She looked up at him, angrily.
But, too, she was in consternation.
Naked, brought to him, the sheet removed, earlier kneeling, unable to rise quickly, feet from him, exposed, turning, rising, hands lifted, subjected to such scrutiny, how could a dagger be concealed?
To be sure, things might later be different, or the dagger might be planted in a tent, or smuggled to her later.
“You may now crawl to me, on your belly.”
She then lay at his feet, her head turned to the left, her cheek on the rug.
“This is the first time you have crawled to a man on your belly, is it not?” he asked.
“Yes, Master,” she said, angrily.
“Go back, and do it better,” he said.
Three times he had her repeat this exercise.
At last he seemed satisfied.
“Kneel up,” he said, “before me, back on your heels, knees spread, hands clasped behind the back of your head.”
“Tell me about yourself, specifically, and in detail,” he said.
She had been given an identity, and many specifics, in particular pertaining to her supposed debts, her arraignment, her sentencing, the name of the supposed court, and judge, and such, things concerning which it was anticipated she might be questioned. Where this putative biography fell short, and his direct questions exceeded her preparation, she hurried to supply further data, some of it from her own history, suitably disguised, the rest of it the product of her own invention.
“You stammer and falter,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“But still, on the whole,” he said, “it is unusual to find a slave who can speak of herself so articulately, so volubly, so readily. It is almost as though you had been prepared.”
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“You seem more familiar with the details of your enslavement than with those of your life as a free woman,” he said.
“The details of one’s embondment,” she said, “are often vivid for a woman.”
“For a girl,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“For a slave girl,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
He had, of course, she before him, been reading her body, and her expressions.
“You are from Myron VII?” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“What color is its sun?” he asked. “How long is its year, in Telnarian days?”
She began to tremble.
The questions were so obvious that they had not been anticipated.
She dared not invent answers to such questions. What did the barbarian know? Were his questions innocent, matters of pure curiosity, or were they subtler, and dangerous?
“I am not truly from Myron VII,” she said. “I am from Lisle, on Inez IV! I fled to Myron VII to escape my creditors. I was apprehended in the port. I did not even see its sun. I know nothing of that world, other than the fact that it was there that I was taken into custody, and there tried and sentenced.”
“And you were then returned, a slave, to Inez IV?”
“Yes, yes!” she said.
“May I take my arms down?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“You have told many lies,” he said.
“No, Master!” she protested.
“Do not compound your fault,” he said.
“No, Master,” she said, tears springing to her eyes.
“I would not advise you to behave in that manner when you have a private master,” he said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“Lies are not permitted to a slave girl,” he said.
“No, Master,” she said.
“But you will probably not believe that until you are thoroughly beaten,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said.
“When we were shortly out of Lisle,” he said, “you were clumsy.”
He referred, doubtless, to the incident of the spilled drink.
“I was switched,” she said.
“Are you a clumsy slave?” he asked.
Her eyes flashed.
Then she put her head down.
“I do not think so, Master,” she said. “It is my hope that I am not clumsy.”
“In serving at the table,” he said, “a slave is to be graceful, unobtrusive and deferent.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
She looked up.
“May I lower my arms?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
She moved angrily, not having obtained her way.
“Am I mistaken,” he asked, “that you have, upon several occasions, placed yourself provocatively before me?”
“Oh, Master,” she said, quickly. “Forgive me, but I fear that it is true. You are a man, and I am naught but a slave girl. How else can a poor slave call herself to the attention of an attractive master?”
“You find me attractive?” he asked.
“Yes, Master.”
“You wanted to meet me?”
“Yes, Master!”
“You desire a man’s touch?” he asked.
“Oh, yes, yes, Master!” she said.
Surely she must interest him, even drive him mad with desire for her, that she might be alone with him, when she had the dagger! But now, of course, she did not have the dagger. If she had been a free woman she might have teased, and drawn away, and teased, and drawn away, until the time and place were arranged, until she was ready, but such behaviors are not easy for a slave.
He put out his hand and touched her, gently.
“Ai!” she cried, frightened, and drew back.
“Keep your hands behind your head,” he cautioned her, gently. “I thought you said you desired a man’s touch,” he said.
“Forgive me, Master,” she said. She came forward a little, deliberately, trembling.
He put forth his hand again, gently.
“Ah!” she said, softly, surprised. Then she flushed scarlet before him.
Quickly, then, almost as though she had not consented to her own movement, she squirmed forward a little, closer to him, but was stopped, by his hand, and held in place.
“Master?” she asked.
“Interesting,” he said.
She regarded the necklace of claws on his chest.
What would it be like, she wondered, to be swept into his arms, she helpless and will-less, to be swept uncompromisingly into his arms, as a slave.
“Master has called for me,” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Surely master has called for me, to ravish me, as a slave,” she said.
“No,” he said.
“‘No’?” she asked.
“No,” he said. “I have called for you because it seems to me that there is something different about you, something different from other female slaves. I did not understand it. I was curious about it.”
“That is all?” she asked.
“No,” he said.
“Ah!” she said.
“You may polish my boots,” he said, indicating a pair of boots, to one side. “The polish and rags are in the adjacent cabinet.
“You may lower your arms, of course,” he said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said, acidly.
She fetched the boots, and the cleaning materials and, kneeling before him, where he had indicated, addressed herself to the assigned task. She worked slowly and carefully, meticulously, responding to his direction, applying a small quantity of paste to a small area, working it into the leather, with firm, circular movements, and then buffing it. This was done again and again, a tiny area at a time, until the entire area of each boot had been done twice.
She was shaken, when she had performed this small, homely task. She was angry, but, too, seemingly unaccountably, she found herself much aroused.