The King Read online

  "No, Master!" cried Huta. "The officiants of the rites of the ten thousand gods of Timbri are chaste, and sworn to purity! We are sacred virgins. We are consecrated virgins! We must not even think of men!"

  There was laughter about the tables.

  "Surely in your sacred beds you must think a little on such things, and wriggle upon occasion," called a fellow.

  Huta blushed scarlet, her body aflame.

  "Ours is a spiritual religion," she wept, crying out to the tables, looking one way, and then another. "We are concerned only with matters of the spirit! We must move sedately, with dignity. We must be modestly, heavily, and concealingly clothed! We may not reveal so much as an ankle! We dare not dance! It is forbidden! The dance is too biological! It is too real! In it it is often impossible to conceal the form of the body! It is a form of expression even of many animal species!"

  "But no animal can dance like a slave girl," said a man.

  That was true, of course. The dance was a form of expression of incredible psychophysical, psychosexual import. It was no mere instinctual acting out of ancient genetic patterns, but an acting out of such patterns, and imbued templates, as was consequent upon, embellished by, and enriched by, thousands of meaningful, expressive cultural, institutional, and societal refinements and enhancements. Still, of course, beneath all this sophistication and refinement, there lurked, in all their pristine fury, in all their primitive urgency, as old as tiny fires and limestone caves, ancient things, the pounding in the loins and the aching in the belly.

  Huta put her head in her hands, weeping.

  The pointer on the scale was now, of course, given the cast pellets, inclined clearly to the left, toward the tiny skull at the left, bottom termination of the semicircular, graduated dial.

  "You have forsworn your gods," said Abrogastes, loudly, as Huta looked up, between her hands.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Then you are no longer a priestess of the Timbri," he said.

  "No, Master," she said.

  "Then you are no longer a sacred virgin, a consecrated virgin?"

  "No, Master!"

  "But you are a virgin," he said.

  "Until Master sees fit to take my virginity from me, or have it taken," she said.

  "A priestess of the Timbri may not dance," said Abrogastes. "But you are not a priestess of the Timbri."

  "No, Master."

  "You are no longer modestly, heavily, concealingly clothed," observed Abrogastes.

  "No, Master," she said.

  There was laughter from the tables.

  "What are you?" he asked.

  "A slave girl, Master," she said.

  "And it is permissible for a slave girl to dance?"

  "Yes, Master."

  "Many are even trained in the dances of slaves," said Abrogastes.

  "I would not know, Master," she said.

  "It is true," he said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "And for what do you exist?" he asked.

  "To serve my masters with instant, unquestioning obedience and total perfection!" she said, frightened.

  "Do not fear," he said. "I shall not, not now, command you to dance."

  "Thank you, Master!" she said.

  "The decision, rather, shall be yours," said Abrogastes.

  "Master?" she said.

  "Behold the scale," said Abrogastes.

  Huta moaned.

  Abrogastes signaled to the musicians, and they began to play a simple, arresting melody, one that seemed to speak of the sand latitudes of Beyira II, and the secret lamp-hung interiors of the dark tents, but, as the slave did not move, they ceased.

  They looked at Abrogastes, to see if they should continue.

  He gave them no sign.

  "I cannot dance!" wept Huta. "I do not know how! I would be clumsy, and the pellets would condemn me."

  "Consider the scale," said Abrogastes. "As it stands now, you already stand condemned."

  "You would so humiliate me, that I should dance as I am, and as a slave, and might still be condemned to death?"

  "Yes," said Abrogastes.

  "I was a priestess of the Timbri!" she cried. "I was a sacred virgin, a consecrated virgin, sworn to chastity, to purity and spirituality, and you would have me dance-as a slave!"

  "You may do as you wish," said Abrogastes. "I leave the matter up to you."

  "Kill her!" cried men. "Kill her!"

  "Be done with it, milord!" called another. "Kill her!"

  One man, clearly human, rose up and, looking fiercely at the slave, flung a pellet into the pan of the skull.

  Another leapt up, and did so, as well.

  The hound at the side of Abrogastes rose up, its fur bristling about its neck, and the hump there, eyeing the slave.

  "Steady, lad," said Abrogastes. "Steady!"

  And another man flung a pellet into the pan of death, and another did so, as well.

  "Master!" cried Huta. "Do you not care for your slave, a little?"

  "No," said Abrogastes.

  "Master?" she said.

  "You deceived my son, Ortog," said Abrogastes. "You abetted crime. You aided in the fomentation of rebellion and treason. You should die."

  "Please, no, Master!" she wept. "Have pity on one who is now no more than a poor slave!"

  Abrogastes made an angry noise, one of surly impatience, and scowled.

  "Do you not care, Master, for your slave, just a little?"

  "There is not one in this hall who does not despise and hate you," said Abrogastes.

  "But you, my master?"

  "You are hated," he said.

  She put her head down, and wept.

  Two more pellets were cast into the pan of the skull, the pan of death.

  Huta looked up, shaking her head wildly.

  "What do you think?" Abrogastes asked the leader of the musicians.

  "We find the whip loosens them up, milord," said the musician.

  "They can be whipped anytime," said Abrogastes.

  "She has a well-curved body," said the musician, "with sweet, fleshy thighs, and nicely rounded upper arms. They would look well in slave armlets. And her face is a fine one, with its distinctive cheekbones, and its look of great intelligence. The hair is long, and black as jet, and might, if she understood its uses, be used as bonds or veil."

  Another pellet struck into the pan of death.

  "I cannot dance!" she cried to the leader of the musicians.

  "All women can dance," said he.

  "What chance have I?" she begged.

  "I do not know, little pudding," he said. "I have never even seen you serve at the tables."

  "What chance have I, Master?" cried Huta.

  "Perhaps one in a thousand," said Abrogastes.

  Huta moaned.

  Another pellet struck into the pan of the skull.

  "They want me to die!" wept Huta.

  "Yes," said a man, eagerly.

  "Yes!" cried another.

  "Surely in your dreams, and thoughts, little pudding," said the musician, "you have danced."

  "One chance in a thousand," said a second musician, "is better than none."

  "What can I dance?" she cried.

  "Dance yourself, and your dreams, and needs, and secret thoughts," said the leader of the musicians.

  "They want me to die!" wept Huta.

  "Prove to them that there might be some point in letting you live," said one of the musicians.

  "Dance what you are," said another. "Dance your slavery!"

  "My slavery?" said Huta.

  "Yes," said the musician.

  "Loose the hound on her, Abrogastes!" cried a man.

  "The hound, the hound, let it tear her to pieces!" cried another man.

  The great hound, hunched to the right of Abrogastes, by his bench, growled, almost inaudibly, menacingly.

  "Look," cried a man. "She is on her feet!"

  "Yes," said another.

  Huta had risen up, trem
bling. The great spear, held in place by two warriors, was behind her.

  The tables were silent.

  "I beg to dance all those things, Master," said Huta to Abrogastes, "-myself, my dreams, my needs, my secret thoughts my slavery."

  "You do not need my permission," said Abrogastes. "The matter is, for now, as I told you, in your own hands."

  "I dare not dance without the permission of my master," she said.

  Men at the tables exchanged glances, startled. Abrogastes lifted his hand, in token of permission, that the slave might dance.

  "But, too, I beg to dance as the slave of Abrogastes, who is my master!"

  Abrogastes regarded her, surprised.

  "Yes, Master," she said. "I am your slave, more deeply than you know."

  "Cunning slave!" snarled Abrogastes.

  But little did he suspect what wearing his chains and bonds had done to her.

  Their eyes met, and Abrogastes was troubled.

  "Your life is at stake," said Abrogastes.

  "Even so," she said, "I dare not dance without the permission of my master."

  "There are many here!" he said, gesturing angrily about the tables.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "Do you understand?" he asked.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You must dance to them, as well."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  The overwhelming majority of the feasters, as would be expected, were of the Alemanni, and related peoples. Too, substantial numbers of others were human, or humanoid.

  All eyes were on Huta.

  "You may dance," said Abrogastes.

  "Thank you, Master," said the slave.

  The musicians began to play, and Huta, in terror, tears in her eyes, in the midst of seething hostility and disgust, in the midst of those who called for her death, began to dance.

  …CHAPTER 9…

  "Your researches, under your assumed name, with my clearance, have borne what fruit?" asked Julian.

  "None, milord," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "The likeness," said Julian, "is the best I can supply from memory."

  Between them, on the marbled table, lay a sketch, in color, of the face of a beautiful, blue-eyed, blond-haired woman. It had been prepared, painstakingly, secretly, by a gifted portraitist, each detail being examined, and revised, and revised again, according to the directions of Julian, until it bore a striking similarity to the woman seen on the quay at Port North.

  "I have taken the picture to the keepers at all the slave houses in Lisle, and Port North, and for many miles about," said Tuvo Ausonius. "There are hundreds of blond slaves, of course, but I found no keeper who could make a positive identification from the picture."

  "You added in such details, as her unusual behavior, her seeming newness to the anklet, and such?"

  "Yes, milord, as you recommended, but there was still no positive identification."

  "No record of a judicially embonded debtress from Myron VII, brought to Inez IV?"

  "Some," said Tuvo Ausonius, "but they do not seem to be the same individual."

  "What of the other nineteen women?"

  "We can account for them," said Tuvo Ausonius, "several are from local houses, and some were brought in, according to specifications, from diverse worlds."

  "She is, thus, the only one not accounted for," said Julian,

  "Yes, milord," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "It seems she would have been brought in, and held, if nothing else, pending shipment," said Julian.

  "It would seem so, milord," said Tuvo Ausonius. "Is it important?"

  "No, I think not," said Julian.

  "But milord is troubled," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "It is nothing," said Julian.

  " Kana?" inquired Tuvo Ausonius.

  Julian nodded.

  Tuvo Ausonius clapped his hands, sharply, twice.

  In a moment a lovely, slender, young, dark-haired woman, barefoot, in a brief, yellow, silken tunic, cut at the left thigh, to the hip, in a light, yellow-enameled collar, and a yellow-enameled anklet, on her left ankle, hurried into the room, and knelt,

  " Kana," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  She rose to her feet and hurried to a sideboard, to fetch the decanter, and glasses.

  "It is strange," said Julian. "It seems that a slave should be easy enough to trace, if brought to Inez IV. She would have to be registered, measured, fingerprinted, toeprinted, and such."

  "Some doubtless slip through," said Tuvo Ausonius. "This one did," he remarked.

  The woman, head down, had set the glasses on the table and, deferentially, poured the glasses, a third full.

  She did not meet the eyes of the men.

  "But with my assistance," said Julian.

  "True," smiled Tuvo Ausonius.

  The woman replaced the decanter on the sideboard and turned to face Tuvo Ausonius.

  "Master?" she asked.

  "Kneel there," said Tuvo Ausonius, indicating a place on the tiles, to the side, where she would be inconspicuous, and yet at hand, in case wished.

  "Head down," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  Julian regarded her, idly.

  "You have a pretty slave," he said.

  "She is nicely curved," granted Tuvo Ausonius, dismissively.

  "It is strange," said Julian, "how the blond slave seems not to have been registered, or locally boarded."

  "Yes," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "Ai!" said Julian, suddenly, rising to his feet.

  Tuvo Ausonius looked up at him, startled.

  "She is not a slave!" said Julian.

  Even the slave drew back a little, frightened, on her knees. Then she put her head down again, quickly.

  "But she must be a slave," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "Inquire among free persons, in the hostels, in the insulae, in the towers, discretely at court, in restaurants, at the baths," said Julian.

  "As milord wishes," said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "The work of Iaachus!" snarled Julian.

  "Milord?" said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "And inquire first among higher free persons," said Julian. "Look for information pertaining to an incredibly beautiful blond woman, whose beauty might be the envy even of many slaves. Inquire after female patricians, even of the senatorial class, in particular any who might be in need or financial straits, any who might be living alone, or substantially so, any whose family connections might be tenuous, any in what might appear to be unfavorable or dubious circumstances, any in debt, any in difficulties, any in dishonor, any in want, any under suspicion, any subject to umbrage of any sort. Take the picture!"

  "Yes, milord!" said Tuvo Ausonius. "Fetch my street cloak!" said Tuvo Ausonius to the slave.

  "Yes, Master!" she said.

  "Hurry!" said Tuvo Ausonius.

  "Yes, Master!" she cried, hurrying from the room.

  …CHAPTER 10…

  "You would not dare!" said the blonde.

  Her hands, wrists crossed and bound, were tied high over her head. They were fastened by a short rope to a ring, the ring dangling on a chain from the ceiling. The wrist rope could be shortened or lengthened, depending on the height of the slave. The blonde was of medium height. She was fastened in such a way that she was on her tiptoes, unable to get her heels to the metal flooring. Her white serving gown had been pulled down, about her ankles. Her body faced the metal wall. She turned her head, as she could. The severe officer, whose name was Ronisius, was behind her. Her hair had already been thrown forward.

  "Do not dare!" she said.

  Slaves, in the common room, laughed merrily.

  "You were insufficiently deferent," said Ronisius.

  She struggled, helplessly.

  "You were clumsy," he said.

  These things were true. At least twice her speech had been insufficiently deferent, even omitting the respectful term "Master." Too, she had been slow to bring a tureen of hiris to the table, and had failed once
to kneel to the side, as is customary when waiting to serve or be summoned, but had stood, and had stood where the barbarian, if he might lift his head, must see her. The other slaves had not cared for this, for they, too, found the barbarian, in his brooding, feral way, handsome, but dared not so call themselves to his attention. Ronisius had criticized her, and she had gone to kneel with the others, pulling her gown up, and putting it about her knees, so that it would be her knees, and not the gown, which would be on the floor, as though she might be no more than another slave. Perhaps it was because of his criticism, and her fury at the reprimand, addressed to her as though she might be no more than a slave girl, that she had been unsteady, that she had spilled wine, and at his own goblet.

  All in all, she had certainly not served well at the captain's table, where the captain, the barbarian, and certain officers would sup at the conclusion of the ship day. Five slaves were assigned to serve there each ship evening. The ship had now been out for four days. It was the first time she had been permitted to serve at the captain's table.

  "You would not dare!" she said.

  "I think you are stupid," he said.

  "I am not stupid!" she cried.

  Then, as she cried out, she was switched.

  He was not as gentle with her as he might have been, considering that she was a new slave, not even branded, a recently embonded debtress from Myron VII.

  But it had been at his own goblet that the wine had been spilled.

  "You may now thank me for your beating," he said.

  She looked at him, over her shoulder, startled, tears in her eyes.

  Twice more, swiftly, impatiently, the switch spoke.

  "Thank you! Thank you!" she cried.

  Twice more then, again, angrily, the switch spoke, and she leapt in the bonds, squirming, crying.

  "Thank you, Master!" she said.

  "You will be released later," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" she gasped, startled by the piteous urgency of her exhalatory exclamation, and, too, by its seeming appropriateness, and fittingness, and, horrifyingly, by the complete, irrepressible naturalness with which it had somehow escaped her. "Thank you, Master!"

  She then hung in the ropes, her back stinging.

  About her slaves were discoursing merrily, kneeling, facing one another, playing guessing games, amusing themselves.

  I hate everything, she thought.