The Usurper

by John Norman

  “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.

  “Palms of your hands down, on your thighs,” said the barbarian.

  She complied.

  “You will now be silent,” he said, “until you are given permission to speak.”

  “Let me cut her throat,” said Qualius.

  A tiny sound of fear escaped the kneeling slave.

  “Who fled in the hoverer?” asked the barbarian.

  “Phidias, Lysis, and Corelius,” said Ronisius.

  “It seems they did not trust the matter, arranging the slave, and such, to a single man,” said the barbarian.

  “It seems not,” said Ronisius.

  “Why was there no pursuit?” asked the barbarian.

  “The other hoverer, and the two treaded vehicles,” said Qualius, “were disabled.”

  “It is perhaps just as well,” said the barbarian. “Perhaps they will believe the business was accomplished to their satisfaction.”

  “Let us hope so,” said Ronisius.

  “Attend to the camp,” said the barbarian. “There will be fruitless speculation, much confusion. Consternation will abound.”

  “Officers,” said Ronisius, “were suddenly recalled to Venitzia, due to some unforeseen emergency.”

  “Excellent,” said the barbarian. “That will do nicely.”

  “The slave,” said Qualius, “may be taken outside the perimeter, and bound naked to a tree. Earlier in the evening I heard, far off, the baying of wolves. There must be such brutes about.”

  “Attend to the camp, my friends,” said Otto.

  Ronisius, standing, looked to the surface of the couch. “Captain,” he said.

  “I know,” said Otto.

  The dropped knife lay amongst the furs, half hidden.

  The two men then withdrew, taking the tunnel exit which led to the main tenting.

  “On whose behalf did you engage in your enterprise?” asked Otto.

  She shook her head, frightened.

  “You are not a free woman,” said Otto. “A slave may be punished terribly for not telling the truth.”

  “I am afraid to speak,” she said.

  “He is elsewhere,” said Otto. “You are here. I would expect you to be more afraid not to speak.”

  “Have mercy,” she whispered.

  “It would be easy to turn you over to Qualius,” said Otto.

  “—Iaachus,” she said, “Arbiter of Protocol.”

  “So high a personage?” said Otto.

  “Yes,” she said.

  “So close to the throne?”

  “Yes.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Yes,” she said.

  “‘Yes’?” said Otto.

  “Yes,” she said, “—Master.”

  “Perhaps you find it surprising that one so highly placed, so exalted, might deal directly in this matter,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “It is not so surprising,” he said. “Who would he trust with such a charge? Too, he would not expect you to return.”

  “I fear so, now,” she said, “Master.”

  Otto stood up, facing the frightened, kneeling slave.

  “On the couch,” he said, “you will find a knife. It is there, amidst the furs. Obviously you are familiar with it. Fetch it, and bring it to me.”

  “It is dangerous,” she said. “It is painted with poison.”

  “Must a command be repeated?” asked Otto. That, of course, can be cause for discipline.

  She crawled to the surface of the great couch, ascended it, made her way to the knife, and returned, holding it by the handle, careful not to touch the blade, to the vicinity of the barbarian.

  “Stand,” said Otto.

  She was small, standing before him.

  “Perhaps you would like to drive it into my body?” he said.

  “No, Master,” she said, handing it to him.

  “On many worlds,” said Otto, “it is a capital offense for a slave to touch a weapon.”

  “Has Master tricked me,” she asked, “that I may now be slain?”

  “No,” said Otto.

  “A slave is grateful,” she said.

  “One punishes a slave for disobedience,” said Otto, “not for obedience.”

  She put down her head, trembling. “Thank you, Master,” she said. “Master is merciful.”

  “Perhaps not,” he said.

  “Master?” she said, apprehensively.

  “On your knees,” said he.

  Swiftly she knelt, before him.

  “Straighten your body,” he snapped, “belly in, head up, hands down, palms on your thighs; shake your hair behind you; it is not to interfere with my looking upon you. Do you not know where you are? You are before a man. You are not a free woman. You are a slave, a commodity. Be beautiful!”

  She looked at him, frightened.

  “Good,” he said. “That is how a slave kneels, beautifully.”

  “Master!” she wept.

  “It is true, you are pretty,” he said. “Yes,” he said, “quite pretty. And you are doubtless aware that a pretty woman is even prettier, far prettier, with her neck in a collar. Yes, the noble Iaachus chose his agent well, an inviting, lovely, supposedly unarmed naked slave. Who would suspect a source of mischief so unlikely? And is this tiny, lovely dagger not a surprising instrument by means of which to address oneself to the commonly crude work of assassination?”

  “Beware the blade, Master,” she whispered.

  “Beware this unportentous thing,” he asked, “this inauspicious, slight piece of metal, tapering to so negligible a point?”

  “Unseen death,” she said, “inhabits its small terrain of steel.”

  “Dangerous, this tiny needlelike blade?” he asked, poising its point at her left cheek.

  “Yes, Master,” she whispered. “Death reclines there, in covert secrecy, ready to spring forth. Through the smallest portal put ajar swift death rushes in.”

  “Shall we see?” he asked.

  “No, please!” she wept, drawing back a tiny bit.

  “Only a crease, only a scratch?” he suggested.

  “Please, no, Master!” she begged.

  “Very well,” he said, removing the point from her cheek, under the left eye, drawing back.

  “Behold,” he said. He thrust back the sleeve of the dinner robe.

  “Master!” she cried.

  He had drawn the blade across the inside of his left forearm, and, where it had taken its short journey, there was a thin, bright line of fresh blood.

  He wiped the blood away with a small cloth.

  “I do not understand,” she said.

  “It was clear to several of us, certainly to Ronisius, Qualius, and myself, even on the Narcona, that you, though a slave, did not take yourself to be a slave. What, then, was to be your role on Tangara? It was not difficult to speculate. What was not known were your confederates, one or more, who would abet you in your business. The weapon then, presumably, would be poison. Given the time involved, and your recent freedom, we supposed you were not a poison girl, prepared over a period of years, whose bite would be venomous. Too, in your medical examination, it was determined your teeth were sound, none hollowed to hold poison, thence to be discharged, as though by a fang, into a wound. This suggested, then, either poison to be administered in food or
drink, or by a knife. If the deed were to be done secretly, as you fully expected to be extracted from the camp, it would presumably be administered in a private collation or by means of a blade or point. It was easy, even on the Narcona, to determine that no collation would be accepted in circumstances which might favor a conspirator or conspirators. Things became simpler here, in the camp. Ronisius, surreptitiously investigating the gear of officers, discovered the case, with the knife, amongst the belongings of Corelius. We did not know, of course, if others were in league with him. If there were others, and who they might be, had to remain undetermined for at least a time, until the assassination would be attempted. Their identities and number, of course, became clear with the flight of the hoverer.”

  “The blade was poisoned,” said Filene.

  “That was supposed so,” said the barbarian, “given its slightness, and the strength, nature, and weight of the presumed assassin, a slave not likely to be trained in death skills, skills such that, in the hands of an adept, a needle or sliver can function as a lethal weapon.”

  “You removed the poison from the blade,” said Filene, numbly.

  “Certainly,” said the barbarian. “The blade was stained, to reveal the poison, which was then scoured away, with coarse cleansers, even acid.”

  “You knew all the time,” said Filene, softly.

  “We surmised all the time,” said the barbarian.

  “Ronisius, then, replaced the cleansed blade in its case,” she said.

  “Of course,” he said.

  “You let me address myself, futilely and foolishly, to the deed,” she said.

  “It was important that the attempt be made, in order, if possible, to flush out the conspirators. I was even prepared to pretend being stricken, to observe the consequences, but the obvious preparation of the hoverer for departure rendered that ruse unnecessary.”

  “Yes, Master,” she murmured.

  “This is a pretty dagger, a lovely thing, a woman’s weapon,” he said. He regarded the implement, turning it over in his hand.

  “Master?” she said.

  “Please do not, Master!” she cried.

  “Why not?” he asked.

  “I do not want to die!” she said.

  He then snapped the blade from the handle, and cast the pieces to the side.

  She swayed, and gasped with relief.

  “May I speak?” she asked.

  “Yes,” he said.

  “I am in your power, wholly,” she said. “What is to become of me?”

  “By your own will, thinking yourself free,” he said, “you would have struck at me with a weapon you deemed of lethal import, though you were in fact naught but an unpleasant, nasty little slave.”

  She was silent.

  “Slaves are to be pleasing, wholly pleasing,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “Do you think,” he asked, “that you have been wholly pleasing?”

  “I fear not, Master,” she said.

  “Your crime,” he said, “for a free person, would be heinous. What do you think it is for a slave?”

  “I know not,” she said, trembling.

  “It is a thousand times worse,” he said.

  “Spare me,” she said.

  “Why?” he asked.

  “I am beautiful!” she said.

  “Your body would sell,” he said, “but your heart is worthless.”

  “Have mercy,” she said. “I have known, since the Narcona, since being at the command and mercy of men, since kneeling before men, since having a collar on my neck, that it is a slave’s heart!”

  “I think,” he said, “that I shall turn you over to Qualius.”

  “Please do not do so, Master,” she said. “I do not want my throat cut, I do not want to be put forth, tied to a tree, naked, for wolves.”

  “Do you plead for your life?” he asked.

  “Yes, yes!” she cried.

  “What do you offer?” he asked.

  “My body,” she sobbed, “and its pleasures!”

  “I see,” he said, his arms folded, looking down upon her.

  “I know men have desired me!” she said. “I have been aware of this since puberty, how they look upon me! I have seen their eyes, their interest, their expressions, how they have positioned themselves to see me, how they have sought to frequent my whereabouts, how they have sought introductions, how they have endeavored to win my smiles, how they have striven to please and serve me! I have twisted and diverted many men to my purposes.”

  “You are selling goods?” he asked.

  “Yes!” she said.

  “But you are not a free woman,” he said.

  “Master?” she said.

  “A free woman can sell her body,” he said. “But you cannot. You are a slave. You own nothing. It is you who are owned. You do not sell goods. Rather it is you who are goods. You have nothing to sell. Rather, it is you yourself who may be sold.”

  “Please, no, Master!” she said.

  “Do you desire to be a good slave?” he asked.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “I did not think it true before,” he said.

  “It is true now, Master,” she said.

  “Whether you are a good slave or not,” he said, “will not be decided by you, but by Masters.”

  “Yes, Master,” she said.

  “I gather you wish to live?” he said.

  “Yes, Master!” she said.

  “Then you will strive zealously to be a good slave,” he said.

  “Yes, Master,” she said. “I am changed now. I would hope to be granted the privilege of polishing your boots, as on the Narcona. I would be pleased, if it were my Master’s will, to have my mouth taped shut, and be tied, kneeling, neglected, to the foot of his couch. I am my Master’s toy, the mat on which he wipes his feet, his towel and footstool. I am nothing! I am worthless! I belong to him! I am his!”

  At this point, clearly audible throughout the camp, and well into the forest beyond, like a sudden, alarming, cold flame of sound, pronounced and disruptive, tearing apart the silence of the winter night, came the shrill, oscillating shriek of a klaxon.

  “You know the camp,” said the barbarian. “What is this sound?”

  “The alerting signal, Master!” she cried. “Something obtrusive has occurred, an attack, an animal at the wire, unannounced visitors or envoys, Heruls or Otungs, a party from Venitzia, some contact from the outside, anything!”

  “When I approached the camp,” he said, “no such sound, no such warning, was heard.”

  “They were watching for you, anticipating you,” she said. “You were recognized in the floodlights, as you approached the wire.”

  “Who is now high in the camp?” asked the barbarian.

  “Ronisius!” she said.

  “‘Ronisius’?” he snapped.

  “Master Ronisius!” she said. Had she not understood that such a lapse might call for a switching?

  The klaxon’s disturbance of the night subsided, almost as quickly as it had begun.

  The barbarian looked to the slave, fiercely.

  “It cannot be an attack, Master,” she said.

  “Someone,” he said, “may have been recognized?”

  “I know of no one,” she said.

  The barbarian whipped away the dinner robe and kicked the sandals to the side. In moments he had gathered together, and drawn on, the hides and furs, the soft boots, which he had worn when first approaching the camp. He then strode to the tunnel exit from the chamber, that leading to the main tenting, that of the headquarters tenting.

  “Otto!” cried Julian, elatedly, meeting him at the threshold of the bedding chamber. “You live!”

  “I live,” said Otto.

  Behind Jul
ian were Tuvo Ausonius and a small, exquisite slave, bundled in furs, whom Otto did not recognize.

  “Captain Ottonius!” said Tuvo Ausonius. Behind him, the slave knelt.

  “Be greeted,” said Otto, grinning.

  “Be shamed, friend,” said Julian. “You were to wait in Venitzia, to proceed in safety, accompanied by trade goods, and imperial troops, to contact Otungs in the forest.”

  “I did not do so,” said Otto. “I deemed it best to approach Otungs alone, not accompanied by imperial troops.”

  “I was delayed, surely deliberately, in Lisle,” said Julian. “When I arrived in Venitzia I discovered, to my dismay, not only that you had departed alone, but that the supporting expedition, then intent on locating and supporting you, had also departed.”

  “You followed, through the wilderness, alone?” said Otto.

  “We three, no others,” said Julian.

  “You might have encountered Heruls,” he said, “or Otungs.”

  “We were pursued from Venitzia,” said Julian, “by enemies, sent from Venitzia.”

  “You survived,” observed Otto.

  “They did not,” said Julian.

  “We heard wolves,” said Otto.

  “We fought,” said Julian, “but owe our lives, I fear, to Otung dogs.”

  “You are fortunate,” said Otto. “Such dogs are trained to clear the vicinity of wolves.”

  “We count ourselves fortunate,” said Julian.

  “More than you know,” said Otto. “Such dogs are close to wolves. Occasionally they set upon men.”

  “You are all right, dear captain?” inquired Tuvo Ausonius.

  “Certainly,” said Otto. “How is it that you ask?”

  “We observed women, putative slaves, trade goods, being boarded on the Narcona,” said Julian. “I was troubled. None were marked. It seemed to me that one knew not yet her collar. More troublesome was the sense I had that I had seen this woman before, somewhere, and not on a leash or chain. Curious, we investigated, and found discrepancies involved, falsity of claims and such. Alarmed, I had, from memory, a portrait prepared. Inquiries were conducted in Lisle, at markets, in slave houses, and such. No one recognized the woman. Then similar inquiries were conducted in more prestigious venues, from which I might have recalled the woman. These inquiries bore immediate fruit. Several citizens, particularly high citizens, citizens of the honestori, of the patricians, suggested it might be a likeness of a fallen, nigh-destitute patrician, even of the senatorial class, a Lady Publennia Calasalia, formerly of the Larial Calasalii. We had little doubt that such a person, disreputable and unscrupulous, eager to recoup wealth and power, might prove of interest to men with much to hide and much to protect. Would conspirators not find such a person a likely recruit to further their ends and schemes? And if assassination were in the offing what would better assure its likelihood of success than ensconcing an assassin amongst slaves, a slave who, unsuspected, sooner or later, would be almost certain to be alone with the intended object of her work, and might have hours afterward in which to be sped to safety, and presumed riches.”