The Usurper (9 page)

Chapter Nine

“Your hands are now free,” said the barbarian. “Perhaps you do not know what to do with them.”

“Forgive me, Master,” said Filene, “but I have recently been free.”

She slipped quickly, gracefully, beneath the furs.

“You conceal yourself,” observed the barbarian.

“Permit me to do so,” she said.

“Why?” he asked.

“I am still timid, and modest,” she said. “Much of the free woman remains in me.”

“It could be whipped out of you,” said the barbarian.

“Be kind,” she said.

“The slave is not a free woman,” he said. “It is a mistake to lavish consideration on her. Soon, as the free woman, she will not appreciate it, but expect it, and take it for granted. Thus, a slave should be kept on her knees.”

“I see,” she said.

“That is what they want, and where they belong,” he said.

“I see,” she said.

“They are women, slaves,” he said.

“Join me within the covers, Master,” she said.

“No woman is truly happy,” said the barbarian, “who is not in her collar.”

“Hurry, Master,” she urged.

“You are an extremely pretty slave,” he said.

“That is why you give me my way,” she said.

“Your hair is long, your eyes blue, your features exquisite, your lips soft,” he said.

“And my skin is smooth, and my thigh fair, and unmarked,” she said.

“As unmarked as that of a free woman,” he said.

“That is interesting, is it not?” she asked.

“I find it so,” he said.

“It is my hope that I will please Master,” she said.

“Your hands,” he said, “are small, soft, and fine.”

“Thank you, Master,” she said.

“I freed them,” he said. “I would see them.”

“Join me,” she said. “And let them, within the furs, unseen, concealed, touch and caress you, addressing themselves to your pleasure.”

“I have heard that some call you ‘Cornhair',” said the barbarian.

“Please do not do so,” she said.

“You wish to please me?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said. “And you will be well pleased, I assure you, with how I shall please you.”

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“I do not need to be trained,” she said.

“Why is that?” he asked.

“I am beautiful,” she said.

“That is pleasant, but, for a slave, far from enough,” he said.

“Master?” she said.

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“I have had little, or no training,” she said.

“Are you trained?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“No woman,” said the barbarian, “should be sent to the selling platform without some training.”

“But many are,” protested Filene. “Cities fall, space liners are seized, ships are captured at sea, caravans are intercepted, girl tributes are levied from subdued communities, taxes may be levied in terms of female flesh, edifices are raided, women's baths are plundered!”

“Who would wish to purchase an untrained slave?” said the barbarian.

“Surely much depends on the slave,” said Filene.

“When one buys a slave, one expects a slave,” said the barbarian, “not simply a piece of chained meat.”

“I have heard, Master,” said Filene, “that some men prefer a hitherto-unowned slave, that they may train her with perfection to their personal tastes.”

“Every slave is trained to her Master's tastes,” said the barbarian, “but one expects them to know something or other before they are introduced to the whipping ring in their Master's domicile.”

“Still,” protested Filene.

“And what then,” he asked, “when she is sold to another?”

“I see,” said Filene.

“It is dangerous to the woman to be sold untrained,” said the barbarian. “What if she does not know how to please a man? Some Masters are impatient.”

“I trust that Master is not impatient,” said Filene.

“For you do not know how to please a man?”

“I fear not,” said Filene.

“You are an interesting slave,” he said.

“Every slave hopes to be of interest,” she said.

How horrid, she thought to herself, how dreadful, how humiliating, to be of “interest.” I am a free woman. We do not wish to be found of interest. We are not slaves! How insulting to be found of interest! And yet, too, she recalled, on a dozen worlds, at a hundred entertainments, on the street, in restaurants, in theaters, at races, at arena events, in the gambling palaces, at the tables and wheels, in her gowns and ensembles, she had been smugly thrilled to be found of interest. How she, delighted and keenly aware, had relished the heedful, furtive glances of men, the striking impression she had made, the stir for which she was responsible, had sensed their notice and attention, had basked in their commendatory regard. How she despised men, and yet thrived on their discomfort. Yes, she thought, she had wished to be found of interest! Keenly so, very much so! Could it be, then, she wondered, that in every woman there was a slave? Could it be, then, as the barbarian had asserted, that no woman could be truly happy who is not in her collar? No, no, she thought. But there was a pleasure, doubtless, an exceedingly pleasant gratification, in being a tumult-engendering, exhibited, inaccessible treasure. Let them suffer the starvation and denial of their nature, the frustration of their blood, the pangs of unrequited desire! How horrifying then, she thought, to be a slave, to be owned, to be available and resistless, to be wholly and instantaneously subject, at any moment, to a man's least wishes, to be the helpless, defenseless source of a thousand pleasures which might be reaped at will from her body, to be at the mercy of a Master! I am not a slave, she cried out to herself. Not a slave! I am a free woman! And yet here I am, she thought, wildly, hidden in the furs of a barbarian's couch, as stripped as a slave, a chain locked on my neck!

She closed her hand on the handle of the knife beneath the furs.

“What is wrong?” asked the barbarian.

“I languish, Master,” she said. “Join me, in the soft warmth of these inviting, sheltering furs.”

“You beg it?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

Why was he not with her, beneath the furs, where the knife, concealed, might move so quickly, like a striking viper, into his side or thigh? A scratch would suffice. He sat upon the edge of the couch, regarding her.

“What is wrong?” he asked, once more.

“Nothing, Master,” she said.

At that moment, they heard, outside the stout tent, beyond the twice-sealed private exit to the chamber, away from the entering tunnel, the hum of a hoverer.

“How is this?” asked the barbarian, as though to himself. “These machines were warmed earlier. What would be the point of doing it again, so soon? And, strange, I hear only one engine.”

Filene was suddenly terrified. Sweat burst forth from her fair skin, heated beneath the furs. Her heart pounded, her breath came quickly. Her hand clenched on the handle of the knife, so tightly it hurt.

“I shall investigate,” said the barbarian.

“No, Master!” she cried. “Stay! Stay! Do not leave me!” He remained on the couch, beside her, regarding her.

Why, she asked herself, frightened, wildly, is the hoverer activated? Is it being warmed for my escape? Should I have managed this business by now? Is this the signal to act? Are my confederates, whomsoever they may be, preparing for departure? Do they think I have finished the business? Surely they wait for me. Surely they will call for me. They must now be outside the private exit. Are they impatient? They must not leave without me! Am I to be abandoned? I must act!

“What is wrong?” he asked, again.

“Nothing, Master!” she said.

If only he would turn away!

“Surely something is wrong,” he said.

“Oh, misery, Master!” she said. “I fear I am a disappointment to a free man! I fear I must be punished!”

“How so?” he asked.

“I hide, I tremble, I am unworthy,” she said. “Correct my behavior! Improve me! I beg it. Beat me! I would be a good slave! Inform me I am a slave! Leave me in no doubt! Lash the free woman out of me!”

Why did he smile?

“Seize up the whip,” she said. “Draw me by the hair from under the covers, throw me to your feet, and lash me!”

The whip, as might be recalled, had been put at the bottom of the couch. It was to the barbarian's left, as he sat.

Filene almost moaned with fear, for the hum of the hoverer's engine had become an intense whine. Every indication was given of an imminent ascent.

Do not leave without me, she cried, in her heart.

“The whip, the whip, please, Master!” she cried.

He turned away, as though to reach for the supple tool of instruction, and she thrust aside the furs, springing to her knees, the long fang of the knife raised in her right hand, but to her horror she found herself looking into his stern, blue eyes, her right wrist helpless, held in a grip as obdurate, unforgiving, and merciless as a manacle bolted flush to a common market wall. He had not truly turned away, then, but had given no more than such an indication, and had turned back, quickly, easily, to seize her wrist, even before it could begin its progress toward his body. She struggled, on the furs, on her knees, twisting, weeping. “Oh!” she cried in misery, her small fingers opening, her wrist in danger of being crushed in such a grip, and the lovely knife, with its yellow, oval handle, and its slender blade of some seven inches, fell into the furs. He then drew her from the surface of the couch, holding her by the wrist, and, as he sat on the edge of the couch, forced her to her knees before him, her wrist extended toward him, still in his grasp.

“Unless a slave's hands are fastened behind her, cuffed, chained, thonged, or such,” he said, “one commonly expects to see her hands. A girl tunic provides little concealment for a weapon, or for the girl herself. And even less opportunity is afforded a naked slave. You see it need not be merely for the simple pleasure of it that one might deny a slave clothing and keep her naked, as the property and beast she is.”

The whine of the hoverer was now shrill.

He then released her wrist, and she sprang to her feet, turned, and tore at the closures on the private exit, and, as she swept them aside, and hurried into the darkness, a blast of cold wind from the night swept through the chamber, and she spun about, in the opening, now pelted by scattered snow and gravel as the hoverer rose into the air, and, amidst the shouts of startled men, sped over the wires of the defensive perimeter.

She stood in the opening, stunned, and shivering.

“You were never to accompany them,” said the barbarian. “I know

not what you were offered, but there was never an intent to pay it. Why should there have been? Too, you would know too much, and would thus be a threat to dangerous, higher men. What if you were suspected, caught, and tortured? Would you not speak on the rack, or under the glowing metal slivers? Too, who would trust one such as you? Might you not intimate catastrophic revelations, that you be further enriched, in gold or position? Perhaps you would like a world? No, you were to be abandoned, left here to our mercy. Perhaps those who fled, and I think I know who they are, think you were successful. Let us hope so, for that might buy time, in which a large
comitatus
may be secretly formed. If they learn not, that you were not successful, they might justify their flight by the claim they were pursuing you. Perhaps they will claim they found you, and disposed of you. If they do apprehend you, I do not think you need fear being surrendered to a suitable authority.”

Filene cried out with misery and, naked, and barefoot, ran out, away from the portal, into the freezing, brightly lit, snowy yard, weeping, her hands lifted to the sky, to the course pursued by the now-vanished hoverer.

She fled then toward the perimeter of the yard, but stopped short of the lethal wall of wires that enclosed the camp.

Two men, brightly illuminated in the glare of the flood lights, approached her, one from each side.

The barbarian went to the chest, donned the dinner robe, and slipped into his sandals.

“Here she is,” said Ronisius, thrusting Filene ahead of him. Behind him, Qualius refastened the closures of the exit. The heating sheets incorporated in the walls of the tent began to glow.

Filene stood before him.

He sat, rather as before, on the edge of the couch.

“I am a free woman,” she said.

“I am sure you have supposed so,” said the barbarian.

“I am free!” she said.

“There are papers on you,” said the barbarian, “suitably certified.”

“False papers!” she said.

“Names may be false, details might be false,” he said. “But the woman herself was enslaved. The measurements and descriptions, the toeprints, and fingerprints, the body codes, were all registered, and checked.”

“But I am free!” she said.

“Not at all,” he said. “Unbeknownst to yourself, you have been as much a slave as the others, the nineteen others, brought with you from Inez IV on the
Narcona
.”

“No!” she said.

“You are a slave,” said the barbarian.

“No!” she said.

“Rest assured,” said the barbarian. “All is legal, all is in order.”

“No,” she said. “No!”

“Do not fret,” said the barbarian. “You are not unique. Many women are made slaves. It is a common fate for them in thousands of societies on thousands of worlds.”

“No!” she cried.

“Kneel,” said the barbarian.

“As though I might be a slave?” she said.

“As a slave,” he said.

She knelt before him, shuddering. Her fingers were locked inside the chain on her neck.