The Usurper (41 page)

“What of the slaves?” inquired Orik.

“Frightened,” said Gundlicht, returned to the shore. “None injured, none buffeted, none cut.”

“All is tidy on the chain?” said a man.

“Yes,” said Gundlicht.

“Extinguish the torches,” said Orik. “We shall rest now, and return to the river at dawn.”

“Set a firm and dutiful watch,” said the man with the pistol.

“We shall,” said Orik.

“On the river,” said the man with the pistol, “my companions and I will remain in the cabin.”

“As you wish,” said Orik.

“Our arrival in Telnar will be as anticipated?” asked the man with the pistol.

“I think so,” said Orik. “We should wharf in the afternoon, the late afternoon.”

“My companions and I will remain in the cabin until after dark,” said the man with the pistol. “We shall then disembark.”

“As you wish,” said Orik.

“You know nothing of us,” said the man with the pistol. “You have not seen us.”

“I know nothing of you,” said Orik. “I have not seen you.”

“You were fortunate to survive the crash of your ship in the marshes,” said a man.

“Few have pierced the blockade,” said a man, “and even fewer without cost.”

“The penalties of detection are commonly weighty,” said a man.

“Do you know anything of a ship, my friends?” asked the man with the pistol.

“No,” said Orik. “We know nothing of a ship.”

“Good,” said the man with a pistol.

“But mayhap, of a purse of gold,” said one of the crew.

“Silence may be as easily purchased with steel as gold,” said the man with the pistol.

“We are silent,” said Orik.

“We owe you our lives,” said a crewman.

“I am weary,” said the giant. “I think that I shall sleep.”

“After what you have done?” asked one of the crew.

“My sword has fed,” said the giant.

“You are not Telnarian,” said a man.

“You are not of civilization,” said another.

“There are many civilizations,” said the man with the pistol.

The giant then turned away, to return to his blankets.

“What of the fallen,” asked the man with the pistol, “ours and theirs? Are they to be buried, or burned?”

“They will be returned to the river,” said Orik.

“I see,” said the man with the pistol. “There are many civilizations.”

A watch was then set, and men returned to their places of rest, some near where the fire had been, some back, away from the fire, and some on the deck of the keel boat itself.

Cornhair lay on her side, her head on her elbow, the chain running beneath her elbow and neck.

“They do not know I am here,” she thought. “So far then, I am safe. In daylight they will remain sequestered in the deck cabin. They would not know of my presence. Even should they emerge, doubtless the canvas shelter will be set, and they could not see me, or the others, unless intending to do so, which is unlikely. They will wish to remain unseen. I think there are things on their mind quite other than eye feasts. So I, as the others, will be concealed from them. And they will not emerge at Telnar until after dark. By that time I, and the other slaves, will be well disembarked. I do not know their business in Telnar, but doubtless it has naught to do with buying slaves. Larger, darker matters, I suspect, are afoot. I have escaped their notice. Soon I should be purchased, and be safe, as safe as any slave can be safe, and I am beautiful, so I, even if harshly punished, should be more safe than many others.”

It had been a difficult night for Cornhair, and her collar sisters. There had been the raid, and the fighting. They might have been carried off, or herded away, as the sort of stock, or cattle, they were, one form of loot amongst others. But the raid had been beaten off, and things were now muchly returned to normal. There was little to be concerned with now other than the prices they might bring off the shelves or blocks, and the new Masters before whom they must kneel.

To be sure, Cornhair's apprehension had exceeded that of her collar sisters in certain ways.

There had been no mistaking, in the light of the torches, the three strangers near the shore. She had seen the three before, on Tangara, in an imperial camp, on a dark cold night, a cloudy winter night, long ago, a remote camp set in the snow, ringed with its defensive wire, a camp at the edge of a deep forest into which few would intrude, in which it was said that Otungs roamed.

She had failed in her attempt to kill the giant, whom she had been commissioned to assassinate with a poisoned knife.

He was Otto, the king of a Vandal tribe, the Otungs, or, perhaps better, Ottonius, a captain of auxiliaries. The other two, who had hurried to the camp to warn the giant of his danger, had arrived at the camp shortly after her failed attempt to complete her projected work. One was Julian, of the Aureliani, of high family, cousin even to the emperor, an officer in the imperial navy, he whom she knew was feared by Iaachus as a possible pretender to the throne, and the other was an agent and colleague of the scion of the Aureliani, a Tuvo Ausonius.

Chapter Thirty-Four

“Aside! Aside!” cried the driver.

Cornhair, chained under the canvas, hand and foot, on the shallow, flat-topped wagon, with four others, jolted and bruised, wept.

She could smell smoke. She heard shouting. She had the sense men were running about. She could see nothing.

The horses squealed, and the whip cracked.

The large wooden wheels of the wagon trundled over the stones. The wagon dipped. The flatbed lurched.

The slaves cried out, frightened.

Something cut at the canvas, a long slash, as the wagon sped on its way.

“Aside!” cried the driver.

The whip cracked again, and there was a cry of pain, of rage.

“Aside, I said!” the driver shouted. And then he addressed the horses. “On! On!” he cried, the whip cracking. “On! On!”

This was not a common wagon, or dray wagon, with mountable sides, to enclose a wagon bed, not even a rustic slave wagon, with its rings for girl chains.

Surely it was a far cry from the treaded carrier with the linked steel mesh in which Cornhair and others were first transported through the streets of Telnar, to be delivered to a slave house, and thence, soon, to a street market, a woman's shelf market. She had heard no hoverers, or motorized vehicles, since she had been disembarked from the keel boat two days ago. The wharves had been little frequented.

“It is uneasy in Telnar,” Gundlicht had been told, shortly after the wharfing of the keel boat. “The city is unruly. Lawlessness reigns in the streets.”

“Many have left the city,” said another fellow.

“Those who could,” said another.

Whatever Gundlicht and his fellows had been told, it had apparently convinced them to return quickly to the delta, to rejoin their lord, the barbarian, Ortog.

“These are fine slaves,” Gundlicht had told the wharf dealers, those few whose houses were not yet barred shut, their stock removed from the city.

“Acceptable merchandise,” he was told, “but fit for better times. Take them east. Return in six months.”

“Coin now,” had said Gundlicht.

“I make you out a barbarian, friend,” had said a dealer. “Your life, and that of your companions, would be worth little in Telnar at any time, and now, I fear, even less. Surely you know of the blockade. A landing is feared. A beard, a strange accent, a garment of hide, a trim of fur, could loose the arrows of guardsmen, the clubs and knives of the beasts who now prowl the streets.”

“Coin now,” said Gundlicht.

“Two hundred for the lot,” said the dealer.

“That is less than ten per slave, is it not?” said Gundlicht.

“As it happens,” said the dealer.

“That is not enough,” said Gundlicht.

“It is my offer,” said the dealer.

“I will sell you the lot,” said Gundlicht, “for five hundred
darins
.”

“That is an excellent wholesale price,” said a man, a bystander.

“Two hundred,” said the dealer.

“Most houses seem closed,” said Gundlicht.

“They hope for better times,” said the dealer.

“Your house is open,” said Gundlicht.

“And I risk much by keeping it so,” said the dealer.

“Why have you not fled, as many others?” asked Gundlicht.

“There is still a market for slaves,” said the dealer. “There is always a market for slaves.”

“Five hundred
darins
,” said Gundlicht.

“Times are hard,” said the dealer.

“Five hundred
darins
,” said Gundlicht.

“Times are hard,” said the dealer. “Two hundred.”

“No,” said Gundlicht.

“Times are unsettled,” said the dealer. “Prices are depressed. Pirates range westward.”

“Five hundred,” said Gundlicht.

“One hundred and fifty,” said the dealer.

“The wharves are muchly deserted,” said Gundlicht. “Few guardsmen are about.”

“They have been called to the city, to contain a confused, stirring populace,” said the dealer.

“Thus, they are not here,” said Gundlicht.

“So?” said the dealer, uneasily.

“Five hundred,” said Gundlicht, “and I will throw in your business.”

“I do not understand,” said the dealer.

“Light torches,” had said Gundlicht, to his fellows.

“Hold,” had said the dealer. “I will give you five hundred.”

“Six hundred,” had said Gundlicht.

“Very well,” had said the dealer, “six hundred.”

“That is not a bad price,” had said a bystander.

Cornhair cried out in misery as the wagon jolted.

The wagon, a common flatbed, was not designed for the transportation of slaves. It was designed for the convenient loading and unloading of heavy materials, such as lumber, sewerage piping, and blocks of stone. Certainly more suitable conveyances were in short supply in the vicinity of the wharves, but exigency was not the explanation for the selection of this particular vehicle.

“Deliver these to the House of Worlds, on Varl,” the driver had been ordered. The House of Worlds was a major, well-known company, with outlets on several worlds.

“Today?” had asked the driver.

“Have this receipt signed,” said the dealer.

Much business in Telnar, incidentally, as in many economies, was conducted in terms of notes of various sorts, exchanged amongst parties. Such notes were not generally negotiable. Few would prove of interest, or value, to a common thief. Considerable sums, as one would expect, might be transferred amongst businesses, and even amongst worlds, without a physical
darin
being moved.

“Better tomorrow, next week,” said the driver.

“You will proceed easily, and in safety,” said the dealer. “No one will know your cargo. We are not chaining them to the back of the wagon, where they must follow on neck chains. They will be covered with a canvas. From the nature of this wagon, none will suspect the nature of your delivery.”

“Tomorrow,” said the driver.

“Days have passed,” said the dealer. “Why should tomorrow, or the next day, be better? I am going to close the house. I depart from the city. There may be a landing in Telnar.”

“Surely not,” said the driver. “Surface batteries would incinerate any intruder within range.”

“Keep the receipt,” said the dealer. “Bring it to my villa.”

Cornhair and her four collar sisters were the last of the twenty-two slaves recently purchased from Gundlicht. Each was in a market collar, identifying them as having been sold to the House of Worlds. The market collars had been affixed by an agent of the House of Worlds after the sale had been arranged. Each was naked and ankle-shackled. The hands of each were chained behind their back.

Cornhair was not much pleased that she was in the last group of girls disposed of by the dealer, before he would leave the city.

Surely she and the other four were not poor stuff.

Cornhair knew little of what was transpiring in the city, but she had gathered, from a hundred things said and not said, from a hundred hesitations, and glances, that something, as Tuvo Ausonius had said earlier, near the shore of the river, was now different in Telnar.

Were she a free woman, perhaps she would have fled the city. But she, as horses and dogs, would remain, or depart, as Masters wished.

“Oh,” she said, as she was lifted, the fourth of the five, by the driver onto the boards of the wagon.

“Lie on your bellies,” said the driver, “and keep silent. I have a whip, and it may be used on you as easily as on the horses.”

The whip then lightly touched each on the back.

“Yes, Master,” said each, as she felt, in turn, the touch of the whip.

The canvas was then drawn over them.

“May good fortune attend you,” said the dealer.

“And you,” said the driver.

And then the reins were shaken, the whip cracked, and the wagon lurched forward.

“Hold!” demanded a voice.

Cornhair was thrown forward on the boards. She heard the protesting squeals of the horses.

“Stand aside!” said the driver.

“We allow no wagons here!” said a voice.

“A pity,” said the driver. “Rioters must then carry their loot on their backs. Remove the bar!”

“The road is raw,” said the voice.

“How so?” said the driver.

“The road has been trenched, to withstand guardsmen, to impede transports,” said the man. “Stones have been pulled free, for hurling, for building barricades.”

“This district was pacified,” said the driver.

“Two days ago,” said the voice. “Not now.”

“You are no guardsman,” said the driver. “Move aside the bar. Stand aside!”

“I am guardsman enough,” said the fellow. “This is our orchard now.”

“Where you pick gold,” said the driver.

“What have you there, beneath that canvas?” said the voice.

“Rock,” said the driver, “for street work, for fillage on Varl.”

“Varl is quiet,” said the man.

“Good,” said the driver.

“Lion Ships prowl the sky,” said the voice. “Mobs unbridled roam streets. Guardsmen are few. Districts burn.”

“
Civilitas
is fragile, and easily cast aside,” said the driver.

“And you, in these times, are carrying stone, for street work?” said the voice.

“Stand aside,” said the driver.

“We shall see,” said the voice.

“Ho!” cried the driver. “On!” The whip cracked, the horses plunged forward, there was a breakage of wood, a cry of anger, and the wagon, half tipping, rumbled forward.

Cornhair heard men shouting.

“Stop! Stop!” she heard.

Someone must have clutched at the canvas, and lost his grip, for it jerked on the bodies of the slaves, but was not much disarranged.

The wagon rolled on for several minutes, lurching, the whip cracking, the clawed paws of the horses scratching at the stones of the street.

Then the wagon, lifting half off two wheels on the left, turned a corner, and sped forward, even more swiftly.

“Hold!” Cornhair heard cry, more than once. There was a sharp sound of steel interacting with wood, as some implement struck at the passing wagon. A bit later, from the sound, a blow and cry, one of the horses must have buffeted aside someone on foot.

Suddenly Cornhair cried out with fear for an arrow, perhaps fired from a high window or rooftop, piercing the canvas, was in the planking at her shoulder.

“Steeds, on, steeds, on!” cried the driver.

“Stop!” she heard, again. “Stop! Stop!”

There must have been men about, for cries came from all sides.

Men must have fled from the path of the rushing, hurtling vehicle, as it sped amongst them.

A short time later, the wagon slowed, and then stopped.

The canvas was drawn aside.

“Off, off,” said the driver.

The five slaves were put on their feet, in a line. Cornhair was placed third in line, as the two girls before her were taller than she, the tallest girl first, and the two behind her were shorter than she, the shortest last. It is common to arrange slaves aesthetically.

Cornhair looked wildly about herself.

“We are safe,” said the driver. “We have reached the barricade.”

“Master?” said one of the girls.

“Men have sealed off this district from the looters,” said the driver. “Any who try to cross this border are killed.”

On this side of the barricade, which was several feet high, and formed of a miscellany of objects, as carts and wagons, boards, timber, cratage, bags of sand and dirt, furniture, and blocks of paving stone, there were, as is common in Telnar, several street level shops. These were empty and dark, abandoned. The boards of their wooden closing screens were missing or strewn on the street; the rods and chains which would have held them in place, when they had been fitted into their receiving slots, in floor and ceiling, lay about. Some bolt rings had been pried from the wall. Here and there, broken, massive padlocks dangled. Some of these shops were black from the residue of burning. The smell of smoke lingered, infecting the air, clinging to surfaces. In none of these shops, even those free of fire, could Cornhair see aught but vacancy and ruin, tables with broken legs, chairs fallen, and awry, debris scattered on floors, empty shelves, some broken from the sides of the shop.

“Bring your goods through here,” said a man, high on the barricade.

He indicated a narrow opening below him and to his right, where two other men had swung back a makeshift gate of planks, with projecting spikes.

“Move,” said the driver.

The slaves, in line, proceeded.

“They are nicely shackled, close shackled,” said a man.

“They will not rush quickly away, so impeded,” said a fellow.

“I think they will stay muchly where we want them,” said another.

Within the barricade Cornhair saw there were several more men, variously armed, most with clubs.

“The ankles of women look well in shackles,” said a fellow.

“Consider their hands, chained behind their backs,” said another, approvingly.

“Excellent,” said another.

“Women look well, stripped and in chains,” said a man.

“Would that we had our free women so,” said a man.

Slaves may be discussed so, for they are not free women.

The fellow at the height of the barricade, who seemed to be first amongst these men, called out, apparently to some fellows beyond the barricade, in the vicinity of the looted shops.

“Stay away!” he called out. “If you come here we will club out your brains, if you have any!”

“Keep moving,” said the driver. “It is not far now.”

To her surprise, Cornhair heard music, coming from a tavern. Within there were lights. Men loitered about.