The Usurper (52 page)

“Mercenaries, then?” said Julian.

“Surely,” said Iaachus. “Mercenaries, trustworthy, fresh from bloody wars, who owe the state much.”

“You have such men in mind?” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Iaachus, “but it avails naught, for we do not even know where to seek the princesses.”

“You will be dealing with barbarians,” said Otto. “I will command.”

“I will accompany you,” said Julian.

“And I,” said Tuvo Ausonius.

“I do not understand,” said Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol. “We do not even know where to look.”

“True,” said Otto. “But there is a likely world, a barbarian world, one not too far, not too close, one known to the Alemanni and their allies, a crossroads world, an assembly world, a rendezvous world, a meeting world.”

“What world is that?” asked Iaachus.

“Tenguthaxichai!” said Julian.

“Yes,” said Otto, “Tenguthaxichai.”

Chapter Forty-Eight

Cornhair lay curled at the feet of her Master, Rurik, in the Farnichi enclave, overlooking the Turning Serpent, somewhat northeast of Telnar. A silver chain ran from the ring on her silver overcollar to the ring set in the floor to the left of his thronelike chair, in which he received visitors. Beneath the overcollar she wore a simple close-fitting collar bearing the Farnichi emblem, the five petaled Pin Flower, native to Larial VII. She was not clothed. This was partly, doubtless, because she was lovely, and her Master enjoyed seeing her naked, and partly because she had once been a scion of the Larial Calasalii.

“We await guests,” said Rurik.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

“I am curious as to their business,” he said. “It is interesting. They come incognito.”

“Master may have me removed,” she said, “or he may unchain me, and I shall hurry to my cage, and crawl within.”

“You will remain,” he said. “I enjoy displaying you, a pretty slave, once a woman of the Calasalii.”

“As Master wills,” she said. “I am his slave.”

Some days ago Cornhair had been laden with heavy chains and put naked into a wagon. A few hours later the wagon had been admitted behind the first gate of a high-walled enclave. When the gate had been closed behind the wagon, Cornhair was relieved of her chains, and placed, kneeling, on the paving stones between the first and second gate. The officer in charge of the gate guard, which consisted of four men, made his mark on the delivery receipt and the wagon was turned about, and, the gate opened, took its departure. Cornhair heard the gate close behind her, but did not look, as she had been knelt facing the second gate. She saw a small door open in the second gate, which door would permit the passage of only one person at a time. Through this door emerged a fellow clad in normal Telnarian garb, perhaps a constable or bailiff. Dangling from his left hand was an opened collar.

He approached Cornhair and stood before her, and she lowered her head.

“Look up,” he said.

Cornhair looked up.

The collar was held before her.

“Do you know this design?” she was asked.

“It is the five-petaled Pin Flower,” she said.

“It is the mark of what great family?” he said.

“It is the mark of the Farnichi,” she said.

“So it is a Farnichi collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“And you are going to wear it, are you not?”

“If Masters please,” she said.

“Assume the posture of a bitch,” he said, “slut of the Calasalii.”

Cornhair went to all fours, her head down.

The collar was then snapped about her neck.

“You are one of the few sluts of the Calasalii who have long avoided the collar,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“But now you are in it, where you belong,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Wait here,” he said, “as you are.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

He then exited through the small door in the larger gate.

As the reader may recall, the Calasalii and the Farnichi, both originally native to Larial VII, maintained private armies, devoted to their interests on more than one world, interests which were occasionally incompatible. These private armies, on more than one world, met in the fierce adjudications of war. Eventually the empire saw fit to intervene, an intervention apparently, at least partly, in response to an invitation of the Farnichi, which saw little profit to be reaped from a continuance of hostilities, hostilities which seemed likely to be indefinitely prolonged, with the obvious diminution of resources on both sides and an ever-mounting toll of burned and gutted cities and towns, and planetwide widths of barren, untilled fields. This invitation to imperial forces, it was rumored, this repast of harmony and conciliation, was sweetened by substantial condiments of Farnichi gold. Surely it was more in the interests of the empire, to restore order, to side with one foe or another, thereby increasing the power and leverage of the favored faction, rather than try to impose its will on two intransigent parties, each of which might, particularly on certain worlds, more than overmatch any imperial cohorts likely to be applied in the appropriate sectors. In any event, abetted by the empire, the Farnichi brought the war to a brief and bloody close. Calasalii forces were disbanded. Calasalii property was confiscated by the state, and divided between the empire and the Farnichi. In this way each of the original Farnichi gold pieces was multiplied several times, an outcome more than justifying the original investment. After the war the Calasalii family was stripped of rank, and the associated perquisites of rank. The family was reduced to the
humiliori
. Later, as we earlier noted, presumably at the instigation of the Farnichi, who may have had long memories and apprehensions concerning the future, the Calasalii were outlawed, an outlawry kept secret until its consequences were enacted without warning. Men and women of the Calasalii were seized by the state. The men were largely consigned to the mines and quarries, the women to the collar.

A short while after the exit of the attendant, perhaps the enclave constable or bailiff, a tunicked slave came through the small door in the gate.

Cornhair noted, to her apprehension, that the slave carried a switch.

“You are the new girl,” said the slave.

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“As I understand it,” she said, “you are a bitch of the Calasalii.”

“I was once of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair. “I am now a slave, only a slave.”

“Like the other bitches in your family,” she said.

“I do not know,” said Cornhair.

“What are you here for,” she asked, “for the kitchen, for the fields?”

“I do not know,” said Cornhair.

“Kneel,” said the slave. “Get your head up.”

Cornhair knelt. She wanted to touch her collar, but did not dare do so.

“Back on your heels, straighten your back, keep your head up, your hands, palms down, on your thighs!”

Cornhair complied.

“You are pretty,” said the slave, “in a cheap way.”

“I was of the Calasalii,” said Cornhair, “of the
honestori
, the patricians, even of the senatorial class!”

“Yes,” said the slave, “you are pretty, in a cheap way. Remain as you are.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

Even had she been a free woman, she would have felt herself a slave, kneeling so.

“What would it be like,” she wondered, “to be a man and see a woman kneeling before him so, and knowing she was a slave?”

She suspected then, something of the heat of the male.

“And what would it be like, to kneel so before a man, one who is your Master?” she wondered.

“And can the man,” she wondered, “suspect something of the heat of the slave?”

How it excited a slave to be a slave!

Dare men know that?

“Split your knees,” said the slave.

“Surely not!” exclaimed Cornhair.

The switch was lifted.

“Good,” said the slave.

The switch was lowered, to Cornhair's relief.

“I do not see you for the kitchen, or the fields,” said the slave. “I see you, Calasalii bitch, as a Thong Girl, a Couch-Ring Girl, a Split-Knees Girl. Rejoice, or despair, as the notion strikes you.”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“Do you think you can please a man?” she asked.

“I do not know, Mistress,” said Cornhair. “I am a slave. I will try to be found pleasing. I do not wish to be beaten, or tortured.”

“I know your type,” she said. “You need not fear being beaten or tortured. You will fear only that he may not touch you.”

Cornhair tasted a drop of blood on her lip. She had bitten herself.

“Follow me,” said the slave, turning about.

Cornhair leapt up, and followed the slave. As she sped forward, she felt, touching it, the collar on her neck, the lock at the back of the neck. It was a light, close-fitting collar, and was comfortable, as most slave collars. The point of the collar is to identify its occupant as a slave and, commonly, her owner. It also, to be sure, enhances the beauty of its occupant. It is designed, in part, with that in mind. The common slave collar is so light and comfortable that one would often forget that it was there. But it would be there.

The slave, at the small door fixed in the large second gate, turned, and faced Cornhair.

“Adjust your collar,” she said.

Cornhair did so, carefully. She knew that she was so slave, and so vain, that she would wear her collar well. Slave girls are entitled to their vanity as well as free women.

“It is a Farnichi collar,” said the slave. “You are now a Farnichi girl. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Mistress,” said Cornhair.

“I do not envy you, Calasalii bitch,” she said.

“Mistress?” said Cornhair.

“Follow me,” she said, turning. “We must clean you up and feed you, and make you presentable.”

“Your tunic is lovely,” said Cornhair. “May I hope to be so clothed?”

“You will probably be kept naked,” said the slave.

“Why, Mistress?” asked Cornhair.

“Because you were Calasalii,” she said. “The Farnichi enjoy owning the women of their enemies.”

The slave then exited through the small door in the large, second gate, and Cornhair followed her.

Cornhair stood behind the large, double doors leading to the audience chamber, waiting to be formally presented to her Master, and selected retainers. She had been washed, and brushed and combed, and well fed, on fresh, hot bread and warm slave gruel. There are many forms of, and recipes for, slave gruel, as one would expect, and the mixtures and consistencies vary considerably, ranging from little more than thickened water to rich, weighty porridges. Whereas some slave gruels, usually weak, with inferior ingredients, may be fed to prisoners and slaves under discipline, most, as one would expect, are substantial and nourishing. Certainly a husbandman will normally take care to see that his stock is well cared for. Most slave gruels, the primary ingredients for which, grains, are commonly sold in bulk, in large sacks, are intended to constitute a portion of a carefully supervised, controlled diet with the end in view of the stock's vigor, health, and general wellbeing. Accordingly, the quantity and quality of provender supplied to the slave is regulated, as is the case with other domestic animals. An enslaved free woman commonly finds her figure, whether she wishes it or not, is becoming slave lovely, of greater interest to Masters, and the slave finds she is in little danger of losing a figure which would sell well off the block. Masters see to such things. There is little to be surprised at, that the average slave is trim, healthy, energetic, and appetitious. The average slave's diet, of course, as that of her Master, is likely to be varied and delicious. Indeed, most private slaves eat substantially the same meals as their Master, if only because they are likely to have prepared those meals. Mealtime differences are usually independent of the food. For example, the first bite is to be taken by the Master, the slave may feed on her knees, the seat of a chair serving as her table, and so on. Slave gruels do tend to have one thing in common. They are bland. They may be seasoned of course, if the Master permits it. Too, meat, fruit, and vegetables may be mixed with the gruel. Indeed, a slave's diet often contains generous amounts of fruits, nuts, and vegetables. A slave's zeal to obtain occasional treats and rewards, such as a candy from her Master's hand, may be attributed, one supposes, at least in part to the frequent plainness of her diet, and, in part, one supposes, to the fact that she is a slave.

“They make me wait,” said Cornhair, standing before the heavy, varnished, paneled double door leading to the audience chamber.

“Do not complain, do not be in a hurry,” said the slave with the switch, she in the lovely tunic. “Inside, you may be whipped.”

“What are they doing inside?” asked Cornhair.

“Business, discussion, a meeting, conferring,” said the slave. “Who knows what the Masters do. When they are finished with the work of men, that will be time for you.”

“What shall I do?” asked Cornhair.

“We are slaves,” she said. “We will kneel, and wait.”

Cornhair and the slave then went to their knees, to the side of the door.

Cornhair stood alone, small, forlorn, nude, collared, in the portal, at the end of the long carpet leading toward the thronelike chair at the far end of the audience chamber, the large, double doors now closed behind her.

“The slave,” said he whom, earlier, between the two outer gates, Cornhair had conjectured to be the enclave's constable or bailiff. It was he who had put her in her new collar.

“Approach your Master,” said he whom we shall now refer to as the constable, “on all fours, naked and collared, as befits a woman once of the Calasalii, before one of the Farnichi.”

Cornhair went to all fours. She raised her head to look to the far end of the room. There, on a dais, was a large, thronelike chair. On this chair, though now in informal robes, simple house robes, not a uniform, was the officer she remembered from Tenrik's market, he whose subordinate, on his behalf, had dealt with Tenrik. Flanking the thronelike chair were several men, some in uniform, some in house robes, as well. Of these men, some were to the right of the chair, others to the left of the chair, some on the dais, others on the floor. She was the only woman in the room.

“Head down,” said the constable.

So, head down, on all fours, Cornhair began the long journey down the long carpet to the foot of the dais.

The constable accompanied her.

“Stop,” he said.

Cornhair could see the first step of the dais before her, the robes and sandals of the constable to her left. She kept her head down.