“You may do as you wish,” said Abrogastes. “I leave the matter up to you.”
“Kill her!” cried men. “Kill her!”
“Be done with it, milord!” called another. “Kill her!”
One man, clearly human, rose up and, looking fiercely at the slave, flung a pellet into the pan of the skull.
Another leapt up, and did so, as well.
The hound at the side of Abrogastes rose up, its fur bristling about its neck, and the hump there, eyeing the slave.
“Steady, lad,” said Abrogastes. “Steady!”
And another man flung a pellet into the pan of death, and another did so, as well.
“Master!” cried Huta. “Do you not care for your slave, a little?”
“No,” said Abrogastes.
“Master?” she said.
“You deceived my son, Ortog,” said Abrogastes. “You abetted crime. You aided in the fomentation of rebellion and treason. You should die.”
“Please, no, Master!” she wept. “Have pity on one who is now no more than a poor slave!”
Abrogastes made an angry noise, one of surly impatience, and scowled.
“Do you not care, Master, for your slave, just a little?”
“There is not one in this hall who does not despise and hate you,” said Abrogastes.
“But you, my master?”
“You are hated,” he said.
She put her head down, and wept.
Two more pellets were cast into the pan of the skull, the pan of death.
Huta looked up, shaking her head wildly.
“What do you think?” Abrogastes asked the leader of the musicians.
“We find the whip loosens them up, milord,” said the musician.
“They can be whipped anytime,” said Abrogastes.
“She has a well-curved body,” said the musician, “with sweet, fleshy thighs, and nicely rounded upper arms. They would look well in slave armlets. And her face is a fine one, with its distinctive cheekbones, and its look of great intelligence. The hair is long, and black as jet, and might, if she understood its uses, be used as bonds or veil.”
Another pellet struck into the pan of death.
“I cannot dance!” she cried to the leader of the musicians.
“All women can dance,” said he.
“What chance have I?” she begged.
“I do not know, little pudding,” he said. “I have never even seen you serve at the tables.”
“What chance have I, Master?” cried Huta.
“Perhaps one in a thousand,” said Abrogastes.
Huta moaned.
Another pellet struck into the pan of the skull.
“They want me to die!” wept Huta.
“Yes,” said a man, eagerly.
“Yes!” cried another.
“Surely in your dreams, and thoughts, little pudding,” said the musician, “you have danced.”
“One chance in a thousand,” said a second musician, “is better than none.”
“What can I dance?” she cried.
“Dance yourself, and your dreams, and needs, and secret thoughts,” said the leader of the musicians.
“They want me to die!” wept Huta.
“Prove to them that there might be some point in letting you live,” said one of the musicians.
“Dance what you are,” said another. “Dance your slavery!”
“My slavery?” said Huta.
“Yes,” said the musician.
“Loose the hound on her, Abrogastes!” cried a man.
“The hound, the hound, let it tear her to pieces!” cried another man.
The great hound, hunched to the right of Abrogastes, by his bench, growled, almost inaudibly, menacingly.
“Look,” cried a man. “She is on her feet!”
“Yes,” said another.
Huta had risen up, trembling. The great spear, held in place by two warriors, was behind her.
The tables were silent.
“I beg to dance all those things, Master,” said Huta to Abrogastes, “-myself, my dreams, my needs, my secret thoughts my slavery.”
“You do not need my permission,” said Abrogastes. “The matter is, for now, as I told you, in your own hands.”
“I dare not dance without the permission of my master,” she said.
Men at the tables exchanged glances, startled. Abrogastes lifted his hand, in token of permission, that the slave might dance.
“But, too, I beg to dance as the slave of Abrogastes, who is my master!”
Abrogastes regarded her, surprised.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am your slave, more deeply than you know.”
“Cunning slave!” snarled Abrogastes.
But little did he suspect what wearing his chains and bonds had done to her.
Their eyes met, and Abrogastes was troubled.
“Your life is at stake,” said Abrogastes.
“Even so,” she said, “I dare not dance without the permission of my master.”
“There are many here!” he said, gesturing angrily about the tables.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you understand?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“You must dance to them, as well.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
The overwhelming majority of the feasters, as would be expected, were of the Alemanni, and related peoples. Too, substantial numbers of others were human, or humanoid.
All eyes were on Huta.
“You may dance,” said Abrogastes.
“Thank you, Master,” said the slave.
The musicians began to play, and Huta, in terror, tears in her eyes, in the midst of seething hostility and disgust, in the midst of those who called for her death, began to dance.
CHAPTER 9
“Your researches, under your assumed name, with my clearance, have borne what fruit?” asked Julian.
“None, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“The likeness,” said Julian, “is the best I can supply from memory.”
Between them, on the marbled table, lay a sketch, in color, of the face of a beautiful, blue-eyed, blond-haired woman. It had been prepared, painstakingly, secretly, by a gifted portraitist, each detail being examined, and revised, and revised again, according to the directions of Julian, until it bore a striking similarity to the woman seen on the quay at Port North.
“I have taken the picture to the keepers at all the slave houses in Lisle, and Port North, and for many miles about,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “There are hundreds of blond slaves, of course, but I found no keeper who could make a positive identification from the picture.”
“You added in such details, as her unusual behavior, her seeming newness to the anklet, and such?”
“Yes, milord, as you recommended, but there was still no positive identification.”
“No record of a judicially embonded debtress from Myron VII, brought to Inez IV?”
“Some,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “but they do not seem to be the same individual.”
“What of the other nineteen women?”
“We can account for them,” said Tuvo Ausonius, “several are from local houses, and some were brought in, according to specifications, from diverse worlds.”
“She is, thus, the only one not accounted for,” said Julian,
“Yes, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“It seems she would have been brought in, and held, if nothing else, pending shipment,” said Julian.
“It would seem so, milord,” said Tuvo Ausonius. “Is it important?”
“No, I think not,” said Julian.
“But milord is troubled,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“It is nothing,” said Julian.
“Kana?” inquired Tuvo Ausonius.
Julian nodded.
Tuvo Ausonius clapped his hands, sharply, twice.
In a moment a lovely, slender, young, dark-haired woman, barefoot, in a brief, yellow, silken tunic, cut at the left thigh, to the hip, in a light, yellow-enameled collar, and a yellow-enameled anklet, on her left ankle, hurried into the room, and knelt,