“Is the slave ready?” asked one of the guards, looking about. “What is going on here?” asked the other, surveying the exposed beauty of Lana, the seraglio mistress. She, frightened, hands before her mouth, pressed back against the column.
“She is preparing to bathe,” I told them. I went to her and took her by the left arm, over the elbow, and the right ankle, and upended the beauty, headfirst, into the pool.
I glanced to Hassan, and to the other girl. “I shall return shortly,” I told him.
“Very well,” he said, edging toward the other girl.
“The mistress,” said one of the guards, “does not finish with her males shortly.”
Lana’s head, sputtering, blinking, emerged from the bath.
“She will tonight,” I told him. Then I turned to Hassan. “Be ready,” I told him.
“We have a long kaiila ride this night.”
“Very well,” he said. The guards looked at me as though I might be mad. He was now standing almost directly behind the other girl, she who had handled the bath oils.
“Let us hurry,” said I to the guards. “We must not keep the mistress waiting.”
“He is eager,” laughed one of the guards.
“He is a fool,” said the other.
Lana, dripping, head down, crawled from the bath. I saw Hassan measuring the distance between the two girls.
I led the way, swiftly, through the inner door of the seraglio. “Is your mistress pretty?” I asked one of the guards, who was hurrying to follow.
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ he growled.
He bolted the door behind him, shutting and locking the seraglio from the outside. There were two guards, I noted, at the door. Down the corridor, some fifty yards of tile and hangings, there was the outer door. This was knocked upon, and, from the outside, opened. There were two guards there, too.
“Come now,” I said, “truly, is your mistress pretty?”
“She is as ugly as a sand sleen,’’ said the guard.
“I am Tarna,” said the woman. She reclined on the wide couch, resting on one elbow, regarding me.
I looked about the room. I went to the window, and looked down, into the courtyard.
“The drop,” she said, “is some seventy feet.”
I examined the walls, the door.
“The door,” said she, “by the guards outside, opens only to my signal.”
“Come,” said she, “stand at the foot of my couch.”
“We are alone?” I asked.
“Guards stand outside the door,” she said, puzzled.
“That is acceptable,” I said.
I regarded her. “You are a strange slave,” she said. She reclined, resting, on one elbow. She wore a soft gown, flowing, yellow, long, of Turian silk; it was sheer and, with its deep neckline, and about the hips, well betrayed her. Her hair was black, and long, and rich, and well displayed against the yellow cushion behind her.
I was pleased to see that she was not as ugly as a sand sleen. I was pleased to see, contrarywise, that she was stunningly beautiful. Her eyes were very dark.
“I own you,” she said.
“I have a long kaiila ride ahead of me tonight,” I told her.
“You are a strange slave,” she said.
“There is another kasbah nearby,” I said, “one which lies within two pasangs.
Whose kasbah is it?”
“It does not matter,” she said. “Do you like being a slave?” she asked.
There were red silken sheets on the great couch, on which she reclined. At its foot there was a slave ring.
“It is my understanding, following merchant law, and Tahari custom,” I said, “that I am not a slave, for though I am a prisoner, I have been neither branded nor collared, nor have I performed a gesture of submission.”
“My bold slave,” she said.
I shrugged.
“Do you find me pleasing,” she asked, “out of mannish desert garb?”
I regarded her. “Yes,” I said.
In her hands I saw she held a kaiila crop. “I am mistress,” she said.
“You are quite beautiful,” I said. “You should be a slave girl.”
She put back her head and laughed. “Bold, bold slave.” said she. “I like you!
You seem different from the others. Perhaps I will not, even, give you a girl’s name.”
“Perhaps not,” I admitted.
“I have wondered, sometimes,” said she, “what it would be like to be a woman.”
“Surely you are a woman,” I said.
“Am I attractive?” she asked.
“Yes,” I said.
“Do you know that, with a scimitar,” she asked, “I am quite skilled, more skilled than any man?”
“No,” I said, “I did not know that.”
“But I have wondered sometimes,” she said. “What it would be like to be a woman.”
I smiled.
“A true woman,” she said, “at the mercy of a man.”
“Oh?” I asked. I looked about the room. There were, here and there, in coffers, scarves, and, from which the hangings depended, suitable cords.
The guards would have to be dealt with.
Then her manner changed. She became arrogant, angry. “Serve me wine, Slave,” she said.
I went to the wine table and, from the curved vessel, poured a small cup of wine. I gave this to her. She sat, on the edge of the couch, and sipped it. Then her eyes became irritated. “Orders I gave,” said she, “that you were to be presented to me this night in yellow slave beads. I see that I must have the seraglio mistress beaten in the morning.”
“No,” I said. “I have them here, inside my tunic.”
“Put them on,” she said.
“No,” I said.
She put down the wine. “No?” she asked.
“No,” I said.
She laughed. “But I may have you whipped,” she said, “tortured, destroyed.”
“I doubt it,” I said.
“Kneel to the whip,” she said. She lifted the crop.
“No,” I said.
She stood back. She did not attempt to strike me. “I do not understand,” she said. “Surely you must understand that, in this room, in this kasbah, in the Tahari, you are mine, to do with as I please. I have complete power over you!
You are my slave, absolutely!”
“No,” I said.
“What a fantastic slave you are,” she said. “I do not know if I should have you killed or not.” She looked at me. “Are you not afraid?”
“No,” I said.
“You are different,” she said, “different from all the others. I must handle you carefully. I do not even know if it would be wise to break you, to make you cringe and grovel.” She seemed lost in thought.
I poured myself a small cup of the wine, and drank it, replacing the cup on the table.
“You are beautiful,” I said, looking at her. “Your lips,” I said, “are interesting.” They were a bit full, protruding, pouting. They would crush well beneath a man’s teeth.
“How is that?” she asked.
“It would be easy,” I said, “to bring blood from them in a master’s kiss.”
Her eyes flashed. “Go to the slave ring!” she hissed.
“No,” I said.
She stood back, as though stunned. “I will call the guards,” she said.
“Do so,” I suggested.
But it was clear she did not wish to do this.
“You do not obey me,” she said.
“You are the woman,” I said. “It is you who must obey.”
“Insolent sleen!” she cried, turning away, gown swirling. “Insolent sleen!” Then she faced me. “I shall call the guards, now,” she said, “to enter and destroy you!”
“But you will not then learn,” I said, “what it is to be a woman, a true woman-at the mercy of men.”
She went to the window angrily, furiously, and looked out, over the walls of the kasbah to the sands silvered by the light of the three moons. Overhead the stars were bright.
She turned to face me, fists clenched, her right fist on the kaiila crop.
“Surely you have been curious to learn, sometime, what it would be like to be a true woman-at the mercy of men.”
“Never!” she cried. “Never! I am Tarna. I do not have such thoughts! I am Tarna!
I am Tarna!”
She turned away, to the window.
“Call the guards,” I said.
She turned to face me. “Teach me to be a woman,” she said.
“Come here,” I said. She came and stood before me, angry. I put out my hand. She looked at it. Then slowly she put the long, supple, leather kaiila crop into my hand.