There was the captain, too, of course, Phidias, lord of the Narcona.
It could be he, she supposed.
But the Narcona was only a freighter.
Yet, too, it was an imperial ship.
But presumably such an officer would stay with the ship.
But, too, who would be less likely to be suspected than the commanding officer?
Who would be more powerful than he, who better placed in manage the affair, to see it done?
But then, she thought, who would be more likely, given his authority, his command, his prominence, to be suspected?
No, it seemed that things had best be done secretly, far beneath his level of command, utterly unsuspected by him. He would not dream of the intrigues afoot, on his own vessel.
It did not seem that Iaachus would risk taking such a fellow, a common captain, a professional mariner, into his confidence, entrusting him with such a serious business.
It did not seem likely that it would be he.
But it might be he.
She jerked in the ropes.
“Free yourself, Cornhair!” laughed one of the girls.
The supply officer had given them names, making them kneel, in a line, in the common room.
“You are ‘Filene,’ “he had said to her. “Who are you?”
“I am Filene, Master,” she had said, following the example of the other girls.
In time a mariner came to the common room and released her.
“Garments, ladies,” he said.
The few garments in the room were surrendered.
These were the five serving gowns which had been worn by the slaves serving at the captain’s table. He then, the gowns over his arm, turned off the light in the common room and left, closing the door.
This left only some small, reddish hold lights lit, high in the walls.
“They have not even chained us to the rings at the base of the wall,” said one of the slaves.
“We are not going anywhere,” laughed one of the slaves, fingering the thin line that marked the separation of the steel wall from the closed hatch.
“Why have we not been chained?” asked another, wonderingly.
“We are special slaves,” said another.
The blonde smiled to herself, in the dim, reddish darkness.
“Let us sleep,” said one.
“Give me your blanket,” said the blonde to a small brunette, the smallest of the slaves.
“You have your own blanket!” said the tiny, well-curved, exquisite slave.
“Give it to me!” said the blonde.
“No! Stop!” cried the smaller woman.
“Give it to me,” said the blonde, “slave!”
They pulled at the blanket, it between them.
“Cornhair, stop it!” said another brunette, she who had been designated by the supply officer as first girl.
“Give it to me!” cried the blonde.
“Seize her!” said the first girl.
In a moment the blonde, seized, found herself held down, on her stomach, on the steel flooring of the common room, her arms and legs widely spread.
“Bring the switch,” said the first girl.
“No!” cried the blonde. “Do not switch me! Please, Mistresses! Do not switch me, Mistresses!”
She heard the switch being tossed aside.
She was released.
“But you will have no blanket tonight, Cornhair,” said the first girl.
“Yes, Mistress,” said the blonde. The first girl is addressed by the other slaves as “Mistress.” That much the blonde, surely, knew.
Later, cold, her legs drawn up, on the flooring, trying to keep herself warm, the blonde was furious.
When I am rich, and powerful, she thought, I will have my vengeance on them all. I will buy them and dispose of them to outposts, and mines, and farms, and sell them to worlds of reptiles! Then they will see how special they are!
She moved a little. How hard was the metal. How uncomfortable she was!
Ship, whispered she, bring me swiftly to Tangara.
Then, my secret, hated confederate, who abuses me, or does so little to protect me, put the knife in my hand, that I may finish our business with dispatch. Then I shall come into my fortunes, and you shall all regret that I have not been better treated!
She recalled how she had placed herself, standing, where the barbarian might have looked up, and seen her. She had pulled her gown down a little, and back, that the sweet fullness of her bosom might be excitingly apparent. He had looked up only at the moment that she had been reprimanded and, embarrassed, humiliated, had been hurried back to her place. Yet, that glimpse, she was sure, might have been sufficient. Too, she had returned to the place with the other girls in such a way, her head high, her shoulders back, and her belly tight, that he might well conjecture the delights of her figure, and find it of interest, for, after all, even the serving gown, long, white and sleeveless, as it is a slave’s garment, does little to conceal the charms of its occupant. Too, in such a way, or similarly, so walking, or holding herself, she had tortured many men, as it had amused her to do. But when she had knelt, and put the gown up, over her knees, that her knees and not the gown might press the floor, she had looked up, and seen him regarding her. But there was something about being on her knees which did not give her confidence, and which put the entire matter into a quite different light. She tried to adjust her gown in such a way as to better conceal her bosom, but when she looked up, he had returned to his meal.
She lay there on the steel flooring.
She could not believe, and it muchly disturbed her, how easily, how naturally, at the time of her switching, the word “Master” had fled from her lips.
She wondered what it might be to be in the arms of a man such as the barbarian, and as a slave.
CHAPTER 11
“Aii!” cried a man, rising to his feet.
Another pounded on the table, his eyes blazing.
The melodies of Beyira II seemed incongruous somehow, at first, in the rough hall, with its high timbers, and smoke holes, and rush-strewn, dirt floor, but in moments these things had seemed forgotten and the venue of what occurred might as easily have been a hundred other places, as a woolen tent, lost among dunes; a tavern on Illyrius, a free planet, an emporium planet, a crossroads for slavers and brigands, where good buys might often be found; a brothel, utilizing slaves, on scorching Torus, where one cannot set foot outside without protective gear; a remote pre-embondment prison where the wives and daughters of traitors, awaiting enslavement, are trained for the collar; a slave farm on rural Granicum, where some slaves do not yet know that men exist, and cannot begin to understand the primitive discomforts which dismay them; or, perhaps, a chamber of state, many-columned, lofty, and marble-floored, somewhere within the white, high-walled, turreted palace of some sand lord, rising above a thousand hovels, and caravansaries, the cruel, waterless desert stretching away on all sides. But, too, as easily, and as well, it seems, might the venue be what it was, a rude hall of the Alemanni, a place of Drisriaks on a world now shielded, now closed away, by a whirling storm of stones, marking the skies with light, like the raking claws of beasts; anywhere would do, really, if there were slaves and men.
“No, no, no!” cried a man, angrily. “Kill her! Kill her!”
“Be still, watch!” cried another.
“Do not weaken!” said a man.
Abrogastes, on his bench, watched, with keen interest.
Former women of the empire shrank back, moaning, terrified to see what a woman might be.
“My thighs flame!” wept one.
“I am a slave, a slave!” cried another.
Many turned away, but turned back again, quickly.
The hands of many were at their bared bosoms. They gasped for breath. Their hearts pounded.