She regarded the couch; it was broad, and deeply furred. Two furs, as well, were scattered on the floor, at its foot. Could the knife be hidden there? Surely not. It must reside beneath the furs on the surface of the couch, where the barbarian would doubtless expect to make use of her. Was she not extraordinarily beautiful? She was not the sort of slave, surely, who would be used merely at the foot of a couch, on furs strewn on the floor, as might be a common girl, one not allowed the privilege of a couch’s surface. She did note, uneasily, a heavy metal ring fixed in the base of the couch, some six inches above the floor. It was a slave ring, a common convenience in a slave culture, the sort to which a girl might be fastened. That might not do at all.
But, was the knife there?
She scurried to the furs at the foot of the couch and then, kneeling, looking about, fearing the barbarian might appear any moment, lifted and shook the furs. No knife was there!
The chamber was lit by two small, hanging lamps.
A chest was at one side of the chamber. Doubtless it was from that receptacle, clearly unlocked, the padlock dangling, with its inserted key, that the barbarian had removed the dinner robe.
Someone was coming!
She had not yet found the knife!
She knelt, with her head to the furs, at the foot of the couch, the palms of her hands at the side of her head, a common slave position.
She dared to lift her head, a little.
It was Qualius, gross Qualius, the porcine tender of domestic animals, recalled from the Narcona.
She thrust her head down again. She did not dare address him.
He paid her no attention. The explanation of her presence there was obvious enough. She was a slave. She heard some object, stout, leathery, dropped on the lid of the unlocked, closed chest.
Then he was gone.
She rose to her feet, and went to the chest. It was as she feared. “I will have a whip sent to your quarters,” had said Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian. She regarded the supple, inert object lying on the chest. How she hated Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian.
She was uneasy, regarding the whip, its coils now quiescent. She could scarcely conjecture what it might feel like, wielded by a man, on her soft, bared skin. She did not, of course, expect to feel it. The whip is seldom used gratuitously. Its end is discipline, not meaningless, wanton cruelty. There would be no point in that. It would be easy to avoid its whistling, hissing, lashing kiss. She was determined to do so. It would not be hard. She would be careful, and watchful. She need only, as other slaves, be obedient, attentive, zealous, and pleasing, wholly pleasing. Besides, the knife would be at hand, she trusted. And how could even a massive, formidable brute like the barbarian defend himself against the coated blade, where even a scratch on a lifted hand, or a fending arm, would wreak an almost instantaneous doom?
She gazed at the instrument lying on the lid of the chest.
How pleased she was that she was not as other women, not a slave.
What would it be, she asked herself, looking at the coiled leather tool on the lid of the chest, coiled like a viper, ready to strike, to be truly a slave?
The slave, she knew, is subject to the whip.
If she were a slave, she would be subject to the whip.
For a moment she swayed, giddy.
Did she sense then, if only for an instant, the meaning of the whip, the thrill and joy of being helplessly subject to command and discipline, the thrill and joy of being owned and mastered, the thrill and joy of being a kneeling, submitted slave?
No, no, she cried to herself, and spun away from the chest, and the quiet, coiled thing, which rested on its smooth surface.
The knife, she thought. I must find the knife. There may be little time!
She then approached the couch.
It was warm, and soft, lying within the furs on the great couch.
Her heart was beating rapidly.
With delicate care, and circumspection, she had felt beneath the covers for the implement. Her fingers, ever so lightly, had touched the smooth, yellow, oval handle, locating it. It would not do to touch the blade, lest the tiniest bit of its transparent coating, invisibly painted on that razor-sharp edge, might open her skin, even slightly. She had found it muchly where she had anticipated it might lie, beneath the furs, toward the head of the couch, where it might be convenient to her right hand.
Where was the barbarian?
Did he linger, for conversation, matters of moment not to be discussed before women, or slaves?
Why did he not hasten to her side?
Why had he not put aside business and rushed, breathless and trembling, to join her?
Did he not realize the inestimable worth of what awaited him?
But he had not hurried.
He had made her wait.
How angry she was!
Did he think she was a slave?
Yes, of course, he thought her a slave.
She recalled how he had put her to the polishing of his boots on the Narcona, how he bound her, kneeling, to a post at the foot of his bed, and how he had taped her mouth shut, that he might not hear from her, and then, ignoring her, had slept.
Was she insufficiently desirable?
Did he regret that she had been prepared? Did he prefer another? Would he put another to his pleasure?
No, she thought. Qualius had not summoned her back to her chain in the girls’ quarters. Rather, he had delivered the whip.
Was he making her wait?
If so, why?
Because he thought her nothing, only a slave?
Did he suspect a plot?
Did he think this delay might make her churn with fear, with an apprehension that she might be insufficiently desired?
Did he really think this dalliance would heat her, as it might a slave, a yearning beast, hoping for the caress of its Master?
One hurries quickly enough, she thought, to the couch of a free woman. How anxious men are to please such a lofty one! How they will tumble over themselves to win one of her smiles! Well could she remember such things, on several worlds! See them hurry! Are they fearful that a whim may change her mind, a shift of mood occur, precluding a liaison, that an alleged discomfort will cloud her mien? How skillful are free women, how well they tease and taunt, how well they play games forbidden to the slave!
It was a craft which she had well mastered.
Many were the favors, the invitations, the introductions, the dinners, the trips, the small loans, the perquisites of one sort or another, she had garnered in virtue of such skills, until the invitations, and such, had ceased, and she would move to another world, leaving behind her another train of debt.
Suddenly she heard a sound.
Someone was approaching.
Her small hand closed on the handle of the dagger beneath the furs.
6
In the cold light of the moon, amidst the black shadows of leafless branches on the snow, the two tracks of the Herul sled were fresh, deep, and sharp, and black on the side shielded from the light, and the edges of the craters left behind by the paws of what we, for want of a better word, will call horses, had not yet crumbled.
“Might the Heruls not return by the same route?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.
“I think not,” said Julian, of the Aureliani, putting his shoulder to the harness of the small sled. “Heruls are clever. Tracks may be seen, and a return by the same route might facilitate an ambush. Little love is lost between Heruls and Otungs.”
“Otungs range outside the forest,” said Tuvo.
“Undoubtedly,” said Julian, “and, I suspect, though less often, Heruls enter it.”
The explanation for this seems to be that the Heruls are a horse people, so to speak, and ill at ease afoot, and certainly amongst the darknesses of the forest, where archers might lurk undetected in the shadows. Heruls would prefer expanses, such as the plains of Barrionuevo, or, as they will have it, the flats of Tung, venues congenial to the sudden appearances, the rapid movements, the feints, the charges and withdrawals, the encirclings, of light cavalry, seldom choosing to close with a set, prepared enemy.