The Usurper (20 page)

“Not I!” said Cornhair. “I am not a slave!”

“Your left thigh bears the rose, printed in as deeply, and as unmistakably, as mine!” said White Ankles.

“Garmented,” said Cornhair, “no one will know we are marked!”

“And perhaps you will simply ask for the garments of a free woman, perhaps one of quality?” said White Ankles.

“We are not collared!” said Cornhair.

“That is true,” said White Ankles, tensely.

“I need only make myself known,” said Cornhair, “and I will be freed.”

“Then you admit you are not free now?”

“No,” said Cornhair.

“Then you admit you are now a slave?”

“Yes, now,” said Cornhair, “but only until I speak my name and station.”

“Your former name and station,” said White Ankles.

“Yes, if you will,” said Cornhair.

“Will you not speak for me, as well?” asked White Ankles.

“No,” said Cornhair. “You are a natural slave, and should be a slave, and will remain a slave! You are the sort of girl who should crawl about the ankles of a Master, and lick and kiss them!”

“So are you!” said White Ankles.

“I am not one of those neck-ringed sluts who melts in a man's arms, and lives only to please him!”

“Have I not heard you weep in your sleep for a Master?”

“When I am free, and rich,” said Cornhair, “I will buy you, and then you will see how pleasant your life will be!”

“I fear the dealer will soon approach,” whispered White Ankles, looking about.

“Perhaps we should have fled,” said Cornhair, looking about, as well. “We might have reached Venitzia, on foot!”

Cornhair, on a wild impulse, leaped to her feet, but, warned by a fearsome growl, not feet away, she fell immediately, again, to her knees.

“Do not move, the dogs,” said White Ankles.

Cornhair then realized why the Herul, Bakaar, had simply left them, as he had. Herul dogs, as many others, were often used to control, herd, and monitor slaves. Cornhair and White Ankles had been put on their knees. The dogs, then, would see that they remained in place, pending the arrival of some suitable authority, one who might alter the situation.

“Are we such poor stuff?” asked Cornhair, angry, on her knees. “We brought only ten
darins
!”

“They must have been divided,” said White Ankles. “Perhaps eight for me, two for you.”

“Nine for me, one for you,” said Cornhair, “if any.”

“I sold for three pigs, you for one,” said White Ankles.

“
Filch
!” said Cornhair.

“The dealer!” whispered White Ankles.

Both slaves put down their heads.

In the presence of free persons, slaves commonly will not speak without permission.

The dealer went forward, about the horses, checking harnessing, or such. He then came back, about the wagon, and, reaching over the side of the wagon, busied himself with something toward the rear of the wagon. Cornhair heard some sounds of metal.

Then the fellow was near them.

“May I speak?” asked Cornhair.

“‘Master'?” asked the man.

“May I speak, Master?” asked Cornhair.

As I have suggested, Cornhair was not yet fully apprised of the depth and perfection of her bondage, that appropriate for a female such as she.

“No,” he said. “Get on all fours, both of you, heads down.”

Both slaves complied, instantly.

Dalliance is not permitted to female slaves.

That was well understood, even by Cornhair.

“Master!” said Cornhair.

“Keep your head down,” he said.

“What are you going to do?” asked Cornhair.

“Get collars on you,” he said.

“It will not be necessary to collar me, Master,” said Cornhair.

“You are not a bad-looking little
filch
,” he said.

“Please do not collar me, Master!” begged Cornhair.

“You have been complimented,” said the dealer.

“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair. “Please do not collar me. I do not look well in a collar.”

“All women look well in a collar,” he said. “A slave collar much enhances the beauty of any woman.”

“Please, Master!” begged Cornhair.

“If you speak again without permission,” he said, “you may expect to be whipped.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

She then felt a circlet of metal placed about her neck, and snapped shut.

How helpless Cornhair felt, on all fours, her head down, now so unmistakably designated!

A tiny moan of dismay, of misery, of utter helplessness, escaped her soft, fair lips.

One might conceal a brand. How could one conceal a collar? Almost any garment might conceal a brand. Who would know what insignia might bedeck the thigh of a woman clothed as free? Who would know in what secret locales might bloom the flower of bondage? The rose of servitude need not bloom publicly. But the collar was another matter. It cannot be hidden. It is visible, prominent, and secure; it is lovely, unslippable, and fastened; it is the ideal symbol of bondage. Brand her, yes, by all means, but see that she is in her collar. There is no mistaking the woman who wears a collar. She is a slave.

Cornhair heard another click.

White Ankles, too, was now collared.

Cornhair, lifting her head a little, a very little, noted that the muscular fellow's previously emptied sheath now bore a blade. He must have retrieved this from the wagon, doubtless when he was fetching the collars. Heruls, as we recall, did not care to admit armed strangers within the circle of the wagons.

“May I speak, Master?” asked Cornhair.

“Yes,” he said.

“In the camp,” she said, “we were dressed. Our dresses were removed. They must be about, in the camp. We understand that men might wish to buy us naked, that they might the better examine us, perhaps for blemishes, but we have now been bought. Might they not now be fetched? A child might do so.”

“One can hardly see a slave in such sacks,” said the man.

“But they are clothing,” said Cornhair.

“I do not want you in the unchanged, stinking rags of Herul slave girls,” said the man. “That is disgusting.”

“But perhaps something similar,” said Cornhair.

“Slaves will be clad as slaves,” said the man.

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“—if clad,” he added.

“I hope that I may be granted a fetching tunic, Master,” said White Ankles. “I wear the garments appropriate for me well.”

“Surely I will be given more than a tunic,” said Cornhair, “a gown, slippers!”

“Master is strong, and handsome,” said White Ankles. “Perhaps he may keep me for himself.”

“You are not without interest as a slave,” said the dealer. “Do you crawl well to a man's feet?”

“Yes, Master!” said White Ankles.

“Slave!” hissed Cornhair.

“She is Cornhair,” said White Ankles. “I am White Ankles, but you will name us both, as you please.”

“Slave, slave!” said Cornhair.

“Do not mind her, Master,” said White Ankles. “She does not know how to crawl to a man's feet. She is nothing, just suet, cold and uninteresting meat, stale bread, tepid porridge.”

“White Ankles!” protested Cornhair.

“Do you deny it?” asked White Ankles. “Are you hot in your collar, do your thighs heat?”

“Slave!” said Cornhair.

“I know I am a slave,” said White Ankles. “That is better than being a slave and not knowing one is a slave! I love men, and want to belong to one of them!”

“I hate you!” said Cornhair.

“Perhaps I made a mistake in purchasing this one,” said the dealer. “Perhaps I should have left her in the kettle.”

“No, no, dear Master,” said White Ankles. “She is just ignorant, and stupid. She does not understand herself. She tries to deny herself to herself. I have heard her weep in her sleep for a Master.”

“Liar!” said Cornhair.

“It is true, stupid little fool,” said White Ankles.

“No!” cried Cornhair.

“Despite what might appear to be the case, Master,” said White Ankles, “she is a female, and needs her Master, and can never be fulfilled without one.”

“No!” cried Cornhair.

“She needs to be owned, wholly and without compromise,” said White Ankles.

“No, no!” protested Cornhair.

“She can never be herself, save at a man's feet,” said White Ankles.

“It does not matter, one way or another,” said the dealer, “as long as her neck is in a collar.”

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“Keep your head down,” he said. “Stare at the dirt.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“May I inquire, Master,” asked White Ankles, “in what sort of collars we have been placed?”

“Market collars, selling collars,” he said.

“We are to take our place on some block in Venitzia?” she asked.

“I will probably ship you elsewhere,” he said.

“To some other provincial world?” she asked.

“Probably,” he said. “Do you think you will be sold on Telnaria itself?”

“No, Master,” she said.

“Why did you ask?”

“I thought that perhaps Master would consider placing me in his own collar,” said White Ankles.

“You are a forward
filch
,” he said.

“In a collar,” she said, “a girl can only hope that she will be found pleasing.”

“The whip will see to such things,” he said.

“Master has strong arms, and his hands are tanned and large.”

“Do you know how to please a man?” he asked.

“In your arms,” she said, “I could not help myself, even should I wish to do so.”

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Yes,” she said.

“You, with flaxen hair,” he said, “do you know how to please a man?”

“No,” said Cornhair, on all fours, head down, staring at the dirt.

“Can you cook?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“Can you sew?” he asked.

“Certainly not,” she said.

“What of you, Dark Hair,” asked the dealer. “Can you sew?”

“Of course, Master,” she said.

“Dark Hair, White Ankles, for now,” said the dealer, “you may rise.”

“Thank you, Master!” said White Ankles, springing to her feet.

“May I lift my head?” asked Cornhair.

“If you wish,” he said, “but remain on all fours.”

Cornhair glared at White Ankles.

“Master,” said White Ankles, “may I sit beside you, on the wagon bench?”

“You may kneel beside me, on the floor of the wagon box,” he said.

“Chained?” she said.

“That will not be necessary,” he said. “You are in a collar.”

“I would hope,” she said, “that Master might one day fasten his chains on me.”

“Perhaps,” he said.

“I want to wear Master's chains,” said White Ankles.

“Slave!” said Cornhair.

The dealer reached over the edge of the wagon, into one of the boxes there, removed something, and cast it to White Ankles.

She cried out, with surprise, and delight.

Cornhair heard a brief rustle of cloth.

“See!” said White Ankles to Cornhair. “I am tunicked!”

“It is a slave tunic,” said Cornhair. “In it, you are more naked than without it!”

“Thank you, Master!” said White Ankles.

“It is indeed a garment appropriate for you,” hissed Cornhair. “The meaningful, degrading garment of a slave!”

“I love it!” said White Ankles.

“It well displays my property,” said the dealer, “and as the property she is.”

“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delightedly.

“Turn about,” he said. “I am going to tie your hands together, behind your back.”

Apparently this was soon done.

“I do not trust Heruls, Master,” said White Ankles, pulling a bit at her wrists. “Let us be on our way, and put much distance between ourselves and the camp.”

The dealer then looked about, and to the opened gate between the wagons. Might not four or five riders emerge from that portal, later, after dark, riders which he might encounter later, in less than pleasant circumstances?

“I am known,” said the dealer to White Ankles. “I think I have little to fear, but, it is true, it would not hurt to be on our way.”

“No, Master,” said White Ankles.

“I am now going to lift you into the wagon,” said the dealer, “and put you on the floor of the wagon box, where you will kneel.”

“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delighted.

“Slave, slave!” said Cornhair.

One gathers that White Ankles was soon ensconced, kneeling, bound, beside the driver's bench, for the dealer had returned to the back of the wagon, where Cornhair waited, on all fours, her head down, rather toward the right-rear wheel of the wagon.

“What of me?” asked Cornhair.

“What of you?” said the dealer.

“Am I not, too, to be clothed?” asked Cornhair.

“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.

“It is my hope that I would be more amply concealed,” she said.

“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.

“Doubtless as well as any other woman,” she said.

“As well as a slave?” he asked.

“Doubtless,” she said.

“And appropriately?” he asked.

“Surely not appropriately,” said Cornhair.

“You have a slave body,” he said.

“Master!” protested Cornhair.

“You may thank me,” he said. “You have been complimented.”

“‘Complimented'?” she said.

“Yes,” he said. “Slave bodies are the loveliest, the most exciting, and desirable of female bodies. Those with such bodies should be slaves, and, obviously, in the way of nature, have been bred for bondage.”