“One rides the sled, bundled in furs, who is different,” said Tuvo.
“Not a Herul,” said Julian.
“That is why they will now proceed silently,” said Tuvo.
“I think so,” said Julian. “Here, in the vicinity of the forest, its edge perhaps only hours away, I suspect the passenger is an Otung.”
“One who chooses to return silently to his community,” said Tuvo. “But why should an Otung, if he be such, be in the company of Heruls?”
“I do not know,” said Julian.
“I cannot see him clearly,” said Tuvo. “It is too dark.”
“That is most unfortunate,” said Julian.
Shortly thereafter the sled, silently now, sped on.
“We must resume our journey,” said Julian.
“Nika is still,” said Tuvo, looking down.
Julian bent down. “She is asleep,” he said. “Let us unharness her, and put her on the sled. We two can draw it more swiftly.”
“How can she fall asleep, with danger about?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.
“She is exhausted,” said Julian. “Do not awaken her. She will do us little good in the traces. She has labored long and had little sleep.”
Tuvo Ausonius regarded the slave.
“Many men,” said Julian, “have fallen asleep even under fire.”
“It seems a shame to have brought her here,” said Tuvo.
“You have never seen the Lady Publennia Calasalia,” said Julian. “If we should be separated, either by accident or design, she can identify the impostor we seek.”
“There is the drawing,” said Tuvo.
“It is only a drawing,” said Julian.
“True,” said Tuvo Ausonius.
“And,” smiled Julian, grimly, “is it not appropriate to reunite a slave with her Mistress?”
“I do not think she would be pleased to see her, here, on Tangara,” said Tuvo.
“Perhaps not,” said Julian. “Help with the sled, we must press on. I fear there is little time. We may already be too late.”
“Will you not again examine the night sky?” asked Tuvo Ausonius.
“No,” said Julian, “I think we need only follow the tracks before us. I suspect they will lead us more readily to our destination than the night sky.”
3
“You remember Filene?” asked Lysis, the supply officer of the Narcona, of the blond giant, Otto, at the table.
“Yes,” said Otto, “from the Narcona.”
“Stand straighter,” said severe Ronisius, a minor officer of the vessel’s commissioned officers.
“Forgive me, Master,” said Filene, straightening her body. She carried a small, shallow tray of cakes.
She had been entered into the room later than the other three, for some reason. The meal was now nearly done.
“You were once a free woman, were you not, my dear?” inquired polite, blond Corelius, a handsome young officer, also, as Ronisius, one of the vessel’s lesser commissioned officers.
“Yes,” she whispered.
“‘Yes, Master’,” corrected Ronisius.
“Yes, Master, forgive me, Master,” said the blonde, Filene.
She feared Ronisius.
She felt helpless, and slave before him.
What would it be if she were truly a slave?
“You are no longer a free woman, Filene,” said Corelius, kindly. “So you may no longer be slovenly and clumsy. You may no longer be stiff and wooden. It is not permitted. You must be soft, feminine, inviting, attractive, ready, lovely, graceful. You are now no longer yours. You are now another’s. You are owned.”
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“Note how Filene is painted,” said Phidias, captain of the Narcona.
“I see,” said Otto, “and scented, as well.”
“We have arranged that she is prepared for you,” said Phidias.
“My thanks, Captain,” said Otto.
“Presumably it will be pleasant to pluck and crush that flower,” said Ronisius.
Filene shuddered.
“She is new to the collar,” said Lysis. “We hope that you will much improve her. Let her learn her bondage in your arms.”
“There are others, of course,” said Ronisius. “These three,” he said, gesturing to the other slaves, “Lira, Faye, Rabbit, and there are sixteen others in the tents, whom you may inspect and have your pick, if you wish, any one, or two, or three.”
Otto smiled at Ronisius. “I am sure this one will do,” he said, nodding toward Filene.
“As you wish,” said Ronisius, smiling.
Otto had arrived in the camp near dusk, from a hall of Otungs deep in the forest. He had had retainers with him who were now encamped nearby, in amongst the shadows of trees, not far from the wired perimeter of the rude imperial enclave. It had been deemed unwise to mix soldiers of the empire with Otungs, for fear of hasty words, even angry glances, which might lead to drawn blades and the flash of discharged weapons.
Otto was now in a long, silken dinner robe.
Slaves had sought to bathe him, hoping to touch such a man.
Yesterday night, however, it might well have been different. Yesterday night they might well have fled from a terrible figure which, gaunt and hungry, might have emerged from the darkness.
Yesterday night Otto had arrived at the great hall of the Otungs, that of the King Naming, half naked, stinking and bloody, the skins of dogs, Herul dogs, tied about his body. He had survived the “running of the dogs.” He had had with him, however, the skin of a giant, white vi-cat, and a weighty long sword which few but such as he could wield. The skin of the vi-cat was that of a beast he had earlier killed, and the sword was that which he had carried toward the forest before his capture by Heruls. These were returned to him by the Herul, Hunlaki, who, by Herul means, utilizing a sensory organ foreign to humans, a form of touch, had recognized him as the Otung infant he had once, several years earlier, delivered to the brothers in the festung of Sim Giadini. When Otto, later, apprehended by Otungs in the forest, was brought to the great hall, it was the “Killing Time,” and the time of the King Naming, a yearly ritual imposed on Otungs, disunited and bickering amongst themselves, by Heruls, issuing in the naming of a temporary king, a political device well calculated to subjugate and demoralize an enemy. Long ago, it seems, on the plains of Barrionuevo, or the flats of Tung, as the Heruls will have it, the Otungs had been defeated by Herul horsemen, and driven into the forest, to be thenceforth a scattered, jealous, divided people. Then he, Otto, a stranger, but bearing the pelt of the giant, white vi-cat, traditionally taken as a mantle of kingship by the Otungs, had come to the great hall and claimed the hero’s portion of the mighty, roasting boar. In the hall much blood was shed but before the fire in the long pit had turned to ashes a new king, one defiant to Heruls, one who would be subject to no limitations imposed by enemies, was lifted on the shields.
“You may serve the cakes, Filene,” said Phidias.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“To our guest, first,” said Ronisius.
“Yes, Master,” she said.
“She is stupid,” said Ronisius.
“No,” said Corelius, “merely ignorant.”
“But pretty,” said Lysis.
“Like the others,” said Phidias.
“They are lovely things, slaves,” said Lysis.
“True,” said Corelius.
Earlier in the evening Otto, or Ottonius, as those of the empire will often have it, had arrived at the encampment, with several retainers. He had arrived, of course, not then in the skins of Herul dogs but in other skins, and boots, and leg-wrappings, soft, and well-tanned, from the hide of the hroth, a beast indigenous to the forests of northern Tangara, and resembling the arn bear, often encountered in beast fights, in imperial arenas. Now, however, as noted, he was in a dinner robe.
The serving had proceeded apace, with dessert wines, followed by steaming feldis.
Otto removed a cake from the Filene’s tray without glancing at her. A slave is an instrument whose presence need not be noticed.