The girl turned white. “You seduced me,” I explained.
“No! No!” she cried.
“What were you called as a woman?” I asked.
“Lana!” she cried out in agony. She tried to pull away. “Release me!”
We heard the outer gate, by guards, being opened. “They will be here in a moment!” she cried. “Please!”
I released her ankle, and lifted myself, dripping, from the bath.
She thrust the towels at me, almost in a frenzy. We heard the arriving guards outside the inner door conversing with those who guarded it.
“Towel yourself!” she said.
I lifted my arms. “Towel me, Lana,” said I.
“Sleen!” she cried.
I looked about at the seraglio. It was lovely. There were high separated, decorated columns, many arches, much carving, rich hangings, much tile, floors marbled and mosaiced, too. It was lofty, spacious, beautiful. I regretted I did not have more time to spend here.
“Sleen!” wept the girl, beginning to rub me with the first of the towels. “Help me!” she cried to the other girl, who was frightened.
“No,” I said. “Only you, Lana.”
Weeping, furious, Lana applied the towel to my body. “Oh!” she cried. For I then had her in my arms. I reached behind her body. She put her head back. “No!” she cried. “Are you mad? I am your seraglio mistress! No!” The garment, hooks broken, fell to her ankles.
“You do not have the body, either, of a male,” I observed.
“Please,” she wept.
I kissed her on each breast, for they were beautiful.
“I am your seraglio mistress!” she wept.
I kissed her fully on the mouth, holding her helplessly. “No,” I said, “you are only a beautiful slave girl.”
I released her and she, clumsily, in haste, applied the towels to my body. When she had finished she was at my feet, drying them. I lifted her to her feet and put her back against one of the cool, narrow marble columns supporting the arched roof of the seraglio. I stood close to her, our lips but an inch parted.
With my fingertips, on either side, I caressed the sides of her throat. “This throat,” I said, “is aristocratic and beautiful. It would look well in a collar.” Her eyes met mine. “I wish it wore yours.” she said, “-Master.” I kissed her.
I heard the bolt sliding back on the inner door. The other girl threw me the red-silk tunic and I slipped it on, dropping the yellow necklace inside the tunic.
The door opened. Two guards stood there, in purple and yellow burnoose.
“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.
