The Usurper

36

“Who has purchased me, Master?” begged Cornhair. “I could not see. The house was dark. I was illuminated by torchlight.”

Cornhair had been sold last night.

She was still, the following morning, in the selling house, that maintained on Varl by the House of Worlds.

The slaver’s man held a bit of cloth in his hand.

“One who saw you first in the slave bath,” he said, “with the others.”

“We were alone,” said Cornhair.

“You, and the others,” he said, “were seen through the grid, high, in the wall. Did you expect privacy?”

“I thought we were alone,” said Cornhair.

“Why do you think the bath chamber was so well lit?” he said. “Why do you think that the bathing pool was only six inches in depth?”

“I see, Master,” said Cornhair.

She and the others, able to do little more than sit or stand in it, crouching down, bending down, splashing water on the body, applying the oils, and utilizing the concave, wooden scrapers, had not known about the grid.

Afterwards they had been well fed, for slaves, permitted even to use their hands to feed themselves. Was there not, even, some fruit, some meat, some nuts, mixed with the gruel?

And they had been given a draught of warm kana before being put in their small, individual cages.

“He inspected you through the grid,” said the slaver’s man. “Then he bid on you, while you were being put through slave display.”

“I went for forty darins,” she said.

“You are not a bad looking slave,” he said. “But I would have thought, in last night’s selling, twenty-five or thirty darins.”

“What is he like?” asked Cornhair. “Is he handsome, strong, rich?”

“He must be well-fixed,” said the man. “He bought you for forty darins, yesterday, with the situation in the city as it is.”

Cornhair’s market collar had been removed.

She was not now collared.

“If he is well-fixed,” she said, lightly, “doubtless he will have several slaves, and I will have less work.”

“And be less favored, and have less attention, and be less caressed,” said the man.

Tears came to Cornhair’s eyes.

“You meretricious little baggages,” said the slaver’s man, “cannot fool me. You are slaves. You all want to be the single slave of a private Master. You want to be his sole slave, the only slave in his house. You wish to be the one who brings him his sandals in your mouth, on all fours. You want to be the only one feeding from the pan at his feet. You want his whip to be his whip for you, and only you. You want to be the only slave helpless in his chains. You wish to be the only vessel upon which he will vent his lust.”

“He may have wanted me, very much,” said Cornhair.

“Perhaps,” said the slaver’s man.

“Am I to be picked up, soon?” asked Cornhair.

“Shortly,” said the man.

“Master holds a tunic, does he not?” asked Cornhair.

“Yes,” he said.

“Should I stand?”

“Remain on your knees,” said the man.

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

“Do you know what I saw on the block?” asked the man.

“No, Master,” said Cornhair.

“A slave,” he said.

“I trust so,” said Cornhair, softly.

“Are you a bred slave?” he asked.

“Yes, Master,” she said, “for I am a woman.” She could remember her feelings, even long before the collar had been locked on her neck, even long before the tiny rose had been burned into her thigh.

“Stand,” he said.

Cornhair rose to her feet. She felt small before him. She was small before him.

She was frightened of men. There were at least two reasons for this. First, she was a woman, and most women, unless they are unusually dull, realize what men might do with them, if they wished, and, second, she was a female slave, and thus she was one such who realized that men would do with her as they wished.

“Put it on,” said the man, tossing her the scrap of cloth.

Swiftly Cornhair pulled the small tunic over her head, and down, about her thighs.

“There is unrest in the city,” said the man. “You should be clothed.”

“Yes, Master,” said Cornhair.

The concept of being clothed is interesting. The same garment which Cornhair received readily and gladly, scarcely more than a scrap of cloth, might have reduced a free woman to rage and tears.

Cornhair tugged down, at the sides of the garment.

“What is wrong?” asked the slaver’s man.

“It is too short, is it not?” she asked.

“Would you prefer to be naked?” he asked.

“No, Master,” she said.

“It is a slave tunic,” he said.

“Yes, Master,” she said.

To be sure, there is little to choose from, between being naked and being put in a slave tunic.

Free women wish slaves to be so degraded. Free men wish them to be so exhibited. To be sure, the slave tunic, in a sense, is a badge of female excellence. Its occupant is so attractive that men have made her a slave.

“You may now place your hands behind your back, your wrists crossed,” said the slaver’s man. “And face the wall.”

Cornhair felt her wrists tied behind her, with a short length of leather thong. “It is interesting,” she thought, “how with so little, so quickly, a woman can be made so helpless.”

“My Master is soon to pick me up?” she said.

“Oh?” she said, surprised, for a slave hood had been drawn over her head, from behind, and, in a moment, it was buckled shut, behind the back of her neck.

“I do not understand,” she said.

“Your Master is not picking you up,” said the slaver’s man. “He is sending two agents.”

There was then a sturdy knocking at the door of the chamber.

“Do not kneel,” said the slaver’s man.

Cornhair heard the door of the chamber swung open, and she gathered that two men, at least two men, had entered.

“This is the slave?” said a voice.

“Yes,” said the slaver’s man.

Cornhair felt her upper left arm seized in a strong grip, and she was turned about, facing the door.

“Am I to be taken to my Master?” she asked.

Her only response was an ugly laugh.

She was then conducted from the chamber.