“Why did you not seek me out, to be inspected?” asked Nissimi.
“I did not know it was necessary,” said Filene, acidly.
“It is not,” said Nissimi. “But one would have supposed that a new girl, perhaps timid, fearful, hesitant, and uncertain, might have wished to solicit the views of her first girl.”
“I may be new,” said Filene, “but I assure you that I am not timid, fearful, hesitant, or uncertain.”
“You are fearful, Cornhair,” said Nissimi. “It is easy to see. You are upset. You are afraid of something.”
“I do not wish to be late, to report to Master Ottonius,” Filene had said.
“Many slaves,” said Nissimi, “would be frightened to be sent to the furs of a barbarian. He is not of the empire. He is different. You were of the empire. Perhaps he will beat you, or break an arm.”
“I am not afraid,” said Filene, and felt a bit of blood at her lip, where she had inadvertently closed her small, fine white teeth on that soft tissue.
“You are a virgin!” laughed Nissimi. She had had, of course, no access to the blonde’s slave papers.
Filene looked away, angrily.
“I wondered about that,” said Nissimi. Virgin slaves, of course, are quite rare.
“It improves my price,” said Filene, petulantly.
“I doubt that it did,” said Nissimi. “The virginity of a slave is of no more interest than that of a pig.”
“I see,” said Filene.
“You expect him to be considerate on that score, to be understanding, sensitive, patient, kind?”
“That would be my hope,” said Filene.
“He is a barbarian,” said Nissimi.
“I see,” said Filene. If all went well, of course, she would carry her virginity to the Narcona, and to Inez IV itself.
“It seems Mistress lay in wait for me,” said Filene.
“I am unwilling to send an unkempt, unprepared slave to the quarters of a guest,” she said.
“Of course,” said Filene. “Do I pass Mistress’ inspection?”
“Your attitude,” she said, “is less that of a slave than that a free woman.”
“I was free,” said Filene.
“So were most slaves,” she said. “Few slaves are the issue of the breeding houses, the produce of the slave farms, and such. Why spend years breeding and raising slaves when one can pick them up, and ones quite as good, or even better, on the streets?”
“But seldom legally,” said Filene.
“Many men,” said Nissimi, “believe that all women are bred slaves, the product of lengthy natural selections on thousands of worlds.”
“Men are beasts,” said Filene.
“And our Masters,” said Nissimi.
“No man is my Master!” said Filene.
“True,” said Nissimi, “your Master is the empire.”
Filene wondered what it might be, to have a Master, to belong to a given man, to be his owned animal. This thought disturbed her, and made her muchly uneasy, that for no reason she clearly understood.
Filene struggled to recover herself. She should not have cried out, certainly not in such an exasperated manner. She must recall her role. She must do nothing which might jeopardize her business, her evening’s dark work.
“Alas,” said Filene, putting down her head. “I am only a poor, and miserable, slave.”
“I have heard,” said Nissimi, “that on some worlds subtle and pervasive conditioning regimes exist, the products of social engineering, emplaced to extract the Master from the hearts of men.”
“I have heard so,” said Filene.
“I trust I will never be on such a world,” said Nissimi, “one so unnatural and pathological.”
Certainly Inez IV and Tangara were not such worlds.
“Such worlds exist,” said Filene.
“I think so,” said Nissimi, “Same Worlds, and such worlds, where men are taught to resent and repudiate the Master in their hearts. They are taught to fear the Master in their hearts. They are taught to betray him. They are taught, even, incredibly enough, to be ashamed of the Master in their hearts. It is demanded that they deny him, that they do treason to their blood. If vi-cats, lions, the hroth, and such were rational, doubtless we could also divide them from themselves, and ruin them with self-doubts, self-conflicts, and shame, stunting their minds and shortening their lives. The lion who pretends to be a lamb is a hypocrite; the lion who tries to be a lamb is a fool; the lion who thinks he is a lamb is insane.”
Filene was silent.
I am a free woman, she said to herself.
“You are to please the barbarian well,” said Nissimi. “If he is not pleased, and well pleased, you may expect to be punished.”
“I understand,” said Filene. “Do I pass Mistress’ inspection?”
“You have the appearance of doing so,” said Nissimi.
“Then,” said Filene, “that is all that is required.”
“What a naive little fool you are,” said Nissimi.
“May I proceed?” asked Filene. “May I be on my way?”
“Yes,” had said Nissimi.
“I will hope to do well,” had said Filene, rising.
“And I,” had said Nissimi, “have a hope, as well, that you will survive.”
It was with trepidation, indeed, that Filene entered the tent chamber of the barbarian, reached by means of closed, warmed tunnels from the main tent. It had, she noted, an opening, twice sealed, as she determined, to the outside, as well. That she did not doubt was to facilitate her withdrawal from the chamber, without again traversing the passages she had followed to reach the chamber. Corelius, or a confederate, she supposed, would be stationed outside that opening, to spirit her quickly to the waiting, warmed hoverer. She could grasp a fur about her, and make her way, barefoot, through the snow, the few yards to one of the hoverers. Then, wrapped in a fur, she would be on her way through the winter night, over the dark, leafless treetops, to Venitzia.
At that point, she had no more than conjectured the likely location of the knife.
Her heart was beating rapidly, and she fought to breathe normally.
Was she, upon reflection, she wondered, the appropriate instrument of Iaachus, to accomplish this act?
She must rely on his judgment, his astuteness and cunning.
The barbarian, aware to some extent of the weight and danger of imperial matters, the hazards of intrigues, the possibilities of plots, the menaces likely to be found in the corridors of power, might well be on his guard against a male of the empire, or, perhaps, even another barbarian, particularly if not of his own tribe.
Surely a man would be better suited to this business, thought Filene to herself. Why not Corelius, Lysis, or another?
Could not a man, with one blow, sink even a long, broad blade to the hilt in a back or chest?
She was not sure she could drive even so slim and fine a blade to the hilt in a man’s body, not that it would be necessary.
The slightest scratch would suffice.
But Iaachus would know best.
Who could bring himself to suspect a naked, unarmed slave girl, introduced so naturally, as a furnished pleasure, a gesture of hospitality, into a guest’s bed chamber?
Too, perhaps Corelius, Lysis, Phidias, and such, if all were fellow conspirators in this business, must avoid, to the extent possible, being implicated in the matter. Indeed, her pilot to Venitzia might not even be one of them. Another, a lesser fellow, would do, assigned to deliver her to Venitzia. In that way, Phidias, Corelius, and others, might pretend to dismay and consternation when, in the morning, the results of her work would be discovered. She could even be secreted on the Narcona, awaiting their return to the ship. She did not know how matters might proceed. She knew only her own part, what she must do. Perhaps all conspirators might flee the camp, disabling other vehicles, abandoning their fellows to Heruls or vengeful Otungs.