The Usurper Read online

  It is not impossible that strange ships might ply such a river.

  But there may be other geodesics in the gravitational mountains of space, as well, and even, as in the case of the passes, and the thresholds, other passes, other thresholds, undisclosed gaps, crevices, in space.

  Might not such things be scouted? Might not probe vessels seek them out? Might not some small ship, poised, look upon such a sea, and some account of its adventure, later, be heard in some tavern, or hall?

  It must be understood that borders shift, expanding and contracting, and may be crossed. Certainly several worlds, at the periphery of the empire, and not always at the periphery, have known raids. And some of these worlds, we fear, have been settled by invaders, who have mixed with the indigenous population, absorbing their culture, industry, and technology. Some such worlds remain, officially, imperial worlds. Other worlds, it is rumored, in order to escape the burdens of the empire, surrendered to the fleets of armed, barbarian kings, exchanging one lord for another. Yet other worlds, to further consolidate the fruits of their own rebellions, supplied barbarians with training, ships, and weaponry, that they might discomfit the empire.

  And so we have a beleaguered empire, with far-flung, brittle walls, defended by a diminishing military, with ever-diminishing resources, and a soft, vulnerable center, the inner worlds, muchly defenseless if those far walls should be breached, and foreign ships should pour through, darkening the sky.

  At the edges of the empire wolves prowled, their fierce, gleaming eyes alit with hatred, envy, and greed.

  One of these wolves we have met before, Abrogastes, the Far-Grasper, lord of the Drisriaks.

  Chapter Five

  It was warm, and soft, lying within the furs on the great couch.

  Filene’s heart was beating rapidly.

  With delicate care, and circumspection, she had felt beneath the covers for the implement. Her fingers, ever so lightly, had touched the smooth, yellow, oval handle, locating it. It would not do to touch the blade, lest the tiniest bit of its transparent coating, invisibly painted on that razor-sharp edge, might open her skin, even slightly. She had found it muchly where she had anticipated it might lie, beneath the furs, toward the head of the couch, where it might be convenient to her right hand.

  Even during the supper, she had heard the warming of the motors of the two hoverers and the two treaded, armored, motorized vehicles. She doubted that more than one hoverer would be utilized in her escape, extracting her from the camp, hurrying her through the cold, clouded night to Venitzia, where she would be taken aboard the lighter, and carried to the Narcona, in orbit, to be returned to Lisle, to wealth, dignity, honor, and power. The other three devices, or, at least, the two motorized vehicles, would have been warmed merely that the barbarian, who seemed a clever, cunning fellow, might not note the peculiarity of but one, or two, of the devices being readied for departure. She recalled that Corelius, who had doubtless placed the knife, had piloted one of the hoverers. That, most likely, would be utilized in her escape. It now seemed clear to her, as well, that Phidias, captain of the Narcona, must be privy to the plot. Otherwise, one of a comparable, or higher, rank, and one with similar skills, would have to be involved, one whom the staff and crew of the freighter would accept, and obey, a second in command possibly, or a hitherto obscure figure, who would then disclose his credentials and take command. That was possible, surely, but unlikely. Phidias must be one of us, she thought, as Corelius, and perhaps others.

  “Hold, Cornhair,” had said Nissimi, the brunette first-girl, intercepting Filene on her way to the barbarian’s quarters.

  “Mistress?” had said Filene, apprehensive, immediately kneeling, having been addressed by her superior.

  “You are on your way to the bed chamber of Master Ottonius, are you not?” asked Nissimi.

  “Yes, Mistress,” said Filene.

  “You are rather heavily garmented, are you not?” asked Nissimi.

  “Mistress?” said Filene.

  “Get it off,” snapped Nissimi.

  Filene slipped the tavern tunic over her head, and handed it to Nissimi. She felt Nissimi’s switch under her chin, lifting her head.

  “Hold still, straighten your back, hands palms down on your thighs,” said Nissimi, who then, slowly, walked about Filene, and then stood again before her.

  “You are a pretty thing,” said Nissimi. “Men will like you. You might go for as much as fifteen or twenty darins.”

  Filene gasped, furious.

  To be sure, given the chaotic economies of the worlds, even several of the inner worlds, the value of a darin was problematical, ranging from less than its metal value on many worlds to the equivalent, or better, of a workman’s daily wage on others. We may suppose that on the worlds with which Nissimi was likely to be familiar fifteen to twenty darins was a plausible price for a comely slave. The rhythms of markets, of course, also fluctuate, as would be expected, even with a stable currency, given the time of year, and the exigencies of supply and demand. As a consequence, independent of market conditions, it is idle to speculate on what a given slave might bring on the block, as is the case, obviously, with other forms of merchandise, as well. Other factors may also exert their influence, such as the prestige of the vending house, the care and quality with which a given sale is organized, advertised, and conducted, the skills of the auctioneer, some of whom command high salaries or commissions, and so on.

  “Why did you not seek me out, to be inspected?” asked Nissimi.

  “I did not know it was necessary,” said Filene, acidly.

  “It is not,” said Nissimi. “But one would have supposed that a new girl, perhaps timid, fearful, hesitant, and uncertain, might have wished to solicit the views of her first girl.”

  “I may be new,” said Filene, “but I assure you that I am not timid, fearful, hesitant, or uncertain.”

  “You are fearful, Cornhair,” said Nissimi. “It is easy to see. You are upset. You are afraid of something.”

  “I do not wish to be late, to report to Master Ottonius,” Filene had said.

  “Many slaves,” said Nissimi, “would be frightened to be sent to the furs of a barbarian. He is not of the empire. He is different. You were of the empire. Perhaps he will beat you, or break an arm.”

  “I am not afraid,” said Filene, and felt a bit of blood at her lip, where she had inadvertently closed her small, fine white teeth on that soft tissue.

  “You are a virgin!” laughed Nissimi. She had had, of course, no access to the blonde’s slave papers.

  Filene looked away, angrily.

  “I wondered about that,” said Nissimi. Virgin slaves, of course, are quite rare.

  “It improves my price,” said Filene, petulantly.

  “I doubt that it did,” said Nissimi. “The virginity of a slave is of no more interest than that of a pig.”

  “I see,” said Filene.

  “You expect him to be considerate on that score, to be understanding, sensitive, patient, kind?”

  “That would be my hope,” said Filene.

  “He is a barbarian,” said Nissimi.

  “I see,” said Filene. If all went well, of course, she would carry her virginity to the Narcona, and to Inez IV itself.

  “It seems Mistress lay in wait for me,” said Filene.

  “I am unwilling to send an unkempt, unprepared slave to the quarters of a guest,” she said.

  “Of course,” said Filene. “Do I pass Mistress’ inspection?”

  “Your attitude,” she said, “is less that of a slave than that a free woman.”

  “I was free,” said Filene.

  “So were most slaves,” she said. “Few slaves are the issue of the breeding houses, the produce of the slave farms, and such. Why spend years breeding and raising slaves when one can pick them up, and ones quite as good, or even bette
r, on the streets?”

  “But seldom legally,” said Filene.

  “Many men,” said Nissimi, “believe that all women are bred slaves, the product of lengthy natural selections on thousands of worlds.”

  “Men are beasts,” said Filene.

  “And our Masters,” said Nissimi.

  “No man is my Master!” said Filene.

  “True,” said Nissimi, “your Master is the empire.”

  Filene wondered what it might be, to have a Master, to belong to a given man, to be his owned animal. This thought disturbed her, and made her muchly uneasy, that for no reason she clearly understood.

  Filene struggled to recover herself. She should not have cried out, certainly not in such an exasperated manner. She must recall her role. She must do nothing which might jeopardize her business, her evening’s dark work.

  “Alas,” said Filene, putting down her head. “I am only a poor, and miserable, slave.”

  “I have heard,” said Nissimi, “that on some worlds subtle and pervasive conditioning regimes exist, the products of social engineering, emplaced to extract the Master from the hearts of men.”

  “I have heard so,” said Filene.

  “I trust I will never be on such a world,” said Nissimi, “one so unnatural and pathological.”

  Certainly Inez IV and Tangara were not such worlds.

  “Such worlds exist,” said Filene.

  “I think so,” said Nissimi, “Same Worlds, and such worlds, where men are taught to resent and repudiate the Master in their hearts. They are taught to fear the Master in their hearts. They are taught to betray him. They are taught, even, incredibly enough, to be ashamed of the Master in their hearts. It is demanded that they deny him, that they do treason to their blood. If vi-cats, lions, the hroth, and such were rational, doubtless we could also divide them from themselves, and ruin them with self-doubts, self-conflicts, and shame, stunting their minds and shortening their lives. The lion who pretends to be a lamb is a hypocrite; the lion who tries to be a lamb is a fool; the lion who thinks he is a lamb is insane.”

  Filene was silent.

  I am a free woman, she said to herself.

  “You are to please the barbarian well,” said Nissimi. “If he is not pleased, and well pleased, you may expect to be punished.”

  “I understand,” said Filene. “Do I pass Mistress’ inspection?”

  “You have the appearance of doing so,” said Nissimi.

  “Then,” said Filene, “that is all that is required.”

  “What a naive little fool you are,” said Nissimi.

  “May I proceed?” asked Filene. “May I be on my way?”

  “Yes,” had said Nissimi.

  “I will hope to do well,” had said Filene, rising.

  “And I,” had said Nissimi, “have a hope, as well, that you will survive.”

  It was with trepidation, indeed, that Filene entered the tent chamber of the barbarian, reached by means of closed, warmed tunnels from the main tent. It had, she noted, an opening, twice sealed, as she determined, to the outside, as well. That she did not doubt was to facilitate her withdrawal from the chamber, without again traversing the passages she had followed to reach the chamber. Corelius, or a confederate, she supposed, would be stationed outside that opening, to spirit her quickly to the waiting, warmed hoverer. She could grasp a fur about her, and make her way, barefoot, through the snow, the few yards to one of the hoverers. Then, wrapped in a fur, she would be on her way through the winter night, over the dark, leafless treetops, to Venitzia.

  At that point, she had no more than conjectured the likely location of the knife.

  Her heart was beating rapidly, and she fought to breathe normally.

  Was she, upon reflection, she wondered, the appropriate instrument of Iaachus, to accomplish this act?

  She must rely on his judgment, his astuteness and cunning.

  The barbarian, aware to some extent of the weight and danger of imperial matters, the hazards of intrigues, the possibilities of plots, the menaces likely to be found in the corridors of power, might well be on his guard against a male of the empire, or, perhaps, even another barbarian, particularly if not of his own tribe.

  Surely a man would be better suited to this business, thought Filene to herself. Why not Corelius, Lysis, or another?

  Could not a man, with one blow, sink even a long, broad blade to the hilt in a back or chest?

  She was not sure she could drive even so slim and fine a blade to the hilt in a man’s body, not that it would be necessary.

  The slightest scratch would suffice.

  But Iaachus would know best.

  Who could bring himself to suspect a naked, unarmed slave girl, introduced so naturally, as a furnished pleasure, a gesture of hospitality, into a guest’s bed chamber?

  Too, perhaps Corelius, Lysis, Phidias, and such, if all were fellow conspirators in this business, must avoid, to the extent possible, being implicated in the matter. Indeed, her pilot to Venitzia might not even be one of them. Another, a lesser fellow, would do, assigned to deliver her to Venitzia. In that way, Phidias, Corelius, and others, might pretend to dismay and consternation when, in the morning, the results of her work would be discovered. She could even be secreted on the Narcona, awaiting their return to the ship. She did not know how matters might proceed. She knew only her own part, what she must do. Perhaps all conspirators might flee the camp, disabling other vehicles, abandoning their fellows to Heruls or vengeful Otungs.

  She regarded the couch; it was broad, and deeply furred. Two furs, as well, were scattered on the floor, at its foot. Could the knife be hidden there? Surely not. It must reside beneath the furs on the surface of the couch, where the barbarian would doubtless expect to make use of her. Was she not extraordinarily beautiful? She was not the sort of slave, surely, who would be used merely at the foot of a couch, on furs strewn on the floor, as might be a common girl, one not allowed the privilege of a couch’s surface. She did note, uneasily, a heavy metal ring fixed in the base of the couch, some six inches above the floor. It was a slave ring, a common convenience in a slave culture, the sort to which a girl might be fastened. That might not do at all.

  But, was the knife there?

  She scurried to the furs at the foot of the couch and then, kneeling, looking about, fearing the barbarian might appear any moment, lifted and shook the furs. No knife was there!

  The chamber was lit by two small, hanging lamps.

  A chest was at one side of the chamber. Doubtless it was from that receptacle, clearly unlocked, the padlock dangling, with its inserted key, that the barbarian had removed the dinner robe.

  Someone was coming!

  She had not yet found the knife!

  She knelt, with her head to the furs, at the foot of the couch, the palms of her hands at the side of her head, a common slave position.

  She dared to lift her head, a little.

  It was Qualius, gross Qualius, the porcine tender of domestic animals, recalled from the Narcona.

  She thrust her head down again. She did not dare address him.

  He paid her no attention. The explanation of her presence there was obvious enough. She was a slave. She heard some object, stout, leathery, dropped on the lid of the unlocked, closed chest.

  Then he was gone.

  She rose to her feet, and went to the chest. It was as she feared. “I will have a whip sent to your quarters,” had said Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian. She regarded the supple, inert object lying on the chest. How she hated Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian.

  She was uneasy, regarding the whip, its coils now quiescent. She could scarcely conjecture what it might feel like, wielded by a man, on her soft, bared skin. She did not, of course, expect to feel it. The whip is seldom used gratuitously. Its end is discipline
, not meaningless, wanton cruelty. There would be no point in that. It would be easy to avoid its whistling, hissing, lashing kiss. She was determined to do so. It would not be hard. She would be careful, and watchful. She need only, as other slaves, be obedient, attentive, zealous, and pleasing, wholly pleasing. Besides, the knife would be at hand, she trusted. And how could even a massive, formidable brute like the barbarian defend himself against the coated blade, where even a scratch on a lifted hand, or a fending arm, would wreak an almost instantaneous doom?

  She gazed at the instrument lying on the lid of the chest.

  How pleased she was that she was not as other women, not a slave.

  What would it be, she asked herself, looking at the coiled leather tool on the lid of the chest, coiled like a viper, ready to strike, to be truly a slave?

  The slave, she knew, is subject to the whip.

  If she were a slave, she would be subject to the whip.

  For a moment she swayed, giddy.

  Did she sense then, if only for an instant, the meaning of the whip, the thrill and joy of being helplessly subject to command and discipline, the thrill and joy of being owned and mastered, the thrill and joy of being a kneeling, submitted slave?

  No, no, she cried to herself, and spun away from the chest, and the quiet, coiled thing, which rested on its smooth surface.

  The knife, she thought. I must find the knife. There may be little time!

  She then approached the couch.

  It was warm, and soft, lying within the furs on the great couch.

  Her heart was beating rapidly.

  With delicate care, and circumspection, she had felt beneath the covers for the implement. Her fingers, ever so lightly, had touched the smooth, yellow, oval handle, locating it. It would not do to touch the blade, lest the tiniest bit of its transparent coating, invisibly painted on that razor-sharp edge, might open her skin, even slightly. She had found it muchly where she had anticipated it might lie, beneath the furs, toward the head of the couch, where it might be convenient to her right hand.

  Where was the barbarian?