And Elinor Brinton, of Park Avenue, of Earth, a Gorean slave girl, danced before primitive warriors.
The music was raw, melodious, deeply sensual.
I suddenly saw, scarcely comprehending, the awe in their eyes. They were silent, their fierce eyes bright. I saw their hands tighten, the shoulders lean forward. I danced.
Well had I been trained in the pens of Ko-ro-ba. Not for nothing had it been I and Lana who had been among the most superb of the slave females then in the pens.
In the firelight, in the sand, before warriors, I danced. My feet, belled, struck in the sand. The perfume was wild about me, swift in the brightness and the shadows. On my lips I wore slave rouge. I danced.
I could see the eyes of the men, the movements of their bodies. I realized, suddenly, in the dance, that I had power in my beauty, incredible power, power to strike men and stun them, to astonish them in the firelight, to make them, if I wished, mad with the wanting of me.
"She is superb!" I heard whisper.
I danced toward him, he who had said this, and he leaped toward me, but two of his fellows seized him, holding him back. I danced back, my hands held to him, as though I had been torn from him.
"Aiii!" he cried.
There were shouts of pleasure.
I saw the girls watching too, their eyes wide, too, with pleasure.
I threw back my head and the bells flashed at my ankles and wrists, and in my body the music, in its bright flames, burned.
I would make them mad with the wanting of me!
I would do so.
Something deep and female within me emerged, something I had never felt before. I would torture them! I did have power. I would make them suffer!
I was white silk!
It was safe to dance before them as I pleased.
And so Elinor Brinton danced to torment them.
They cried out with anguish and pleasure. How pleased I was in my power! As the music changed so, too, did the dancer, and she became as one with the music, a frightened girl, new to the collar, a timid girl, delicate and submissive, a lonely slave, yearning for her master, a drunken wench, rejecting her slavery, a proud girl, determined to be defiant, a raw, red-silk slave, mad with the need for a master's touch.
And, too, as I danced, I would sometimes dance toward a warrior, sometimes as though begging him his glance, sometimes as though seeking his protection in my plight, sometimes as though I could not help myself, but was drawn to him, helplessly, in the vulnerability of the female slave, sometimes, when I chose, to deliberately, overtly and cruelly, taunt him with my beauty, my desirability, and my inaccessibility.
More than one cried out with rage and reached toward me, or shook his fist at me, but I laughed, and danced back away from him.
Then, as the music struck towards its swirling peaks I unaccountably, boldly, for no reason I understood, faced Rask of Treve, and before him, my master, I danced. His eyes were expressionless. He sipped his wine. I danced my hatred for him, to make him mad with the desire of me, which desire I could then frustrate, which desire I could then, in my strength, for I was not as other women, for I did not have their weaknesses, fail to fulfill! I could hurt him, and I would! He had captured me! He had enslaved me! He had lashed and branded me! He had put me in the slave box! I despised him. I hated him. I would make him suffer! How desperately, in my dance, I tried to arouse him! Yet his eyes remained expressionless. And, from time to time, observing me through narrowed lids, he would sip his wine. And then I knew my body was dancing something to him that I could not understand, that I feared. It was strange. It was as though my body would, in its own right, speak to him, as though it were trying, on some level I could not comprehend, to communicate to him. And then again I was as I was before, and could dance my contempt and hatred for him. He seemed amused. I was furious.
When the music finished, I fell to my knees, insolently, before him, my head to the ground.
There were many shouts of acclaim, and pleasure, from the men, and even from the girls, who struck their left shoulders with the palms of their hands. "Shall I have her whipped?" asked a man of Rask of Treve.
I was frightened.
"No," said Rask of Treve.
He gestured that I should leave the sand. "Bring others forward to dance," he said. I picked up the bit of silk which had been torn from me and left the sand, putting it on. I was sweating, I was breathing heavily.
Inge and Rena thrust forward by Raf and Pron, that they might please the feasters.
There was more shouting.
I walked into the darkness.
I encountered Ute, outside the rim of the firelight. "You are beautiful, El-in-or," she said.
I followed her to the kitchen shed. There, with water, and oils, and towels, she bade me clean and refresh my body. I did so, and prepared to go to the shed. "No," said Ute.
I looked at her.
"Prepare yourself as you did before," she said.
"Why?" I asked.
"Do so," she said.
Again I prepared myself, as I had been earlier in the evening, as a belled, silken-clad, rouged Gorean slave girl.
"Now," said Ute, "we will wait."
For more than two Ahn we sat in the kitchen shed. Then the feasting grew less, and the warriors, taking what wenches pleased them, went to their tents. Ute approached me and, behind each ear, touched me afresh with perfume. I looked at her puzzled. Then I shook my head. "No," I cried, "no!" Her eyes were hard.
"Go to the tent of Rask of Treve," she said.
"Enter," said Rask of Treve.
I was alone, defenseless in his war camp, his slave.
I entered the tent.
"Tie shut the tent flaps," said he.
I turned and tied shut the flaps, with five cords, fastening myself in the tent with him.
I turned to face him, his girl.
There was a small fire in the fire bowl in the tent, and the tiny tripod set above it, where wine might be warmed.
The interior of the tent was lined with red silk. The hangings were rich. There were, here and there, small, brass tharlarion-oil lamps, hanging from projections set on the tent poles. At the sides of the tent, where it sloped downward, there were many chests, and kegs and sacks, filled with the booties and plunders of many raid. Several of the chests were open, and from some of the sacks, onto the rugs, spilled pieces of gold. I could see the glint of the precious metals, and the refulgence of gems, reflecting the light of the fire and the lamps.
Rask of Treve owned much.
"Come closer," he said.
I heard the bells of a slave girl approach him.
I stopped, head down, several feet from him. My bare feet sunk into the deep, soft, scarlet, intricately wrought rugs which floored the tent. I felt the pile about my ankles.
"Come closer," he said.
Once again there was a rustle of slave bells.
I stood before him.
"Lift your head, Girl," he said.
I looked into his eyes. I wore his collar. I quickly dropped my head. I felt his large hands part the bit of silk that I wore and, gently, drop it about my ankles.
He turned from me and went to sit down, cross-legged, some feet behind the tiny fire in the fire bowl.
We regarded one another.
"Serve me wine," he said.
I turned and, among the furnishings of the tent, found a bottle of Ka-la-na, of good vintage, from the vineyards of Ar, the loot of a caravan raid. I then took the wine, with a small copper bowl, and a black, red-trimmed wine crater, to the side of the fire. I poured some of the wine into the small copper bowl, and set it on the tripod over the tiny fire in the fire bowl.
He sat cross-legged, facing me, and I knelt by the fire, facing him. After a time I took the copper bowl from the fire and held it against my cheek. I returned it again to the tripod, and again we waited.