Authors: John; Norman
“There is a fifth,” I said.
“Yes,” said Cabot.
“Tyrtaios,” I said. I knew he was of the retinue of Lord Nishida.
“Yes,” said Cabot.
“You think he is a spy, or an Assassin?” I said.
“Quite possibly,” said Cabot.
“Why?” I asked.
“Perhaps I think he would look well in black,” said Cabot.
I did not respond.
“I examined his quarters,” said Cabot. “I discovered a small brush, and a tiny vial of black paint.”
“To paint the dagger,” I said.
“It would seem so,” he said.
“Then,” said I, “he is of the Assassins.”
“It would seem so,” said Cabot.
“You have informed Lord Nishida,” I said.
“Yes,” said Cabot.
“Surely, then, he will dismiss him,” I said.
“I think not,” said Cabot.
“Why not?” I asked.
“That is known only to Lord Nishida,” said Cabot.
“Perhaps he has need of an Assassin?”
“Perhaps,” said Cabot.
“Tyrtaios is interested in taking the ship,” I said.
“He will not move until it is practical,” said Cabot.
“Tyrtaios is dangerous,” I said.
“Yes,” said Cabot.
“He should be done away with,” I said.
“I do not think so,” said Cabot.
“Why not?” I said.
“At our destination,” said Cabot, “we may need every sword.”
At this point, Seremides approached, Tyrtaios at his back.
“I am pleased to see that you do well, noble Callias,” said Seremides. “We had feared you might have been injured. We cannot understand the apparent attack upon you, of which you have informed us.”
“I cannot account for it myself, noble Rutilius,” I said. “I did not know the men.”
“It is perhaps then a mistake of some sort, that they thought you another, an enemy, or such?”
“I think so,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”
“A most tragic misunderstanding,” said Seremides.
“Yes,” I said.
“At least, you are well, unhurt, and safe,” he said. “That is what is most important.”
“My thanks,” I said, “noble Rutilius.”
He, with Tyrtaios, withdrew.
“I knew not,” said Cabot, “the noble Rutilius of Ar was so solicitous of your welfare.”
“His name is not Rutilius,” I said.
“I know,” said the tarnsman.
“There were, I think,” I said, “quarrels, too. One struck a mast brace.”
“I am not surprised,” he said.
“Forgive me,” I said, “but I think I shall look in upon a slave.”
“Certainly,” said the tarnsman.
The slut had not cried out, had not attempted to warn me. So now let her find herself shuddering in abject terror beneath the stern gaze of Callias, Callias before her, a Callias very much alive.
To be sure, I could well understand why the bound slave would not have attempted to warn me of danger, even were she aware of it.
I knew, after all, her former identity.
I turned my attention to the second mast, and approached it, the tarnsman with me.
I expected to find her white with terror, as she must now realize I was still alive. To be sure, it is a rare slave who will meddle in the matters of masters. It is hers, is it not, as an animal, to await the outcome, and learn her disposition? To meddle may be to invite death. Is it not better for a slave to see little and know even less? As it is said, curiosity is not becoming in a
kajira
.
I was then before the slave.
“Interesting,” said the tarnsman.
The figure which earlier had been barely discernible from the platform and ring, and had been relatively still, for so long, was now struggling. I was much surprised. A lantern was lifted by a fellow. I could no longer detect her long, dark hair, where it had fallen loosely about her white tunic. Her head had been covered, wrapped about or hooded, with some light material, cloth, or canvas. She made tiny, futile noises, scarcely audible a yard or two from the mast. I unknotted the cord holding the sacking over her head, and thrust it up enough to see her mouth, only that. The packing had been thrust deep in her mouth, and bound in place, tightly, behind the back of her neck. I jerked the sacking, which was of canvas, back down, over her head.
She whimpered piteously, beggingly. Even when a woman is gagged, one can easily read such sounds.
“Are you going to leave her like that?” asked the tarnsman.
“She is a slave,” I said.
“Unhood her, ungag her,” said the tarnsman. “She may have seen something.”
I complied, and the girl turned her head aside, and blinked against the lantern. Then, she turned to face me, and lifted her head, her eyes half shut. “Oh, Master!” she breathed.
Her exclamation seemed one of unspeakable relief, of joy, of gratitude. It was almost as though the collar on her neck might not have been a public collar, say, that of the ship of Tersites, but, rather, a private collar, say, that of Callias of Jad.
I did not understand this.
The tarnsman seized her chin in his right hand, and lifted and turned it, so that she must look upon him. I gather the grip was painful.
“Speak,” he snarled. “What occurred here? Who was about? How did it happen? Speak, female, speak, woman!”
I was startled that he has spoken to her in terms of her sex, simply, regardless of her condition, that she was so obviously bond. It was clearly the voice of one of the master sex addressing one of the slave sex, bluntly, directly, intending to be told the truth. I suspected, this unsettling me, he would have spoken identically even were she free. It seemed incomprehensible to me, of course, that a free woman, for example, might be so addressed. But what was a free woman but a slave without a master? How stood the conventions of society, the habits, rules, customs, and such, against the biological facts of an uncontaminated nature? Surely he spoke to her in a way that went far beyond the trivia of tunics and collars, brands and chains. What do they do, such things, the collar, bracelets, and such, other than confirm her womanhood upon a female? To be sure, slaves, as free woman are not, are well advised to answer quickly and truthfully any queries of a free man. There are many ways to encourage speech in a reluctant slave. Indeed, as you know, in a court of law, the testimony of slaves is commonly taken under torture.
I saw that she was terrified of the tarnsman.
“Speak,” I said to her, “
kajira
.”
She cast me a grateful glance, grateful that I understood her helplessness, and terror, and that she was only a slave.
I was therein pleased, for it betokened to me that she before me now well understood her condition, that she was truly a slave, and only a slave.
This is a moment of truth, of understanding and insight, of submission, which few women in a collar ever forget.
“I saw nothing! I know nothing, Master!” she said. “It was dark. My head was down, my eyes were closed. They approached silently. I was suddenly started. I heard a tiny noise. My head was yanked up, by the hair. It hurt so! I saw two men! One from each side! Masked! I opened my mouth to scream, and a fistful of wadding was thrust into it, and I could scarcely whimper. This was secured in place, and something was pulled over my head, like a sack, and I could not see, and I felt a cord knotted at my throat, this securing the covering in place. I struggled. I was frantic. I was helpless. I could see nothing. I could not speak. I did not know what was transpiring. I know nothing, nothing, Masters! That is the truth, Masters! Be merciful to a slave! She is collared, she dares not lie, Masters!”
I looked to the tarnsman. “It is possible,” I said to the tarnsman, “that the slut knows nothing.”
“‘Slut’, Master?” asked the slave.
“Yes,” I said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“It is possible,” said the tarnsman, “and likely. It is likely that these men would wish no witnesses to their act, even if the act were such that it might be condoned, or even hoped for, by the slave.”
“Oh, no, Master!” said the slave.
“Blackmail, amongst confederates, or conspirators,” said the tarnsman, “is always a possibility. Thus the fewer that witness a deed the better. That the slave was not slain may indicate that they find her of interest, presumably slave interest. That is understandable. She is not a poor piece of meat. I think she might sell well.”
The slave looked at him, startled, gratefully. Once she had regarded herself as too beautiful to be a slave; then she had come to realize that her beauty, while not negligible, was far exceeded by many slaves. This can be a very sobering experience for a woman, even one of great attractiveness, finding that her beauty, perhaps quite extraordinary for a free woman, may be quite average for a slave. For the first time she finds herself placed amongst, and ranked amongst, women of great interest to men, women even selected with this in mind. In so chastening a situation the female’s original complacency and arrogance is likely to be replaced by a hope that men, or some men, might find her at least similarly pleasing. Certainly she will try to be so. It might also be recalled that the slave had become even more beautiful after her collaring. This commonly occurs, and, doubtless, a number of reasons are involved, ranging from the physiological to the psychological, from the physical to the emotional.
“That it was done easily and efficiently,” said the tarnsman, “her neutralization, her removal from the game, from the board, so to speak, the straightforward gagging and hooding, suggests that they are proficient in such things, are perhaps slavers or raiders, or others, accustomed to the acquisition and management of women. This gives us some information. Also, that there were clearly two men involved is worth noting.”
I nodded.
“Do you know more, slave?” asked the tarnsman.
“No, Master,” she said.
“She is perhaps lying,” I said.
“No, no, Master!” said the slave.
“It is strange, is it not,” I said, “that the deck watch failed to note such intruders, and that the alarm bar did not ring until men were pouring onto the deck?”
“Do you think it strange?” asked the tarnsman.
I considered the deck watch.
“No,” I said.
“Nor I,” said he.
I undid the ropes which held the small wrists of the slave above her head, and then freed her of the belly ropes.
The hail had stopped, but the air was still moist.
Leros had now been on the platform and ring for several Ehn. He had had his cloak bundled on his back.
When freed, the slave, not dismissed, and in the presence of free men, went to her knees.
Her head was down.
This was appropriate.
Many are the beautiful symbolisms between masters and slaves.
How natural are such things.
And how perfectly they reflect categorical relationships, and absolute realities.
“Your tunic is soaked,” I said, “and your hair is bedraggled.”
“A slave fears she is not pleasing to masters,” she said.
“You are suitable on your knees, with your head down,” I said.
“May I lower it further, Master?” she asked.
“I do not understand,” I said.
I felt her lips on my boots.
“I am sorry if I displeased Master,” she said.
I was silent.
She, this woman, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar. She, this slave, was at my feet. I recalled her from Ar.
“Thank you for punishing me, Master,” she said.
“It is nothing,” I said.
“It is late,” said Tarl Cabot. “She is to be returned to the Kasra area, is she not?”
“Yes,” I said.
“She was displeasing,” said the tarnsman.
“Yes,” I said.
“Shall I have a punishment tag brought,” asked the tarnsman, “and a thong?”
The punishment tag, as noted earlier, would be wired to the slave’s collar, her hands would be tied behind her back, and she must hurry to her keeping area, where discipline would be meted out by her keepers, the large women.
“What do you think, slave?” I asked her.
I recalled her former terror that this might be done to her. I gathered it was very unpleasant for a lovely slave, a slave such as she, well-curved and delicious, a man-pleasing slave, the sort that men wish to buy, the sort that men wish to own, the sort that men find attractive, and care for, an exquisite, feminine slave, to find herself at the mercy of the ill-tempered, hating, envious, jealous, unhappy, gross brutes likely to be found in charge of a keeping area.
“It will be done with me as masters please,” whispered the slave, head down, at my feet.
“It will be done with you as masters please,” I assured her, “have no fear, slave, but what would you like?”
“That it may be done with me as masters please,” she said.