'What do you know of a white slave girl who works within it?' I asked.
'Pembe,' he said, 'who is the proprietor of the tavern, has not owned a white-skinned girl in months.'
'Ah!' I said.
'Take back your tarsk,' said Kipofu.
'Keep it,' I told him. 'You have told me much of what I wanted to know.'
I then turned about and strode away, taking my leave from the presence of Kipofu, that unusual Ubar of the beggars of Schendi.
11
Shaba
The girl stood at the heavy, wooden door, on the dark street, and knocked, sharply, four times, followed by a pause, and then twice. A tiny tharlarion-oil lamp burned near the door. I could see her dark hair, and high cheekbones, in the light. The yellow light, too, flickering, in the shadows, glinted on the steel collar beneath her hair. She wore a tan slave tunic, sleeveless, of knee length, rather demure for a bond girl. It did, however, have a plunging neckline, setting off the collar well.
She repeated the knock, precisely as before.
She was barefoot. In her hand, wadded up, was a tiny scrap of yellow slave silk, which had been her uniform in the tavern of Pembe.
She was not a bad looking girl. Her hair, dark-brown, was of shoulder length.
Her accent, as I had detected yesterday evening, in the Golden Kailiauk, was barbarian. Something in it, when she had cried out, or spoken to me, suggested that she might be familiar with English.
I had little doubt she had been affiliated with he who had called himself Kunguni. She had simulated the appearance of the blond-haired barbarian beneath the brown aba. Her face and body, when she had protested her innocence to me, had belied her words. I had learned from Kipofu that she was not owned by Pembe, proprietor of the Golden Kailiauk. Doubtless, for a fee, paid by her master, if she were a slave, she had been permitted to serve in his place of business. Sometimes masters do this sort of thing for their girls. It is cheaper than renting space for them in the public or private pens. Pembe would not be likely to think anything amiss.
I stood back in the shadows. A tiny panel in the door slid back. Then it shut. A moment later the door opened.
I saw, in the light; briefly, the scarred face, and bent back, hunched, of he who had called himself Kunguni. He looked about, but did not see me, concealed in the shadows. The girl slipped past him, and entered the door. It then shut.
I looked about, and then crossed the narrow street I glanced at the shuttered windows. I could see cracks of light between the wooden slats.
Inside, not far from the door, I could see the girl and the man. The room, or anteroom, was dingy.
'Is he here yet?' asked the girl.
'Yes,' said the man, 'he is waiting inside.'
'Good,' she said.
'It is our hope,' said the man, 'that you will be more successful this evening than last.'
'I can get nothing out of her, if she knows nothing.' snapped the girl.
'That is true,' said the man.
The girl took the bit of wadded yellow pleasure silk she carried in her hand and, straightening it a bit, slipped it on a narrow wooden rod in an open closet. 'Disgusting garment,' she said. 'A girl might as well be naked.'
'A lovely garment,' said the man, 'but I agree with your latter sentiment.'
She looked at him, angrily.
'Did many ask for you tonight?' he asked. 'Or did Pembe have to inform them that you were not for use?'
'None asked,' she said, angrily.
'Interesting,' he said.
'Why is it 'interesting'?' she asked, not pleasantly.
'I do not know,' he said. 'It just seems that your face and body would be of interest to men, but apparently they are not.'
'I can be attractive, if I wish,' she said.
'I doubt it,' he said.
'Behold!' she said, striking a pose.
'It is fraudulent,' he said. 'Women such as you understand nothing of attractiveness. With you it is a matter of externals, of acting. Any true man sees through it immediately. You confuse the pretense with the truth, the artificial and imitative with the reality. You think you could become attractive but merely choose not to be so. It is a delusion, as you understand these things. This permits you to console yourself with lies and, at the same time, provides you with an excuse for despising and belittling the truly attractive woman, thinking she is merely, as you would be, if you were she, acting. But it is not true. The source of a woman's attractiveness is within her. It is internal. It comes from the inside out She is vulnerable, and desires men, and wishes: to be touched and owned. This then shows in her body and movements, and in her eyes and face. That is the truly attractive woman.'
'Like that she-sleen in the other room?' asked the woman.
'She has felt the whip, and known male domination,' he said. 'Have you?'
'No,' she said.
'I took the liberty of caressing our lovely bound captive a bit before you arrived,' he said. 'She is quite hot.'
'I hate that sort of woman,' said the girl. 'She is weak. She is a slave, and I am not'
I saw the man smile.
'Tonight, if she knows anything,' said the girl, 'I will get it out of her.'
'I am sure you will,' he said.
I then saw the girl, to my surprise, remove a tiny key from her tunic.
'Permit me,' he said.
'Thank you, no,' she said, acidly. Then she, lifting her arms, fitted the key into the lock at the back of her collar. This action lifted the line of her breasts, which was lovely, and lifted the tan slave tunic a bit higher on her thighs. She was nicely legged, as I had noted before. 'You needn't look at me as I do this,' she said.
'Forgive me,' he said, and turned away. He smiled. He began to undo certain buckles, attached to leather straps, within his own tunic.
She removed the collar, and set it on a shelf in the closet, with the key. 'A collar,' she said. 'How barbaric it is to put women in collars.' She shuddered.
I saw to my surprise, that the man, he who had been called Kunguni, drew forth, from beneath his tunic, a sewn, padded mound of cloth, heavy, globelike, with dangling straps. He then straightened his back. He was not tall, but he stood now slim and straight His right leg, too, now did not seem to afflict him. He stood straight upon it With the thumb and first finger of his right hand he peeled a cunning, jagged streak of paste and ocher from his left cheek, removing what I had taken to be a scar. I recalled the words of Kipofu: 'His back is crooked and It is not. His back is hunched and it is not. His face is scarred. and it is not. His leg is crippled and it is not.' But I did not know who he might be. 'Do not seek him,' had said Kipofu. 'Forget him. Flee.'
'How long must I continue this farce of feigned service at the Golden Kailiauk?' she asked.
'Tonight,' said the man, 'was your last of feigned service there.'
'Excellent,' she said.
He smiled.
'If you would now excuse me,' she said, coolly, 'I would like to slip into something suitable for a woman.'
