The fellow released her garment, and turned away.
“He was not one of the three?” asked Elena of Cornhair.
“No,” said Cornhair.
“The three may have left the city,” said Elena, “days ago.”
“One does not know,” said Cornhair.
“They may have separated,” said Elena. “They may not be resident in this district. They may not patronize this establishment.”
“True,” said Cornhair.
One of the girls to the right of Cornhair, caressed, began to gasp and whimper. “I will take this one,” said the fellow, and an attendant freed the girl from the display bar. The fellow then conducted her across the floor and through the curtained portals leading from the dining area to the corridor of alcoves.
“My tunic was parted,” said Pig to Cornhair. “Yours was not.”
“So?” said Cornhair.
“So I am more beautiful than you,” said Pig.
“Another patron,” said Elena.
Cornhair, angry, turned away from Pig, trying to look past the lamps, into the half-darkened dining area.
“No,” she said, shaking her head.
“I am,” said Pig.
“You were not even sold,” said Cornhair. “You cost your master nothing. You had to be given away.”
“I was the gift of an emperor,” said Pig.
“The emperor had never even seen you,” said Cornhair.
“I am still more beautiful than you,” said Pig.
“No,” said Cornhair, “you are not.”
“Ai!” cried Cornhair, suddenly, dismayed, frightened, drawing back, with a rattle of chains.
The man lifted the yellow tag wired to her collar, the holding tag, and then turned about, and made his way back, quickly, through the tables.
“What is wrong?” asked Elena.
“It is he, Phidias, who was captain of the Narcona,” said Cornhair.
“I saw him from afar, stop, regard you,” said Elena. “He seemed startled. Then he approached.”
“He was incredulous. He wished to be certain,” whispered Cornhair. “He thought me perished, no longer of danger to him.”
Cornhair had now grasped her left wrist with her right hand.
“Do not be afraid,” said Elena. “There are emperor’s men about, servitors of the palace, disguised as guardsmen, as patrons, as attendants.”
“Was it he?” asked Pig. “Are you sure? Should there not be three men?”
“Where three are searched for,” said Elena, “you are likely to find only one or two, and then another. They would enter separately.”
“It was Phidias,” said Cornhair.
“He knows neither myself nor Pig,” said Elena. “When he leaves, one or the other of us will be freed to follow him.”
“Would that I had recognized him, and not him me,” moaned Cornhair.
“You have given the signal,” said Elena. “Servitors are now alerted.”
“He is with two others, near the door,” said Pig.
“It is they,” whispered Cornhair.
“The light is poor,” said Elena.
“It is they,” said Cornhair. “I recognize them. I know them well.”
She then, again and again, after brief intervals, grasped and released her left wrist with her right hand, now three times after each interval.
“All three,” said Elena, “wonderful.”
“Servitors approach,” said Pig.
Two apparent patrons, one and then another, each with a yellow numbered tag, released Elena and Pig from their chains and conducted them to different tables, where they had them kneel at the side, while they ordered a drink or snack, prior, presumably, to conducting their choices to the corridor of alcoves.
“Master,” whispered Cornhair, for Rurik, clad as a patron, in a smith’s smock, was before her.
“Were you recognized?” asked Rurik.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “He said nothing, he gave no sign, but I am sure he recognized me.”
“Then,” said Rurik, “you must not follow him. It would be too dangerous. We will make other arrangements.”
“Master fears for the life of his slave,” said Cornhair.
“No,” said Rurik, “it would be too dangerous for our endeavor. The entire point of our surveillance would be lost. After he had turned and killed you, he might escape.”
“I see,” said Cornhair.
“Slaves are cheap,” he said.
“I understand,” said Cornhair. “Forgive me, Master.”
As two patrons were now in the vicinity, having paused, presumably to review the goods fastened to the display bar, Rurik parted Cornhair’s tunic, widely, and surveyed her, appraisingly.
Cornhair, though a slave, and well apprised of the fact that she was not permitted modesty, was not overly pleased with this act on the part of Rurik, her master. It is one thing to be the bared and eager love brute of a master, begging for the assuagement of a slave’s needs, and another to be thoughtlessly, blatantly, meaninglessly, publicly, routinely, contemptuously exhibited. For example, most slaves fear the keen shame of public nudity, at least outside of markets, display cages, and such, which renders even a tiny, muchly revealing slave tunic a coveted treasure. Indeed, many slaves love their tunics, and how they look in them. They know how exciting and lovely they look in a tunic, and how attractive to men. Let free women envy them their collars and tunics, which so enhance a woman’s beauty. It is quite another thing, however, to be naked in the streets. This gives their masters an additional useful article to include in their arsenal of disciplinary devices. Most slaves will strive zealously to be pleasing, when the perceived alternative is to be sent into the streets naked, under the eyes of fully clothed, scorning free women.
“Is this one not worth owning?” Rurik asked the nearby patrons.
“Yes,” said one.
“Nice,” said the other.
“You see that I am tagged, Master,” said Cornhair. “Am I not then reserved for another?”
One of the nearby patrons laughed, and the other smiled. “An outspoken slave,” said the one who had laughed. “Such slaves can be improved,” said he who had smiled, “by a visit from the switch.” They then continued on their way.
“Do you think I do not know the meaning of the yellow tag?” asked Rurik.
“Was it not appropriate that I play my role?” asked Cornhair.
“Doubtless you think you are clever,” said Rurik.
“I am very intelligent,” said Cornhair.
“The more intelligent a woman is,” said Rurik, “the lovelier she looks on her knees.”
“I would kneel,” said Cornhair, “but it is difficult to do so, given the way my master has seen fit to have me chained.”
“Calasalii bitch,” he said.
“Oh?” she said.
“That is where all Calasalii bitches belong,” said Rurik, “at the feet of their Farnichi masters.”
“But I was disowned,” she said.
“No matter,” he said.
“All slaves belong at the feet of their masters,” said Cornhair.
Rurik then looked about, as though casually.
“You designated three,” he said. “Two are at that table, far off, to the right of the entrance, as one would enter the dining area. I do not see the one you first identified.”
“That was Phidias, the captain of the Narcona,” said Cornhair.
“It is likely he is still in the building,” said Rurik. “The entrances and exits are watched. When the two at the table leave, they will be followed by Elena or Pig, or both. Phidias is to be followed by a servitor, which, under the circumstances, cannot be helped. Hopefully at least one of them will lead us to Abrogastes, or his captors.”
“I am sure I was recognized by Phidias,” said Cornhair, “but I am similarly sure that he takes my presence here as anomalous, a coincidence, a matter of chance, however annoying or troubling. I do not think he suspects anything untoward is involved.”
“I think you are right,” said Rurik. “There is no sign of agitation. The two at the table seem at ease. No one moves to the exit. There is no indication of an attempt to escape, or even leave.”
“Then all goes well,” said Cornhair.
“Seemingly,” said Rurik. He then turned away.
“Master,” whispered Cornhair quickly, after him, “am I to be left here?”
“Of course,” said Rurik, “the yellow tag has not been removed. Must we not play our roles?”
“I see,” said Cornhair.
“And while you wait,” said Rurik, “contemplate your cleverness.”
“Master!” protested Cornhair.
Rurik then parted the sides of the inspection tunic, again widely, and let them fall, to the sides.
“Good,” he said, approvingly.
Cornhair was silent.
“Stay where you are,” said Rurik.
“I will consider doing so,” said Cornhair, shaking her chains. Then she bit her lip, for she did not wish to be beaten.
But Rurik, grinning, had left.
“How helpless are slaves,” thought Cornhair. “How much we are at the mercy of the free!”
Time passed, perhaps the third of an hour, or so. There seemed little that was different. Men continued to come and go, to converse, to drink and sup, and sometimes to remove slaves from the display bar, to conduct them to the corridor of alcoves, or take them to the tables, presumably later to conduct them to the alcoves. Corelius and Lysis remained at their table, to the right of the entrance as one would enter. Cornhair wondered if their choice of location had in mind the possible convenience of a discreet departure. Elena and Pig, she thought, might have to move quickly across the floor to the exit. But, presumably, Corelius and Lysis, unsuspecting, and unaware of surveillance, and thus unhurried, would not be difficult to follow. She hoped that the continued presence of Elena and Pig, kneeling at their forward table, beside presumed patrons, would not be noticed, that it would not serve to provoke curiosity, or suspicion.
“Oh,” said Cornhair, softly to herself, for Corelius and Lysis were no longer at the table. Elena and Pig, accompanied by servitors, were moving toward the exit. A minute or two later, several apparent guardsmen, attendants, and patrons had filed out of the dining area. Some customers observed this evacuation, puzzled. Then things returned to normal in the dining area.
“My arms are sore,” thought Cornhair. “My master is a beast. He leaves me here, chained, helpless. Perhaps I should not have been clever. Have I not yet learned that it is I who am in the collar, and he who holds the whip?”
Later, two slaves were inspected, and removed from the display bar, to be conducted toward the curtained portal leading to the corridor of alcoves. Cornhair was grateful for the yellow tag wired to her collar.
“Oh!” she said, startled, and in pain.
The point of a dagger, blade upward, was pressed into her belly.
“Be silent,” said Phidias. “One thrust and movement of this blade will open your belly, hip to hip. I am desperate. I am going to have you unchained. You are to give no indication that anything is amiss. My hand will remain on the hilt of the knife, it concealed within the folds of my robes. Do not cry out. If you try to run, or escape, the knife will move, swiftly, and you will get no more than a step or two away, before you trip and fall, caught in the tangle of your own intestines. Too, I will kill the attendant. I trust you understand.”
“The yellow tag,” said Cornhair. “I am tagged. I cannot be removed from the bar except by one who holds the corresponding tag, with its number.”
“Attendant,” called Phidias, politely.
“Master?” said the attendant, summoned.
“This one,” said Phidias, indicating Cornhair.
“An excellent choice,” said the attendant. “It is rare that one this good is not removed earlier from the bar.”
Phidias handed a small yellow tag with its number to the attendant, who put it in the wallet slung at his waist. The attendant then removed the tag from Cornhair’s collar, and, reaching up, freed her of the cuffs and chains which had fastened her at the bar. He then arranged them aesthetically, dangling, at the bar, ready for a new occupant, if one should be desired. There was now, given the hour, and the number of alcoved slaves, several sets of such unoccupied chains dangling from the bar.
The attendant then withdrew.
“How is it,” asked Cornhair, numbly, “that you had the tag?” She knew, of course, that it was not to have been placed with the tags available to the public, no more than the tags which had been worn by Elena and Pig.
“Its holder,” said Phidias, “was persuaded to part with it.”
“I see,” said Cornhair.
“Let us see if we cannot find an empty alcove,” said Phidias, taking Cornhair’s arm in his left hand.
“Few will be available now,” said Cornhair.
“Then the alley will do,” said Phidias.
“Surely an alcove would be better,” said Cornhair, hardly hearing herself speak.
“Of course,” said Phidias.
“The body would not be discovered until morning,” she said.
“You have a slave’s body,” said Phidias. “I thought that even from as long ago as the Narcona. You were a slave then, without your knowledge. We allowed you to keep your delusion of freedom, of course, fearing that you might have found the realization of your bondage troubling, which realization might then have interfered with the assassination which, as we later learned, you bungled.”
Phidias brushed aside the curtain leading to the corridor of alcoves. “I trust we shall find an empty alcove,” he said.
“The knife was discovered, the poison washed from the blade,” said Cornhair, conducted into the ill-lit corridor.
“Unfortunately,” said Phidias.
“You deserted me,” said Cornhair, “even when you thought the assassination successfully accomplished.”
“You were no longer needed,” said Phidias, “and you knew too much.”
“And was a slave,” said Cornhair.
“Unbeknownst to yourself, amusingly,” said Phidias.
“So I have a slave’s body?” asked Cornhair.
“Obviously,” said Phidias. “And you can imagine my feelings, looking upon it, on the Narcona and on Tangara, and yet refraining from putting it to appropriate slave use, that our projected task not be compromised.”
“You must have suffered,” said Cornhair.
“Men suffer much from women,” said Phidias, “until the women are put in collars.”
“You exercised courageous forbearance,” said Cornhair.
“A forbearance,” said Phidias, “which is no longer necessary.”
“Now that I am a recognized slave,” said Cornhair, “an indisputable slave, marked and collared.”
“Precisely,” said Phidias. “Most of the alcoves are closed.”
“Doubtless for the night,” said Cornhair. “Your grip is tight on my arm. You are hurting me.”
“There must be at least one open alcove,” he said. “It is not that late.”
“There is always the alley,” said Cornhair.
“I want more from you than a disembowelment in an alley,” said Phidias.
“I gathered so,” said Cornhair.
“How did you escape the carnarium?” asked Phidias.
“Your agents were killed,” said Cornhair. “One was slain in a falling out over gold. The other was killed in the raid of Lord Abrogastes, the Drisriak.”
“Behold,” said Phidias,
pleased. “Here is an open alcove. It may be the only one.”
“They forgot to close it,” said Cornhair.
“No,” said Phidias. “It is left open for the next customer. If we occupy it, another will be opened.”
“You have been here before,” said Cornhair.
“Many times,” said Phidias.
“I can scream,” said Cornhair.
“Before you can open your mouth, your head would be cut half off,” said Phidias. “Would you not like to live a little longer?”
“Yes,” whispered Cornhair.
“‘Yes’?” asked Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“I shall enjoy you, as a slave is enjoyed,” said Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“I thought that on the Narcona, and on Tangara,” said Phidias, “you might be something of a free woman, a tight purse, holding back, clinging to privileges and falsehoods, fearful of surrender, frightened of the whole yielding, jealous of your status and reserve, denying the eager beast within you, begging to be owned and mastered, hoping to be taken in hand, hoping to be subdued and ravished, terrified to recognize the slave in your belly.”
“I am now in a collar, Master,” said Cornhair, “and I know it is on my neck.”
“And what of free women?” asked Phidias.
“I do not think,” said Cornhair, “they know what it is to be in a collar.”
“But might they not suspect?” asked Phidias.
“I think so,” said Cornhair.
“And perhaps that is why they hate slaves so,” said Phidias.
“Perhaps, Master,” said Cornhair.
“I suspect,” said Phidias, “that you have now, over your past months of bondage, been aroused, as a slave.”
“I am now different,” said Cornhair.
“And doubtless ruined for freedom,” said Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.
“You are now slave needful,” said Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair, tensely.
“I sheathe my knife,” said Phidias, “But I could crush your throat, instantly.”
“I understand, Master,” said Cornhair.
“We will tie your hands behind your back,” said Phidias.
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