The Usurper (28 page)

“But why,” she asked, “should women not have a
koos
?”

“I do not know,” said Iaachus, “but I suspect because Floonians are not too fond of women. Women are regarded as dangerous, as seductive, as temptresses, as alluring beasts whose charms might divert men from the life of the
koos
, which would lead them astray from the paths of righteousness, and such.”

“Then, Master,” she said, “these faiths will all be extinct in a single generation.”

“No,” said Iaachus. “Not all adherents of Floon are as perfect, and stalwart, in the faith as others.”

“I see,” she said.

“But they have their uses, for they regularly contribute their pennies, and
darins
, to the temple's coffers.”

“What benefit do they receive for this?” asked Elena.

“Two, it seems,” said Iaachus, “first, the assuagement of instilled guilt, guilt inflicted upon them, guilt for their numerous, inevitable lapses and imperfections, for perfection, as you will understand, is difficult to attain. Indeed, the goal is designed to be unreachable. There is always more that could be sacrificed, more that could be done. Second, they are assured, though the matter is always quite uncertain and precarious, that their
koos
will eventually dine on golden dishes at the table of Karch himself.”

“It is all mysterious,” she said.

“I fear,” said Iaachus, “the empire may eventually find itself embroiled in the feuds of warring dogmatisms.”

“It cannot, Master,” said Elena.

“Already blood has stained a world,” said Iaachus.

“Tolerance is the invariable way of the empire,” said Elena. “The empire has always assiduously avoided the squabbles of faiths, ever maintaining its neutrality in such sensitive matters, always insisting on tolerance.”

“Save when the empire felt itself threatened,” said Iaachus. “Brief, minor, isolated persecutions, on one world or another, have occasionally taken place when some members of one sect or another, Floonians or otherwise, would renounce their loyalty to the state, would publicly and prominently refuse to perform, say, even a token sacrifice of allegiance.”

“I have not even heard of such things,” she said.

“The empire never had its heart in such things,” said Iaachus. “It is not the way of the empire. Such actions, occasional, intermittent and selective, were always founded on a concept of secular expedience, never on zealotry. It would never occur to the empire to systematically, over generations, hunt down and exterminate entire populations. The empire does not even understand such single-mindedness, such radical, fundamental commitment, such devotion, such dedication, such a willingness to despoil, torture, and murder, such unending and uncompromising fanaticism.”

“Why do you speak of these things, Master?” said Elena.

“Sidonicus, Exarch of Telnar,” said Iaachus, “wants the sword of the empire to be unsheathed in the name of Floon, his Floon. He wants the secular sword to seek out and exterminate heretics, namely, those who do not accept the doctrinal supremacy of his particular temple, or temples.”

“He is mad,” said Elena.

“Dangerous,” said Iaachus.

“Fortunately, he is weak, he has no power,” said Elena.

“The empire has power,” said Iaachus. “He wants the empire.”

“Surely he shall not have it,” said Elena.

“Do you realize the horror,” he asked, “should the empire endorse one such faith, one such dogmatism, so obsessive and immoderate, so radical, so extreme, so bigoted?”

“It would be insane to do so,” said Elena.

“Have you ever heard, sweet Elena,” asked Iaachus, “of the
festung
of Sim Giadini?”

“No,” she said.

“It was on Tangara,” he said. “It was a fortress, and holy place, maintained by holy creatures, the brotherhood of Sim Giadini, a Floonian brotherhood.”

“‘Was'?”

“Yes.”

“I know nothing of it,” she said.

“Sim Giadini, or Saint Giadini,” said Iaachus, “was an Emanationist.”

“What is that?” she asked.

“The Emanationist doctrine is that Floon was an emanation of Karch.”

“How could an Ogg be an emanation, and not an Ogg?” she asked.

“I do not claim the doctrine is intelligible, no more than a dozen others,” said Iaachus, “but what is important is that it is not the orthodox doctrine as the Exarch of Telnar understands orthodoxy.”

“And how does he understand orthodoxy?”

“A great coincidence is involved,” said Iaachus.

“It is his own doctrine,” said Elena.

“Yes,” said Iaachus. “In any event, briefly, the Exarch of Telnar, with his smooth manners, his flattery and honeyed words, has the ear of the empress mother. He has informed her of the joys of Floon. I fear he has begun her instruction. He has undoubtedly informed her of the dangers of diversity, how frightful it would be if all did not think the one, true thought, his thought, of the threat which heresy poses to the empire, to the throne, and to her son, the emperor.”

“Did he not inform her that she has no
koos
?” asked Elena.

“I suspect it did not occur to him to do so,” said Iaachus.

“What of the
festung
of Sim Giadini?” asked Elena.

“Its destruction was ordered,” said Iaachus.

“Surely not by the emperor,” said Elena. “The emperor is simple. He cannot even write his own name.”

“By another,” said Iaachus.

“The imperial signet ring is in the keeping of the empress mother,” said Elena.

“Of course,” said Iaachus.

“Then it begins,” said Elena, “the intervention of the state on behalf of a particular sect.”

“It is not so simple,” said Iaachus. “Why an imperial attack on the
festung
of Sim Giadini, and not on a hundred other
festungen
, many of more portentous heterodoxy, many of which would be within easier range?”

“I do not understand it, Master,” she said.

“Nor do I,” said Iaachus. “But there must be a reason.”

“Master is tired,” she said.

“No,” he said, “I do not think so, not tired, not really, rather, troubled, puzzled, concerned.”

“Shall I go to your chamber?” she asked.

“Yes,” he said.

“Shall I lay out chains and a whip,” she asked, “and then kneel at the foot of your couch, my head down?”

“Naked, of course,” he said.

“Of course, Master,” she said.

“And hope that you will be found pleasing?”

“Most certainly, Master.”

“Elena,” said he.

“Master?” she said.

“You are subject to the whip,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “for I am a slave.”

“What is it like, to know yourself subject to the whip?” he asked.

“It is to know oneself a slave,” she said.

“You fear the whip?”

“Very much.”

“Interesting,” he said.

“But it thrills me, too, to be subject to it,” she said.

“Speak,” he said.

“I wanted to be such that I would be owned, and must obey, and would be punished if I were not pleasing.”

“You wanted to be a slave?” he said.

“I wanted to be true to myself,” she said, “for I am a slave.”

“Do you like the feel of the whip on your body?” he asked.

“Very seldom its stroke,” she said, “for that hurts, and terribly. I would do much to avoid it.”

“I see,” he said.

“But I like to feel it against my body, its touch, its motion, and caress, for I well know what it could do to me, and in its touch I am well reminded that I am what I most want to be, a slave.”

“‘Very seldom'?” he said.

“Must I speak the truth?” she asked.

“You are a slave,” he said.

“Naturally I know that I will be punished, if I am not displeasing,” she said.

“Of course,” he said.

“But there are rare times,” she said, “when I relish its stroke, if but briefly, for it confirms my bondage upon me, my beloved, precious bondage.”

“You may precede me to my chambers,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

He watched her rise, back away, and then turn, and exit from the room. He could see the stairwell behind the briefly opened door.

“Why,” muttered Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol, to himself, “why the
festung
of Sim Giadini? It is not that important, it is too far away, it is too remote from the centers of empire. Why? There must be a reason.”

He waited for a few minutes, and then he, too, left the room.

Chapter Twenty-Two

“Stand straight, with the others,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

She stood straight, on the platform, not meeting the eyes of any in the crowd, some loitering, some passing, in the street. About her neck, suspended by two cords, hung a small, rectangular, wooden placard, about six inches in width, some four inches in height. On it was inscribed a legend as to her origin, age, physical condition, accomplishments, and defects, information which might be of interest to a possible buyer. Cornhair, in the way of accomplishments, had no notable skills. For example, she could not cook, was not a seamstress, could not play a musical instrument, or such. She could, however, read and write Telnarian, which many slaves, brought from far worlds, could not. With respect to defects, which were few, unless, say, one would prefer a larger, stronger woman, one more fit for heavy labors, one less vulnerably or helplessly feminine, or, say, one of a different color or figure, buyers were merely apprised of her newness to bondage and her lack of training. A buyer, accordingly, must be prepared to supply these lacks, and improve his purchase, which is easy enough to do, of course, by the switch or whip.

Above the placard, and within the cords, as one might expect, she wore a market collar. Naturally, too, she, as all the others, all women, for this was a woman market, was stripped.

That is the way beasts are sold.

Too, it is natural for buyers to wish to well apprise themselves of an item prior to its purchase.

She became aware of a figure near her, robed, masculine. She dared not turn her head, nor meet his eyes.

How keenly then was Cornhair aware of her bondage, her slightness, and bared beauty, the large, looming, fully clothed body near her.

She was naked, and, at her side, was a male, fully clothed.

It is quite meaningful for a woman to be unclothed in the presence of a fully clothed male.

She is then, in such a contrast, well apprised of what she is, of her startling and marvelous difference from the male, of her radical femaleness.

In no way can she then conceal or diminish her dramatic difference from the male.

Too, to be unclothed before the clothed, how could the contrast between forms of life, between free and slave, between owner and owned, be more clearly drawn?

She then realized that her nudity was not a mere convenience, having to do with the exhibition of merchandise.

Far more was involved.

It was a way of making clear what she was, and was not, that she was not free, but a slave.

Are there not a thousand symbolisms involved? Are there not a thousand ways of drawing the most telling, and salient, of distinctions between forms of life, between the free and the slave, between the noble, worthy citizen and the meaningless beast? The free may clothe themselves as they choose; the slave may not. Let her hope to be granted clothing. Its extent and nature, if it is permitted, will be determined by the free. And men, commonly, if permitting the slave clothing, will enjoy dressing the slave for their own pleasure, and in such a way that it is clear to herself and others that she is a slave. Many are the symbolisms, and realities, involved. The free command, the slave obeys. The free stand; the slave kneels. The free speak as, and when, they wish. The slave may speak only upon the sufferance of the free, and her speech must be suitable, soft, gentle, respectful, and deferent, and its diction must be clear. She dare not raise her voice to a free person; she is not to speak stridently or shrilly; she is not to speak shortly, sharply, or impatiently. Such lapses will bring punishment, commonly the whip. Slovenliness of speech, or, indeed, of appearance or movement, is not permitted the slave. She is to be well spoken when permitted to speak, and is to be attractive and graceful. She is not free. The free are to be pleased, the slave is to please. The free is as he chooses to be. The slave is marked, and collared. The free behave as they please. The slave kneels and requests permission. The slave may be blindfolded, gagged, braceleted, thonged, chained and roped; she may be kenneled and caged, bought and sold.

She must fear her Master's displeasure.

She must fear the whip, and switch.

She is a slave.

It is hard for a woman to keep her pride or to pretend to status or worth when she is stripped and collared, and kneeling, head down, before her Master.

So Cornhair stood naked, wearing her placard, beside a fully clothed male.

That was not an unusual juxtaposition, of course, for a slave being marketed.

“Straighten up, slave,” said the man. “Draw in your gut. Put your shoulders back. Lift your head.”

“Yes, Master,” wept Cornhair.

She felt the placard about her neck adjusted, so that it hung more straightly.

“Smile,” he said. “We are trying to sell you!”

Tears ran down her cheeks.

“Catch the eye of a fellow in the crowd,” he said. “Smile at him. Make him want you! You are for sale!”

He then descended the two steps from the selling ledge to the street level, turned, and looked up at the display.

He drew on the sleeve of a passing fellow, and, with a broad, generous motion, a sweep of his hand, gestured to the selling ledge.

Was he calling attention to her?

No, it was another!

She half fainted.

She felt the sun on her body, the cement wall behind her. It was near noon. She felt the warm, granulated surface of the ledge beneath her bared feet. She moved a little, sensing the small, wooden placard on her body. She was not chained. She felt an untoward, bizarre impulse to flee from the platform. How absurd that would be! She was naked. Even if she had been clad, she would have been clad as a slave. And there was a market collar on her neck, which would assure her prompt return to the market. And on her left thigh, high, under the hip, tasteful, lovely, and unmistakable, was the slave rose. And if, somehow, she might slip away, into the crowd, obtain garments forbidden to her, what could she do, where could she go, who would she be, how would she fit into society? Such as she had no place, save at the feet of a Master.

“Oh!” she cried, startled.

A form had leapt to the ledge beside her, and two large, strong hands, held her head, and forced it back.

“Open your mouth,” she was told, “widely.”

She complied, frightened, her eyes shut, her mouth widely open. She felt fingers forced into her mouth and it was stretched open even more, painfully so.

She kept her hands at her side, as she knew she must do. One is not to interfere with the hands of Masters. The body of a beast being vended is public to potential buyers. It may be touched, and explored, tested for soundness, and responsiveness.

“See?” called the merchant from the street. “It is as I said. Her skin has not been altered, by the knife, or by rinses of chemicals. Her skin is fresh, and unblemished, as you see it. She is twenty-two years old. She is originally Telnarian, probably a debtress. If you are not Telnarian, would you not enjoy owning a former Telnarian, a former free woman of the empire, now a humbled, meaningless slave, now yours to do with as you please?”

“Oh!” said Cornhair.

“Yes,” called the merchant from the street, “the hair color is natural. We would not dare to deceive a customer in such a matter. Buy her. Forty
darins
!”

“Too much,” said the fellow, his hands now clasping Cornhair at the waist. His hands made her uneasy, terribly so. She knew she was a slave, and was well aware of what, in the eyes of men, slaves were for.

“Make an offer!” suggested the merchant.

“I shall look for a better,” he said.

He then departed from the platform.

A moment later the merchant, in a temper, ascended the ledge, took Cornhair's hair in his left hand, and then, with the palm of his right hand, slapped her face twice, sharply, stingingly.

“Master?” she wept.

“Did I not tell you to smile?” he asked. “Attract him, but subtly. This is a middle market, not a low market. Trust that you will not be sent to a low market. You need not be blatant. But excite him! You have all the wiles and tricks of a free woman at your disposal, the smiles, the turnings, the movements, the glances, the hints, the veiled promises, and you have, besides, an inestimable advantage over her, that you are, as well, the most desirable of all women, the woman who is collared, who can be owned, the female slave. He was a male! He was within an arm's reach, and you did nothing!”

“I was afraid, Master,” she wept.

“Then tremble,” he said, “pull your arms back, pull back your shoulders, lifting your breasts, cross your wrists, as though tied, behind you, lift your head, exposing your throat, that he may imagine it fastened in his collar.”

“I fear I am a poor slave,” she said.

Indeed, she knew she was largely worthless, save for the interests which her body might stir in the loins of men.

Still, that might be considerable.

“He put his hands on you,” he said. “Did you feel nothing?”

“I fear I am unattractive,” she said.

“You would not have been bought on Tangara, had you not been of interest.”

“I was once thought,” she said, “to have been very beautiful.”

“Among free women,” he said.

“And others,” she said.

“You are still beautiful,” he said.

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“Very beautiful.”

“Thank you, Master.”

“But stiff, like wood,” he said.

“Forgive me, Master,” she said.

“His hands were on you,” he said. “Did you feel nothing?”

“I could not help myself,” she said.

“Nor should you,” he said. “You are a slave.”

“I am uncertain,” she said. “I am confused.”

“You are not a free woman,” he said. “You need not wrestle with yourself. You need not deny your body; you need not forswear your heart. You need not languish in the traps of convention, need not fear the words and frowns of the ignorant, stupid, and frustrated. It is not wrong to be yourself. If your heart is the heart of a slave, rejoice, kneel, and be the slave you are. The collar frees you; the slave, collared, is a thousand times more free than the free woman.”

“No, no, no!” she said.

“Do not fear,” he said. “It is only that your belly has not yet been enflamed.”

“It will not be!” she said.

“You will have no choice in the matter,” he said. “It will be done to you. You are a slave.”

“I want to feel heat,” she said. “I want to be piteous, open, and begging! I want to blaze with passion, and need!”

“You will,” he said.

“No, no!” she said. “I must not!”

“You will,” he said.

“I will struggle not to feel,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she said.

“Your struggle will be unsuccessful,” he said.

“I fear so,” she wept.

“You sense it?” he said.

“I fear there is a slave in me,” she said.

“There is one in every woman,” he said.

“We must resist our slave,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I do not know,” she said.

“Resistance,” he said, “is for the free woman. It is permissible for her. It is forbidden to the slave.”

“I have heard women cry out in need,” she said.

“Slaves,” he said.

“Can a woman be such?” she asked.

“Certainly,” he said.

“I would not be so pathetic, so miserable, and weak,” she said.

“They are not pathetic, miserable, and weak,” he said. “They are alive, very alive.”

“I fear I could be so,” she said.

“You will be so,” he said. “You will be unable to help yourself. Fuel ignited burns; moons stir oceans; worlds turn; journeys are made; blood courses in its thousand channels; hands reach out; desire, in its torrents, like raging rivers, sweeps aside the debris of vacillation, hesitation, and artifice; one senses the coming of storms, the beating of drums.”

“I am afraid,” she said.

“And well you should be,” he said, “for you are a slave.”

She trembled, despite the warmth of the ledge.

“If we cannot dispose of you here,” he said, “in the open, for a decent price, in this market, a middle market, we will put you in a low house, a cheap house, one patronized by a motley rabble, for auctioning.”

“I have heard of such places,” she said. “Let it not be so!”

“In such a place,” he said, “beware of not being sold. Such fellows are not patient. You may be thrown to dogs.”

“I do not understand,” she said.

“For feed,” he said.

“What am I to do, Master?” she said.

“Stand straight,” he said. “Smile.”

He then adjusted the small placard hung on its two cords about her neck.

“There,” he said.

He then turned away.