The King Page 18

  "Where did he go?"

  "Who knows," said the brunette.

  "Which direction did he go?" asked another girl.

  "We do not know," said the brunette. "Doubtless he has his own plans, or destination."

  "Surely a search was made!" said a girl.

  "There are no traces," said the brunette. "The storm! The hoverers were forced to return, unable to maneuver."

  "What is wrong, Cornhair?" asked the girl next to the, blonde.

  "Call me 'Filene'!" cried the blonde, in tears. "That is the name I have been given!"

  "That is the name the masters gave you!" said the girl next to her. "Say it! It is the name the masters gave you!"

  "Very well," said the blonde, in tears. "It is the name the masters have given me!"

  "That is better, Cornhair," said the girl.

  "I will buy and sell you all!" screamed the blonde. "I will see to it that you are all sold to beasts and reptiles!"

  "Secure your freedom first, slave slut!" said the girl near her.

  "Slut! Slut! Bitch! Bitch!" screamed the blonde.

  "Be silent, slave," said she whose cot was near the door, she who was first girl.

  "Yes, Mistress," said the blonde.

  "What is wrong, Cornhair?" asked the girl on the other side of her.

  "Nothing," said the blonde, and sat, frightened, on her cot, her legs drawn up, on the simple, striped mattress, the palms of her hands down upon it.

  "I do not know what is going on," said another girl.

  "Nor I," said another.

  The blonde felt sick, and it seemed she was reeling. She was chained to a cot in a slave shed in a small town far from the inner Telnarian worlds. Her only garment, as was the case with the other girls, as well, was a simple, scandalously brief slave tunic. Her lovely legs were well bared. She looked at the ring on her ankle, with its attached chain. She could not slip it, no more than could the other girls in the shed.

  For all they knew, and for all those in Venitzia might know, and for all those, or most of those, of the Narcona might know, she might even be a slave, an actual slave!

  It might be easy enough to believe she was a slave.

  Certainly she was beautiful enough to be a slave.

  What if, somehow or other, her actual identity was lost? What if her protestations as to her true identity, her true status, as a free woman, were ignored, or disbelieved? She was far from home. What if she were merely beaten, as a mad slave? Doubtless Iaachus had seen to it that there were slave papers on her. She had even been, in Lisle, photographed, and measured, in detail, and fingerprinted, and toeprinted, as might have been any slave.

  She had had a business to do, and it was to have been done on Tangara, presumably in some camp in the Tangaran wilderness, surely, in any event, not on the Narcona.

  The Narcona and its crew were not to be compromised.

  How could she manage it now?

  Where was the dagger?

  She did not even know, as yet, the identity of her mysterious confederate.

  She recalled a night, two nights ago, on the Narcona.

  "You summoned me?" she had asked.

  "Why are you standing?" he had asked.

  She had knelt before the young blond officer, Corelius.

  He had a small, light, folded, silken sheet on the arm of his chair.

  "Remove your tunic," he said.

  "Surely," he said, "a command need not be repeated."

  She drew the tiny tunic off, over her head, blushing.

  "Surely you understand, Filene," he said, "that modesty is not permitted to a slave.

  "The proper response," he said, "is 'Forgive me, Master. Yes, Master.' "

  "Forgive me, Master," she said. "Yes, Master."

  Can it be he, she wondered, is he my contact, the agent, he who will supply the dagger?

  He tossed her the small sheet and she put it hastily, quickly, gratefully, about her. It came about her thighs, as she knelt, but was not long enough to cover her knees.

  "What is the meaning of the removal of my clothing, and that I have been given this tiny sheet?" she asked.

  "Were you given permission to speak?" he asked.

  "Forgive me, Master," she said.

  "But you are curious?"

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You are all alike," he said.

  She stiffened.

  "You have been called for," he said.

  " 'Called for'?"

  "Yes," he said.

  "By whom?" she asked, frightened.

  "Perhaps by Qualius," he said.

  That was the name of the porcine stocksman, he with the fat face, with the tiny, closely set eyes, who had denied her even a rag in her cage.

  She turned white.

  She had not anticipated that she, in her adventure, in her pursuit of station, and wealth, might, if only to preserve the integrity of her guise as a slave, find herself put to slave use. Perhaps he was not the agent. Perhaps he did not know that she was truly free. How could she confess to him that she was not a slave?

  "I jest," he smiled.

  She shuddered, clutching the tiny sheet about her.

  "Normally," he said, "stock slaves, in common transport, as opposed to privately owned slaves, are available to the crew, and officers, generally."

  "Are we so available?" she asked.

  "Interestingly, not," he said.

  "We are special slaves," she said. "We are not even branded."

  "You are available to the higher officers, the captain, the first officer, the supply officer, and such," he said.

  "Oh," she said.

  "Like the others," he said.

  "You yourself, however," she said, lightly, but archly, boldly, "could not 'call for me.' "

  "It might be arranged," he said.

  She shrank back.

  He smiled.

  She sensed, uneasily, a slave's vulnerability. How could she make clear that she was not a slave?

  "Who has called for me," she asked, "the captain?" The captain, she speculated, might be the agent. He might want this opportunity to identify himself, to confirm her instructions, even to entrust her with the dagger.

  "No," he said.

  "Lysis, officer in charge of supply," she said.

  It must be he, for it was he who was in charge of the slave consignment!

  "Do not consider yourself meat of such interest," he said.

  She made an angry noise, and clutched the sheet more closely about herself.

  "To be sure," he said, "your body, though it requires some trimming, and is a bit stiff, is not without interest."

  She was silent.

  "It is more like the body of a free woman," he said.

  "I see," she said.

  "And your movements," he said, "lack the natural, seductive, vulnerable grace, the lovely, helpless, total femininity, of the female slave. They are too stiff, too awkward, too clumsy, too inhibited. They are like the movements of a free woman."

  "I see," she said.

  "To be sure," he said, "your body, and your movements, have improved considerably, even in the brief time you have been with us."

  "Oh?" she said.

  And then she was frightened, for she did not know what that might mean.

  Perhaps there was something about kneeling before men, and being subject to the mastery?

  She dared not speculate what it might be, to be actually a slave. Often, in the last few days, she had had to fight feelings which had begun to arise spontaneously, frighteningly, within her.

  "Doubtless you are interested in knowing who has called for you," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" she said. Then she was startled at how easily, how naturally, the word "Master" had escaped her lips. I am an excellent actress, she tried to reassure herself, but remained troubled, for the word had emerged as easily, as naturally, as a breath.

  "Our guest, our passenger, the barbarian," he said.

  She gasped.

&n
bsp; Was the deed to be done so soon, even on the Narcona?

  "It is your turn, of course, on the roster," he said, "in which the women are put up for slave use, but, interestingly, he has not, until now, availed himself of the offerings of the roster. It seems he does little but exercise, and practice with weapons, many of them primitive. Too, he spends much time on the observation deck, seemingly muchly given to thought. Perhaps he is intent upon conserving his strength, or maintaining a singleness of mind, of purpose."

  "But he has called for me," she said, "and not the others."

  "Yes," said Corelius.

  She clutched the sheet about her again. Within its flimsy fabric her body suddenly flamed. She tried not to analyze her feelings. Could this be, in her body, that of the Lady Publennia, of Lisle, receptivity, and a receptivity so uncontrollable, and helpless, that it might be almost that of a slave?

  "It seems you intrigue him," he said.

  "As a slave?" she asked.

  "I do not think so," he said. "I think it is something different. I think that he senses something different about you, and that he is curious about it."

  "Oh," she said.

  "It seems something puzzles him, or troubles him."

  "I have troubled many men," she smiled.

  "Remove the sheet!" he snapped.

  "Yes, Master!" she said.

  "As I have suggested," he said, "I do not think it is a mere matter of your embonded lineaments." And he then added, musingly, regarding her, "-as provocative as they might be."

  "What then?" she asked.

  "I am not even sure he thinks that you are a slave," he said.

  "You seem frightened," he said.

  "But he has called for me!" she said.

  "That is true," said Corelius. "And surely you have put yourself frequently enough, blatantly enough, before him."

  "Master!" she protested.

  "Do you think that we, and your sisters in bondage, cannot see?"

  She tossed her head, insolently.

  "You are a true slave," he said.

  She looked past him, toward the wall.

  "We, and your sisters in bondage, can tell that, even if the barbarian cannot."

  "I see," she said, acidly.

  How could he know her subtlety, her plans, the nature of her project?

  "When am I to be sent to him?" she said.

  "Now," he said.

  "Put the sheet about you," he said. "You may rise.

  "Bring the sheet higher on your thighs," he said. "Turn."

  She then again faced him.

  "Am I to be alone with the barbarian?" she asked.

  "Of course," he said.

  "Have you nothing to tell me?" she asked. "Have you nothing to give me, nothing, no artifact, no implement?"

  "I do not understand," he said.

  "It is nothing," she whispered.

  "I do have one thing to tell you," he said.

  "Yes, Master!" she said, eagerly.

  "Remember that you are a slave, being sent to a master," he said.

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  "You may go," said Corelius. "Outside you will find a mariner, waiting. He will conduct you to the quarters of our passenger."

  "Yes, Master," she said.

  ***

  "Is it not conjectured where the barbarian has gone?" asked one of the slaves, come from her heavy, metal, anchored cot in the long, low, cement slave shed at Venitzia, to the length of her ankle chain.

  "There are a thousand conjectures," said the small brunette, the center of attention, who had come to the shed with the startling news of the barbarian's disappearance, "but no one knows which, if any, are sound."

  "What is its meaning for us?" asked one of the slaves.

  "Surely it has nothing to do with us," said one of the slaves.

  "It may," worried another.

  "Who knows?" said the small brunette.

  Several of the slaves exchanged apprehensive glances.

  "We should have been sold, all of us, long before now," said one of the slaves.

  "What are we doing here in the shed?" asked another. "Why are we being kept here?"

  The blonde sat, miserable, her entire body on the mattress of the cot, her knees raised, her legs together, now leaning forward, clasping her ankles with her hands, one hand, the left, on the shackle to which her chain was fastened. It was a fetching pose, and one not uncommon to slave girls. She had assumed it unconsciously. Suddenly aware, she drew her legs back, half under her, half sitting, half kneeling on the mattress, but that pose, too, she knew, would be arousing to men. Tears formed in her eyes. The slave garment, of course, if it were to be worn sensibly, almost dictated, like a short skirt, certain attitudes, certain postures, of the body. But, to her horror, in the last few days, she had found herself assuming, however clothed, or even if unclothed, naturally, unwittingly, unconsciously, bodily postures, and attitudes, which she had always associated, to her contempt, but to her envy, as well, with an inferior form of life, that of the female slave.

  "Are they searching for him any longer?" asked one of the girls.

  "I do not think so," said the brunette.

  "Perhaps when the storm abates," said a slave.

  "Perhaps," said the brunette.

  "They could go out with horses and dogs," said one of the slaves.

  "Outside the fence, on horseback, or afoot?" said one of the girls, skeptically.

  "It would be too dangerous," said one of the girls.

  "Why?" asked another.

  "Wild beasts, primitives, Heruls, and others," said one of the slaves.

  "Are they dangerous, truly?" asked a slave.

  "Why do you think they have the fence?" asked another, scornfully.

  "But this world belongs to the empire," said a slave.

  "Tell it to the vi-cats, and the primitives," said another.

  The girls shuddered.

  "Are Heruls human?" asked one of the girls.

  "I do not know," said another.

  "Do they keep slaves?" asked the girl.

  "Yes," she was told.

  "They could use the hoverers," said one of the girls.

  "Do you think you are on an inner world?" asked one of the girls.

  "Fuel is precious, and soon exhausted," said another. "A considerable quantity would be required to search even a square latimeasure, if one were to do so with care."

  On the cot, the blonde moaned.

  The barbarian had vanished.

  She was to do her work with the tiny dagger, as she understood it, when alone with the barbarian, in his tent, at one of the projected camps outside the fence, when the expedition was to have set forth, with mounts, and weapons, in force. She was then, presumably by hoverer, to be transported to safety, to a rendezvous with the shuttle, hence to be returned to the Narcona, and, eventually, to the inner worlds, to find herself one of the highest placed, richest and most envied women in the empire.

  But now the barbarian had vanished!

  Would he return, would he be found?

  What of the plans of Iaachus?

  And what of herself, she, if these plans should fail, she, now in a slave garment, and chained to a cot in a cement shed, in a remote provincial capital?

  I should have been permitted to do the deed on the Narcona, she wept, to herself.

  Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she thought. I was alone with him then!

  What fools men are, she thought.

  But then who could have anticipated that the barbarian would slip away from Venitzia, that he would not wait for his excellency, Lord Julian, of the Aurelianii, that he would disappear, leaving the projected expedition, with all its men, and supplies, behind him, in Venitzia?

  How could he have done such a thing?

  What did it mean?

  She wanted the deed to be done, and the sooner the better. She was a highly intelligent young woman, and was not unaware of subtle changes which, in the past few weeks, o
n shipboard, and here, in Venitzia, in the shed, and when she worked in the kitchens and laundry, were taking place within her. She had begun to find herself growing eager for the entrance of men into the shed, or the kitchen or laundry, that she might, with the others, kneel and perform obeisance. When she had, on all fours, been scrubbing a floor with others, she had tried to put her head against the boot of a keeper. Men, suddenly, had begun to appear creatures of great interest and fascination to her. For the first time in her life she had begun to find them attractive, powerfully, almost irresistibly so. She was warmed, and delighted, and thrilled to be chained at night. She wondered what it would be, to be in the arms of a man. She wondered what it would be, to be owned by one, to feel his cuffs and ropes, his caress, brutal or gentle, rude or delicate, his whip, if he were not pleased with her.

  She had awakened at night, terrified, to find herself on the cot, chained.

  She had dug at the cot with her fingernails.

  I am not a slave, she would assure herself.

  Why did they not give me the dagger on the Narcona, she asked herself.

  She feared, you see, a thousand subtleties, the transformations being wrought within her consciousness, the changes taking place within her, the wonders, and beauties, the indications, the surprises, the promises, arising from within her depths.

  Let the barbarian return, she thought. Give me the dagger! Let me strike! Let me be done with matters!

  She feared, more and more, her slave feelings.

  For a long time she had denied that she had had such feelings, but such a denial was now useless. She set herself now, accordingly, to resist them.

  She feared herself, you see, what she had begun to sense she was becoming, and perhaps had always been.

  Mostly, perhaps, she feared her intellect, that it would reflect upon her, that it would consider her, carefully, and deeply and wholly, with sensitivity, and in great detail, what she was, and should be, and would then put her on her knees.

  Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she moaned.

  But then she laughed bitterly to herself.

  She would have had little opportunity to use it.

  "Enter," had said the barbarian.

  "A slave," had said the mariner, presenting her.

  She had knelt, as she had supposed was expected of her.

  The barbarian had dismissed the mariner, and she had found herself kneeling before the barbarian, holding the sheet about her.