by John Norman
“Why do you think the bath chamber was so well lit?” he said. “Why do you think that the bathing pool was only six inches in depth?”
“I see, Master,” said Cornhair.
She and the others, able to do little more than sit or stand in it, crouching down, bending down, splashing water on the body, applying the oils, and utilizing the concave, wooden scrapers, had not known about the grid.
Afterwards they had been well fed, for slaves, permitted even to use their hands to feed themselves. Was there not, even, some fruit, some meat, some nuts, mixed with the gruel?
And they had been given a draught of warm kana before being put in their small, individual cages.
“He inspected you through the grid,” said the slaver’s man. “Then he bid on you, while you were being put through slave display.”
“I went for forty darins,” she said.
“You are not a bad looking slave,” he said. “But I would have thought, in last night’s selling, twenty-five or thirty darins.”
“What is he like?” asked Cornhair. “Is he handsome, strong, rich?”
“He must be well-fixed,” said the man. “He bought you for forty darins, yesterday, with the situation in the city as it is.”
Cornhair’s market collar had been removed.
She was not now collared.
“If he is well-fixed,” she said, lightly, “doubtless he will have several slaves, and I will have less work.”
“And be less favored, and have less attention, and be less caressed,” said the man.
Tears came to Cornhair’s eyes.
“You meretricious little baggages,” said the slaver’s man, “cannot fool me. You are slaves. You all want to be the single slave of a private Master. You want to be his sole slave, the only slave in his house. You wish to be the one who brings him his sandals in your mouth, on all fours. You want to be the only one feeding from the pan at his feet. You want his whip to be his whip for you, and only you. You want to be the only slave helpless in his chains. You wish to be the only vessel upon which he will vent his lust.”
“He may have wanted me, very much,” said Cornhair.
“Perhaps,” said the slaver’s man.
“Am I to be picked up, soon?” asked Cornhair.
“Shortly,” said the man.
“Master holds a tunic, does he not?” asked Cornhair.
“Yes,” he said.
“Should I stand?”
“Remain on your knees,” said the man.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“Do you know what I saw on the block?” asked the man.
“No, Master,” said Cornhair.
“A slave,” he said.
“I trust so,” said Cornhair, softly.
“Are you a bred slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said, “for I am a woman.” She could remember her feelings, even long before the collar had been locked on her neck, even long before the tiny rose had been burned into her thigh.
“Stand,” he said.
Cornhair rose to her feet. She felt small before him. She was small before him.
She was frightened of men. There were at least two reasons for this. First, she was a woman, and most women, unless they are unusually dull, realize what men might do with them, if they wished, and, second, she was a female slave, and thus she was one such who realized that men would do with her as they wished.
“Put it on,” said the man, tossing her the scrap of cloth.
Swiftly Cornhair pulled the small tunic over her head, and down, about her thighs.
“There is unrest in the city,” said the man. “You should be clothed.”
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
The concept of being clothed is interesting. The same garment which Cornhair received readily and gladly, scarcely more than a scrap of cloth, might have reduced a free woman to rage and tears.
Cornhair tugged down, at the sides of the garment.
“What is wrong?” asked the slaver’s man.
“It is too short, is it not?” she asked.
“Would you prefer to be naked?” he asked.
“No, Master,” she said.
“It is a slave tunic,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
To be sure, there is little to choose from, between being naked and being put in a slave tunic.
Free women wish slaves to be so degraded. Free men wish them to be so exhibited. To be sure, the slave tunic, in a sense, is a badge of female excellence. Its occupant is so attractive that men have made her a slave.
“You may now place your hands behind your back, your wrists crossed,” said the slaver’s man. “And face the wall.”
Cornhair felt her wrists tied behind her, with a short length of leather thong. “It is interesting,” she thought, “how with so little, so quickly, a woman can be made so helpless.”
“My Master is soon to pick me up?” she said.
“Oh?” she said, surprised, for a slave hood had been drawn over her head, from behind, and, in a moment, it was buckled shut, behind the back of her neck.
“I do not understand,” she said.
“Your Master is not picking you up,” said the slaver’s man. “He is sending two agents.”
There was then a sturdy knocking at the door of the chamber.
“Do not kneel,” said the slaver’s man.
Cornhair heard the door of the chamber swung open, and she gathered that two men, at least two men, had entered.
“This is the slave?” said a voice.
“Yes,” said the slaver’s man.
Cornhair felt her upper left arm seized in a strong grip, and she was turned about, facing the door.
“Am I to be taken to my Master?” she asked.
Her only response was an ugly laugh.
She was then conducted from the chamber.
Chapter Thirty-Seven
“It cannot be!” cried Iaachus, to the startled courtier.
“Lord?” asked the courtier.
“Ambitious Julian, dog of the Aureliani, who would seize the throne, yes,” said Iaachus, “but the oaf, Ottonius, his minion, his guard dog, he of the peasants, of the hunting games, the killing games, in a hundred arenas, no! No!”
“It is a captain,” said the courtier, “uniformed and emblemed, insignias in order, Ottonius, officer in the Auxiliaries.”
“You are sure?” asked Iaachus.
“Yes, Lord,” said the courtier, half drawing back. Never had he seen the Arbiter of Protocol so.
“It cannot be,” muttered Iaachus.
“I do not understand,” said the courtier.
“It is nothing,” said Iaachus.
“Is noble Iaachus well?” said the courtier.
“How dare they come here?” asked the Arbiter.
“Lord?” said the courtier, uncertainly.
“Yes, I am well,” said Iaachus. “I am very well.”
“They crave audience,” said the courtier. “Borders succumb. Clubs and torches are brandished in the streets. Rioters rule. Mobs rove with impunity. Guardsmen cower, arrows enquivered, not daring to fire on looters. Lion Ships, unseen, guard corridors. The city burns, the empire totters.”
“Who,” asked Iaachus, “could deny audience, in such a time, or, indeed, at any time, to the august Julian, he of the Aureliani, cousin to the emperor?”
“Indeed, Lord,” said the courtier.
“I shall have the royal family notified,” said Iaachus, “the empress mother in her chambers, the royal daughters, and the emperor, too, who must be summoned, however unwillingly, I fear, from his toys.”
“You do not understand, Lord,” said the courtier. “They crave audience with you, only you, with the Arbiter
of Protocol, and in private.”
“I see,” said Iaachus.
“I do not know the reason for the audience,” said the courtier.
“I think I do,” said Iaachus.
“Lord?”
“Have guards about,” said the Arbiter of Protocol. “Then, admit my guests.”
“Yes, Lord,” said the courtier.
The Arbiter then went to a side cabinet, and removed, from its satin sheathing, a Telnarian pistol. It was much like that which Julian bore, for both were imperial issue. It contained six charges. One would seldom consider firing such a weapon indoors, for the charge, as normally fired, its beam focused, might take out a wall. Iaachus, studying the weapon, for he was not familiar with its use, adjusted the beam lens, that effecting the distribution of the charge, that a broader, more fanlike emission might be produced. There is an inverse correlation involved in such things, a narrow beam providing a greater range and a more severe, more localized strike, and a wider beam, in which an impact is much reduced but a much larger area is affected. As the weapon was now set, there would be a sudden, flat oval of fire, some ten feet in width at close range, perhaps, say, across a desk, or, as the impact area expanded, some twenty or twenty-five feet in width, at a target some yards away, say, across a room.
Iaachus slipped the pistol into the center drawer of his desk, which he left partly open. He then seated himself in his chair, behind the desk.
Chapter Thirty-Eight
Cornhair, hooded, her hands tied behind her, her upper left arm bruised in that powerful grip, was hurried along, half dragged.
Her feet burned from the hot ground. Her ankles had been cut by coarse grass.
She feared she was no longer within the city’s walls.
“This is a lonely, vacant place,” said the first man, he in whose grip was Cornhair.
“It is not far from the city,” said the second man.
“Where are you taking me, Masters?” she said. “Who has purchased me?”
She coughed within the hood, she felt sick, she feared she might vomit.
The sun was hot on her bared arms and legs.
The air was thick, still, oppressive. It reeked with filth and decay. There was an overwhelming atmosphere of spoilage and waste, of urine and excrement, of rotting organic debris, of fish, hide, and flesh. She heard a raucous cry of some form of birds.
“The stench,” said one of the men, half choking. “I cannot stand it. Let us go no further. Let it be done quickly.”
He, Cornhair surmised, was the second of the two men.
“Masters!” wept Cornhair. “Where are we?”
“They are all about,” said the other, he whom Cornhair took to be first, the leader of the two. “Beware of your step. A false step and you might sink within, and die, a most unpleasant demise.”
“And the gold would then be yours,” said the second.
“Yes,” said the first man.
“There is nothing here but snakes, birds, and filchen,” grumbled the second.
“They do not mind,” said the first, “why should you?”
“How can they exist here?” asked the second man.
“Men set tables,” said the first. “Guests invite themselves. They feast.”
“Let us be done with it,” urged the second man.
“After a century they cover them,” said the other man, “and excavate new ones. Some opened, even after a thousand years, cannot be approached. Few can stand them. Few will enter their vicinity. Who would do so willingly? Even animals balk. Men are overcome, and faint. They must be dragged away. These things poison the earth.”
Cornhair heard a wagon roll nearby, and stop.
“Release the load,” called someone, “quickly!”
Cornhair heard a heavy, sliding noise, and, a moment later, a sound, as of weights of debris plunging into mud or quicksand.
“See how it sinks,” said the first man, he in whose charge was Cornhair.
“This one, use this one!” said the second man.
“Further, further from the city,” said the first man. “You know the orders. There must be no trace.”
“He will not know,” said the other. “And there will be no trace.”
“Done, then!” said the first.
“Masters!” cried Cornhair.
One of the men, the second, then unbuckled Cornhair’s hood and drew it away, and Cornhair threw back her head and wailed in misery.
They stood at the edge of one of the giant, circular garbage pits of the city of Telnar, its diameter some twenty yards or so. From where she stood she could see more pits, others, stretching away. There were few men about, at least on foot, but there were some wagons about, one approaching a pit, and the other withdrawing, leaving the vicinity of another pit. She could also see another, far off, returning to the city, whose walls she could see in the distance, perhaps a mile away.
Cornhair looked down into the pit before her. She knew these pits were often a hundred or more feet deep. This pit might have been three-fourths full. She could see the surface below her. It seemed a sea of filth. It was primarily brown, with streaks of black, like oil. There was little that was clearly identifiable in that viscous, semisolid morass but she saw shards of pottery, still held on the surface, and the leg and paw of a horse.
Both men, she saw, had wrapped cloth, like bandages, about their mouth and nose.
The second man picked up a stone and tossed it into the pit and Cornhair, sick, watched it slowly disappear.
“Why have I been brought here, Masters?” she said, scarcely hearing herself speak.
“Why do you think, little slave?” asked the first man.
“I do not know, Master,” she said.
“These pits are noxious and noisome, even dangerous,” said the first man, “in spreading disease, in breeding parasites, but they have their purposes. For example, they provide a place in which to dispose of the refuse and garbage, the offal, of a city, rotted fruit, the entrails of butchered animals, dead horses, unwanted relatives, enemies, whom one wishes to have disappear, displeasing slaves, and such.”
“I would strive to be pleasing, Masters!” Cornhair cried.
“Of course, you are a slave,” said the first man.
“What if my Master learns of this?” said Cornhair.
“It is on his orders we act,” said the first man.
“Surely not!” said Cornhair.
“It is true,” said the first man.
“I do not understand,” said Cornhair. “I cost forty darins, only forty darins, and yet you have been paid in gold to discharge this commission?”
“Six gold darins,” said the first man.
“Three for each,” said the second man.
“And you will do so?” she asked.
“Throw her in, and be done with it,” said the second man.
“Who is my Master?” wept Cornhair.
“He gave no name,” said the first man.
“Is he of the Larial Farnichi?” said Cornhair.
It may be recalled that the Larial Calasalii and the Larial Farnichi were two great families ill disposed toward one another. Cornhair, when free, and before being disowned, had belonged to the Larial Calasalii. The altercation betwixt these two families had begun as a clash of private armies, but, later, given the intervention of the empire, it had ended with the outlawing and ruination of the Larial Calasalii.
“I do not know,” said the first man. “He gave no name, no account of his background or origin.”
“He had gold,” said the second man. “Who needed to know more?”
“I cost forty darins,” she said. “Surely that is a fair price for my face, my figure, the pleasure I would do my best to bring a Master. You would cast aside forty darins so lightly?”
�
�Not we,” said the first man, “he who bought you, for this.”
“Keep me,” she begged. “Keep me, for yourself!”
“We would have the gold, and the slave,” said the second man.
“Yes, yes, Masters!” said Cornhair.
“It is too dangerous,” said the first man.
“This place offends my nostrils, my eyes sting, the sun is hot, my flesh crawls, dispose of her, here, now,” said the second man.
“No, no, Masters!” wept Cornhair. She pulled away, wildly, from the first man’s grip, spun about, and tried to run, but, in a moment, was caught by the second man, who thrust her back, she struggling, weeping, to the edge of the pit.
Cornhair cast about, wildly, and screamed, “Help! Help! Help a slave, a poor slave, Masters!”
“There is no one to hear you,” said the first man.
The nearest wagon, with its driver, and his assistant, was now far away.
“Tie her ankles together,” said the first man.
“Why?” asked the second.
“She will sink more rapidly,” said the first. “The business will be consummated more expeditiously.”
“One cannot swim in this muck,” said the second man. “It sucks one down, like quicksand.”
“If her legs are not tied, she might be able to keep her head above the surface for two or three minutes.”
“No one is about, what does it matter?” asked the second man.
“Do it,” said the first, angrily, and put Cornhair to her back, at his feet.
The second man, angrily, whipped a cord from his belt and crouched down beside Cornhair, to loop the cord about her ankles.
Cornhair screamed, for she saw, as the fellow bent over her did not, the knife. He did not even have time to raise his head, for the knife was driven into the base of his skull, into the back of his neck, severing the vertebrae. It took the second man only a minute to die. The first man then wiped his knife on his thigh and returned it to its sheath. He then rifled the purse of the second man, and withdrew from it three gold darins, a silver darin, and a handful of pennies. These he added to his own purse.
He then looked down at Cornhair.
“Keep me,” she whispered, “Master!”