“The blade was poisoned,” said Filene.
“That was supposed so,” said the barbarian, “given its slightness, and the strength, nature, and weight of the presumed assassin, a slave not likely to be trained in death skills, skills such that, in the hands of an adept, a needle or sliver can function as a lethal weapon.”
“You removed the poison from the blade,” said Filene, numbly.
“Certainly,” said the barbarian. “The blade was stained, to reveal the poison, which was then scoured away, with coarse cleansers, even acid.”
“You knew all the time,” said Filene, softly.
“We surmised all the time,” said the barbarian.
“Ronisius, then, replaced the cleansed blade in its case,” she said.
“Of course,” he said.
“You let me address myself, futilely and foolishly, to the deed,” she said.
“It was important that the attempt be made, in order, if possible, to flush out the conspirators. I was even prepared to pretend being stricken, to observe the consequences, but the obvious preparation of the hoverer for departure rendered that ruse unnecessary.”
“Yes, Master,” she murmured.
“This is a pretty dagger, a lovely thing, a woman’s weapon,” he said. He regarded the implement, turning it over in his hand.
“Master?” she said.
“Please do not, Master!” she cried.
“Why not?” he asked.
“I do not want to die!” she said.
He then snapped the blade from the handle, and cast the pieces to the side.
She swayed, and gasped with relief.
“May I speak?” she asked.
“Yes,” he said.
“I am in your power, wholly,” she said. “What is to become of me?”
“By your own will, thinking yourself free,” he said, “you would have struck at me with a weapon you deemed of lethal import, though you were in fact naught but an unpleasant, nasty little slave.”
She was silent.
“Slaves are to be pleasing, wholly pleasing,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Do you think,” he asked, “that you have been wholly pleasing?”
“I fear not, Master,” she said.
“Your crime,” he said, “for a free person, would be heinous. What do you think it is for a slave?”
“I know not,” she said, trembling.
“It is a thousand times worse,” he said.
“Spare me,” she said.
“Why?” he asked.
“I am beautiful!” she said.
“Your body would sell,” he said, “but your heart is worthless.”
“Have mercy,” she said. “I have known, since the Narcona, since being at the command and mercy of men, since kneeling before men, since having a collar on my neck, that it is a slave’s heart!”
“I think,” he said, “that I shall turn you over to Qualius.”
“Please do not do so, Master,” she said. “I do not want my throat cut, I do not want to be put forth, tied to a tree, naked, for wolves.”
“Do you plead for your life?” he asked.
“Yes, yes!” she cried.
“What do you offer?” he asked.
“My body,” she sobbed, “and its pleasures!”
“I see,” he said, his arms folded, looking down upon her.
“I know men have desired me!” she said. “I have been aware of this since puberty, how they look upon me! I have seen their eyes, their interest, their expressions, how they have positioned themselves to see me, how they have sought to frequent my whereabouts, how they have sought introductions, how they have endeavored to win my smiles, how they have striven to please and serve me! I have twisted and diverted many men to my purposes.”
“You are selling goods?” he asked.
“Yes!” she said.
“But you are not a free woman,” he said.
“Master?” she said.
“A free woman can sell her body,” he said. “But you cannot. You are a slave. You own nothing. It is you who are owned. You do not sell goods. Rather it is you who are goods. You have nothing to sell. Rather, it is you yourself who may be sold.”
“Please, no, Master!” she said.
“Do you desire to be a good slave?” he asked.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“I did not think it true before,” he said.
“It is true now, Master,” she said.
“Whether you are a good slave or not,” he said, “will not be decided by you, but by Masters.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“I gather you wish to live?” he said.
“Yes, Master!” she said.
“Then you will strive zealously to be a good slave,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said. “I am changed now. I would hope to be granted the privilege of polishing your boots, as on the Narcona. I would be pleased, if it were my Master’s will, to have my mouth taped shut, and be tied, kneeling, neglected, to the foot of his couch. I am my Master’s toy, the mat on which he wipes his feet, his towel and footstool. I am nothing! I am worthless! I belong to him! I am his!”
At this point, clearly audible throughout the camp, and well into the forest beyond, like a sudden, alarming, cold flame of sound, pronounced and disruptive, tearing apart the silence of the winter night, came the shrill, oscillating shriek of a klaxon.
“You know the camp,” said the barbarian. “What is this sound?”
“The alerting signal, Master!” she cried. “Something obtrusive has occurred, an attack, an animal at the wire, unannounced visitors or envoys, Heruls or Otungs, a party from Venitzia, some contact from the outside, anything!”
“When I approached the camp,” he said, “no such sound, no such warning, was heard.”
“They were watching for you, anticipating you,” she said. “You were recognized in the floodlights, as you approached the wire.”
“Who is now high in the camp?” asked the barbarian.
“Ronisius!” she said.
“‘Ronisius’?” he snapped.
“Master Ronisius!” she said. Had she not understood that such a lapse might call for a switching?
The klaxon’s disturbance of the night subsided, almost as quickly as it had begun.
The barbarian looked to the slave, fiercely.
“It cannot be an attack, Master,” she said.
“Someone,” he said, “may have been recognized?”
“I know of no one,” she said.
The barbarian whipped away the dinner robe and kicked the sandals to the side. In moments he had gathered together, and drawn on, the hides and furs, the soft boots, which he had worn when first approaching the camp. He then strode to the tunnel exit from the chamber, that leading to the main tenting, that of the headquarters tenting.
“Otto!” cried Julian, elatedly, meeting him at the threshold of the bedding chamber. “You live!”
“I live,” said Otto.