Slave of Sarma

by Jeffrey Lord

  Canda saw his smile. “You laugh at me, Captain?”

  “At myself, Princess. You see?” He indicated his front, where a massive protuberance strained against the rotten leather. She stared. At that moment the leather parted with a ripping sound.

  Canda stood staring at him for a moment She shivered. “I am not so cold as I was.”

  “Nor I, Princess.”

  They did not kiss. If she knew of tenderness she did not evoke it, or give it, or seem to want it. She refused to lie on the cold stony earth and so Bade turned her and pressed her back against the big rock. She gasped and grabbed at his ear with her teeth when he entered, but the entry was easy enough and Blade knew he was having no virgin this night.

  Canda fell quickly into a panting rhythm of her own, not bothering to match her pace to Blade’s thrusts. She wound her arms about his neck and little by little he bore more of her weight as gradually her long legs came up and entwined his waist and he was locked solidly and deeply into her flesh.

  When he knew she desired, and could go, for a long time Blade began to pace himself. Holding back. Canda fell into frenzy several times, biting and clawing at him, raking his back and shoulders with her nails, before she went into her one great and grand and final surge. She let out a trembling cry to the cold moon. Blade, deadly workman, thrust her soft buttocks back against the rock and plunged impossibly deeper each time until he came to his ending as well. His groans and her sighs made a single sound.

  When he stepped back away from the rock, she still locked around his big body, riding him face to face, she tossed her hair back and gave him that same strange smile.

  “I cannot decide,” she said.

  Blade, going limp in her, that rigid flesh now become a worm and sliding out moistly, stared down at her in surprise. She had suddenly become heavy.

  “Decide what?”

  “Which of you is best. Which gives me the greatest pleasure. You or your twin.”

  So the Russian had been before him. With a pang that was more concern for his life than any jealousy, Blade disengaged and lifted her lightly to the ground. He made himself smile, forced an exudation of confidence that he did not in the slightest feel.

  “Suppose you tell me of this, my Princess. I am most interested.”

  Her teeth flashed in the moonlight. “I thought you would be, Captain. And I am interested in you. Your man Pelops has told me much - but not all I would know. I have waited until the proper time to speak - when we are within five days’ march of the oasis - and now it is time. What would you know of your brother, Captain?”

  “Everything. More than I know now, which is very little.”

  “Strange. Those are his very words when he heard that there lived in Sarma a man that must be his brother. His twin. He seeks desperately for you, Captain.”

  No doubt, Blade thought. Desperately.

  Something pinged in his mind. “How came my brother to know that I lived?”

  “A rider came. A messenger from the Council of Five in Sarma. I forget his name, or never knew it, but he claimed to be sent by the priests to see if your twin lived.”

  Kreed’s fine hand. Checking him out. Did Kreed still live? Had he made it to shore? Blade did not know, or care. If Pphira had any sense she would get rid of the old priest one way or the other.

  Blade put his arm about her. “You and I,” he said softly, “had better have a long talk. But first tell me truly - was not I, just now, better than my brother. Did I not pleasure you more?”

  Canda frowned. “It is very difficult to tell about such things, Captain.”

  Blade supposed it was.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Matters did not fall out as Blade had foretold and feared. Fortune smiled, albeit falsely, and Blade did not cavil at what he took to be unexpected good luck. He counted his blessings and waited, and wondered, what the price would be.

  The Princess Canda had been exactly right. In five days’ trek the little party reached a large oasis where they were given food and clothing and drank their fill of a sparkling spring. In those last days the mountains did move closer; from a tent on the edge of the oasis Blade could see the pass through which a party of Moghs would come to greet them and escort them to El Kal.

  Canda made herself available to Blade at night, but kept to herself and moved among the villagers during the day. These were a tall, loose jointed people with dark brown faces and dark eyes and inclined to gauntness. They were Moghs, Blade was informed, but of a lesser tribe and subservient to El Kal. The women went veiled and the men wore long loose robes of linen caught at the waist by sword belts, and wrapped their long hair in turbans. Blade, and indeed all the party, were treated with unfailing courtesy. Blade was stunned to learn that this was on the orders of the Vizier - Blade’s double.

  They recovered well from the trek and nearly ate the village bare. Pelops drank at the spring until he developed a paunch and was ill. Only Zeena languished.

  Time and again Blade tried to speak with her. She would only stare at him with pain filled eyes, then suddenly cry out in terror for the slave Chephron. He alone could comfort her. She clung to him like a lost child and he would stroke her hair and croon her into silence.

  On one such occasion the Princess Canda watched and, later, spoke to Blade.

  “She will be mindless forever, that one. There is a place in El Kal for such as she - I will see that she is sent there and looked after.”

  Blade stroked his black beard, new combed and washed, and answered, “I would not like that. In a way she is my responsibility - under Sarmaian law I was married to her.”

  The Princess snapped her fingers. “Fie! You are not in Sarma now. Anyway they are only stupid barbarians. And would you have a woman like that - who was passed around among the pirates forty times a day?”

  Blade, who now felt nothing but pity for Zeena, found himself angered at the callosity.

  “I have been curious about that,” he said curtly. “Zeena was used as a whore by the pirates. But what of you? You were as much prisoner as she. How were you left in peace and she debauched?”

  Canda, now wearing a skirt and short bodice, glared at him over her veil. Blade glared back and waited. Canda was the first to look away.

  “I am the daughter of El Kal,” she muttered. “The pirates knew this by certain writings I had in my baggage. I promised them a great ransom and they did not harm me. Besides - Zeena was already aboard the pirate ship when I was taken. She was already ruined. This I cannot understand - if she is indeed a Princess of Sarma why did she not do as I did? Proclaim herself so and offer ransom? Then the pirates would have treated her as they did me.”

  “You were fortunate,” Blade said shortly and turned away. Poor Zeena had not been so fortunate. Even had she told the pirates her identity, and had been believed and spared, Queen Pphira would have paid no ransom. It was one more daughter out of the way, one less poisoned cup to fear.

  From what Canda told him Blade had been able to piece the events together. The princess had been on her way to visit in a land beyond Tyranna. A caravan of Moghs escorted her to the coast and a waiting ship. Meantime - there was no way of knowing exactly how long before - the pirates sighted and sank the galleass to which Zeena had been sent for punishment.

  They next took the ship on which Canda sailed. When the great storm broke the pirates panicked and deserted the unireme, taking to small boats under the delusion that their ship was sinking. Leaving the women to their fate.

  “I think they all drowned,” Canda said bitterly. “I saw many of the little boats capsize. Two of the pirates swam back to the ship and some of the women beat them to death with boat hooks.”

  While they waited for their escort Blade whiled away long hours in the shade of a tree near a spring. It was a lesser spring, near the edge of the village, and few came to disturb him. Here, after hours of pondering, Blade came to achieve a peace of mind. For the moment he put worry away. He was still puzzled by the actions
of his doppelganger, still at a loss as to the man’s motives in ordering them well treated. Blade had feared the Moghs would have orders to kill him on sight. This not being the case, the double must have other plans. Blade was like a counter puncher; he could only wait for his enemy to make the first move and then strike back.

  He had been lolling beneath the tree for an hour when the pain struck him. The first in a long time. It daggered at his brain and skewered behind his eyes and Blade could not resist crying out. He rolled in the sand in sheer agony. The computer was reaching with a vengeance.

  The pain subsided as quickly as it struck. Blade sighed and wiped sweat from his face. That one had been a bastard! He looked up to see Pelops regarding him with concern.

  “You are ill, sire?”

  Blade shook his head weakly. “It is nothing. A headache for a moment. I am all right now.”

  Pelops, brave in new clothing and well filled out with food and water, squatted beside Blade.

  “Are you sure, sire? I am something of a medical man, as you know, having seen me at work among the slaves, and I would be glad to concoct a dosage of - “

  Blade, hard put to refrain from laughing, held up a hand. That will not be necessary, little man. I tell you I am well again. The sight of you, once again yourself, has made me well in this instant.”

  Pelops regarded him with suspicion. “You jibe at me again, sire. I know you do it often.”

  Before Blade could protest he went on, “Sometimes I deserve it. I am not really the fool I seem at times. But what matter - I am feeling well. I have gained weight and I have clothes. When I have armor again, and a weapon, I will be more than content. I will return to Sarma and fight for the Queen against Tyranna.”

  As Blade studied the little fellow an idea began to creep into his mind. He had often amused himself with it.

  “You would return to Sarma, Pelops?”

  A nod. A blank stare; “What else, sire? I am a Sarmaian, am I not? I shall most certainly return to Sarma - if I live. But there is always that.”

  Blade inclined his head, deep in thought. “Yes. There is always that. Pelops - “

  The little man stared at Blade and waited. Blade drew pictures in the sand with a twig.

  “Yes, sire? You were going to speak?”

  Blade made up his mind and grinned. He would do it. Why not? He was on his own in Dimension X. He had a right - and how could he do harm to the time-space-dimensional continuum? He saw no harm. And it was only a prank, something that would amuse him for years to come when he thought of it.

  Blade said: “Pelops, how would you like to be a genius?”

  The little man tugged at the few hairs on his chin. “I might like it, sire, if I knew what it was. We do not have the word in Sarma.”

  Blade reached to pat the scrawny shoulder. “A great man! One who will never be forgotten. People will write and talk about you for centuries and even build statues, images, to you.”

  Pelops’ eyes were round. “Build images - you mean such as the great effigies of Bek-Tor?”

  “Bigger,” said Blade. “And handsomer, too. At least you are - all a man! And statues have a way of looking better than the model.”

  Pelops nodded. “I would like that very much, sire.” Then he looked sly. “But would I have to die first?”

  Blade laughed. “You will have to die sometime, but not because you are a genius. Are you ready, Pelops? I am going to tell you a secret that will make you a genius.”

  Pelops gulped, swallowed, then grinned back at Blade. “I am ready. I trust you, sire, and I will take a chance. It would be a great thing for me, who was once a slave, to be a genius and have images built to me.”

  “Then watch closely.”

  Blade took his twig and drew a wheel in the sand.

  “It is the sun,” Pelops said eagerly. “Or the moon. But how does it make me famous?”

  “It is neither the sun nor moon. Keep quiet and watch and listen. It is called a wheel. And this is another wheel. And this is called an axle. Now listen and heed well.”

  In half an hour Blade explained it all to him. Pelops nodding, somewhat awe-stricken, totally bemused by the simplicity of it. He scratched his skull fuzz.

  “Why has not someone thought of this before?”

  Blade could not answer that. “It is always simple, or seems so, after someone does it for the first time. There was once in my own land a people called Indians. Also Incas. Both these people had civilizations, religions, calendars, medicine, many things. Yet they did not think of the wheel. They used sleds and drags, just as you do in Sarma. But never mind that - now that you have thought of the wheel you will be able to change the whole way of life in Sarma. Look at this!”

  Blade made more sketches in the sand, showing how to use cogs and pulleys and interlocking gears. Pelops, silent now, followed every word and sketch avidly.

  Blade tossed away the twig. “There. You are now a genius. Take heed and keep it to yourself until you return to Sarma. I do not think the Moghs know of the wheel, either. Do not put anything on paper. Keep the secret in your head.”

  Pelops squared his tiny shoulders. “Ah, yes, sire Blade. I will keep my secret. And you are right - I am a genius.”

  Blade stood up and peered at a cloud of dust on the horizon. Their escort.

  He rapped his knuckles lightly on Pelops’ bald pate. “You are that,” he agreed. “I cannot understand why you did not think of it before.”

  It was the escort. Two dozen Mogh soldiers under command of a Lieutenant. The Vizier had not come in person. They were to be escorted to the city of El Kal and shown every courtesy and comfort. The Lieutenant handed Blade a writing done on scraped animal hide.

  Greetings, my brother! My heart was joyful at the news that you lived. I long to see you again. Hurry. Your loving brother, Gemma.

  Gemma! The very name that Blade had made up while in Sarma.

  Chapter Nineteen

  It was, Blade thought, like seeing your mirror image move and speak. The two men, except for the color of their turbans, were identical. Blade’s turban was white. His double wore scarlet.

  They were In a large square room in the palace of El Kal. Thick walls of sun-baked mud - the entire city was built of dried mud brick with ingenious gutters to prevent the infrequent flash storms from washing it away - made the room shadowy and cool. There were handsome rugs on the floor and as wall hangings. The only furniture was a long low couch and several ottomans and a taboret supporting an earthen jug of cool water.

  Blade, as did his double, wore skin boots and baggy breeches and a handsome vest-like garment that left the chest bare. Blade could see a raw seamed cicatrix on the other man’s belly, placed there by a surgeon’s knife. His own identical scar had been attained in Hong Kong the year before. These Russians kept up to date.

  “The name Gemma,” said his likeness, “was pure coincidence. Natural enough, I suppose. When I got my wits about me after the trip through the computer I realized at once that you would come looking for me. You people know of TWIN, of course? So I called you Gemma and began searching for you as my twin brother. You obviously did the same thing.”

  The double was lounging on the couch, his legs carelessly crossed, a picture of coolness. Blade was slowly moving about the room, pausing now and then to gaze out across a small balcony at the mud. towers of the city. Blade was highly nervous and alert. He knew the other man must be the same, despite his appearance of calm. Blade did not deceive himself. This was a formidable adversary - was he not in a sense fighting himself - and this meeting was as deadly, as dangerous, as though they had been facing each other with weapons.

  Blade turned away from the window. There could be no violence now. This was not the time for it and there was El Kal to consider, and the Princess Canda. Especially Canda.

  His doppelganger took a pipe from his breeches and stuffed it with a finely ground root called hebac. He lit it with a taper from a fire bowl beneath the taboret and puf
fed smoke that was white in color and had a tang of incense in it.

  “I step out of character,” said the Russian. He waved the pipe at Blade. “Something I would not dare do in Russia, except on leave. I have always regretted, Blade, that you do not smoke a pipe. Most inconvenient for a fellow who loves a pipe as I do.”

  The voice was Blade’s own, the English impeccable.

  Blade had not really had time to put his own thoughts in order. The meeting had been sudden and unexpected. On their arrival in the city the Princess left him. He was separated from Pelops and the former mine slave Chephron and Zeena. Canda, after promising they would not be harmed, gave Blade a strange smile and vanished into another part of the palace. Blade was taken to the baths and given into the charge of a dozen doe-eyed maidens who wore hardly anything at all. After being bathed and barbered he was taken to the room and left alone. Moments later the Russian entered. And now?

  The Russian recrossed his legs and puffed more fragrant smoke. He smiled - his dental work identical with Blade’s - and said, “Come off it, old chap. Relax. Sit down and we’ll have a long chat. I have a great many questions and, for that matter, I suppose you have a few, too. So relax and we can make a pleasant time of it. There is no danger, you know. No threat to you. Quite to the contrary - we are more or less allies, you know.”

  Blade grinned. “I didn’t know. Just how did you arrive at that conclusion? I have been operating on the theory that we are deadly enemies.”

  The Russian used the Blade charm on Blade. His smile was a masterpiece.

  “I know. I was afraid of this. But you must see how wrong you are! Back in our old lives, yes. Our two countries are more or less at war. But here? Wherever the hell here is! In a mud city surrounded by Moghs. And you coming from someplace called Sarma! I’ll admit, old chap, that I have been damned confused and frightened. I haven’t been searching for you to kill you. Far from it. I need you! I need information. I want to know what happened to me. And I want to get back to Russia someday. You are my only hope.”