Under the Yoke

by S. M. Stirling

  "Yes, that is it," she replied bitterly. "I'm surprised at your insight."

  "Now, now." Solange paused, and bit her lip. "Look, I've slept with him too, you know." At Chantal's surprised glance: "He asked her, she asked me, I agreed… why not, after all? He's not a bad man, once you get to know him. Have you tried talking to him?"

  "What for?" Chantal said wearily. "What could I say?"

  "Because, my old, if you want to be treated as a person, well, people talk, things don't. I talk to the mistress a good deal, you know: I amuse her, she… terrifies me, fascinates… What to say to him? 'Isn't it a nice day,' or 'how did you get that scar,' or ask him what he'd like you to do… They're perfectly willing to treat you as a person, Chantal, on their terms. After all, he doesn't want as much from you as the Mistress does from me, just a certain degree of… ah, cheerful complaisance. Why not give it a try?"

  "No."

  "Why not?"

  "No!" She looked up; there was no anger in her face, only the translucent blankness of someone looking within themselves for knowledge of their own soul. "I am too afraid."

  "Afraid of what?"

  "Afraid of becoming like you."

  "Well," Solange said, stopped herself and threw up her hands, then leaned forward and patted Chantal on the shoulder. "So was I, before I did it. I'm a different person now, and happy… Ah well, I've done my best for you. If your pride means that much to you, well, just don't drag anyone else into your suffering." She stood, the violet eyes lidded. "Because you are going to suffer, you know, until they break you or you die. Until dinner, cherie; I'm supposed to see Father Adelard about the choir."

  She bent to strap up the player and walked out into the sunlight past the fountain of the nymph. Her kid-skin slippers scuffed across the grass, and already she was singing.

  Tanya von Shrakenberg watched the stroller being wheeled off to the main entrance of the manor, her head to one side. It was very quiet, the loudest sound the wind through the chestnut trees above them; somewhere children were playing, an axe sounded on wood; far off and faint came the long mournful hoot of a steam locomotive's whistle.

  "Ahh, children," she said. "One of the better things in life. Once yo've pupped, that is, as my cousin so elegantly put it: conceivin' them is nice, too. Bearing them is an insufferable nuisance, but then, life is like that."

  Marya made a noncommittal noise as they walked along the path at the foot of the chateau's east wall. The sun was just behind the high bulk of the towers, leaving a strip of shade for the brick path; outside it, to their right, the gardens shone with the cruelly indifferent beauty of nature.

  No, the nun thought. The pathetic fallacy. Nature is merely indifferent, it is the heart of fallen man that is cruel.

  "I would not know, Mistress," she said in the flat, calm tone she found best for dealing with the masters.

  "Yes. Pity you're sterile, shame to lose your heredity." Marya started. "Haven't read y'own file?" the Draka continued, surprised. "Radiation overdose." Her face grew somber for a moment. "I wish't' hell we hadn't invented those things, I surely do."

  The Pole blinked aside memory of the intolerable flash and searing heat. "I am sworn to chastity, in any case, Mistress," she went on.

  "So?" To the plumber and his apprentice, shifting into French: "Qa va, Marcel?"

  Marcel smiled cautiously and bowed in place; the younger man rose from the manhole and made a more formal obeisance. "It goes well, maîtresse," he said. "The fountains should all be working for the celebrations. Also the standpipes in the Quarters are all completed." He shook his head. "You were right about the total input, maîtresse."

  "Water-borne sewage systems are hungry beasts, that's why we put in a 20% margin." A smile. "You've been doing good work, Marcel, "Tanya said. "Don't overstrain, now: I want you healthy. Jacqueline and her baby?"

  This time the plumber's smile was more genuine. "Very well, maîtresse; there is some sickness in the mornings, but the women tell me that is to be expected."

  Tanya nodded, and patted her own stomach. "Inconvenient process… Anyway, I'll be sending the midwife by, and I've told the kitchens to send down anything special she recommends. Jacqueline looks like hasn't been eating as well as she should these past few years, so we don't want to take any chances."

  "Thank you, maîtresse," Marcel said with a worried frown. "She is tired, but will not rest as much as I would wish."

  "I'll mention it to the headman. Keep well."

  They came to what had been the north side of the chateau, where the new construction began; the old east-west I-shape had been turned into a C by adding a three-story wing to each end. Reinforced concrete frames, Marya remembered, and prestressed panels for the walls, exterior cladding in a stone and brick checkerboard that matched the older part of the chateau without trying to imitate it. Tall windows looked in on echoing empty space, but the ground outside was already comely with fresh sod and transplanted trees; Tanya stopped and nodded to a group transplanting creepers along the base. They were girls in their early teens, mostly, and Chantal's sister Therese. She had been giggling and talking with the others, fell no more silent than they as the mistress halted.

  "Good work," Tanya said, and patted Therese casually on the head.

  "How is she?" the Draka asked Marya as they continued.

  "Somewhat better," Marya replied, keeping her eyes carefully forward. "She speaks more freely, particularly to young people; she remembers a little, although all from her earlier childhood, mostly before the War. But she is still easily frightened, particularly around men, and the nightmares continue." She frowned in thought. "Essentially, she is stabilizing in a regressed state. Very delicate…" she hesitated.

  "Spit it out," Tanya said.

  "Mistress, in Lyon, you, ah, intimated that if Chantal were to misbehave—"

  "That Therese would be punished for it?"

  "Yes, Mistress. I must advise you that further mistreatment could easily drive her into catatonia, and—"

  "—and you're afraid Chantal might do somethin' stupid and Therese would suffer fo' it," Tanya finished.

  Marya stopped, wheeled and confronted the Draka; her face was calm, but her hands were clenched and shoulders braced, as if she leaned into a storm.

  "Mistress, with all due respect, Chantal is on the verge of a nervous breakdown. The abuse to which she is being subjected—"

  "Stop."

  Marya jerked slightly, with a prickling consciousness of danger running over her skin like the feet of ants; she forced herself to remember what Chantal's eyes had been like, the last time the summons came. Tanya's were unreadable, the clear pale gray of snow at sunset; her lips were slightly parted, impossible to tell whether in amusement, anger or anticipation.

  "Marya," Tanya said softly, taking the long ash-blond braid of the nun's hair and switching her lightly on the cheek with it. "Marya," she continued, with another admonitory tap, "on this plantation we don't starve our serfs, let them get sick, beat them for pleasure or rape their children. Any of those would be abuse, perfectly within our rights, but grounds fo' complaint. Chantal isn't bein' abused, just used. As a bookkeeper, like you; and fo' pleasure. Fucked, to be blunt, and occasional sexual intercourse is no inherent problem to a healthy wench her age, particularly if she lubricates properly, which I'm told she does. If she chooses to find it unpleasant, that's her problem. As fo' yo' worries about Therese, fo'get them."

  "But—"

  "I lied." Tanya gave a wolfs grin. "Never had any intention of makin' her a hostage. Now, as fo' a 'breakdown,' breakin' Chantal down is one of the reasons I mentioned her to Edward. Saw it in her background, the way she fought up out of the guttah, got an education, that sort of thing; took spirit, determination an' a strong sense of self. All of which need to be… re-channeled. She's just gettin' what you might call a graphic demonstration of her own helplessness, on a level impossible to ignore or deny. All she has to do is accept her own weakness, dependence an' so forth. Lucky
we didn't decide hunger or physical pain would be mo' efficient."

  Another grin. "Mo' fun fo' my husband this way, too." Her head went to one side. "Why, Marya, sometimes I think yo' disapprove of me." A laugh. "Nice stone-face, an' yo've got good voice-control, but when yo're really upset or angry, yore ears turn a brighter shade of red. Wouldn't be a problem iffn yo' were wearin' a wimple an' coif, of course."

  Marya snatched down a hand that had flown to the side of her head from reflex, and spoke in a voice whose steadiness brought her a small guilty spurt of pride, even now.

  "It is not my place to approve or disapprove of you, Mistress," she said. To herself: That is God's prerogative, and be assured that He will, you murderer, blasphemer, corrupter of innocence.

  "Marya, words cannot express mah utter lack of concern fo' yo' opinions,'s long as yo' are reasonably polite about expressin' them… Just to clarify, though, we are not tormentin' Chantal fo' its own sake, or because we enjoy seein' her suffer. Draka have two professions, basically: we fight wars—beatin' down open, organized opposition an' enforcin' political obedience—an' we manage serfs, doin' the same thing on a personal basis. Obedience isn't enough, in the long run; the objective is domestication. Her sufferin' is incidental to what we do enjoy, the feelin' of another's will breakin', leavin' obedience and humility. Pain is just another tool we use fo' the process, like a hammer; we take it out when necessary, then put it away. Analogous to trainin' a horse to the saddle."

  "We are, then, not human in your eyes, Mistress? Animals?"

  "To the contrary, we never fo'get yo're human, that's exactly the point. It'd be mo' accurate to say we don't consider ourselves human in the usual sense; we're higher up the food chain. In terms of culture, if not biology, though the eugenics people are workin' on that. Or to be blunt again, yo' farm the earth an' we farm yo'. Domesticated humans are much mo' profitable and rewardin' than plants and animals, although much mo' dangerous and tricky, of course."

  A blink, followed by laughter. "And if serfs weren't human, we'd all be guilty of bestiality, no? I'll have to tell Edward that one. Well… little Chantal's education is goin' to continue until she learns her lesson, after which it'll be recreation instead. I might take that pretty pony fo' a trot myself, when she's properly tamed down, don't much like it unless there's… interaction… on a personal level, as well. Men do, of course, but"—she made an offhand gesture—"men, well…lovely creatures at their best, very satisfyin' at times, but their nerve endings are a little crude, difficult fo' the poor dears to appreciate the subtleties of the amatory arts. Prisoners of their hormones, really…" Another shrug. "If Chantal comes to yo' fo' advice, consider givin' her Solange as an example of successful adaptation."

  Marya coughed to cover the lump in her throat and waited a moment. Curiosity as much as anger drove her to speak. "Mistress, in my opinion—my professional opinion, that is—Solange is mentally ill."

  Tanya laughed as she turned to walk on, giving the nun's braid a tug to bring her along. "Marya, Marya, I expected better than that, from an intelligent and well-educated person like you. Sanity is always socially defined." She stopped to pick a flower and tuck it behind one ear.

  "Among Romans of the late Republic, fo' example, overt sadism was the normal personality type. Mass masturbation in the stands of the Coliseum while they watched people bein' burned alive or torn apart by wolves. I'm familiar with the technical terminology yo' might apply to Solange; masochism, fo' example, learned helplessness, regression, transferal, identification with the aggressor. All addin' up to a perfectly functional response to this environment, even if it would have been neurosis before the War. Fo' that matter, what was that Viennese fellow, Englestein, we studied him in introductory Psychological Manipulation—claimed women were inherently masochistic. Nonsense among us Draka, of course, but perfectly sensible among out-landers, where females are slaves anyways."

  Marya opened her mouth, considered certain doctrines of the Church and closed it again; futile, to try and explain the difference to a Draka. Yet a woman was Mother of God, she reminded herself. Beside that, even being Pope is very little.

  "Actually, Solange—well, she's the finest piece of loot I acquired in the whole War. Beautiful, of course; intelligent, well educated as far as cultural things go, good conversationalist, playful, wonderful singer, first-rate amorist… and charmin', simply charmin'. Pleasure just to contemplate, and an inexpressible pleasure to own; like havin' one of those magical jeweled birds in the Thousand and One Nights, all fo' myself. Fun just to pet an' pamper, she enjoys things so much."

  A sigh. "An exotic luxury; I spent five years in that stinkin' tank, figure I deserve it. Also"—she paused for words —"difficult to convey to someone outside the Race—the emotional twining… that particular combination of adoration, fear, desire and willing, total submission… It does somethin' fo' a Draka. An intoxication, like bein' a god, one of the more disreputable Greek ones." She glanced aside at Marya's face. "Ah, shocked yo' a little, eh?"

  Tanya released the nun's hair, and they walked in silence for a moment; the Pole was white-faced, her hands pressed together to control their shaking. "It… disarms us, too," the Draka mused, almost to herself. "Like a wolf stops fightin' when its enemy rolls over on its back an' shows its belly. Operates below the conscious level, just as pride an' defiance arouse our aggression." She spread her hands. "Practical reasons, as well. Notice that I don't allow Chantal access to the nursery; won't, either, fo' a good long while."

  The nun looked up, the breathing-exercise learned as part of meditation giving her back control enough; her mind felt detached, washed in a white light of anger and revulsion. "I notice that you place no such restriction on me," she said huskily, the liquid Slavic accent stronger. "Have you some program to break my spirit? Am I so tame, then, Mistress?"

  "No, I think yo' are incapable of harmin' a helpless infant," Tanya said amiably. "Chantal might, in a fit of temper, though she'd probably flail herself with guilt afterwards. Such a grubby bourgeois emotion, guilt… Solange wouldn't hurt a child, but she'd quite probably neglect one." A shrug. "Marcel back there, still another case of tolerable adaptation. Even better in a few years, nothin' like a family to teach a man caution an' humility."

  They had come to the north end of the new wing, a glassed-in shell with a flat second-story roof ringed by a balustrade of red porphyry. Through the windows they could see climbing bars, mats, ropes, wall racks for weights and weapons, suits of padded unarmed-combat armor, machines of springs and balances. Behind would be the steam-baths, soaking tubs and massage-rooms; not so well-equipped or elaborate as it would become, but what the von Shrakenbergs considered a good beginning. The outdoor cold-water plunge was an embellishment of nature, a stretch of slough and marsh dredged into several acres of artificial lake; trees, gardens, walkways and lawns bordered it, and an island held a grove and pergola. Not entirely a luxury, since it also served as the main reservoir, with intakes below taking off the filtered water.

  Most of the fringes were tawny-gold sand brought up from the Loire, but here near the palaestra was a half-moon beach of gently sloping marble; Marya remembered coming across the indent-order for it while organizing the files, forest-green serpentine stripped from a bank building in Tours. The paved space between building and water held potted trees, stone benches and tables, some shaded by trellis-work, others by ornamental hoods of stained glass on wrought-iron frames. Water quivered under the breeze like ticklish skin, shot fifteen meters skyward from a fountain amid the lake's waters, arching up in a sunlit cloud of spray. The sun turned the flat surface into a sheet of silver-gilt and blue for an instant, making her blink back tears with its eye-hurting brightness.

  Father Adelard was sitting at one of the tables with Solange's father, playing chess on a board inlaid into the granite surface. The two old men looked up as Tanya and the nun approached, down again when they halted out of earshot.

  This too God made, Marya thought, glancing out at
the water and heartening herself to look back at her owner. Despair is a sin, she reminded herself. Hope one of the cardinal virtues. And still meeting the pale gray gaze made her remember what Dante had said, that one of the worst torments of the damned in Hell was having to look daily on the faces of the infernal Host.

  "So, no," Tanya continued, untying her sash. "I'm not under the impression yo're tame… hold this." She tossed over the cloth belt and began pulling the robe over her head. "And this…" adding the caftan and putting a foot up on a bench to unlace the sandal. "Plain to see, your soul belongs to your God, your Church an' possibly Poland. Irritatin', in the abstract; obviously, there are orders we can't give yo', if they conflict with those. Yo' don't have the sense of bein' defeated that, say, Marcel does, either. That turn-the-other-cheek nonsense; it's irritatin' as well, makes dealin' with yo' like punchin' a pillow.

  "On the other hand," a shrug as she kicked her foot out of the leather and began on the right, "we can't give every Beldhand the sort of detailed attention necessary fo' tamin' a wild-caught houseserf. Surface obedience has to be enough; find the levers and keep a close eye on 'em.

  "Same with yo', Marya. After all, we don't want yo' fo' either a bedwench or a whip-wieldin' bossboy; we want an accountant an' administrator. The medical skills are a bonus, and as fo' actin' as a wailin' wall, buckin' people up an' so forth, just nuts and cream to us. Yo' work hard and conscientiously—if I'd known nuns were so well trained, I'd've bought mo' of them. Christianity's a good religion fo' slaves; of course, it has serious drawbacks, but we'll cure that, in time. Re-edit it."

  "Will you! Will you, you—" Marya shouted, and then stopped, appalled. The priest and Professor Lebrun looked up, shocked. The nun swallowed and braced herself; Tanya straightened up from untying her last sandal and came closer, eyes narrowing slightly.

  "Yes, we will," she said softly. "In time, and we have all the time there is. Examine the Koran we allow our Muslim serfs compared with the original, fo' example." A thin smile. "We've had a nice talk, Marya: yo've learned somewhat about me, which helps yo' to serve bettah, and I've learned more about yo', which helps me. But that last outburst was a little beyond the line. Yo' realize that?"