“I love it!” said White Ankles.
“It well displays my property,” said the dealer, “and as the property she is.”
“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delightedly.
“Turn about,” he said. “I am going to tie your hands together, behind your back.”
Apparently this was soon done.
“I do not trust Heruls, Master,” said White Ankles, pulling a bit at her wrists. “Let us be on our way, and put much distance between ourselves and the camp.”
The dealer then looked about, and to the opened gate between the wagons. Might not four or five riders emerge from that portal, later, after dark, riders which he might encounter later, in less than pleasant circumstances?
“I am known,” said the dealer to White Ankles. “I think I have little to fear, but, it is true, it would not hurt to be on our way.”
“No, Master,” said White Ankles.
“I am now going to lift you into the wagon,” said the dealer, “and put you on the floor of the wagon box, where you will kneel.”
“Yes, Master,” said White Ankles, delighted.
“Slave, slave!” said Cornhair.
One gathers that White Ankles was soon ensconced, kneeling, bound, beside the driver’s bench, for the dealer had returned to the back of the wagon, where Cornhair waited, on all fours, her head down, rather toward the right-rear wheel of the wagon.
“What of me?” asked Cornhair.
“What of you?” said the dealer.
“Am I not, too, to be clothed?” asked Cornhair.
“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.
“It is my hope that I would be more amply concealed,” she said.
“Do you wear a tunic well?” he asked.
“Doubtless as well as any other woman,” she said.
“As well as a slave?” he asked.
“Doubtless,” she said.
“And appropriately?” he asked.
“Surely not appropriately,” said Cornhair.
“You have a slave body,” he said.
“Master!” protested Cornhair.
“You may thank me,” he said. “You have been complimented.”
“‘Complimented’?” she said.
“Yes,” he said. “Slave bodies are the loveliest, the most exciting, and desirable of female bodies. Those with such bodies should be slaves, and, obviously, in the way of nature, have been bred for bondage.”
“I?” she said. “Bred for bondage?”
“Yes,” he said, “externally, and internally.”
Cornhair, of course, from the tale of a thousand mirrors, was well aware of her lineaments. She was well aware that they might bring coin off a slave block. Indeed, had it not been for such, she supposed she would not have been recruited as a tool for shaping deeds to the ends of Iaachus, he, Arbiter of Protocol in the court of the emperor, Aesilesius. Surely her beauty, such as it was, had been germane to his projects, a beauty which, as it seems, had not been marred, but, rather, considerably enhanced by being fastened in a collar. But, what of internality? Could she, in virtue of the simple realities of her sex, emotionally, profoundly, psychologically, and needfully, have been bred for bondage? It would be a strange nature, indeed, which would content itself with façades, and leave unattended, neglected, and unfurnished the rooms within, the chambers and housings of the heart and mind. Nigh overwhelming her, there rushed upon her a thousand memories and desires, and readinesses, tremblings, and hopings, feelings which she had tried to cry out against, against which she had tried to levy and lodge a thousand prescribed, acculturated denials, only to be once more afflicted by the persistent, intrusive whispers of a prohibited nature.
“You may thank me,” said the dealer.
“Thank you, Master,” said Cornhair.
She struggled to reject the thought that her body was suffused with warmth when she uttered her response.
Then she clung again, desperately, to the mockery and deceit, the veil, behind which she dared not look, for fear of what might be found.
“In time, you will learn yourself,” said the dealer.
“I now know myself,” she said.
“I think not,” he said, “not yet.”
“Master,” she said.
“Yes?” he said.
“I am not yet clothed,” she said.
“Clearly,” he said. “Keep your head down.”
“And,” she said, “it seems, a mere slave has been given precedence over me, placed forward, near the reins of the horses, at the side of the wagon bench.”
“So?” inquired the dealer.
“Why she?” asked Cornhair.
“It pleased me,” he said.
“I beg permission to speak to Master,” she said.
“You may do so,” he said.
“Master does not understand who I am,” she said.
“You are a slave,” he said. “What else is there to know?”
“I am not a common slave,” she said.
“I see you as common, indeed, as more common than most,” he said.
“Master,” she said, “is apparently unaware of my antecedents.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“May I kneel before Master, and look up at him?” asked Cornhair.
“Very well,” he said, puzzled.
“I have awaited the opportunity to identify myself,” she said. “It is now at hand.”
“I do not understand,” he said.
“Master is Telnarian?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Master is then well aware of many of the high families of the empire, families which brought about the glories, the victories, the achievements and conquests, of the empire, the thousand families which, in their way, are the historical foundation on which the empire rests, which constitute the entwining, genealogical fibers which bind worlds together, which dignify, ennoble, and enhance the imperium itself.”
“I am aware,” he said, “of the rapacious, high honestori, which seizes land and covets resources, which loots peasantries and buys palaces, which renders land sterile, poisons seas, and, with fumes and noxious vapors, clouds and darkens skies, which manages and ruins worlds, which takes all and gives nothing.”
“No!” said Cornhair. “I speak of the finest and the best, of the true nobility of the empire, of the highest and most glorious of the ancestral lines, such as that of the Larial Calasalii!”
“The worst!” snorted the dealer.
“You have heard of the Larial Calasalii?” she said.
“Yes,” he said.
“Regardless of what you may think of them,” she said, “they are powerful. Their wealth could buy worlds!”
“You think so?” he said.
“Yes!” she said.
“What has this to do with you, a naked little slave, at my feet, in your collar?”
“I am the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”
“You tell me,” he asked, “I have such a person before me, kneeling in the dirt, not yards from a Herul camp, collared?”
“I am she!” said Cornhair.
“Your thigh,” said he, “wears, tiny and unmistakable, the rose, your neck the circlet of bondage.”
“Very well,” she said, “if you wish, I was the Lady Publennia Calasalia, of the Larial Calasalii!”
In imparting this information it seems that Cornhair failed to mention that she had been cast from the family, in effect, put aside and disowned.
“Very impressive,” said he.
“So, now,” she said, “have me rise, remove this dreadful, degrading object which encircles my neck, and bring me, as soon as possible, suitable clothing, garmenture fit for a lady of quality.”
“Why?” he asked.
“That I may be restored to my rightful dignity.”
“Ransomed, perhaps?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“Or bought?” he said.
“If you wish,” she said.
“By your family?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“What would they pay?” he asked.
“They will pay any price,” she said.
“Thousands of darins?” he asked.
“Of course,” she said.
“I have seen your sort,” he said, “on many selling platforms, at crossroads, at fairs, at provincial markets, on holidays. You would bring between fifteen and twenty darins.”