“Yes,” said the woman’s voice, “this is the one.”
“Five darins,” said the man.
Cornhair heard the coins being counted out.
“You have been sold, 227,” said a man’s voice.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. “To a woman, Master?” she asked.
“Yes, dear,” said a woman’s voice.
“We have something special in mind for you,” said the voice of another woman.
“Hood her,” said the first woman. “Then unchain her and tie her hands behind her back. I have a leash.”
26
Cornhair, kneeling in the darkness, and dampness, chained to the wall ring, her hands high, by her forehead, sobbed. Her back still burned, from the lash.
She heard the key turn in the heavy lock of the door, behind her.
She turned her head about, as she could.
The door creaked open, slowly. She could see the light, from a small lamp, being borne by someone, presumably a man, a keeper. In its light, she could see the dampness glistening on the wall before her. She cried out, frightened, as a small filch scampered over her left calf, presumably disturbed by the opening of the door and the bit of light. She knew that she shared her quarters with such small, furtive forms of life, for she had heard them scratch about, but they had not bothered her. This was the first time one had touched her. Her cell was not a pleasant one, and she had little doubt but what it served as a suitable holding place for recalcitrant prisoners, or slaves who had failed to be found fully pleasing. Indeed, the building, as she had learned, served as a prison, as well as a slave house. Although the conditions of her incarceration were far from ideal, Cornhair had been relieved not to have been killed, and there is a security, of course, in being chained, for one knows then that one is still being kept, at least for a time.
The tiny light was still behind her, and not moving. She could not make out what was in the room with her. She turned about, again, as she could. She sensed there were at least two men present, one back in the hall, and perhaps others.
“Please do not whip me further, Masters,” she said. “I will be good. I will call out well. I will smile. I will try to please you. I will try to bring you coin!”
Cornhair had now learned what it is to be a whipped slave, and she was prepared to go to great lengths to avoid any further encounters with the hissing lash. No longer was it a mystery to her why slave girls were so eager to be found pleasing. They knew their softness and beauty was subject to the leather, and that they must expect to be punished for any infractions of rules or lapses of discipline. Even a careless word, a clumsy movement, a tardy response to a command, might bring the sting of a switch. Most Masters are kind, but they expect beauty, grace, and obedience in a slave, and will have it so.
There was no response to her protestations.
“Masters?” she said, uneasily.
She pulled a little, at the manacles.
“Is this the one?” asked a male voice.
“Hold the light closer, higher,” said a woman’s voice.
“This was lot number two hundred and twenty-seven,” said a male voice, from back in the hall.
“Yes,” said the woman’s voice, “this is the one.”
“Five darins,” said the man.
Cornhair heard the coins being counted out.
“You have been sold, 227,” said a man’s voice.
“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair. “To a woman, Master?” she asked.
“Yes, dear,” said a woman’s voice.
“We have something special in mind for you,” said the voice of another woman.
“Hood her,” said the first woman. “Then unchain her and tie her hands behind her back. I have a leash.”
27
“Gold, and power?” said Ingeld.
“Much gold, and much power,” said the visitor.
“How can that be?” asked Ingeld. “It is well known that such as you are sworn to simplicity and poverty, that you abhor luxury and shun wealth, that you are professionally destitute. How many pennies do you collect in your temples?”
“I do not speak of pennies,” said the visitor, “even of mountains of pennies, gathered on a hundred worlds, but of armies, and ships.”
“Take down your arm from before your eyes,” said Ingeld.
“But the creature beside you,” said the visitor. “Be so kind as to conceal her. Have her crawl behind your chair, if nothing else.”
“Remain where you are, as you are,” said Ingeld.
“Yes, Master,” said Huta.
“Spare me this distress,” said the visitor. “We are a pure, holy, ascetic faith, a spiritual faith, a koosian faith.”
“Spare me your hypocrisy,” said Ingeld. “It wearies me. Save it for the cattle you slaughter, skin, and milk. I know of your public meals, and services, with your dram of water and your bit of bread, and the secret banquets in hidden chambers. Your plumpness is not the product of pans of water and crusts of bread, designed to bring you closer to the mysteries of the koos. And your exarch, a pompous, sanctimonious, clever scoundrel, has enough blubber to be the envy of aquatic mammals traversing polar seas. And I know about the plate in the temples, the golden vessels, the secret storerooms, the credits in a thousand banks, the treaties with kings, the bribings of tyrants, the suborning of officials.”
“You mistake us, great Lord,” said the visitor.
“Coarse cloth lined with rich fur,” said Ingeld.
“No, Milord,” said the visitor.
“Perhaps you would like a repast at my table,” said Ingeld, “though it be a humble one and of this world, a repast with scarlet wine, from the terraces of Chiba, the Wine World, or honeyed bror, from Cirax, with juicy, steaming, roasted meat, from cattle fattened on the plains of Tangara, with candies, custards, cakes, and fruits?”
“A swallow of water, and a crust of bread, would be more than ample, Milord,” said the visitor.
“Save your posturing and platitudes for your stricken, guilt-ridden, moaning, whining believers, who take such things seriously,” said Ingeld.
“You mistake the joys of Floon,” said the visitor.
“You rule through flattery, lies, and guilt,” said Ingeld. “You capitalize on loneliness, disappointment, failure, and fear. You teach your followers that they are esteemed and special, unique and inestimably precious, far above others, if not in this world, in another world, one conveniently invisible; you twist the powers and joys of organic nature, for your purposes, into sources of humiliation, doubt, suspicion, misery, and terror; you will have your benighted followers understand their most normal and natural impulses, things as inevitable as the surging of tides and the rotation of worlds, as things of which they should be afraid, of things to be eschewed, things of which they should be ashamed, things for which they should feel guilty, and then you dare to palliate for a price, for your support and enrichment, the effects of the poisons which you yourselves have brewed; you make aberrations and illnesses of what is fine, beautiful, robust, healthy, and inevitable, and then charge for the cure of these tragic diseases which you yourselves have wrought. It is a marvelous fraud, worthy of brilliant and unscrupulous minds, minds skilled in the architecture of control and torture, or minds originally sick, pathetically intent on spreading their own infections to others.”
“You mistake us, Milord,” said the visitor.
“What is most brilliantly insidious in this cultural malaise,” said Ingeld, “is that you inflict this pathological madness on the young and innocent, on the unquestioning, trusting, and gullible, who will believe whatever is taught to them, and do whatever is told to them. It is a sowing of seeds from which to harvest future crops. From such dismal gardens one will reap gold.”
“Surely you do not see such a pure and holy faith as contrived and mercenary?”