chapter Twenty-Four

The whip snapped.

Some men looked up, from the house, to the platform.

“Lot two hundred and twenty-seven,” said a voice.

Cornhair winced, bent over, a keeper's hand tight in her hair.

Again the whip snapped, and Cornhair was yanked upright, and then, her hair released, thrust forward, stumbling, she climbed the seven steps to the height of the broad, rounded surface, seven steps as there are seven letters in the most common Telnarian word for a female slave.

Cornhair, brightly illuminated, centered in a pool of light, unable to see well into the darkened house, was turned about, before the crowd.

She heard her attributes, in detail, her hair and eye color, her height and weight, her lovely measurements, pleasant to behold, proclaimed to the men. This was done by a clerk, he who had read her lot number, at a table near the foot of the block, on its right side, as one would face the house.

Then, small drums pounded, and two double flutes came alive.

There were four musicians, who were, as the clerk, near the foot of the block, but they were more to the left side, as one might look toward the house.

The melody was sensuous, suitable for its purpose, to enhance the exhibition of a slave. It swayed in the house like a snake of sound.

Not all markets employ musicians.

Interestingly it was more often done in the lower houses, where, one supposes, lower-level merchandise would be more likely to be offered.

Supposedly it stirs the crowds, makes men more willing to part with their coins.

Too, one supposes it might compensate to a degree for, or distract attention to a degree from, the quality of merchandise being offered in a lower house.

To be sure, sometimes a genuine bargain may be obtained in such a place.

“Can you dance?” he asked.

“Stately dances, if suitably partnered, dances appropriate to my former station,” she whispered.

“Are you stupid?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said. “I do not think so, Master.”

“You hear the music,” he said. “Can you dance, the dances of what you are, the dances of slaves?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Dance,” he said.

Again the whip snapped.

Cornhair cried out in fear and misery, but the leather had not touched her.

“Put your hands over your head,” he said. “Bend your knees, hear the music, use your hips! You are for sale!”

So Cornhair, in her terror and misery, tried to dance.

But we fear she was too frightened to do well. Or, perhaps there was a subtle unwillingness or resistance in her, an inhibition owing to her former status and station in life. Could she be truly a slave? Could it be she, truly, on this smooth, rounded block, barefoot, in the sawdust, in the pool of light, being exhibited before men?

Could she be truly for sale?

Was this not incomprehensible, unthinkable?

What woman could even imagine herself being sold?

Was this not some fantastic aberration, or illusion, some untoward nightmare?

No.

But how then did she do so poorly?

Did she not yet realize, in her emotions, and thoughts, and belly, that she was a slave?

It was now what she was.

Was the knowledge of her bondage as yet a mere matter of intellectual acknowledgement, little more than an acquiescence of sorts, little more than some abstract recognition of an indisputable fact of law?

To be sure, perhaps her belly had not yet been suitably enflamed; or perhaps she had not yet come to the treasured point where her entire being would become one with the understanding of, and the joy of, bondage, the point where her entire nature would be suffused with what she was, the point at which she would kneel instantly, naturally, and gladly, waiting to be commanded, wishing to be found pleasing by her Master, the point at which she would know the ecstasy of being owned, the point at which she would choose no other life for herself than one of submission, slavery, and love.

“Call out,” he demanded.

“Please buy me!” she wept. “I beg to be purchased!”

There was laughter from the crowd.

Clearly the fellow beside her, with his whip, was not pleased.

Cornhair even heard, here and there, in the house, muchly dark before her, the faces hard to see, the laughter of two or three women. What were they doing here, in such a place, a vending place for low slaves? Did they think to find some trained woman's slave here, some mistress of the care of hair and skin, the possessors of subtle cosmetic secrets, one wise in the matching and folding of garments, in the arrangements of jewelries, a confidant from whom seductive insights, likely to be known only to a slave, might be garnered, a discreet and reliable messenger capable of arranging assignations?

So Cornhair, despite being a woman, and one of admittedly comely and delectable attributes, found herself, to her chagrin and humiliation, an object of ridicule and scorn.

How strange this was, as any woman, even if untrained, has it in her body, like the beating of her heart and the circulation of her blood, like the chemistry of her glands, the disposition and readiness, the primed latency, to move as a supplicatory female before men, if only in kneeling, and lowering herself gracefully to the ground, if only in prostrating herself, if only in extending and withdrawing limbs, in calling attention to charms, in smiling, pleading, in moving, rolling, turning about, on back or belly. Surely they realize, somehow, what desirable objects they are, what alluring, luscious objects they are, must sense, if not realize, how men might see them, with such possessive excitement, how men might want them, literally to the rope, collar, and manacle. Have such things not been selected for, over millennia, at the mouths of caves, in forest glades, in capture camps, on streets amidst burning buildings. By such behaviors have not thousands saved themselves from the ax and sword though at the expense of the collar and chain?

“Very well,” he said, abruptly.

He indicated that the music should cease.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair, relieved.

He snapped the whip, smartly, and she, inadvertently, cried out.

“If you cannot dance,” he said. “At least, I trust, you can move.”

“Master?” she said.

“Now,” he said, “move! Writhe! Twist about! Extend your hands! Crouch! Rise! Display yourself! Plead! Beg! You are merchandise! Show it! Why do you think you are where you are? What do you think your belly and hips are for? Please buyers! Beg to be purchased! Whimper for the chains of a Master! Have no fear, they will be locked on you! Sell cheap and you will live in dirt and work hard. Sell dear and you need fear little more than being displeasing.”

A moment or two later Cornhair sank to her knees on the block, shuddering, only to have her head pulled up, by the hair, by the man's left hand.

One gathers the bids were desultory.

Also, there was apparently a minimum bid of twenty
darins
, which sum, however modest, was apparently not reached.

In disgust the fellow thrust Cornhair from the block, into the arms of a keeper, to the left, waiting on the fifth stair.

“Noble sirs,” he called to the crowd, “what a flower you have allowed to escape your grasp!”

There was laughter from the house.

“But, woe,” said the man. “The sale has been long, the weather warm, the hour late. But be patient! We shall do better now! Much better!” Then, at his nod, the clerk, near the foot of the block, called out, “Lot two hundred and twenty-eight!”

The auctioneer glanced to his left, where the keeper, now on the fourth step, preparing to descend, had Cornhair, bent over, his hand locked in her hair, in custody.

“Lash her,” said the auctioneer.

“It will be done,” said the keeper.

“Please, no, Master!” wept Cornhair.

“There are other dispositions for such as you,” he said. “Take her away, and see that she is well lashed.”

“It will be so,” said the keeper.

In the tiers, Lady Delia Cotina, of the Telnar Farnacii, turned to her companion, Lady Virginia Serena, she of the lesser Serenii, also of Telnar.

“I think she will do very nicely,” she said.

“I think so, too,” said Lady Virginia.

“Certainly she will be cheap,” said Lady Delia.

“That is nice, as well,” said Lady Virginia.