The King th-3

by John Norman

  “What is its meaning for us?” asked one of the slaves.

  “Surely it has nothing to do with us,” said one of the slaves.

  “It may,” worried another.

  “Who knows?” said the small brunette.

  Several of the slaves exchanged apprehensive glances.

  “We should have been sold, all of us, long before now,” said one of the slaves.

  “What are we doing here in the shed?” asked another. “Why are we being kept here?”

  The blonde sat, miserable, her entire body on the mattress of the cot, her knees raised, her legs together, now leaning forward, clasping her ankles with her hands, one hand, the left, on the shackle to which her chain was fastened. It was a fetching pose, and one not uncommon to slave girls. She had assumed it unconsciously. Suddenly aware, she drew her legs back, half under her, half sitting, half kneeling on the mattress, but that pose, too, she knew, would be arousing to men. Tears formed in her eyes. The slave garment, of course, if it were to be worn sensibly, almost dictated, like a short skirt, certain attitudes, certain postures, of the body. But, to her horror, in the last few days, she had found herself assuming, however clothed, or even if unclothed, naturally, unwittingly, unconsciously, bodily postures, and attitudes, which she had always associated, to her contempt, but to her envy, as well, with an inferior form of life, that of the female slave.

  “Are they searching for him any longer?” asked one of the girls.

  “I do not think so,” said the brunette.

  “Perhaps when the storm abates,” said a slave.

  “Perhaps,” said the brunette.

  “They could go out with horses and dogs,” said one of the slaves.

  “Outside the fence, on horseback, or afoot?” said one of the girls, skeptically.

  “It would be too dangerous,” said one of the girls.

  “Why?” asked another.

  “Wild beasts, primitives, Heruls, and others,” said one of the slaves.

  “Are they dangerous, truly?” asked a slave.

  “Why do you think they have the fence?” asked another, scornfully.

  “But this world belongs to the empire,” said a slave.

  “Tell it to the vi-cats, and the primitives,” said another.

  The girls shuddered.

  “Are Heruls human?” asked one of the girls.

  “I do not know,” said another.

  “Do they keep slaves?” asked the girl.

  “Yes,” she was told.

  “They could use the hoverers,” said one of the girls.

  “Do you think you are on an inner world?” asked one of the girls.

  “Fuel is precious, and soon exhausted,” said another. “A considerable quantity would be required to search even a square latimeasure, if one were to do so with care.”

  On the cot, the blonde moaned.

  The barbarian had vanished.

  She was to do her work with the tiny dagger, as she understood it, when alone with the barbarian, in his tent, at one of the projected camps outside the fence, when the expedition was to have set forth, with mounts, and weapons, in force. She was then, presumably by hoverer, to be transported to safety, to a rendezvous with the shuttle, hence to be returned to the Narcona, and, eventually, to the inner worlds, to find herself one of the highest placed, richest and most envied women in the empire.

  But now the barbarian had vanished!

  Would he return, would he be found?

  What of the plans of Iaachus?

  And what of herself, she, if these plans should fail, she, now in a slave garment, and chained to a cot in a cement shed, in a remote provincial capital?

  I should have been permitted to do the deed on the Narcona, she wept, to herself.

  Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she thought. I was alone with him then!

  What fools men are, she thought.

  But then who could have anticipated that the barbarian would slip away from Venitzia, that he would not wait for his excellency, Lord Julian, of the Aurelianii, that he would disappear, leaving the projected expedition, with all its men, and supplies, behind him, in Venitzia?

  How could he have done such a thing?

  What did it mean?

  She wanted the deed to be done, and the sooner the better. She was a highly intelligent young woman, and was not unaware of subtle changes which, in the past few weeks, on shipboard, and here, in Venitzia, in the shed, and when she worked in the kitchens and laundry, were taking place within her. She had begun to find herself growing eager for the entrance of men into the shed, or the kitchen or laundry, that she might, with the others, kneel and perform obeisance. When she had, on all fours, been scrubbing a floor with others, she had tried to put her head against the boot of a keeper. Men, suddenly, had begun to appear creatures of great interest and fascination to her. For the first time in her life she had begun to find them attractive, powerfully, almost irresistibly so. She was warmed, and delighted, and thrilled to be chained at night. She wondered what it would be, to be in the arms of a man. She wondered what it would be, to be owned by one, to feel his cuffs and ropes, his caress, brutal or gentle, rude or delicate, his whip, if he were not pleased with her.

  She had awakened at night, terrified, to find herself on the cot, chained.

  She had dug at the cot with her fingernails.

  I am not a slave, she would assure herself.

  Why did they not give me the dagger on the Narcona, she asked herself.

  She feared, you see, a thousand subtleties, the transformations being wrought within her consciousness, the changes taking place within her, the wonders, and beauties, the indications, the surprises, the promises, arising from within her depths.

  Let the barbarian return, she thought. Give me the dagger! Let me strike! Let me be done with matters!

  She feared, more and more, her slave feelings.

  For a long time she had denied that she had had such feelings, but such a denial was now useless. She set herself now, accordingly, to resist them.

  She feared herself, you see, what she had begun to sense she was becoming, and perhaps had always been.

  Mostly, perhaps, she feared her intellect, that it would reflect upon her, that it would consider her, carefully, and deeply and wholly, with sensitivity, and in great detail, what she was, and should be, and would then put her on her knees.

  Why was I not given the dagger on the Narcona, she moaned.

  But then she laughed bitterly to herself.

  She would have had little opportunity to use it.

  “Enter,” had said the barbarian.

  “A slave,” had said the mariner, presenting her.

  She had knelt, as she had supposed was expected of her.

  The barbarian had dismissed the mariner, and she had found herself kneeling before the barbarian, holding the sheet about her.

  “What is your name?” he asked.

  “Filene,” she said.

  He regarded her.

  “-if it pleases Master,” she said.

  He sat down, on a chair, near the cabin couch. He wore a half tunic. He was blond-haired and blue-eyed, which was not uncommon among many of the barbarian peoples. He was a large, muscular man. His mighty chest was bared, save for a dangling necklace of claws, lion claws. They were from a beast he had slain on a hunt, in the forests of Varna. She speculated that they might leave a print on her body, were he to take her into his arms, and crush her to him, in the embrace of a master. She saw that the cabin couch had posts, at the head and foot. About one of the posts, at the foot, wrapped there, was a cord. On the steel wall, on one of its panels, on a hook, there hung a whip. On the surface of a small dresser there was a roll of tape.

  “You are from Myron VII?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “A debtress sold to recover, in part, debts?”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “What were your debts?”

 
“In excess of ten thousand darins,” she said.

  “And what did you bring on the block?” he asked.

  “Doubtless Master has read on my papers,” she said, angrily.

  “I cannot read,” he said.

  “Oh,” she said. This startled her, for he was one of the few individuals she had met, in her travels, in her circles, who could not read. To be sure, literacy was a precious commodity in the empire, taken as a whole.

  “Perhaps you remember,” he said.

  “Well over ten thousand darins!” she said.

  “I should not think,” he said, “that the sisters of an emperor would bring so much.” He recalled blond-haired Viviana, and the younger, dark-haired Alacida, sisters of Aesilesius, met not long ago, on a summer world. Both were attractive. He had wondered what they might look like, as slaves.

  “Fifty darins, Master,” she said, quickly.

  Perhaps he had lied about being unable to read, perhaps he had been told the price, perhaps it had been read to him. Iaachus, in his thoroughness, had included a forged bill of sale with the papers, as an insert. She had been furious at the supposed price of a mere fifty darins, but she had been informed, by an agent of Iaachus, that that was a remarkable price, and that a higher figure would not be likely to seem plausible, not for a debtress, from a remote world. Slaves were cheap, in many places in the empire.

  “You are vain,” he said, “and a liar.”

  He glanced to the whip, on its hook, on the steel panel.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said, frightened. He did not know she was free. He might actually beat her, as a slave.

  “Fifty darins,” he said, “is a very high price.”

  “Thank you, Master,” she said.

  “Remove the sheet.”

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You are very beautiful,” he said. “It is not inconceivable that you might bring fifty darins.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “Thank you, Master.”

  Inwardly her feelings were tumultuous. As a free woman she knew herself to be priceless, but now, suddenly, she had some serious concept of what she might be worth, as a woman, as a female, if she were truly a slave. The supposed price, fifty darins, conceded by Iaachus, might even have been somewhat generous. This came to her as something of an abrupt shock, a most unsettling revelation.

  “I am pleased that I was not one of your creditors,” he said.

  “They have had their vengeance, Master,” she said, “as I am now a slave.”

  “I have wondered, sometimes,” he said, “why women, understanding the penalties of defaulting in such matters, permit themselves to accumulate such debts.”

  “Doubtless we plan to pay them off,” she said.

  “There would seem great risks involved,” he said.

  She shrugged, uneasily.

  She herself had accumulated considerable debts, on several worlds, but Iaachus had satisfied them. Many were the times she had pretended to be unavailable for inquiries. Often she had dreaded a heavy knock on her door. Sometimes, at night, she, even though of the senatorial class, had awakened, apprehensive of being brought to the dock, and sentenced to the iron, and the collar.

  “Hold out your hands,” he said, “where I can see them, clearly, spreading the fingers. Now, turn, fully about, on your knees, hands held over your head. Now bend over and shake out your hair, and run your hands through it, thoroughly, touching every part of your head. Now stand, hands over your head, and turn, slowly. Return to your knees. Spread your knees more widely. Now put yourself to your belly.”

  She looked up at him, angrily.

  But, too, she was in consternation.

  Naked, brought to him, the sheet removed, earlier kneeling, unable to rise quickly, feet from him, exposed, turning, rising, hands lifted, subjected to such scrutiny, how could a dagger be concealed?

  To be sure, things might later be different, or the dagger might be planted in a tent, or smuggled to her later.

  “You may now crawl to me, on your belly.”

  She then lay at his feet, her head turned to the left, her cheek on the rug.

  “This is the first time you have crawled to a man on your belly, is it not?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master,” she said, angrily.

  “Go back, and do it better,” he said.

  Three times he had her repeat this exercise.

  At last he seemed satisfied.

  “Kneel up,” he said, “before me, back on your heels, knees spread, hands clasped behind the back of your head.”

  “Tell me about yourself, specifically, and in detail,” he said.

  She had been given an identity, and many specifics, in particular pertaining to her supposed debts, her arraignment, her sentencing, the name of the supposed court, and judge, and such, things concerning which it was anticipated she might be questioned. Where this putative biography fell short, and his direct questions exceeded her preparation, she hurried to supply further data, some of it from her own history, suitably disguised, the rest of it the product of her own invention.

  “You stammer and falter,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “But still, on the whole,” he said, “it is unusual to find a slave who can speak of herself so articulately, so volubly, so readily. It is almost as though you had been prepared.”

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “You seem more familiar with the details of your enslavement than with those of your life as a free woman,” he said.

  “The details of one’s embondment,” she said, “are often vivid for a woman.”

  “For a girl,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “For a slave girl,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  He had, of course, she before him, been reading her body, and her expressions.

  “You are from Myron VII?” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “What color is its sun?” he asked. “How long is its year, in Telnarian days?”

  She began to tremble.

  The questions were so obvious that they had not been anticipated.

  She dared not invent answers to such questions. What did the barbarian know? Were his questions innocent, matters of pure curiosity, or were they subtler, and dangerous?

  “I am not truly from Myron VII,” she said. “I am from Lisle, on Inez IV! I fled to Myron VII to escape my creditors. I was apprehended in the port. I did not even see its sun. I know nothing of that world, other than the fact that it was there that I was taken into custody, and there tried and sentenced.”

  “And you were then returned, a slave, to Inez IV?”

  “Yes, yes!” she said.

  “May I take my arms down?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  “You have told many lies,” he said.

  “No, Master!” she protested.

  “Do not compound your fault,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.

  “I would not advise you to behave in that manner when you have a private master,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “Lies are not permitted to a slave girl,” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said.

  “But you will probably not believe that until you are thoroughly beaten,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said.

  “When we were shortly out of Lisle,” he said, “you were clumsy.”

  He referred, doubtless, to the incident of the spilled drink.

  “I was switched,” she said.

  “Are you a clumsy slave?” he asked.

  Her eyes flashed.

  Then she put her head down.

  “I do not think so, Master,” she said. “It is my hope that I am not clumsy.”

  “In serving at the table,” he said, “a slave is to be graceful, unobtrusive and deferent.”

&nbs
p; “Yes, Master,” she said.

  She looked up.

  “May I lower my arms?” she asked.

  “No,” he said.

  She moved angrily, not having obtained her way.

  “Am I mistaken,” he asked, “that you have, upon several occasions, placed yourself provocatively before me?”

  “Oh, Master,” she said, quickly. “Forgive me, but I fear that it is true. You are a man, and I am naught but a slave girl. How else can a poor slave call herself to the attention of an attractive master?”

  “You find me attractive?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master.”

  “You wanted to meet me?”

  “Yes, Master!”

  “You desire a man’s touch?” he asked.

  “Oh, yes, yes, Master!” she said.

  Surely she must interest him, even drive him mad with desire for her, that she might be alone with him, when she had the dagger! But now, of course, she did not have the dagger. If she had been a free woman she might have teased, and drawn away, and teased, and drawn away, until the time and place were arranged, until she was ready, but such behaviors are not easy for a slave.

  He put out his hand and touched her, gently.

  “Ai!” she cried, frightened, and drew back.

  “Keep your hands behind your head,” he cautioned her, gently. “I thought you said you desired a man’s touch,” he said.

  “Forgive me, Master,” she said. She came forward a little, deliberately, trembling.

  He put forth his hand again, gently.

  “Ah!” she said, softly, surprised. Then she flushed scarlet before him.

  Quickly, then, almost as though she had not consented to her own movement, she squirmed forward a little, closer to him, but was stopped, by his hand, and held in place.

  “Master?” she asked.

  “Interesting,” he said.

  She regarded the necklace of claws on his chest.

  What would it be like, she wondered, to be swept into his arms, she helpless and will-less, to be swept uncompromisingly into his arms, as a slave.

  “Master has called for me,” she said.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “Surely master has called for me, to ravish me, as a slave,” she said.

  “No,” he said.

  “‘No’?” she asked.

  “No,” he said. “I have called for you because it seems to me that there is something different about you, something different from other female slaves. I did not understand it. I was curious about it.”