“Do you think,” he asked, “that I am a fool and weakling?”
“In general, no,” I said, “but men wiser and stronger than you, I am sure, and men perhaps wiser and stronger than I, have succumbed to eyes bright with tears, a strand of hair brushed piteously aside, a faltering syllable, a trembling lip.”
“But she is Alcinoe,” he said.
“And Tula is Tula, and Lana is Lana, and Iris is Iris, and Lita is Lita, and so on,” I said. “They are all soft, subtle, cunning, dangerous beasts.”
“You feel I am in danger?”
“That is my surmise,” I said.
“Surely I am not uniquely in danger?”
“Doubtless not,” I said. “But see that the stern resolution which takes the beast from the block does not melt when it lies at your slave ring. Deprive the she-sleen of her domination and she will become confused, and bitter, denied her coveted meaning as your beast. She will turn on you. She will scorn your weakness, and mock your frailty. Unmastered she is an angry leaf in the wind, without direction, no better than a free woman, flung about, tormented and unfulfilled. She longs to obey, to love and serve. Deny her this and you deny her to herself. She understands will, and the whip. See that she is never in doubt as to either. The slave is never content until she lies naked at the feet of a man.”
There was then a knocking at the jamb of the open portal, and Captain Nakamura appeared in the opening. He carried with him a small package.
The stranger rose to his feet.
Doubtless he was embarrassed to be found on his knees, a slave in his arms. Certainly I trusted so.
“Do you accept the gift?” asked Captain Nakamura.
“Yes,” said the stranger.
“I am sure I can find others, who will buy it from you, if you wish,” he said.
“No,” said the stranger.
“Lord Nishida and Tarl Cabot, the tarnsman,” he said, “have included some tokens with the gift, which, as you are accepting it, I may present to you.”
“My thanks,” said the stranger.
“One is a slave garment,” he said, “which seems more locally cultural than her current tunic, and the other is a coiling of chain and rings, which, I am told, is a sirik.”
The stranger accepted the small package, a slave tunic, within which was wrapped a sirik.
“Do you wish her current tunic back?” asked the stranger.
“No,” said the captain, smiling, “though we have purchased some local slaves, for transportation to the islands.”
I did not understand the smile of Captain Nakamura, as he seemed, on the whole, a rather undemonstrative, reserved fellow. To be sure, I am informed by the stranger that these fellows are much freer in emotion, teasing, joking, and such, when amongst one another.
The slave, who had her head down, I thought was smiling, as well.
I did not understand the meaning of this, either.
The first thing I would have done was discard the long, heavy, opaque Pani tunic, which seemed quite inappropriate for a slave, at least in good weather, given what a slave was.
Let it be cast away!
Captain Nakamura then bowed, excusing himself, but paused, at the door. “It is my understanding,” he said, “from a cripple at the castle, a man named Rutilius of Ar, that the slave, Alcinoe, may have value in Ar.”
“Oh?” said the stranger.
The slave, on her knees, turned white.
“It is his claim that she is the former Lady Flavia of Ar, a fugitive, one for whom a sizable bounty would be paid. I was to arrange for her delivery to Ar, collect the bounty, and divide it, on my return, with him.”
“Interesting,” said the stranger.
“In any event,” said the captain, “the slave is yours.”
“Yes,” said the stranger, “she is mine.”
The tone of his voice, I conjectured, would leave no doubt in the slave’s mind but what she was indeed his.
It would be up to him, whether or not she would be taken to Ar.
With another short, courteous bow, Captain Nakamura withdrew.
I was apprehensive.
The attitude of the stranger seemed to have changed.
Outside the tall window a cloud must have passed before
But the simple words of Captain Nakamura, I thought, even more than a darkening cloud, had engloomed the chamber. It was as though they had enkindled a mysterious lamp, a lamp of memory, which, when lit, emitted not light, but darkness, fear, and cold. Where there had been warmth, light, joy, touching, and love, there was now a dampness, as of the dungeon, a darkness as of caverns, a polar chill, the coldness of fearful order, of propriety, of a vision of justice, as unwelcome as the touch of a snake at night.
The stranger handed me the scrap of cloth, which would be a typical slave tunic. He retained the sirik.
I myself had no doubt that the slave, appropriately on her knees before her master, the stranger, had once been highly placed in Ar, and perhaps a conspirator in the treason that had betrayed that city into the hands of Cos, Tyros, and several of the free companies.
The stranger looked down on the slave, and she shrank small before him. I sensed then that his memory swept him back to Ar, and that, for a moment, he saw before him not a loving, eager, precious possession, who might be sought even at the World’s End, but a traitress and fugitive, one vain and treacherous, one who, when free, had betrayed her Home Stone, abused power, and turned even on her supposed friend, whom she had honored as her Ubara.
“Strip,” he said to her.
“Master?” she said.
“Instantly,” he said.
“Yes, Master,” she said, frightened, and hastened to pull away, over her head, the Pani tunic.
He then dangled before her frightened eyes the loops of chain, with its rings.
“I am no longer she whom you despise,” she said. “I am different! I am now in a collar! I am only a collared slave, and yours, my master! I am contrite! I am penitent! I have learned softness, deference, humility, vulnerability, giving, truth, honesty, kindness, caring, service, awareness of others!”
She looked up at him.
With a movement of his foot, he brushed the Pani tunic to the side. I thought it made an unusual noise, sliding on the boards.
“Stand,” he said.
“Surely you care for me, a little!” she said. “And know, Callias, of Jad, that I am yours, not just to the collar, but to the heart.”
He reached down, and struck her twice, sharply, first by the palm of his right hand, and then by the back of his right hand.
“The slave,” he said, “does not soil the name of a free man by putting it on her slave lips.”
I supposed she had been aware of this protocol, that the slave does not address a free person by his name, but, perhaps, in the stress of the moment, this simplicity had escaped her. In any event, such lapses are not permitted in a slave.
“Forgive me,” she said.
He motioned for her to rise, and she did so, and stood before him, though I feared she might fall.
“Prepare to be siriked,” he said.
She put her hand, frightened, before her face, and then, suddenly, turned, and fled to the opposite wall, against which she stood, the palms of her hands at the side of her head, her belly to the wall.
“Return,” he said, evenly.
