The King th-3 Read online

  “But what if he does not?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Then all is lost,” said Julian.

  CHAPTER 13

  On the day following the great feast of Abrogastes, which is conjectured to have taken place on Ukuna III, a large assemblage of barbarians, and others, climbed to the height of a rude, natural feature known as the mountain of Kragon. There, on its stony summit, well above the tree line, on a great horizontal metal ring, hands laid upon it, a swearing took place, this done by rank after rank of individuals, approaching and withdrawing, which swearing, too, similarly and successively, was repeated, hands placed upon the shaft or blade of a great spear, it seeming to have some symbolic relevance among the Alemanni and certain other peoples, mostly allied or related.

  We do not know precisely what was sworn, or what occurred, on that day in that place.

  On the other hand, it seems clear that something of importance took place.

  It was shortly thereafter, in that world’s spring, after the cessation of the astronomical anomaly of the “wind of stones” that the gates of better than a hundred thousand concealed hangars were slid upward and the great ships rolled forth.

  The lions, as it was said, were awakening.

  The name of the world, in the language of the Alemanni, seems to have been Ainesarixhaben, or a place where fires are kept. It may have been the home world of the Alemanni peoples.

  It was also known, in other barbaric tongues, as Eineskmirgenlandes, a world, or country, of the morning, and Oron-Achvolonarei, the place where stone birds fly.

  This was, in the reckoning of the empire, in the third year of the reign of the emperor, Aesilesius.

  CHAPTER 14

  The horse put its head down, its long hair whipped by the wind. It drew against the traces, and stumbled to its knees in the snow.

  It turned in the traces, snorting, wildly, in pain, tilting the sled, and threw its head to the side, its round eyes rolling.

  Its body was already half covered with snow.

  The man, wrapped in the fur cloak, with the staff, who had been struggling at the side of the sledge, thrusting at it, lifting it, waded to the beast’s side. The horse’s mighty lungs heaved. It gasped. The freezing air seared its nostrils. The wind and air, too, tore at the side of the man’s face, and stabbed his lungs. The breath of the horse whipped away from it, like a lace of fog, broken and splintered. There was ice caked about its jaws.

  The man looked down at the animal, bracing himself against the wind.

  He could see little, even in starlight reflected from the snow, for the blasting wind and ice.

  This was the third night of storms.

  Already the stirred, whirled snow was deep on the plains of Barrionuevo, or, as some have it, the flats of Tung. In places, by morning, it would drift to heights of fifty feet.

  Tangara is bitter in that place, in the month of Igon. Only once had the Heruls raided in that month, and that was years ago, when they had crossed the Lothar on the ice.

  It was then that they, fresh from their defeat of the Otungs, had carried war to the related folk, the Basungs.

  It was after this that the plains of Barrionuevo had become, for many, the flats of Tung.

  On them the Heruls, a hardy, merciless, slave-keeping folk, in the summer, grazed their herds.

  The man knelt in the snow beside the horse. He opened its eye, which had closed, with his mittened fist. It was still alive, gasping.

  He drove the staff into the snow, and removed from the sledge a great sword, one which must be wielded with two hands. He lifted it, with both hands, and then smote the horse’s head away. He then, kneeling beside the beast, trembling with cold, cut it open, and cut himself bits of meat, thrusting them, fumbling, into his mouth, his beard crusted with ice. The blood from the horse froze as it entered the air, forming almost instantly rivulets, and breakages, of thick, dark ice. The man cut through the rib cage, and pulled away tissue. He tore with his mittens, and then, as they sopped, and crusted, and might have broken, he dug with his sword, holding it near the point, at the ventral cavity of the beast, emptying it, pushing its contents away, and he then crawled, freezing, huddling, within the body, which, for moments would be warm, but might provide, for days, shelter and food.

  It is a trick known to Heruls, and others, for example, to those of certain festung villages, such as that of Sim Giadini, nestled at the foot of the heights of Barrionuevo.

  CHAPTER 15

  “He is gone! I heard it in the kitchen, from one of the barrack girls!” said the small brunette, rushing into the administration’s cement slave shed in Venitzia, a small city on Tangara, surrounded by its electric defenses. It was the provincial capital.

  “Who is gone?” cried the blonde, rising from her simple, sturdy, anchored metal cot, to which she, like the other girls to theirs, was chained.

  The surprise, and bewilderment, was universal.

  The girls came to the ends of their chains, out, into the aisle, as they could. Their chains must reach far enough to make possible the cleaning of not only their area but of the adjacent portion of the aisle, as well.

  “The barbarian!” cried the girl. “He has gone!”

  The blonde cursed the chain on her left ankle that would permit her only a handful of feet from the cot.

  “I do not understand,” said she who was first girl, even she, at the moment, chained to her cot.

  “They are startled, in consternation, furious!” said the brunette. “It seems he left Venitzia before dawn, without informing anyone, taking only a horse and supplies upon a sledge.”

  “But why?” asked a girl.

  “I do not know,” said the brunette. “He was to wait, for his excellency, Lord Julian. There was some diplomatic mission or other, it seems. But he has gone!”

  “What of all the hoverers, of the shuttle, of the Narcona?” asked another.

  “The Narcona remains in orbit,” said the brunette. “The shuttle is within her. The hoverers are covered, in the yard, with the supplies.”

  “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.

  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.”