To her surprise she was drawn on her knees to the post at the foot of the bed, that about which the cord was wrapped. Her wrists were then crossed and bound with the cord, which was then fastened to the post. She was thus tied, wrists crossed and bound, on her knees, to the post at the foot of the bed.
“Master?” she asked.
“I think I know now,” he said, “what is unusual about you.”
“Master?” she said, apprehensively.
“Can you guess what it might be?” he asked.
She was frightened.
Her mind raced.
“Perhaps Master suspects that I am not truly a slave,” she said, lightly, tentatively, as though in jest.
What else could it be?
Certainly she could protest the authenticity of her bondage. There were the papers, in which she was clearly specified, even to toeprints. Indeed, obviously, there was her very presence on the ship, amongst women anyone could see were slaves.
“No,” he said.
“Oh?” she said.
“You are truly a slave,” he said. “There is no doubt about that. You are truly a slave.”
“What then?” she asked.
“It is only that you do not know you are a slave,” he said.
She looked up at him, but he had gone to the side, where, on the surface of a small dresser, there lay the roll of tape.
“Lift your head, look at me, close your mouth,” he said.
He then, using the metal, saw-toothed extension, part of the roller, snapped off a few inches of tape, and put it across her lips and face. She felt it pressed down, firmly.
“I have heard you enough,” he said. “You will now be silent.”
She looked up at him, over the tape.
He then applied an additional length of tape, longer than the first, firmly, over it.
“It is a bit late to return you to the slave room,” he said.
He then applied a third length of tape, longer than the second, pressing it into place. This came well about the back of her neck. He then, moving her hair about, that as little of the tape might adhere to it as possible, encircled her mouth and head three times, the free end of the tape being pressed down, at last, behind the back of her neck.
Then he looked down upon her. “You are tempting,” he said.
She looked quickly away, down.
He then snapped off the light, and retired.
After a time she tried to struggle, but found her struggles useless.
She knelt there, for a long time, angrily.
She could not sleep.
She tried to speak, late in the night, but was unable to do so. She had been silenced, and bound, as might have been a slave.
Later, at times, she whimpered, and moaned, a little, as she could, helpless, begging for attention.
But there was no sign that she was heard.
Toward morning, her head on the foot of the bed, inches from his feet, she slept. A mariner came for her later. The barbarian had already left the cabin.
***
“It is clear that the barbarian has disappeared,” the small brunette was saying, she scarcely within the entrance to the long, low cement slave shed at Venitzia, “and it is not known where!”
The blonde, half sitting, half kneeling, in the tiny slave tunic, on the thin, hard, striped mattress of the metal cot, to which she was chained, gasped, her head reeling as she struggled to comprehend the import of the brunette’s revelation.
“What is wrong, Cornhair?” asked one of the other slaves.
Few had noticed the agitation of the blonde.
“Nothing,” gasped the blonde.
“Has this anything to do with us?” one of the slaves was asking the brunette.
“I do not know!” said the brunette.
“Who cares about the barbarian,” said one of the girls. “What about us?”
“Yes!” cried another.
“We have been here for days,” said one of the girls.
“Why are we being kept here, in this shed, in the administration compound?” asked another.
“Why have we not been sold?” asked another.
“Irons should have been heated for us by now,” said another. “We should have been put on the block!”
Only the blonde, of all the women in the shed, had a clear idea of the putative purport of the slave consignment to Venitzia. Only she knew that the women were not, by intent, destined for a sale in Venitzia.
If the barbarian is gone, thought the blonde, wildly, then perhaps I need not use the knife! But then, surely, the agent will identify himself to me, and assure my safe return to Lisle. But what if he does not? What if, for some reason, the agent had not even been on the ship? What then? She knew Iaachus was thorough. Her slave papers would doubtless appear in perfect order!
“Perhaps we will be put up for sale tomorrow,” said a girl.
“Fools! Fools!” suddenly screamed the blonde, from her cot. “Are you not aware of the goods embarked with us at Lisle? Are you not aware of the stores in the warehouse within the compound, some even under canvas, under snow, in the yard! They have not been moved either! You are not intended for Venitzia, fools! You are trade goods, trade goods!”
“No!” screamed one of the slaves.
“Cornhair is a liar!” cried one of the girls.
“Beat her!” cried another.
There was a sudden rattling of chains.
The blonde shrieked and knelt down on the cot, covering her head.
To be sure, only two of the girls could reach her, given the shed’s custodial arrangements.
The blows of small fists rained upon her.
The blonde shrank even smaller on the cot, whimpering.
“No, no!” called the first girl, chained near the door. “Stop! Stop!”
The blows stopped. The assailants were half hysterical, weeping, as well as furious.
“I fear Cornhair is right,” said she who was first girl.
“Trade goods?” said one of the slaves, aghast.
“Yes,” said the first girl.
“But to whom?” asked another slave, her voice quavering.
“Barbarians, Heruls, primitives, who knows,” said the first girl.
“Whomever they like,” said another slave, fearfully.
“They cannot do that!” said one of the slaves.
“They can do as they wish,” said the first girl. “We are slaves.”
“We can be disposed of as masters wish,” said one of the girls, frightened.
“Yes,” whispered another, “we are slaves.” The blonde sank to her stomach on the cot, her head turned, her right cheek on the mattress, her fingers clutching its sides. She moved her left ankle a little, feeling the shackle, and its weight.
CHAPTER 16
“Is he alive?” asked Varix.
“I do not know,” said Olar.
“Is it a Herul?” asked Varix.
“No,” said Olar.
“Then we need not kill him,” said Varix.
“I think he is dead already,” said Olar.
“See if he is Telnarian,” said Varix. “He may have money.”
“I do not think he is Telnarian,” said Olar.
“What is he?” asked Varix.
“He has the appearance of an Otung,” said Olar.
“Not here, not this far away,” said Varix.
Varix looked about, warily, apprehensively.
“I do not like it,” he said.
Varix wore, over his eyes, tied at the edges with leather, a curved bone plate. It was cut with a horizontal slit, which eliminated most of the glare from the snow. Olar was similarly protected. It was bright and cold on the plains of Barrionuevo this afternoon. The sun blazed off the snow. It was in the month of Igon. One, unprotected, could go blind on such days. Both men wore fur, and deep fur boots. Each was armed, Varix with knife and ax, Olar with knife and spear.
Both were hunting vi-cat.
One had been seen yesterday, crossing the Lothar, on the ice, moving eastward.