their knees to kiss her jeweled feet. She could make me do this, too, of course, by threat of torture and flogging. But she had always gloried in her womanly power over men without need of other coercion.
More and more she grew tired that I would not break to her of my own free will. I suspected if I did the mailed swordsman would be summoned from the alcove to make an end of me and Natema would look for her next plaything.
No one, not even Nijni, knew how many slaves there were in the House of Esztercari. There were books of account, kept by slave scribes; but slaves died, were sold, fresh slaves were bought or exchanged and the accounts were never up-to-date. To add to the confusion, within the Noble House itself there were many families-that of Cydones being the Premier Family-and one might sell a slave within the House and cross him or her off the lists; but he was still slaving in the stables or she was fetching water in the kitchens of one of the palaces on the Enclave of Esztercari. During this period the news of an encounter flew about the slave rooms and halls. The Lay House of Parang had been attacked across the canal separating its enclave from that of the Noble House of Eward. Those of Eward hotly denied their guilt, blaming others unknown. Gloag winked at me.
“That’s the work of the Ponthieu, by Father Mehzta-Makku!
They hate Eward like poison, and our House backs them.”
I remembered what Natema had said of the alignment of power.
This petty political chicanery and bravo-fighting meant nothing to me. I hungered for Delia. And yet, I had to face the unpalatable fact that I had no proof Delia cared for me. How could I aspire to her, after what had happened? Had I not interfered in Aphrasoe, she might have been cured, have been safely home with her people in far Delphond-wherever that was. The name was known-and I had thrilled to that information-but no slave could tell me where it was, or if it was a continent, an island, a city. Undoubtedly, I reasoned, Delia had every cause to hate me. The next evening I was sent for by Natema and instead of Gloag and his Mehztas the escort consisted of yellow-skinned Chuliks, their gray tunics bright with emerald bands, and their rapiers swinging with an insolent swagger. They wore black leather boots, that clashed on the floor. A fresh consignment of Chulik mercenaries had recently arrived in Zenicce and the House of Esztercari had taken the major proportion to serve her devious ends.
The first thing I noticed as I entered that scented room with the white silk gloves upon my hands was that the steel-meshed swordsman no longer stood half-concealed in his alcove. Steel-mesh was a rare and valuable armor in Segesthes; men habitually wore arm and leg clasps, and breasts and backs, with dwarf pauldrons, mostly of bronze; sometimes of steel. Always, the ideal of the Segesthan fighting man was attack-always, attack. The Princess Natema looked incredibly lovely this evening as the first Kregen’s seven moons floated into the paling topaz sky. Her long emerald gown was gone, and she wore a sparkling golden vestment that limned her form breathtakingly. She smiled on me and held out her arms.
“Dray Prescot!” She stamped her jeweled foot; but not in rage. A subtle transformation had turned her domineering ways aside, so that she seemed to me almost more lovely than she had been. She bade me rise from the incline-and amazingly she made me sit down at her side. She poured wine for me.
“You said I would prove an interesting slave,” she whispered. Her eyes lowered. Her breast moved with the violence of her breathing. I felt most uneasy. That damned swordsman was missing, and I’d come to regard him, incredible though it may sound, as a kind of chaperon.
Our relationship, Natema’s and mine, had flowered almost unnoticed by me; but clearly she believed that I was passionately drugged by her beauty and frightened only of being killed, and ready, now, to overlook that blemish in my pure regard for her. Many men had died for her, I knew. Her seduction of me progressed with a steady sure possessiveness like that of a python swallowing down its kill. I resisted, for although she was a flower of women, and immensely subtle in her dispensation of pleasure, I could think only of Delia. I do not claim any great powers of self-control; many men would regard me as a fool not to sip the honey while the blooms are open. But the more her passionate advances continued the more she, contrariwise, repelled me. How it would have ended I do not like to think.
Strings of emeralds twined about her white throat and draggled along her naked arms as she lay on the floor at my feet, pleading unashamedly now, turning her tear-stained face up to me. Her face was flushed, hectic, passionate.
“Dray! Dray Prescot! I cannot speak your name without trembling! I want you-only you! I would be your slave girl if I could-all you want, Dray Prescot, is yours for the mere asking!”
“There is nothing between us, Natema,” I said roughly. Sink me, if I were to be killed for it I wanted nothing of this scented, evil, beautiful woman!
She ripped the golden tissue vestments from her glorious body and stretched up her arms to me, pleading, sobbing.
“Am I not beautiful, Dray Prescot? Is there a woman in all Zenicce so fair? I need you-I want you! I am a woman, you are a man-Dray Prescot!”
I backed away, and I knew then, I admit it, that I was weakening. All the passionate loveliness of her lay at my feet, all her contempt, her scorn, her taunting gone, and in their places only a beautiful distraught girl with disheveled hair and tear-streaked face begging me to love her. Oh, yes, I nearly succumbed-I was, still, at heart only a simple sailorman.
“I have watched you, Dray, many and many a time! Oh, yes! I have struggled against my desires, against my passion for you. It has torn my heart. But I cannot resist any longer.” She crawled after me, begging. “Please, Dray, please!”
Could I believe her? Her words sounded like rote, like phrases learned against a need, as though she repeated them with a set purpose. And yet-naked, jewel-entwined, her rosy flesh glowing, she lay there at my feet in supplication. I did not know if this was one more damnable trick, or if she truly fancied she loved me. She rose to her feet, her arms outstretched, her breast rising and falling with the tumult of her passion, her red lips shining, her eyes ardent with love, all her emotions rich and full and aroused-
The door smashed open and a Chulik staggered through with a thick and clumsy spear transfixing his body from which the bright blood spouted.
Natema screamed like one caught in red-hot pincers.
I leaped. I snatched up the Chulik’s fallen rapier in my right hand and scooped up in the same movement his dagger in my left. I sprang before Natema and faced the broken door.
Another Chulik collapsed inward, trying to hold together the slit edges of his throat. Men and half-men boiled outside.
“Quick!” Natema grabbed my arm. Naked, she raced to the alcove where the steel-meshed warrior had once stood. A panel slid aside. We passed through and Natema gave a quick and vicious laugh of vengeful triumph at our escape-and a spear lanced through to embed itself quivering in the wood and block the closure of the secret panel.
The sound of fierce yells and the clash of steel spurred us on and we ran bounding down stone stairs in dim lamplight until we reached a landing from which many doors opened. Feet clattered down the stone stairs after us. Before one of the doors lay the body of the man in mail. He had simply been battered to death with clubs. His body was broken and pulped within the mesh. Around him lay piled bodies of slaves, both men and beast. He had died well. A door had banged as we descended and I surmised the slaves trying to pass the mailed man had heard us descending and thought we were guards come to reinforce this lone warrior. I saluted him as he deserved.
Then I bent and took off his broad leather belt with its plain steel buckle. On the belt were hung his rapier and dagger scabbards. Those two superb weapons I picked up-one from the body of an Och slave, the other from a plug-ugly with black hair all over him and a nose ten degrees to port.
“Hurry, you fool!” screamed Natema.
I ran after her, clutching my arsenal of weapons.
We passed through a door and along passageways within the palace dimly-lit with oil lamps. Shadows swung wildly about us. I heard the noise of feet ahead and halted. Natema clung to me, soft and firm and panting, her hair dangling before her face. Angrily she thrust it back. I took the opportunity to buckle the warrior’s broad leather belt about my waist. The fancy clothes came in useful to wipe the blades clean; then I wadded them and tossed them aside and stood only in my breechclout.
“Nijni will not be pleased,” I whispered.
“What?” She was startled.
