The King th-3 Page 20

  “That is all?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “Ah!” she said.

  “You may polish my boots,” he said, indicating a pair of boots, to one side. “The polish and rags are in the adjacent cabinet.

  “You may lower your arms, of course,” he said.

  “Thank you, Master,” she said, acidly.

  She fetched the boots, and the cleaning materials and, kneeling before him, where he had indicated, addressed herself to the assigned task. She worked slowly and carefully, meticulously, responding to his direction, applying a small quantity of paste to a small area, working it into the leather, with firm, circular movements, and then buffing it. This was done again and again, a tiny area at a time, until the entire area of each boot had been done twice.

  She was shaken, when she had performed this small, homely task. She was angry, but, too, seemingly unaccountably, she found herself much aroused.

  To her surprise she was drawn on her knees to the post at the foot of the bed, that about which the cord was wrapped. Her wrists were then crossed and bound with the cord, which was then fastened to the post. She was thus tied, wrists crossed and bound, on her knees, to the post at the foot of the bed.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “I think I know now,” he said, “what is unusual about you.”

  “Master?” she said, apprehensively.

  “Can you guess what it might be?” he asked.

  She was frightened.

  Her mind raced.

  “Perhaps Master suspects that I am not truly a slave,” she said, lightly, tentatively, as though in jest.

  What else could it be?

  Certainly she could protest the authenticity of her bondage. There were the papers, in which she was clearly specified, even to toeprints. Indeed, obviously, there was her very presence on the ship, amongst women anyone could see were slaves.

  “No,” he said.

  “Oh?” she said.

  “You are truly a slave,” he said. “There is no doubt about that. You are truly a slave.”

  “What then?” she asked.

  “It is only that you do not know you are a slave,” he said.

  She looked up at him, but he had gone to the side, where, on the surface of a small dresser, there lay the roll of tape.

  “Lift your head, look at me, close your mouth,” he said.

  He then, using the metal, saw-toothed extension, part of the roller, snapped off a few inches of tape, and put it across her lips and face. She felt it pressed down, firmly.

  “I have heard you enough,” he said. “You will now be silent.”

  She looked up at him, over the tape.

  He then applied an additional length of tape, longer than the first, firmly, over it.

  “It is a bit late to return you to the slave room,” he said.

  He then applied a third length of tape, longer than the second, pressing it into place. This came well about the back of her neck. He then, moving her hair about, that as little of the tape might adhere to it as possible, encircled her mouth and head three times, the free end of the tape being pressed down, at last, behind the back of her neck.

  Then he looked down upon her. “You are tempting,” he said.

  She looked quickly away, down.

  He then snapped off the light, and retired.

  After a time she tried to struggle, but found her struggles useless.

  She knelt there, for a long time, angrily.

  She could not sleep.

  She tried to speak, late in the night, but was unable to do so. She had been silenced, and bound, as might have been a slave.

  Later, at times, she whimpered, and moaned, a little, as she could, helpless, begging for attention.

  But there was no sign that she was heard.

  Toward morning, her head on the foot of the bed, inches from his feet, she slept. A mariner came for her later. The barbarian had already left the cabin.

  ***

  “It is clear that the barbarian has disappeared,” the small brunette was saying, she scarcely within the entrance to the long, low cement slave shed at Venitzia, “and it is not known where!”

  The blonde, half sitting, half kneeling, in the tiny slave tunic, on the thin, hard, striped mattress of the metal cot, to which she was chained, gasped, her head reeling as she struggled to comprehend the import of the brunette’s revelation.

  “What is wrong, Cornhair?” asked one of the other slaves.

  Few had noticed the agitation of the blonde.

  “Nothing,” gasped the blonde.

  “Has this anything to do with us?” one of the slaves was asking the brunette.

  “I do not know!” said the brunette.

  “Who cares about the barbarian,” said one of the girls. “What about us?”

  “Yes!” cried another.

  “We have been here for days,” said one of the girls.

  “Why are we being kept here, in this shed, in the administration compound?” asked another.

  “Why have we not been sold?” asked another.

  “Irons should have been heated for us by now,” said another. “We should have been put on the block!”

  Only the blonde, of all the women in the shed, had a clear idea of the putative purport of the slave consignment to Venitzia. Only she knew that the women were not, by intent, destined for a sale in Venitzia.

  If the barbarian is gone, thought the blonde, wildly, then perhaps I need not use the knife! But then, surely, the agent will identify himself to me, and assure my safe return to Lisle. But what if he does not? What if, for some reason, the agent had not even been on the ship? What then? She knew Iaachus was thorough. Her slave papers would doubtless appear in perfect order!

  “Perhaps we will be put up for sale tomorrow,” said a girl.

  “Fools! Fools!” suddenly screamed the blonde, from her cot. “Are you not aware of the goods embarked with us at Lisle? Are you not aware of the stores in the warehouse within the compound, some even under canvas, under snow, in the yard! They have not been moved either! You are not intended for Venitzia, fools! You are trade goods, trade goods!”

  “No!” screamed one of the slaves.

  “Cornhair is a liar!” cried one of the girls.

  “Beat her!” cried another.

  There was a sudden rattling of chains.

  The blonde shrieked and knelt down on the cot, covering her head.

  To be sure, only two of the girls could reach her, given the shed’s custodial arrangements.

  The blows of small fists rained upon her.

  The blonde shrank even smaller on the cot, whimpering.

  “No, no!” called the first girl, chained near the door. “Stop! Stop!”

  The blows stopped. The assailants were half hysterical, weeping, as well as furious.

  “I fear Cornhair is right,” said she who was first girl.

  “Trade goods?” said one of the slaves, aghast.

  “Yes,” said the first girl.

  “But to whom?” asked another slave, her voice quavering.

  “Barbarians, Heruls, primitives, who knows,” said the first girl.

  “Whomever they like,” said another slave, fearfully.

  “They cannot do that!” said one of the slaves.

  “They can do as they wish,” said the first girl. “We are slaves.”

  “We can be disposed of as masters wish,” said one of the girls, frightened.

  “Yes,” whispered another, “we are slaves.” The blonde sank to her stomach on the cot, her head turned, her right cheek on the mattress, her fingers clutching its sides. She moved her left ankle a little, feeling the shackle, and its weight.

  CHAPTER 16

  “Is he alive?” asked Varix.

  “I do not know,” said Olar.

  “Is it a Herul?” asked Varix.

  “No,” said Olar.

  “Then we need not kill him,” said Varix.

  “I think
he is dead already,” said Olar.

  “See if he is Telnarian,” said Varix. “He may have money.”

  “I do not think he is Telnarian,” said Olar.

  “What is he?” asked Varix.

  “He has the appearance of an Otung,” said Olar.

  “Not here, not this far away,” said Varix.

  Varix looked about, warily, apprehensively.

  “I do not like it,” he said.

  Varix wore, over his eyes, tied at the edges with leather, a curved bone plate. It was cut with a horizontal slit, which eliminated most of the glare from the snow. Olar was similarly protected. It was bright and cold on the plains of Barrionuevo this afternoon. The sun blazed off the snow. It was in the month of Igon. One, unprotected, could go blind on such days. Both men wore fur, and deep fur boots. Each was armed, Varix with knife and ax, Olar with knife and spear.

  Both were hunting vi-cat.

  One had been seen yesterday, crossing the Lothar, on the ice, moving eastward.

  They had been following its trail all morning, but now the hunt, for the moment, was forgotten.

  “If he is dead, let us rob him, and be gone,” said Varix. “If he is not dead, let us kill him, and see if he has anything of value.”

  “We are not Heruls,” said Olar.

  “We are poor men,” said Varix.

  “He may be a Herul spy,” said Olar.

  “The body,” said Varix, wading through the snow, coming to the edge of the sledge, on which lay the remains of a horse, and, within the body of the horse, the shape of a man, or manlike creature, “does not appear malnourished.”

  “Perhaps he died recently,” said Olar.

  “He may not be dead,” said Varix.

  “The cold can keep things for a long time,” said Olar.

  Varix stepped back, wading backward, away from the sledge.

  “Come back,” said Varix.

  Olar, turning, struggled back a few feet in the snow, to join Varix. Then both faced the sledge.

  “See the tracks,” said Varix, pointing. “The man must have been in the traces, drawing the carcass of the horse.”

  “Why?” asked Olar.

  “I do not know,” said Varix.

  “He must have been strong,” said Olar.

  “He could feed on the horse,” said Varix.

  “He may not be dead,” said Olar.

  “That is what I think,” said Varix.

  “See, on the sledge,” whispered Olar. “The rolled pelt of a vi-cat.”

  “It is not the pelt of the one we seek,” said Varix.

  “No,” said Olar. “It is mottled.”

  Both men then backed away, a little farther, in the bright snow.

  “It is the bait trap,” said Varix.

  “Yes,” said Olar.

  “He is Herul,” said Varix.

  “He is not a Herul,” insisted Olar.

  It is a mode of hunting occasionally practiced by Heruls. The hunter lies in wait, within the carcass, and when the vi-cat, or wolf, or arn bear or snow bear, come down from the north, in the time of Igon, prowls closely enough, the hunter, with spear, or long, thrusting blade, strikes. Commonly he is supported by others in the vicinity, lying covered in the snow, ready to spring, at a cry, to his aid. The animal, if not slain, is usually grievously wounded, and, slowed, may be trailed in the snow, the trail marked by blood.

  “Do you understand what I am saying?” called Olar to the form within the carcass. “Are you alive?”

  There was no response.

  “I am afraid,” said Varix.

  “Why?” asked Olar.

  “That it is the bait trap,” said Varix.

  “Why does that alarm you?” asked Olar.

  “I think it is not now set for the vi-cat,” said Varix.

  “For what, then?” asked Olar.

  “For us, I fear,” said Varix.

  At that time, suddenly, behind them, was heard the tiny jangle of harness, and the sound of a horse.

  Both men turned.

  “Heruls!” cried Olar.

  There were seven Heruls, all told, three now behind them, and, in a moment, four others, two now approaching from the front, from behind the sledge, as they stood, and now two more, one from each side, in their dark leather, their fur capes, the conical, fur-trimmed helmets, with the slender, long, wandlike lances. Small bucklers were at the left side of their saddles. They had not even freed the bucklers. The four who had come from the front and sides now, too, drew up, reining in.

  The circle was some ten yards in diameter.

  In its center were Olar and Varix, and the sledge, with its weights.

  There was a small sound of harness metal, as the beasts shifted in the snow, the sound of their breathing. Their breath hung about their snouts like fog. These were Herul mounts which, for simplicity, as is our wont with mounts of diverse species, we shall speak of as horses.

  “Can you understand us?” called the leader of the Heruls to Olar and Varix.

  “Yes,” said Varix.

  Whereas countless modalities of communication, as well as countless languages, verbal and gestural, coexisted in the galaxies, Telnarian, in its imperial purity, and in its dialects, and its corruptions, was, by creatures capable of forming its sounds, or analogues to them, by far the most commonly spoken. Even fierce enemies of the empire, in order to make themselves understood to one another, often had no alternative to conversing in Telnarian. The influence, linguistic and cultural, if not the civil and military presence, of the empire was, for millions of rational creatures, a fact of life. There were various legends to the effect that Orak, the king of the gods, had invented Telnarian that men might be able to converse with one another. It was generally regarded as the mother tongue of rational creatures. That Telnarian bore within itself innumerable traces of earlier languages, from which it seems to have emerged, was a fact understood by, and appreciated by, few but scholars. But there was little doubt that Telnarian, or the language that bears that name, was an ancient one. It was present in a developed form, even in the dim beginnings of the empire, as the most ancient of the imperial carvings, inscriptions and plaques attested. The language was apparently spoken by several related peoples, one of these peoples being the Telnarians, which people founded the empire. And, of course, it is by the name of that people that the language came to be known.

  “Are you hunting?” asked the lead Herul, cheerfully enough, moving his horse a yard or two closer, in the snow. The snow came to the knees of the beast. It came rather to the thighs of the men.

  “Yes,” said Olar.

  “Vi-cat,” said Varix.

  “Are you hunting?” asked Olar, of the chief Herul.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Men?” inquired Varix.

  “Vi-cat,” said the chief Herul.

  “Perhaps it is the same beast,” suggested Olar.

  “Perhaps,” said the Herul.

  “A giant white?” asked Olar.

  “Yes,” said the chief Herul.

  “Doubtless it is the same,” said Varix.

  “Yes,” said the Herul. “But it seems we have caught men.”

  “This is not your bait trap then?” asked Olar.

  “No, is it not yours?” asked the Herul.

  “No,” said Olar.

  “Where would you like to die,” asked the Herul, “here, or in the camp?”

  “They are scrawny, for soup,” said one of the Heruls.

  “We are afoot, you on horseback!” said Olar, angrily.

  “We do not allow mounts to such as you,” said one of the Heruls.

  “Let us take them back to camp, and run them naked, in the snow, for the dogs,” said one of the Heruls.

  “Spare us!” said Olar.

  “You are not women,” said one of the Heruls. “Sometimes we spare them.”

  “We work them well,” said another.

  “They are pleasant to whip,” said one.

  “
Their hairless skins mark delightfully,” said another, “and they squirm well.”

  “Too, with their small bodies and smooth skins,” said another, “we find them interesting, and different, in the thongs and furs.”

  “You are on horseback,” said Olar. “There are seven of you.”

  “You should not be on the flats of Tung,” said another.

  “You should not have crossed the Lothar,” laughed another.

  “Rope them,” said the leader of the Heruls.

  CHAPTER 17

  “You must forgive us,” said Brother Gregory, leading the way, carrying a small, shielded lamp in one appendage, descending the long, spiraling damp stairs, down, down into one of the humid, heated, murky depths of the festung, “but it is restorative, and, upon occasion, imperative, for several of the brothers to keep their skins moist.”

  “I understand,” said Julian.

  He had removed his jacket, and his shirt was soaked with dampness and sweat.

  He could hear the chanting of the brothers.

  Here and there, in niches, were small votive tablets.

  ***

  “Is that a female?’’ had cried the gatesman in horror, pointing to the small figure with Julian and Tuvo Ausonius, all three long disembarked below, in the valley, from the hoverer.

  The outer gate to the festung had creaked open, slowly, to admit the travelers.

  It was a long, winding, tortuous trail up from the level, up from the valley, one of several miles, to the outer gate of the festung.

  It was seldom traveled. Visitors were few at the festung of Sim Giadini.

  At the village below they had learned that it would not be wise to approach the festung, save in this fashion, on foot and not obviously armed.

  There were defenses, at various levels, which must be specifically, and consecutively, disarmed.

  This was done from within the festung, the deactivations consequent, at given levels, upon judgments, given the data of diverse surveillance devices.

  Too, a known man of the village had accompanied them, as a guide.

  “Yes,” had said Julian.

  “Nothing female may enter here,” said the gatesmen.

  “This is the hospitality of the festung of Sim Giadini?” had asked Julian, irritatedly.