who had spoken. It was he who held the whip. I noted grimly that its leather was wet with my blood.
'I am not a slave,' I said.
The man was stripped to the waist, a brawny fellow wearing buckled leather wrist straps, his hair bound back on his head with a band of grey cloth. 'In Tharna,' said he, 'a man such as you can be nothing else.' I looked about the room, which curved to a dome some twenty- five feet above the floor. There were several exits, most of them rather small, barred apertures. From some I heard groaning. From some others I heard the shuffling and squealing of animals, perhaps more of the giant urts. By one wall there was a large bowl of burning coals, from which protruded the handles of several irons. A rack of some sort was placed near the bowl of coals. It was large enough to accomodate a human being. In certain of the walls chains were fixed, and here and there, other chains dangled from the ceiling. On the walls, as though in some workshop, there hung instruments of various sorts, which I shall not describe, other than to say that they were ingeniously designed for the torment of human beings.
It was an ugly place.
'Here,' said the man proudly, 'peace is kept in Tarna.'
'I demand,' I said, 'to be taken to the Tatrix.'
'Of course,' said the man. He laughed unpleasantly. 'I shall take you to the Tatrix myself.'
I heard the winding of a chain on a windlass, and saw one of the barred gates leading from the chamber slowly lifting. The man gestured with his whip. I understood I was to go through the opening.
'The Tatrix of Tharna is expecting you,' he said.
Chapter Eleven LARA, TATRIX OF THARNA
I passed through the opening, and painfully began to climb a small, circular passage, staggering with each step under the weight of the heavy metal yoke. The man with the whip, cursing, urged me to greater speed. He poked me savagely with the whip, the narrowness of the passage not allowing him to use it as he wished.
Already my legs and shoulders ached from the strain of the yoke. We emerged in a broad, but dim hall. Several doors led from this hall. With his whip, prodding me scornfully, the man in wrist straps directed me through one of these doors. This door led again into a corridor, from which again several doors led, and so it continued. It was like being driven through a maze or sewer. The halls were lit occasionally by tharlarion oil lamps set in iron fixtures mounted in the walls. The interior of the palace seemed to me to be deserted. It was innocent of colour, of adornment. I staggered on, smarting from the whip wounds, almost crushed by the burden of the yoke. I doubted if I could, unaided, find my way from this sinister labyrinth.
At last I found myself in a large, vaulted room, lit by torches set in the walls. In spite of its loftiness, it too was plain, like the other rooms and passageways I had seen, sombre, oppressive. Only one adornment relieved the walls of their melancholy aspect, the image of a gigantic golden mask, carved in the likeness of a beautiful woman. Beneath this mask, there was, on a high dais, a monumental throne of gold.
On the broad steps leading to the throne, there were curule chairs, on which sat, I supposed, members of the High Council of Tharna. Their glittering silver masks, each carved in the image of the same beautiful woman, regarded me expressionlessly.
About the room, here and there, stood stern warriors of Tharna, grim in their blue helmets, each with a tiny silver mask on the temple — members of the palace guard. One such helmeted warrior stood near the foot of the throne. There seemed to be something familiar about him.
On the throne itself there sat a woman, proud, lofty in haughty dignity, garbed regally in majestic robes of golden cloth, wearing a mask not of silver but of pure gold, carved like the others in the image of a beautiful woman. The eyes behind the glittering mask of gold regarded me. No one need tell me that I stood in the presence of Lara, Tatrix of Tharna. The warrior at the foot of the throne removed his helmet. It was Thorn, Captain of Tharna, whom I had met in the fields far from the city. His narrow eyes, like those of an urt, looked upon me contemptuously. He strode to face me.
'Kneel,' he commanded. 'You stand before Lara, Tatrix of Tharna.' I would not kneel.
Thorn kicked my feet from under me, and, under the weight of the yoke, I crashed to the floor, helpless.
'The whip,' said Thorn, extending his hand. The burly man in wrist straps placed it in his hand. Thorn lifted the instrument to lay my back open with its harsh stroke.
'Do not strike him,' said an imperious voice, and the whip arm of Thorn dropped as though the muscles had been cut. The voice came from the woman behind the golden mask, Lara herself. I was grateful.
Hot with sweat, each fibre in my body screaming in agony, I managed to gain my knees. Thorn' s hands would allow me to rise no further. I knelt, yoked, before the Tatrix of Tharna.
The eyes behind the yellow mask regarded me, curiously.
'Is it thus, Stranger,' she asked, her tones cold, 'that you expected to carry from the city the wealth of Tharna?'
I was puzzled, my body was racked with pain, my vision was blurred with sweat.
'The yoke is of silver,' said she, 'from the mines of Tharna.' I was stunned, for if the yoke was truly of silver, the metal on my shoulders might have ransomed a Ubar.
'We of Tharna,' said the Tatrix, 'think so little of riches that we use them to yoke slaves.'
My angry glare told he that I did not consider myself a slave. From the curule chair beside the throne rose another woman, wearing an intricately wrought silver mask and magnificent robes of rich silver cloth. She stood haughtily beside the Tatrix, the expressionless silver mask gleaming down at me, hideous in the torchlight it reflected. Speaking to the Tatrix, but not turning the mask from me, she said, 'Destroy the animal.' It was a cold, ringing voice, clear, decisive, authoritative. 'Does the law of Tharna not give it the right to speak, Dorna the Proud, Second in Tharna?' asked the Tatrix, whose voice, too, was imperious and cold, yet pleased me more than the tones of she who wore the silver mask. 'Does the law recognise beasts?' asked the woman whose name was Dorna the Proud. It was almost as if she challenged her Tatrix, and I wondered if Dorna the Proud was content to be Second in Tharna. The sarcasm in her voice had been ill concealed.
The Tatrix did not choose to respond to Dorna the Proud.
'Has he still his tongue?' asked the Tatrix of the man with the wrist straps, who stood behind me.
'Yes, Tatrix,' said the man.
I thought that the woman in the silver mask, who had been spoken of as Second in Tharna, seemed to stiffen with apprehension at this revelation. The silver mask turned upon the man in wrist straps. His voice stammered, and I wondered if, behind me, his burly frame trembled. 'It was the wish of the Tatrix that the slave be yoked and brought to the Chamber of the Golden Mask as soon as possible, and unharmed.'
I smiled to myself, thinking of the teeth of the urt and the whip, both of which had found my flesh.
'Why did you not kneel, Stranger?' asked the Tatrix of Tharna. 'I am a warrior,' I responded.
'You are a slave!' hissed Dorna the Proud from behind that expressionless mask. Then she turned to the Tatrix. 'Remove his tongue!' she said. 'Do you give orders to she who is First in Tharna?' asked the Tatrix. 'No, Beloved Tatrix,' said Dorna the Proud.
'Slave,' said the Tatrix.
I did not acknowledge the salutation.
'Warrior,' she said.
Beneath the yoke I raised my eyes to her mask. In her hand, covered with a glove of gold, she held a small, dark leather sack, half filled with coins. I assumed they were the coins of Ost and wondered where the conspirator might be. 'Confess that you stole these coins from Ost of Tharna,' said the Tatrix.
'I stole nothing,' I said. 'Release me.'
Thorn laughed unpleasantly from behind me.
'I advise you,' said the Tatrix, 'to confess.'
I gathered that, for some reason, she was eager that I plead guilty to the crime, but as I was innocent, I refused.
'I did not steal the coins,' I said.
'Then, Stranger,' said the Tatrix, 'I am sorry for you.'
I could not understand her remark, and my back felt ready to snap under the weight of the yoke. My neck ached under its weight. The sweat poured down my body and my back still stung from the lash.
'Bring in Ost!' ordered the Tatrix.
I thought Dorna the Proud stirred uneasily in the curule chair. She smoothed the silver folds of her robes with a nervous hand, gloved in silver.
There was a whimpering and a scuffling from behind me, and, to my astonishment, one of the guardsmen of the palace, the tiny silver mask blazed across the left temple of his helmet, flung Ost, the conspirator, yoked and sniveling, to the foot of the throne. Ost' s yoke was much lighter than mine but, as he was a smaller man, the weight might have been as much for him.
'Kneel to the Tatrix,' commanded Thorn, who still retained the whip. Ost, squealing with fear, tried to rise, but could not lift the yoke. Thorn' s whip hand was raised.
I expected the Tatrix to intervene on his behalf, as she had on mine, but, instead, she said nothing. She seemed to be watching me. I wondered what thoughts glittered behind that placid mask of gold.
'Do not strike him,' I said.
Without taking her eyes from me, Lara spoke to Thorn. 'Prepare to strike,' she said.
The yellowish, purple-marked face split into a grin and Thorn' s fist tightened on the whip. He did not take his eyes from the Tatrix, wanting to strike at the first instant she permitted the blow.
'Rise,' said the Tatrix to Ost, 'or you will die on your belly like the serpent you are.'
'I can' t,' wept Ost. 'I can' t.'
The Tatrix coldly lifted her gloved hand. When it fell so too would the whip.
'No,' I said.
