by John Norman
They are totally under the power of strong masters, and must do what they are told.
Eight other girls now stood behind Alyena, ready for chains. Some six girls had been rejected by the Kavars. “Run to your masters,” cried a Kavar to the rejected girls. In tears they fled from the line. I could see that Alyena was pleased to lead the line. I saw she was pleased that Aya, who had caused her much trouble, had been rejected. Alyena stood, naked, very proud, very straight, waiting for her chains. They would not be put on her, of course.
“It is my recommendation to you,” said the Kavar, “to disarm yourself and dismount.”
“It is my recommendation to you,” I said, “that you, and your fellows, ride for your lives.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“If you were Aretai,” I asked, “would you have surrendered the caravan without a fight?”
“Of course not,” he said.
His face turned white.
“Fortunately,” I said. “1 see only dust rising in the east. I would not, however, strike due west. That would be the natural path of departure of surprised, startled men. Others may await you there. Considering the extent of the terrain, and the likely numbers that the Aretai can muster, it will be difficult for them to encircle you unless you permit them to close with the caravan. My own recommendation, though it may be imperfect, given that I have not scouted the terrain, would be to depart, with haste, south.”
“South,” he said, “is Aretai territory!”
“It seems unlikely they would expect you to move in that direction,” I said.
“You may always deviate from that course later.”
He stood in his stirrups. He cried out. An officer rode up. Together they looked to the east. Dust, like the blade of a dark scimitar, for pasangs, swept toward us.
“Let us fight!” cried the man.
“Without knowing the nature and number of the enemy?” I inquired.
The officer looked at me.
“What are their numbers?” he demanded.
“I’m sure I do not know,” I said, “but I expect they are ample to accomplish what they have determined to do.”
“Who are you?” demanded the officer.
“One who is bound for the Oasis of Nine Wells,” I told him.
The officer stood in his stirrups. He lifted his lance. Men wheeled into position.
Kicking the kaiila in the flanks, angrily, the officer urged his mount from the camp. The swirling burnooses of the Kavars and Ta’Kara left the camp.
They rode south. I regarded their leader as a good officer.
I rode over to Alyena. She looked up at me. “It seems you will not be chained,”
I said.
“How pleased I am,” she cried.
“Do not be disappointed,” I told her. “As a slave girl you will become quite familiar with chains. You will wear them often, and helplessly.”
“Oh?” she said, pertly.
“Certainly,” I assured her.
She looked up at me. “I would have been the first chained,” she laughed. “I was the first girl taken from the line. I would have led the slave chain!”
“There would have been no chain,” I said. “One cannot march naked girls across the desert. You would have been chained and, individually, or in pairs, put across saddles.”
“Had there been a chain,” she said, “I would have led it.
“Yes,” I said. I lifted her to the saddle.
“And I am not the tallest,” she said. “I am not the tallest!”
“Do you grow insolent?” I asked.
“Of course not, Master,” she said. “But does it not mean I am the most beautiful?”
“Among tarsk,” I said, “even a she-sleen looks well.”
“Oh, Master!” she protested. I placed her in the kurdah. She knelt there. With my lance tip I retrieved her veil from the dust, and put it to the side of her left knee. “Repair it,” I said, “and don it. With it conceal your mouth, which is rather loud of late.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
I turned to look at the dust from the east. I could see riders now. There were four hundred of them.
“Master,” said the girl.
“Yes,” I said.
“I know that I am beautiful,” she said.
“How do you know that?” I asked.
She knelt there, naked, in the kurdah, the veil by her knee. She straightened herself. She put her hands on her collar. She lifted her head, her chin, proudly. Her neck was delicate, aristocratic, a bit long, as she held it, white.
I saw the close-fitting, obdurate metal, inflexible, with its lock behind the back of the neck, encircling it. Her eyes were strikingly blue, and bright, lively; her hair, long, blond, streamed behind her.
“How do you know that you are beautiful?” I asked.
She shook her head a little, arranging her hair, and then looked at me, saucily, directly, her fingers on the metal at her throat. “Because I am collared,” she laughed.
With the tip of my scimitar I made ready to conceal her again within the kurdah.
The Aretai were nearing the caravan, a pasang or so away, sweeping down upon it.
Now, from the west, too, I could see some two hundred men riding in. Neither group, of course, would find Kavars in the caravan. The plan had been a good one, only the Kavars, apparently, had escaped.
“Is it not true, Master?” she said.
“It is true,” said I, “Slave Girl. Had men not found you beautiful they would have been quite content to leave you free. Only the most beautiful are thought worthy of the brand; only the most beautiful are found worthy of the collar.”
“But how miserable,” she moaned, “that I fell slave!”
“The more excruciatingly beautiful a woman is,” I said, “the more likely it is that she will be put in brand and collar.”
She looked at me.
“Any true man,” I said, “who sees such a woman wishes to own her.”
“On this world,” whispered Alyena, “they can!”
“On this world,” I said, “they do.”
“Poor women!” said Alyena.
I shrugged.
“Master,” she said.
“Yes,” I said.
“May Alyena, your obedient girl, your dutiful girl, be taught to dance?”
“You have not forgotten your young nomad, have you?” I asked.
She looked down, sullenly.
“To be sure,” I said, “it would be difficult to compete for him unless you could dance.”
“I do not even like him!” she cried. “He is a beast! He is a terrible person!
Did you not see how he abused me?”
“In his arms,” I laughed, “he would treat you only as a slave.”
“Terrible,” she wept.
To her indignation I felt her body. It was hot and wet. “Yes, pretty Alyena,” I said to her, “I will have you taught to dance, for in your belly is slave fire.”
“No!” she wept.
“Slave fire,” I said.
I then brushed down the curtain of the kurdah, as she cried out with rage, closing her within.
The Aretai, from the east, and west, lances down, scimitars high, with much dust, crying out, shouting, swept into the caravan. They did not find the Kavars, or the Ta’Kara.
Suleiman was a man of discrimination, and taste; he was also one of high intelligence.
He studied the stones.
It had been he who had organized the trap.
“Twenty-five weights of date bricks,” he said.
“Ninety,” I said.
“Your price is too high,” he said.
“Your price, in my opinion,” I said, “great pasha, is perhaps a bit low.”
“Where are the Kavars!” had cried Shakar, captain of the Aretai, when he had swept into the caravan, his kaiila rearing, his lieutenant, Hamid, behind him.
“They are gone,” I had told him.
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bsp; Had the Kavars been caught in the trap there would have been a massacre.
Suleiman was a man to hold in respect.
The true worth of the stones, which I had had appraised carefully in Tor, against their best information as to the date yields, was between sixty and eighty weights in pressed date bricks. I was not interested, of course, in driving bargains, but in meeting Suleiman. I had been more than a month at the oasis. Only now had he consented to see me. Recently, too, had Ibn Saran, with a caravan, arrived at the oasis. Some twenty thousand people lived at the oasis, mostly small farmers, and craftsmen, and their families. It was one of the larger eases in the Tahari. It seemed important for me to see Suleiman. As a portion of my assumed identity, I wished to sell him stones. Moreover, with the dates purchased by these, I hoped to have a suitable disguise, as a merchant in date bricks, in moving eastward. I suspected that my being summoned to the presence of Suleiman was not unconnected with the arrival of Ibn Saran at the oasis. He had, I suspected, interceded in my behalf. For this I was surely grateful. He remembered me, of course, from the hall of Samos. Had I not seen Suleiman shortly I would have had to strike eastward myself. Without a guide this would have been incredibly dangerous. The men of the Tahari kill those who make maps of it. They know their own country, or their districts within it; they are not eager that others know it as well. Without a guide, who knew the locations of water, to enter the Tahari would be suicidal. I had offered good prices for guides. But none had volunteered. They protested fear of the imminent war, the dangers of being on the desert at such a time. I suspected, however, that they had been told not to offer me their services. One fellow had agreed, but, the next morning, without explanation, he had informed me that his mind was changed. It would be too dangerous, in such times, to venture into the desert.
Sometimes I had seen Hamid, the lieutenant of Shakar, captain of the Aretai, following me about. He still suspected, I supposed, that I was a Kavar spy but when Ibn Saran had arrived at the oasis, Suleiman had invited me to his presence. I wondered if he had been waiting for Ibn Saran. Ibn Saran, it seemed to me, exercised more influence at the oasis of Nine Wells than one might have expected of a mere merchant of salt. I had seen men withdrawing from the path of his kaiila, standing aside, lifting their hands to him.
Alyena, in dancing, sensed the power of Ibn Saran. It is not difficult for a female dancer, lightly clad, displaying her beauty, to detect where among those who watch her lies power. I am not sure precisely how this is done. Doubtless, to some extent, it has to do with richness of raiment. But even more, I suspect, it has to do with the way in which they hold their bodies, their assurance, their eyes, as they, as though owning her, observe her. A woman finds herself looked upon very differently by a man who has power and one who does not.
Instinctively, of course, to be looked upon by a man with power thrills a woman.
They desire, desperately, to please him. This is particularly true of a slave girl, whose femaleness is most shamelessly and brazenly bared. Ibn Saran, languid, observed the dancer. His face betrayed no emotion. He sipped his hot black wine.
Alyena threw herself to the floor before him, moving to the music. I supposed she saw in him her “rich man,” who would guarantee her a life in which she might be protected from the labors of the free woman of the Tahari, the pounding of grain with the heavy pestle, the weaving of cloth, the churning of milk in skin bags, the carrying of water, the herding of animals with sticks in the blistering heat. I saw her turn, and twist, and writhe, and move, and, on her belly, hold out her hand to him.
Her lessons, which had been intensive, once we had arrived at the Oasis of Nine Wells, had cost little, and had, in my opinion, much increased her value, doubling or tripling it. The modest cost of the lessons had been, in my opinion, an excellent investment. My property had now increased, considerably, in value.
But most credit, surely, had to go to the girl herself. With fantastic diligence had she applied herself to her lessons, and practices. Even so small a thing as the motion of the wrist she had practiced for hours.
Her teacher was a cafe slave girl, Seleenya, rented from her master; her musicians were a flutist, hired early, and, later, a kaska player, to accompany him.
Once I saw her, naked, covered with sweat and bangles, in the sand.
“Have you had to beat her often?” I asked Seleenya.
“No,” said the slave girl. “I have never seen a girl so eager,” she said.
“Play,” said I to the musicians.
They played, until I, by lifting a finger, silenced them. At the same time, too, Alyena froze in the sand, her right hand high, left hand low, at her hip, her head bent to the left, eyes intent on the fingers of her left hand, as though curious to see if they would dare to touch her thigh; then she broke the pose, and threw back her head, breathing deeply. There was sand on her ankles and feet; perspiration ran down her body. “Does your girl please you?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said. “And doubtless, too,” I said, “a young nomad would be pleased.”
She tossed her head, and sniffed. “I have no longer an interest in such as he,” said she. She looked down, and bit her lip. “I know, Master,” she said. “You will do with me exactly what you please, but I would bring a higher price, surely, if I were sold to a rich man.” She knelt in the sand before me, in her sweat and bangles; she looked up, blue-eyed. “Please, Master,” she said, “sell me to a rich man.”
I motioned her to her feet. I signaled the musicians. She danced.
I observed her. I thought it not unlikely this slave might stir the interest of a man of means.
“Perhaps,” I said. I was thinking I might sell her to Suleiman.
I watched her move.
“I have never seen a girl take so readily, so swiftly, so naturally to the dances of a slave,” said Seleenya.
“She is a natural slave,” I told Seleenya.
“In your arms,” said Seleenya, looking up at me, “might not any woman find herself a natural slave?”
“Go to the alcove,” I told her. I was renting her.
“Yes, Master,” she whispered, gathering her silk about her and hurrying to the alcove.
“Continue your practices.” I told Alyena.
“The fact that I can dance as a slave,” said Alyena, moving before me, “does not mean that I am a slave.”
I smiled, and tumid away from her, going to the alcove.
“I am not tamed,” cried Alyena. “No man can tame me!”
I turned. “Kneel,” said I. “Say ‘I am tamed.’ “
Immediately she knelt. “I am tamed,” she said. She smiled.
It was the rebellion of compliance.
“Resume your practices,” I told her.
The musicians began again, and again the girl danced. It was superb. And it was incredible. She did not yet know she was a true slave. What a little fool she was.
I watched her move.
She smiled at me, disdainfully. I considered her blond hair, now wild about her head as, suddenly, she entered into a series of spins. Her gaze focused to the last moment on a spot across the room from her, and then, suddenly, on each spin, her head snapped about, and she again found the focus. Then she finished the spins, and froze, hands over her head, body held high, stomach in, right leg flexed and extended, toes only touching the floor. Then she was again in basic position. Her white skin, in itself, in the Tahari, would bring a good price.
Blond hair and blue eyes, too, in this region, made her a rare specimen. But beyond these trivialities, though of considerable commercial import, was the fact that she was beautiful, both in face and figure. Her figure, though not full, was completely female, beautifully proportioned, and sweetly slung.
She was, in Earth measurements, I would guess, some five feet four inches in height. Her face was incredibly delicate, and her lips. Her face was extremely sensitive, and feminine. It was a face on which emotion could be easily read.
Her lip was swift
to tremble, her eyes swift to moisten, filling with bright tears. Her feelings were easily hurt, a valuable property in a slave girl. Too, she could not control her feelings, another excellent property in a slave girl.
Her feelings, vulnerable, deep, exploitable, in her expressions and on her face, betrayed her, exposing her to men, and their amusement, as helplessly as her stripped beauty. They made her more easily controlled, more a slave. I had once seen her handwriting. It, too, was extremely feminine. I watched her dance. Too, in her belly, perhaps most important of all, burned slave fire. She would do quite well. She would bring a high price. Only a rich man, I speculated, would be able to afford her.
It had been a stroke of brilliance, or of fortune, I surmised, to have brought the wench south. I had little doubt she would prove valuable.
“Master!” called Seleenya, the cafe slave girl, the rented girl, softly, from the alcove. She stood behind the beaded curtain. She had slipped off her silk.
“Please, Master!” she wept. I saw through the strings of hanging beads the collar on her throat.
I went to her.
Behind me, as I thrust apart the beads, I heard the pounding of the drum, the kaska, the silence, then the sound, as the flutist, his hands on her body, to the sound of the drum, instructed the girl in the line-length and intensity of one of the varieties of pre-abandonment pelvic thrusts.
“Less,” he said. “Less. There must be more control, more precision. You are being forced to do this, but you are holding back. You are angry. This must show in your face.”
“Please do not touch me so, Master,” she said.
“Be silent,” he said to her. “You are slave.”