PROLOGUE
In the beginning was…an ending…a change…a stale reworking…a fresh start…an ongoing saga accompanied by the laughter of gods playing with the cosmos of their creation.
In what world is this tale set? On Earth, O Revered Reader. A wise man once divined that the universe surrounding us may be one of a vast array of parallel universes, some of which split off from the one we regard as unique. Who can say which of an infinite number of Earths represents perfection, if indeed perfection forms a quality possible of attainment by any world hosting intelligent life?
CHAPTER ONE
His lined face peaceful, the old man lay as if asleep, but his hand, firmly clasped by that of his employer, turned ominously cold. He's dead , Astur silently concluded. Grief enveloped him, when no faint rise and fall of his long-time servant's chest met his questing glance. Dead. May the gods in whom Obur placed such touching trust give him welcome. Assuming, of course, that deities exist, and the spirits of the dead really do live on in some beatific state. Well, if loyalty and competence count for anything with whatever gods there be, this man deserves a rousing welcome to their nebulous realm.
Of all the ill luck! How will I ever find a trustworthy servant here in Jankar?
Exasperation contended with sorrow as the Benizari nobleman ended his soliloquy. Rising, he drew the blanket over the face of the dead man, before striding out of the rented quarters to arrange for the funeral.
Two hours later, at midmorning, Astur stood stiffly erect before the newly filled grave, flanked by six men of his company of caravan-guards, who modeled their bearing on his. A stooped, frail priest from the Temple of Kallinor sprinkled scented water on the earth covering the departed as he chanted prayers in the Old Tongue. A row of stunted trees, their gnarled trunks attesting to their advanced age, bordered the Place of the Dead on the north. The fortification wall of the town formed the southern boundary of the burial ground. A hot, dry breeze blowing out of the west promised to increase in intensity as the day wore on. Beyond the trees lay the Plain of Shobrun, and beyond that arid, rock-bestrewed land rose the mountains.
Rest easy, O Paragon Among Servants , the Tenzar mutely urged the spirit that he hoped soared free to a safe haven. I'll miss you . Unstoppering a wineskin suspended by a strap over his shoulder, he strode forward, and poured a generous libation on the grave, in keeping with Benizari custom. Rest easy .
When the ceremony ended, Astur pressed a silver coin into the hand of the devotee who had performed it, prompting him to bestow a blessing in a voice strong for issuing from so fragile a body. Out of respect for the priest, if not for his faith, the stalwart fighting men walked decorously to the rear of the stooped figure wrapped in the white robe signifying that the rite performed on this day honored one newly dead. Having passed through the North Gate of Jankar, the procession halted before the door of the Temple . Turning, the priest blessed the mourners, before vanishing into the sacred precincts.
Standing at the convergence of the three thoroughfares that led away from the North Gate, Astur dismissed his men. A twinge of envy assailed him as he watched them hasten as one man down the Street of Brothels. Squaring his shoulders, he turned in the opposite direction, and entered the Street of Slave-Sellers, which formed the shortest route to the Street of Lodgings for Travelers.
As he strode down that bustling thoroughfare, he reviewed certain truths well known to him. Although the Jankari held themselves aloof from traffic in slaves, as did the Benizari, the city's rulers tolerated the selling of captives taken in raids, given that Jankar formed a crossroads of five important caravan routes, and always swarmed with foreigners. Local bandits bred in foothills cursed with a short growing season, scant water for irrigation, low humidity, and frequent late frosts—conditions that made growing crops chancy—regarded attacking poorly protected caravans and wandering herdsmen as their only viable method of acquiring vital goods they could not afford to purchase. The marauders spared the prosperous residents of the town when they ventured beyond the walls bearing banners identifying them as Jankari. That security formed the townsmen's reward for allowing the hapless prisoners to be sold to buyers from the myriads of caravans passing along the route that wound along the south wall of the town. As the Benizari nobleman dwelled on those dismal circumstances, he frowned in disgust, his reaction occurring without his conscious volition.
Normally, Astur disdained even to glance at the captives as he fended off the more daring of a host of importunate vendors competing for the attention of the motley horde crowding the thoroughfare. On this day, however, knowing that he must quickly find some sort of servant to replace the old man just laid to rest, he let his glance rove over the merchandise.
Stout wooden rails inserted into holes drilled into posts set deep into the dusty earth—rails fitted with iron rings to which the traders tethered the bound wrists of the unfortunates—lined the crowded thoroughfare flanked by crude log-walled structures that served as quarters for the vendors and windowless cells in which unsold wretches could be imprisoned at night. The nobleman's lip curled, as he observed the line of mostly male figures offered for sale. Pensively, he studied the faces, some rebellious, some apathetic, some despairing, some striving to appear ingratiating in the eyes of a potential buyer.
Of a sudden, he stopped dead in his tracks, his eyes riveted to a female captive: a tall woman clad in the long, belted, multicolored tunic and blue-dyed trousers that proclaimed her a Kithari. Thick, straight, dark hair, plaited into a single braid, hung to the middle of her back. Her oval face, set like stone, he saw to reflect combativeness rather than despair. Strikingly handsome, she projected an air of wary self-possession totally devoid of fear. Her rich garb the viewer knew to be that of a mistress, not a servant.
Now, how did this daughter of prosperous roving traders fall into the hands of Shobrunni raiders? Astur wondered. She's a long way from Kithar!
“Lovely, eh?” the slave-merchant purred, thrusting his unsavory face close to that of the man who instinctively stepped back, so as to increase the distance between them. “Dainty fare for a soldier, mmm? Strong, she is. She can serve as well as pleasure you, O Guardian of Caravans.”
“She'd fight a ravisher with tooth and nail,” came the sardonic reply. “But I'll take her off your hands, if you'll name a reasonable price.”
“Twenty silver quizors,” the trader ventured, his manner conspiratorial. “She's young and strong, and you well know how to tame a rebel.”
Disgust flooded into the bronzed, haughty face of the Tenzar. “You're sun-struck, to ask so outrageous a price,” he spat out as he turned, his intent to leave rightly seen as genuine by the disconcerted slave-seller who initially judged the soldier's interest to be motivated solely by lust.
Swiftly interposing himself between the warrior and the center of the street, the man asked placatingly, “What will you give me for the goods, O Valiant One?”
“Ten quizors,” Astur declared in a tone that brooked no argument.
Sensing that this noble fighting man regarded haggling as demeaning, the trader shrugged. “Give me twelve, and she's yours. I'll throw in an iron collar and a length of chain.”
High, the price, Astur silently concluded, even as he pulled a soft leather drawstring bag from a pouch at his belt. Having counted out twelve coins, he dropped them into the outstretched hand of the trader whose assistant prudently bound the ankles of the woman before freeing her still-pinioned wrists from the rail. As she stood glaring at all concerned, the youth snapped an iron collar around her neck, and fastened the encumbrance with a small brass padlock. The key he pressed into the hand of the Benizari buyer.
“Do you wish my man to deliver her to your camp?” the merchant asked, his eagerness suggesting that he hoped to do further business with the men of this tenzar's company.
“That won't be necessary.” Having waited as the crestfallen slave-trader jotted the details of the transaction on a piece of parchment, as demanded by the local authorities, Astur thrust purse and receipt into his pouch. Heaving the body of his acquisition over his shoulder, he strode off, his burden serving as notice to other would-be sellers that his business in this district just ended.
As he departed, the woman slung over his shoulder face down, her thighs held in a grip of iron, raised her head, and met the glance of the captive next to whom she had been bound at the rail. That man, her first cousin, now cast despairing eyes on her. Until this point, he had minutely scrutinized the Benizari nobleman so intent on the transaction that he paid little attention to the slaves being sold alongside the one he sought to purchase.
Although his acute consciousness of needing a servant prompted Astur to scan the merchandise, it formed only half the reason for his buying the woman. Admiration of her fearlessness soon merged with appreciation of her comeliness. Having spent four hectic days completing one contract while securing another, he had found no time in which to take pleasure with a harlot. Now, striding along with this woman's shapely body pressing upon him, his focus inevitably narrowed to his carnal need. As he neared his destination, he experienced a stirring in his loins.
The hostelry patronized by the Tenzar—a solid, clean, comfortable, but unostentatious establishment—appealed to him not only for those reasons, but also because the proprietor, himself an ex-caravan-guard, made no demur when a noble customer brought a hired woman to his room. The thick log walls of the chambers muted any sounds that might ensue, and the clientele took a fellow resident's need for pleasurable dalliance as understandable.
Even so, Astur experienced uneasiness as he strode into the courtyard, turned right, and thrust the iron key into the padlock securing his rented chamber: one located at ground level. Relieved to see that the proprietor failed to emerge from his quarters, and that no guests stood about talking, he credited the oppressive midday heat with saving him the necessity of enduring unwelcome scrutiny.
Shoving the heavy wooden door open, he crossed the threshold, letting the door slam shut behind him. Striding to the large bed—the only furnishing provided by the proprietor, other than a three-legged stool and a long, stout wooden bench upon which rested a basin and a pitcher—he placed his burden face down on the mattress covered by a pair of coarse but clean sheets. Returning to the door, he dropped the bar swinging from its chain into the iron supports affixed to the jamb, thus preventing anyone from entering. Four small windows set in a row high in the log wall allowed enough sunlight to enter that he saw no need to light the oil lamp suspended by a brass chain from the ceiling.
Having untied the narrow sash used to secure his headcloth—a rectangle of fine white cloth worn as protection against the dust-laden wind and blistering heat of the sun—the warrior hung those items on one of two iron hooks projecting from the side wall. Detaching his scabbard from the leather carrier suspended by two straps from his belt, he suspended his sword from the other hook.
Seeing that his property rolled over on her back, so as to ascertain his intentions, he scooped her up, and seated himself on the bed, holding her pinioned body in his arms. The wariness evident when he first laid eyes on her he saw to have increased, but outrage, not fear, showed in long-lashed green eyes.
“What's your name?” he queried, mastering hot lust so as to achieve a desired end.
When the woman merely glared at him, his voice took on an edge. “You'll do yourself no favor by angering me,” he warned, speaking in the New Tongue: a colorful, highly expressive language developed as an amalgam of the ancient languages formerly spoken in Benizar, Kithar, and Reykandir, the three major cultural centers located within a huge stretch of mountainous land interlaced with routes plied by caravans of traders. “So answer me.”
“I'm Karan,” came the level reply from the woman undaunted by the implied threat.
“I'm Astur of Benizar,” her purchaser stated, his method of identifying himself attesting to his noble birth. Had he been a commoner, he would have described himself as Astur, a tenzar of Benizari caravan-guards. “Of what family do you spring?”
“I won't tell you that,” the woman declared flatly. As she spoke, hot ire smoldered in eyes green as a lake tinted by glacial silt.
Recognizing that refusal as designed to spare her family shame, Astur succumbed to admiration strong enough to extinguish a new accession of anger. “Does your husband still live?” he inquired, bracing for a flood of tears.
“I've never been married.” As she made that startling admission, the woman jutted her chin.
Frowning, her new owner cocked his head to one side, and stared for a few seconds. “Surely you attracted suitors,” he drawled. “Or do you possess a viper's tongue, and so drove them off?”
That barb produced a flush, but the woman replied evenly, “I attracted many suitors, when I came of age. The one my father chose for me to marry brought him six fine horses. But two weeks before we were to wed, my intended's own horse reared up and fell on him, killing him. After I mourned for a year, as custom demands, my father chose a man who likewise brought six fine horses. Two days before the wedding, that strong, active merchant fell sick of a virulent fever, and died. Again I mourned for a year. When my mourning ended, no man came forward.
“Whispers circulated about the fate of those who courted me. When at last a suitor approached my father, he brought only four fine horses, but my father readily agreed to the marriage. Three days later, a bolt of lightning struck and killed the man I was to marry. After that, the single men openly stated their belief that the gods wished me to remain a virgin: that Acendar himself desired me, and would strike dead any mortal who dared propose marriage. So I never married.”
Pity mingled with shock, and faint amusement at the gullibility of the men of Kithar. “Do you believe that?” Astur asked the woman whose eyes betrayed pain.
“My father doubted it,” she responded after a momentary hesitation produced by an ingrained aversion to discussing her personal affairs with a stranger. Suspecting accurately that renewed silence would indeed anger this warrior who now legally owned her, she added reluctantly, “He said men constantly traveling in caravans face many dangers, and often die young. But then, my father thinks for himself. He reveres the gods, but bases his decisions on his own wisdom, not on the toss of divining bones. I also doubt the truth of the claim. Acendar would court a fellow divinity, not a mortal woman. But no man ever again expressed the slightest interest in marrying me. If the gods did anything, they cursed me.”
“How did you fall into the hands of Shobrunni raiders?”
“When my father saw that no local Kithari would take me for his wife, he asked his youngest brother to let me accompany him when he journeyed to Reykandir, hoping that some man living in the large Kithari enclave in that ancient city would make an offer for me, despite my being twenty-four sun-cycles old. But the curse went with me. The Caravan Leader died suddenly as we journeyed, and his brother took his place. That man turned out to be an arrogant fool who angered the merchants. The caravan split into two halves, neither adequately guarded. The contingent ahead of us got wiped out in its entirety by a force of Hattenai raiders.”
“Hattenai? That close to Jankar?” Unable to hide his shock, Astur unwittingly projected doubt.
“Who else kills men, women, and children—even babes in arms?” the woman spat out, her eyes radiating hatred. “But we gained proof. A disgruntled youth beaten by his employer—a boy who hid, intending to let the caravan go on without him, so that he could rejoin the other half when it came to where he awaited it—got overlooked by the fiends slaughtering unarmed innocents. The poor lad witnessed the attack. Beholding it left him half demented, but he provided irrefutable evidence that the assailants were Hattenai.”
By all the wealth of Benizar, why hasn't news that troubling filtered into Jankar? Or did the city's rulers suppress it, so as not to impair their business? Astur wondered uneasily, his every sense telling him that this woman told what she believed to be the truth.
“On hearing that dreadful news, the Caravan Leader decided that we should turn back and join a larger caravan. When we reached that miserable excuse for a city called Lovandir, we failed to find any caravan to join. In desperation, the Leader persuaded the merchants to push on to Jankar, so as to better our chances. But on that relatively short journey, we found ourselves attacked. My uncle died while trying to protect his wife and myself. His wife drove a knife into her breast when she saw him struck down, and she fell, dying, on top of his corpse. Moments later, I used my knife to fend off a raider who sought to grab me. I tried to get to my horse, but I failed to escape.”
“So they ravished you?”
“No. The thrice-accursed informer—a ragged hanger-on we picked up in Lovandir, given that we failed to realize that he sold information to the raiders—gossiped regularly with my uncle's garrulous servant, who evidently spilled my secret. Hoping to ingratiate himself further with the bandits, the misbegotten wretch warned them that the gods struck down any man who looked on me with desire. When they ordered him to enjoy me, so as to test his assertion, he exhibited such fright that they judged his story true. So they assaulted the other women, but not me—may they die of internal rot!”
Taken aback, Astur exclaimed, “You're telling me you're still a virgin—at your age?”
Angry to the core, the Kithari retorted contemptuously, “You asked how I fell into the hands of the Shobrunni, and I explained. I spoke the truth, O Doubter of the Word of Women. I don't expect you to fear the wrath of Acendar—the men of Benizar long ago lost their reverence for the gods—but even after enduring your assault, I'll laugh in glee if the fears of my fellow Kithari turn out to be well founded!”
Thus advised by this fearless, fiercely independent-minded survivor of a violent raid that she fully expected him to ravish her brutally, Astur strove to dominate the new burst of anger provoked by that discovery. Controlling himself, he pondered her words. She really believes that I'll die if I dare to enjoy her, he mused. Well, she's met with more than the usual share of ill luck, but I doubt that a god caused her problems.
I know little about the Kithari, he reflected. I've heard that the men excel at forming and leading caravans, and exhibit unparalleled shrewdness as traders. They have no hereditary aristocracy, offering their most successful merchants the deference our people reserve for the nobility. Kithari possess the reputation of being honest, cheerful, hard-working folk. I've heard that the men allow their women, who go unveiled in public, to speak their minds frankly and freely at all times. However, I've also heard that the wives and daughters of Kithari merchants pride themselves on their skill at pitching their lord's tent, cooking his food, and rendering him comfortable in camp. They don't sit about, languidly watching as servants do that work. Well, I need a servant. I acted rashly, buying this firebrand, but perhaps…
Studying the handsome face of the woman poised to mount a struggle, Astur felt his ire dissolve in a complex mix of admiration, pity, and raw carnal need. “I acted on impulse when I bought you,” he admitted candidly. “I never expected you to be virgin. I figured that you were experienced at pleasing a man, and assumed that your husband must have been killed.
“Understand one thing, Karan. Never in my life have I ever taken a woman by force. Never! I won't do so even with a slave I legally own. Neither will I horsewhip you into serving me. So you need to make a choice. If you consent to let me take you to bed, I'll give you as much pleasure as I take from you. But if you won't give me that consent, I'll have no choice but to take you back to the Street of Slave-Sellers, and pay a commission to a seller so as to get back the bulk of the money I paid for you—a stiff price that I could ill afford to pay out, right now. So. Reflect. If you won't consent to lie with me, it's very likely that the next man who purchases you will be a brothel-keeper lacking any scruples whatsoever.”
Her face now deeply troubled, Karan weighed her options, measuring them against moral imperatives foreign to this man's understanding.
Sensing irresolution, Astur brought to bear all the persuasive charm at his command. In a cajoling tone, he declared, “If you consent to lie with me, and the gods do claim you for their own, they'll strike me dead before I take your virginity. You can then tear up my proof of purchase, and flee with my purse, my dove. And if they don't strike me dead, you'll be forced to consider the possibility that they look with favor on me.”
“You don't fear the wrath of the gods in the least, do you?” That assertion reflected as much wonder as scorn.
“The men of Benizar trust their own judgment rather than the divining bones, as does your father,” the Tenzar observed dryly. “I'm minded to settle the question of whether or not a man can take pleasure with you, and live. Now, do as your father does—rely on your judgment as to which course would be the wisest one. If you consent to couple with me, I'll take you gently, and give you a wealth of pleasure. But if you persist in rebelling, I'll have no choice but to sell you. You don't want to grow old and wrinkled without ever having known the joy a skilled lover can give you, do you?”
That rhetorical question couched in a supremely caressing tone sparked incipient anger—emotion that swiftly died, as yearning normally sternly suppressed swirled out of a locked compartment in the woman's psyche. As she grew aware of its impact, guilt flayed her.
Cradled in strong arms, she studied their owner. Intuitively, she sensed that he meant what he said. Strong emotions, which the man striving to interpret them totally failed to categorize, animated the face handsome rather than beautiful. At length, the captive declared in a level tone, “I'll consent to let you take my virginity.”
Relief blended with wariness in the mind of the man finding his acquisition's mindset hard to fathom. “Wise decision, that,” he opined blandly. Reaching into his pouch, he withdrew the key, unfastened the iron collar, and tossed it next to a long, narrow, cylindrical bag of heavy waxed cloth—bags of the sort typically used by travelers to store personal belongings. Employing deliberate care, he drew a knife from a sheath at his belt, and slashed the thongs binding the woman's wrists. Spying no tensing of muscles signifying an intent to offer resistance—his slave merely rubbed one cruelly abraded wrist with palm of her other hand—he cut the straps drawn tight around her ankles. Still she lay quietly, massaging her wrists while staring intently at him.
“Stand up,” he commanded.
Shakily, the woman suffering a sensation akin to the stabbing of dozens of needles into the flesh of her legs—discomfort precipitated by the release of the tight bonds—rose to her feet, and stood facing the man still sitting on the side of the bed.
“Strip naked,” came the imperious order.
Keeping her face expressionless, the Kithari unfastened her belt of hand-tooled leather, and pulled off the red, gray, black, green and blue-striped tunic, revealing a close-fitting white vest that cupped and confined her breasts. Correctly judging that garment to be a means of preventing those mounds of tender flesh from bouncing when she rode horseback, Astur watched as she unlaced the undergarment, and dropped it on top of the tunic lying on the stone-flagged floor. As his eyes riveted themselves to breasts full, high, and firm, his male member stiffened.
“Sit here, and I'll pull off your boots,” he bade the woman, tapping the bed with his finger. When she obeyed, and held out a foot, he pulled off the tall, elegantly fashioned leather boot possessed of stout, rather high heels that slanted inward, so as to render the wearer's foot incapable of sliding all the way through a stirrup. Tossing aside boot and hand-knitted stocking, he pulled off the other boot.
“Drop your pants,” he directed.
When the dark blue trousers reposed on the floor, to be followed by a pair of long linen drawers, he gazed at the nude woman standing full in his sight. His lust intensified as he beheld the shapeliness of her hard-muscled body, but he exerted rigorous control over his passion. Determined to achieve a certain outcome, he resolved to use the arousal generated by the sight of her nakedness as a means to that end. Rising, he commanded, “Now, undress me.”
Patently startled by that order, the woman hesitated for a fraction of a second before obeying. Staring at her captor, she saw that short brown hair, fine, thick, and displaying a tendency to curl, framed a masculine face notable for a high forehead, straight nose, high cheekbones, and wide-set, luminous brown eyes. Handsome, as were so many Benizari of noble blood, this warrior radiated an aura of command.
Knowing that her owner's male ancestors concentrated in their bloodlines all the treasures of beauty and intelligence showing up in the female portion of the populace, Karan entertained no surprise at beholding comeliness. Nobility among his people comes through the male line, she recalled . Men are either noblemen or commoners. Women don't enjoy rank. So a nobleman can marry the pretty daughter of a commoner without earning censure from his peers, and her sons rank as noble. Over a long succession of sun-cycles, the disparity between the appearance of the commoners and that of the nobles grew noticeably wide.
Walking forward to where her owner still sat on the bed, the nude woman unfastened his belt, and laid belt and pouch on the floor. Reaching for the white, long-sleeved, high-necked, obviously costly tunic covering his torso, she unlaced the thongs holding the aperture at the neck closed, and drew the garment off over his head, baring a muscular chest lightly thatched down the center with fine brown hair. Rising, so as to allow her to divest him of his closely fitting buckskin trousers and gleaming leather boots similar in design to hers, Astur experienced an intense sensual thrill as her hands pushed the fabric down over his hips.
When both occupants of the room stood naked, the Tenzar smiled for the first time since impulsively paying a high price for what could well turn out to be an impediment, rather than a beneficial acquisition. “You're a comely lass,” he stated equably. “No amount of dust and grime can disguise that. You need a bath, my dove. Stand still.”
Striding to the bench, he poured water into the blue-enameled metal basin: his own property, not that of the proprietor. Turning, he reached for the bar of soap and the soft cloth lying on top of his bag, along with several towels. Briskly, he rubbed the soap on the cloth he wet in the basin, raising a lather. Cloth in hand, he advanced on the woman fully expecting to be impregnated swiftly and roughly, perhaps even brutally, by this lusty professional fighter.
Manifestly shocked, Karan found her nude self bathed with all the gentleness and thoroughness that characterized the old nurse who had cared for her lovingly until her twelfth year. As one strong hand cupped a breast, the other soaped the skin beneath it, after laving the mounded flesh. When the hand bearing the cloth slid between her thighs, she bemusedly obeyed a brisk command that she spread her legs. Flushing , she felt the soapy cloth glide over the most intimate part of her body, insinuating itself into every crevice.
At length, clean from head to toe, and energetically rubbed dry, Karan obeyed a crisp command to unbind her hair. Watching as this wholly unpredictable slave-buyer rinsed out the cloth, and spread the damp towel over the bench, she unwound the braid, letting a wealth of dark hair hang free.
Flesh tingling from the brisk massage now shivered, half with apprehension, and half with an emotion its owner refused to categorize as desire. Never until now had Karan seen a man totally naked. Fastening her eyes to Astur's stiff shaft, she grew deeply apprehensive as she noted its size and rigidity. If he tears me … hurts me inside … how will I tend that sort of injury? she wondered distractedly. At least … until I … I've got to stay active … able … Watching as he spread a dry towel on the bed, she shuddered.
Swept into arms of iron, Karan forced herself to go limp, pliant, unresisting.
Braced to endure a swift, rough impregnation, the Kithari experienced further shock as her partner laid her supine on top of the sheets, and kissed not her lips, but her breasts. Seemingly in no hurry to employ the rigid rod she regarded as an offensive weapon, he teased her nipples with his tongue. When they grew hard as nuts, he slid lower, and tongued her navel, even as his fingers vibrated erect nipples rosy from the stimulation. Slowly, his hands slid down her sides, caressing, soothing, gentling her. Turning with athletic grace, her owner now lay with his feet by her head. Parting her thighs, he closed his mouth over her hooded pearl, and sucked on that tender nubbin.
Pleasure so intense that it shocked the virginal recipient of those exotic caresses coursed outwards in waves from the organ so expertly manipulated. The heat radiating from her loins spread up her back. Fingers explored crevices, and spread the flaps of flesh guarding the passage never yet entered by a man's shaft.
Raising his head, Astur saw that the engorged pearl protruded from its folds. Gazing at the opening in close proximity, he beheld evidence that this woman told the truth regarding her virginal state. Surprise mingled with elation. Knowing that a girl used to hard riding and strenuous exercise might well have ruptured the fragile hymen without growing aware of its loss, he would not have doubted her assertion owing to its lack, but its presence he regarded as irrefutable proof of her veracity. Lust already hot now deepened further, but Astur controlled himself admirably. Only when he saw that his partner verged on climax did he mount her. Guiding his tool to the place guarded by the fragile barrier, he penetrated the moist depths with gentle care, using the least possible force.
Expecting pain, Karan experienced exquisite pleasure. Shock dissolved in a sudden accession of what she found herself forced to acknowledge as raw, hot desire for this man who knew more about her body than she did herself. When the rigid rod withdrew, only to thrust again, and again, she clasped the torso its owner kept from pressing uncomfortably on her own body by the pressure of his hands and stiff arms braced against the bed. Grown conscious that he spoke—urged her to yield to her desire, and bedew for him—she reacted to the tone rather than the words. The barrier that fell in her mind—an obstacle far more formidable than the one just ripped apart within her body—freed her to experience the ecstasy she dimly sensed to be imminent. When the supreme moment arrived, its force amazed her. Her awareness narrowed to a single white-hot focus, she savored the pleasure she nowise expected to so overwhelm her.
Lying clasped in Astur's arms, only half conscious, Karan let her mind drift.
A seeming sun-cycle later, the deflowered virgin felt the arms enfolding her loosen their grip. Propping himself on an elbow, her owner studied the face betraying wonder. Inwardly both amused and elated, he exulted, She's deeply passionate! You've gained ground!
Sitting up, Astur swung his legs over the bed, rose, and again soaped the cloth. Returning to the bed, he gently bathed his still recumbent partner's crotch, and then bade her raise her rear off the towel. When he pulled it from beneath her, she saw that blood stained it.
“Virgin you most definitely were,” he conceded, smiling down at her.
But no longer , the woman silently added, as wonder gave way to darker considerations. Gripped by strong, conflicting emotions, she sought to order a mind suddenly gone chaotic.
Seating himself on the side of the bed, still stark naked, Astur spoke, his tone assured. “You pleased me, just now, when you consented to pair with me, Karan. I bought you for a several reasons, but the chief one was this: my servant died this morning, and I've contracted to guard a caravan that leaves here tomorrow at midmorning. I need my tent pitched, my food cooked, and my belongings tended by someone I can trust. You possess the requisite skill.
“So. I'm willing to make you a bargain. If you'll swear on your honor not to try to escape, and to submit gracefully at night and serve me faithfully by day until we get to the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors, which lies just outside Benizar, I'll swear on my honor to treat you considerately, and feed you adequately. When we get to the Plain, I'll set you free. I'll also arrange for a reputable caravan leader to take you to Kithar, so you can return to your father—unless you wish to stay with me indefinitely. Should you choose to do so, I'll welcome that decision.”
Shock so great that it caused her surroundings to thin into grayness rocked the woman wondering if she just heard aright. Judging that she must have, she clapped a hand over her heaving chest, and sought to think clearly. Sacred Fire of Sabanna, I can't … Jolted anew as she realized that this man still lived—that no god struck him down for possessing her—she felt the fundament of her world fracture. Mute, patently distraught, she stared at the owner patiently giving her time to order her thoughts, and reply.
At length, Karan gathered her scattered wits, and spoke. “You know nothing of Kithari customs, do you?” she stated, rather than asked.
“I've never seen Kithar, nor have I ever known a Kithari well,” Astur answered, puzzled by her reaction.
“You asked me to swear an oath on my honor,” the woman reminded him, her tone bitter, her face bleak. “If I were to do that, you'd believe me, because you know that I come of folk who revere honor. If I decided at this moment to conform to ancient custom, I'd swear that oath, so as to fool you into trusting me. But the oath would be invalid. You destroyed my honor when you impregnated me. A Kithari woman can't lie with a man other than the husband her father selects for her, and retain her honor.”
Shocked now in his turn, Astur listened, sensing that she had more to say.
“Ancient custom demands that a Kithari woman ravished by a man use guile to soothe him into believing himself safe. She must then find a means of killing him—in his sleep, if no other way offers. She must then kill herself.”
Words erupted from the man jarred to his depths by this blunt revelation. “I didn't ravish you!” he asserted hotly. “You consented to let me take you to bed!”
“Our custom demands that I only go to bed with a husband chosen by my father! By agreeing to lie with you I forfeited my honor just as certainly as if you'd taken me by force!”
“Your customs defy belief!”
“This custom arises out of a collective wish that we keep our bloodlines pure. Caravans get attacked, women get ravished, and the custom gets followed. The elders and priests say the gods demand that it be followed. Well…the gods seem to have played a cruel trick on me. They killed three honest, decent suitors, and then allowed me to fall into the power of a man who doesn't revere the gods. You offered me a choice between two courses, each of which led to my losing my honor. I chose to lie with you so as to see whether or not the gods would strike you dead! But those fickle divinities let you live!”
“So they did. And if you believe in the power of the gods, you're now forced to acknowledge that they favor me!” came the hot retort.
“Or that they despise me ! So I'm using what wisdom I've gained in twenty-four sun-cycles, in deciding what to do now. Had you taken me brutally, I'd have followed the custom, despite my anger at the gods. But you took me gently…strove to give me pleasure. You then made an offer you saw as generous.
“So. I'll make a bargain with you, O Buyer of Slaves. I'll swear, not on my honor that no longer exists, but on your belief that I once possessed honor, not to try to escape, and to submit gracefully, serve you faithfully, and refrain from harming you, until we reach the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors. But I'll require that you swear on your honor, and that of your noble father, not only to treat me considerately and feed me adequately while we travel, but also to drive your sword through my heart as soon as we arrive at the Monument.”
Aghast at that ultimatum, Astur suddenly realized that had he allowed this strong-willed woman to remain a virgin, he would have gained a faithful servant. Chagrined, he reflected that had he restored a virgin to the Kithari patriarch who sired her, he might have forged a valuable professional tie. Now, his careful plan gone woefully awry, he strove to find a way out of the morass of his own creation.
“Never in my life have I ever ravished a woman, let alone killed one!” he all but shouted, his self-control fracturing. “I surely don't wish to kill you!” Grasping at straws, he queried forcefully, “Why couldn't you return to your father? Since any potential suitor would regard you as the property of the gods, the question of whether or not you lost your virginity should never arise!”
“You think I could face my father, knowing myself dishonored? You think me capable of lying to him? Think again! And the instant he learned what you did, he'd kill me with his own hand, and bury me in an unmarked grave! No! If you won't swear to drive your sword through my heart as soon as we arrive at the Plain of the Monument, I'll do my utmost to abide by the custom! I'll fight you in bed, and force you to guard yourself, or kill me in a fit of rage! Draw on your own wisdom, O Dispenser of Advice! You hold honor in higher regard than you do the gods! So why should giving final peace to a woman who craves a swift, dignified death so as to be free of shame trouble a warrior?”
That final shrewd thrust sent shame surging through the man cursing his error of blithely assuming that this woman so unlike those bred in secluded women's quarters rife with intrigue could be seduced by a skilled lover into doing his will. She's no sly, coy, bored Benizari lady willing to risk cuckolding a husband so as to enjoy the fleeting pleasure afforded by an hour of dalliance with a knowledgeable lover , he chided himself. Why didn't you foresee that this proud, capable Kithari would consider herself dishonored? Think, you damned fool. Think!
Reaching out, Astur swept his distraught acquisition into his arms, and held her in a grip she could not break. “Calm down,” he commanded. “We'll negotiate. Go limp, now. Hear? Once you relax, we'll talk.”
“I won't negotiate!” came the passionate reply. “I'll do your will only if you swear to give me a swift, clean death that will wipe out my dishonor!”
Desperately seeking a way to avoid being forced to swear so appalling an oath, Astur dwelled on the word dishonor. The very shame scalding him suddenly provided enlightenment. Would she … Could I … But you thought of that the instant you laid eyes on her … Yes! I could! But not now. Not yet. Tread warily, you accursed blunderer. Give her a choice! But arrange it so she's confronted with it when she's calm … when she knows you better. Frame your oath carefully. Then let your actions persuade her. Words never will!
“Listen to me, Karan,” Astur urged softly. “Listen, now. I'm not refusing your request. I'll simply add another choice. I'll swear the oath you demanded I swear, if you allow me to add one condition.”
“What condition?”
“I'll offer you two choices. One will be the death you believe you'll still desire a moon-cycle from now. The other I'll describe to you when we arrive at the point that's halfway to the Plain of the Monument: the Valley of the Crescent Lake . All I ask is that you swear to give equal consideration to those two choices. Once you decide, I'll abide by your decision.”
Puzzled, wary, still deeply troubled, Karan queried suspiciously, “And if, after careful deliberation, I still choose death at your hand, you'll drive your sword through my heart as you swore to do?”
“Yes.”
On seeing unmistakable relief crowd out all other emotion on the handsome face of his slave, Astur gripped her by the shoulders, and spoke in an impassioned tone. “Karan, customs vary, from city to city. Rites of worship vary. Beliefs vary. Who can say with certainty that his way forms the only true way, and all others arise from erroneous beliefs? I believe that absolute truth exists, and that what I tell you now is the truth. I haven't destroyed your honor. I've taken it into my keeping. It's absorbed into mine, now. I'll defend it as I would my own. When we get to the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors, and you choose life over death, your honor will return to you.
“You could easily have suffered dreadful dishonor, had I not bought you. You could belong now to some soldier who'd share you with his friends, or lose you at dice to one of them. Or you could now be the property of some unscrupulous trader who'd take you with him on a journey, and rent you out nightly to any man who'd pay his price. Or worst of all, you could have become the chattel of a brothel-keeper in this dismal city. If such a man suspected you'd try to kill him or his customers, he'd bind you to a bed, and rent your pinioned body to men who derive sensual pleasure from inflicting pain on a woman. So before you nurse lasting anger at the gods, consider whether or not they might indeed favor me—and gave you to me as a gift.”
The horror generated by the recital of possibilities contended with outrage engendered by that final barb. Eyes of limpid green darkened, but Karan bit back the tart retort fighting for utterance. Knowing that a Benizari nobleman would cleave to any oath taken on the honor of his family, she refrained from accusing him of hubris. A single moon-cycle of servitude , she reflected bleakly . And then—a swift death. My shame will be wiped away, even though I refused to kill this man who took me outside of a valid marriage. If the gods slew my three honest suitors, and then let this man possess me and live, why should I fear their wrath for failing to do as custom demands?
That hint glanced right off the armor of her self-righteousness, Astur concluded morosely. She'll maintain an icy calm, day and night, and choose death at the Plain of the Monument. Damn my ill luck! No! I'll find a chink in that armor. I've got to, by Jovir's Sword of Flame! I've got to!
Rising, still holding Karan in his arms, Astur set her on her feet. “Swear the oath I demand,” he commanded.
“I swear on your belief that I possessed honor before you impregnated me, not to try to escape, and to serve you faithfully by day, submit gracefully by night, and refrain from harming you, until we reach the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors. I likewise swear to give equal consideration to the two choices you'll offer me: a swift death at your hands, and whatever second course you intend to suggest. This oath shall only apply if you swear in your turn to do what we agreed upon.”
“I swear on my honor, and that of Adanur, my noble father, to treat you considerately and feed you adequately, while we journey. I likewise swear that when we reach the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors, and you've weighed the two choices I offer you, if you choose death over life, I'll drive my sword through your heart. I likewise swear that if you make the second choice, I'll uphold my end of that agreement.”
Confident now that she need not fear enduring an endless succession of sun-cycles of shame and servitude, Karan steeled herself to accept the death that loomed, as the best outcome possible to her misfortune.
Correctly interpreting her expression as acceptance of death, Astur felt his resolve to erode that acceptance harden. Several matters relating to that resolve occurred to him. Swiftly, he hatched a plan, and commenced to follow it.
“I expect that you'll wish to examine the cooking gear used by my former servant,” he declared musingly, keeping all evidence of his troubled mental state off his face. “If you find it inadequate, tell me so, and we'll visit the Market. I don't demand that you wear an iron collar—only that you wear the headband signifying that you're my servant. Dress, and we'll go.”
Relieved not to be forced to wear the heavy iron band she viewed as a symbol of degradation, Karan lost some of her antipathy to being required to display a badge of servitude. It's only for one moon-cycle , she consoled herself. So bear the wound to your pride with fortitude.
When she stood, fully clothed, Astur opened his bag, and withdrew a white head-cloth—male headgear, but he knew better than to demand that this woman wear a veil. He next tossed out a narrow sash of a distinctive design—blue and black stripes running lengthwise down the middle, and a square woven in the intricate pattern indicative of his family at each end. The stripes, the Kithari knew, denoted that the wearer served a Benizari of the family whose pattern, woven in blue, black and the purple hue signifying nobility, adorned the ends of the sash. She stood in silence when Astur wrapped her head-cloth as he wore his own, and tied the sash around her head, with the knot behind her right ear. The two fringed ends he let dangle.
Aware that she would be forced to make the upcoming journey without her own bag of personal possessions that included two changes of clothing, a warm cloak, and a felt hat with a wide brim of the sort worn by her people when they traveled, Karan experienced renewed anger at the unfathomable ways of the gods: anger she kept under rigorous control as she stepped into the courtyard at her master's bidding.
Here, she encountered her first indignity. Having seen wealthy Benizari nobles walking the streets followed by servants keeping two paces to their rear, she resolved not to evoke a sharp command that she walk thus. Of her own accord, the woman used to striding along beside her father, her uncles, and her suitors adjusted her pace to conform to the memory.
On seeing the firebrand make this concession, Astur suppressed a smile as he stopped, turned, and addressed her. “Walk beside me,” he commanded. “I don't stand on ceremony. Given that you aren't trained in subservience, if you try to copy what you've seen in the streets, you'll unwittingly make some error that brands you an inept servant. So keep to your Kithari ways. You'll be perceived as a Kithari who chose to serve a Benizari, which will suit me just fine.”
Green eyes widened, but their owner nodded. “As you wish,” she agreed, her relief apparent to the man embarked on the first step of a campaign designed to breach her resolve to die by his hand.
Having traversed the Street of Lodgings for Travelers, and turned left at its junction with the Street of Wine-sellers, Astur stopped at a shop, handed the proprietor his wineskin, and asked that he fill it with his best vintage. After paying for the wine, he continued down the street not overly crowded by buyers this early in the day. At length, he and his companion entered the Quarter Housing Caravans.
Striding purposefully through dusty lanes separating squares of barren earth rented by Caravan Leaders—ground crowded with picket lines for horses, mounds of bags and rolled-up tents, stacks of panniers, sacks of grain, stout poles set horizontally on two short, squat posts, on which reposed pack saddles, saddle pads, riding saddles, and other tack—the Tenzar stopped at the site where the Mozar, the officer second in command, and ten members of Astur's Company of Guards kept watch over his horses, saddles, weapons, pack animals, and such. The Goyazar, the officer in charge of transporting food and gear used by the warriors, and of doling out that food during a journey, sat on a pannier, going over a list written on a piece of worn, frayed parchment.
Both men glanced up, and instantly riveted their eyes to the woman accompanying their leader. Guardedly, they studied her, liking what they saw.
“This is Karan, a Kithari. She'll take Obur's place,” the Tenzar explained. “Karan, this is Saladur, the Mozar.”
That lean, hard-muscled man of approximately the same age as the Tenzar—age that Karan judged to be nearing thirty sun-cycles—she saw to be clad in boots, buckskin pants, and a tunic woven of tan, brown, and dull green threads, so that the overall hue resembled that of the brush covering the arid plain of Shobrun. Taking a few moments in which to study her, he wiped his brow with the back of his hand, beneath the hem of the matching headcloth bound with an intricately figured headband. The Kithari noticed that although the colors of the sash matched those worn by Astur, the pattern differed.
Saladur's of noble birth , she surmised correctly.
“I welcome you, O Woman of Kithar,” the Mozar declared heartily, concealing the surprise generated by her appearance. Turning to Astur, he remarked, “I packed Obur's personal possessions, for delivery to his daughter. Dakur will see that Lilla gets the bag, when we get home.”
“I thank you. Karan, meet Dakur, the Goyazar.”
“I welcome you also,” the man rolling up the frayed parchment declared, his neutral tone arising out of his consciousness that he faced forging a new, delicate relationship with a servant—a woman, to boot—favored by the Tenzar, but not under military discipline. He, too, feared that he would miss Obur sorely.
“I thank you. May your day be free of care,” Karan replied, employing a common Kithari greeting.
That wish prompted an exchange of wry smiles between the Mozar and the Goyazar. “I've seen worse,” Saladur opined in a sardonic drawl. “The swelling in the bay mare's leg went down, and the manure merchant bought and removed our pile of horse droppings before the city's inspector made his rounds. Now, if the men currently carousing don't overstay their leave, I'll believe that wish a viable one.”
Chuckling, Astur threw open the top of one of a matching set of panniers fashioned of steer-hide: pliable skin stretched over a hardwood frame as soon as it was stripped from the carcass, so that it stiffened into rigidity while molded in the proper shape, that shape ensured by the hide's being stitched with stout thongs. “The cookware,” he informed his servant. “The other pannier holds a few staples. Better inspect what's available. Dakur will issue you more flour, oil and such, periodically, during the journey.”
Surveying an array of iron rods, four forked on one end, and sharp on the other, two pointed on one end, and blunt on the other, Karan stifled an impulse to sigh aloud. Her eyes roved over the bag of S-shaped hooks, the heavy oval iron grill, the soot-blackened kettle, the nesting basins, and the pail—those latter items blue enameled ware produced only in Reykandir, a city famous for its metalworkers. Frowning, she observed, “Obur habitually spitted your meat, I take it?”
“More often than not,” Astur replied noncommittally.
“And fried your bread on the griddle, if he didn't bake it on a flat rock set amid the ashes?”
“He used both methods.”
“So you're used to dining on game brought down by your men: meat never aged, roasted until it's dry and tough, and served with bread and boiled vegetables?”
“Yes,” Astur conceded with an audible sigh, recalling that culinary skill ranked low on the list of virtues displayed by his always cheerful, impeccably honest, staunchly loyal, habitually hard-working servant.
After surveying the contents of the second pannier—breadboard, blue-enameled plates and cups, forks, spoons, utensils for cooking and serving, salt, butter, tea made from the dried flowers and leaves of fragrant plants, oil pressed from the seeds of a special variety of mustard plant, a wide-mouthed crock containing sour-smelling bread starter, its top covered by a porous cloth tied by a thong, a bag containing three bars of soap and six dishtowels showing signs of hard wear—the Kithari eyed her master reflectively.
“I'm used to cooking in wide, deep, flat-bottomed iron pots with legs and special lids,” she stated equably, her tone conveying no censure. “If you'll consent to pay the cost of two such items—used pots, not new ones—and a supply of spices, you'll eat far tastier food on this journey than on previous ones.”
Considering her request a welcome means of commencing his campaign to breach her resolve to die by his hand, Astur nodded as he replied, “Let's see what's available in the Market.” Walking over to a pile of empty traveler's bags, he pulled from the heap one exhibiting neither rents nor signs of overly hard wear. “Carry this,” he ordered.
The Market proved to be a large open space dotted with stalls shaded by drab awnings supported on poles, where local farmers, stock breeders, artisans and merchants displayed wares brought in from surrounding agricultural lands—farms irrigated by water diverted from the river flowing along the west wall of Jankar, and guarded against theft of the crops by warriors employed by the city. This place the Kithari saw to be far smaller, and far less crowded with buyers, than was the closely packed mass of colorfully shaded stalls thronged by buyers and traders just outside Kithar.
Striding at Astur's side, she stopped when he did, before a stall exhibiting used ironware. The proprietor, a lean, hawk-faced native clad in a faded brown-and-white striped tunic and the baggy pants favored by the Jankari smiled ingratiatingly at the Tenzar. “What do you need, O Defender of Merchants?” he inquired eagerly.
“My servant knows what she wants,” came the reply. Turning to the woman eyeing the wares, Astur commanded, “Will anything here suffice?”
Concealing perfectly the intense satisfaction produced on beholding five Kithari pots of the sort she desired, Karan cocked her head, seemingly studying the offerings. Ignoring the three well-oiled, almost new pots prominently displayed, she pointed to a grease-and-soot-stained, heavy, round, flat-bottomed iron vessel a handspan deep and two in diameter, reposing on three squat iron legs on the ground beside the counter. A heavy iron bale hung down over one side, and on its top rested a dusty, tight-fitting, dished lid featuring a rim as deep as her thumb-length and an iron loop serving as a handle in its center.
Stepping forward, she lifted the heavy lid, and examined the interior, which she saw to be crusted in several places with charred remnants of food, but unmarred by rust. “This might do, to start,” she opined, her tone shaded by doubt. “How much?”
“Three silver dasors,” came the prompt reply.
Before Astur could agree, Karan spluttered, “By the Sacred Song of Sabanna, you jest, O Seller of Used Iron! This pot has seen countless sun-cycles of hard wear by ignorant destroyers of good meat! It'll need scraped clean inside and out, and rubbed with a fortune in oil to restore it to usefulness to a cook who knows how to care for it! My master guards caravans! He doesn't rob them so as to fatten his purse! One silver dasor.”
Throwing up both hands, the trader protested, “Who ever saw a pot constantly set into the coals miraculously keep from getting sooty? No rust mars its interior! Two silver dasors, O Paragon Among Cooks.”
“How many Kithari cooks buy from you daily, O Merchant of Jankar?” Karan queried sardonically. “No one else would glance twice at such wares. They're heavy to pack, and awkward to lift—especially when full of food. You could house this sadly abused item here for a sun-cycle and find no eager buyer. One dasor, six hestars.”
“Kithari pass through Jankar with astonishing frequency, O Newcomer to Our City. One dasor, ten hestars.”
“The pot lacks a lid-lifter bar. One dasor, seven hestars.”
“One dasar, nine hestars.”
“One dasar, eight hestars.”
“You drive a hard bargain, O Woman of Kithar. I'll sell for your price, to oblige the Guardian of Caravans.”
As he paid out the sum more than a third less that that originally demanded, Astur saw Karan drag out a second, similar pot—one equal in size and weight. By the snake-wrapped staff of Kallinor, those form a load in themselves for a packhorse! he silently grumbled. But she just beat this trader at his own game!
“How much for this rusted relic?” Karan queried.
“Two silver dasors, O Woman of Kithar.”
“Burnt grease destroys the seasoning of the iron, but rust like this eats pits into the metal. Ten hestars.”
“By the gods we both revere, I sell wares! I don't donate them! No pitting weakens that thick iron! One dasor, six hestars.”
“And my master pays good money for goods of value! Fit the cost of a metal-brush and a bottle of oil into your estimation of the worth of this monument to neglect! One dasor.”
“One dasor, four hestars.”
“I'll recommend that my master pay your price, if you'll throw in that lid-lifter.”
“That goes with that fine pot you refused to consider!”
“Each of those fine pots has one. No Kithari ever buys only one such pot. Two are needed, not only for cooking, but also for balance on either side of a packhorse. One lid-lifter does service for both pots. So throw in what a Kithari would view as an extra item that only adds weight to the pair.”
Faced with a fact new to his ken, raked by the glance of the Tenzar he suspected to be growing impatient, the merchant shrugged. “Done,” he agreed. “As a favor to the Protector of the Helpless, I'll throw in the lid-lifter.”
“I applaud your shrewdness, O Merchant of Jankar,” Karan commended him sweetly. “I'll let my people know where Kithari pots can be bought in this town.”
Mollified, the trader smiled on both customers as he pocketed the coins.
Reaching for the bales, Karan found that Astur hefted both pots indeed awkward to carry. “Take the lid-lifter,” he commanded.
“I can carry a pot,” she protested, surprised at his gesture.
“You heard me.”
Striding beside the man holding the two soot-coated items out on either side of himself so as not to soil his fine tunic, Karan expected to return to the Quarter Housing Caravans, but found that he set his burdens down before the stall of a kodar. Addressing the thin, bespectacled man upon whose chest hung the medallion announcing that the city's rulers designated him as an official witness to the signing of formal documents, the Tenzar produced the receipt obtained from the slave-seller.
“Draw up a document for me,” he commanded. “One stating that should I die, or suffer so grave a wound that I become seriously incapacitated before the caravan I'll begin guarding tomorrow reaches the Plain of the Monument Built by the Ancestors, this slave I just purchased—Karan of Kithar—shall be freed. Write also that I direct that Saladur, the Mozar, pay her passage to Kithar out of what monies he inherits from me if I die, or handles for me if I become incapacitated. Make three copies, all of which I'll sign, and you'll witness.”
Shock coursed through the woman watching the professional witness drive pen over parchment, and offer the documents to the man who frowned as he read them. Reaching for the pen, Astur dipped it in the inkpot, signed his name, drew his family's crest, and handed the two items back to the kodar.
After signing his own name, the witness laid each piece of parchment on a rectangular piece of soft wood. Exerting care, he placed a metal disc studded with metal pins set in the pattern unique to himself over his signature, and struck the disc with a wooden mallet. Picking up the parchment, he made certain that the pinprick pattern showed plainly before repeating the process on the other two documents.
“Six hestars,” he announced.
Having paid the fee, Astur rolled the parchments, bound them with the ties supplied by the official, and thrust them into the pouch at his belt. Once again, he picked up the pots, and strode off, exquisitely conscious of the shock still visible on the face of the woman walking beside him.
Determined to drive a considerable wedge into the crack he just created in her mental defenses, he stopped at one of a row of stalls presided over by women, and set the pots on the ground. Turning to the Kithari, he commanded, “You have no baggage—no means of coping with the problem peculiar to women that occurs once every moon-cycle. Here, take these three hestars, and buy what you need. Keep one eye on the pots as you deal.” Having issued that startling order, he did a quick about-face, and distanced himself from the stall universally avoided by male shoppers.
Shocked anew, Karan turned to the crone selling soft, thick pads fashioned of multiple layers of an especially absorbent cloth, designed so that they could be easily attached to a belt. When that spell of haggling ended, she handed over two hestars for a coarse drawstring bag containing a supply of the pads ample for two moon-cycles, two bars of the soap specially made for washing them, and a belt.
Elated at having retained one out of the three coins, the Kithari looked about, and spied a seller of cleaning agents. From that gaunt woman, she purchased the wherewithal to scour the ironware, and hastily returned to the stall of the crone.
Standing beside the pots, still marveling that the notion of providing for such a need would occur to Astur, she looked about to see where he might have gone. At length, as three chattering men passed by her, she spied his white tunic and headgear. As she watched, he paid out a few coins to a middle-aged female trader, who folded a bulky cloth item, and held it out to him.
Turning, he proceeded in her direction. Moments later, he thrust into her hands a new, brown cloak fashioned of sturdy cloth lined with thick woolen fabric, and a blue woolen blanket featuring three white stripes on each end.
“These townsmen must never venture far from their gates,” he grumbled, obviously displeased. “This is the warmest cloak I could find, but it's inadequate for night wear in the mountains. So I bought you a blanket as well. Also a towel, a cleansing-cloth, an extra pair of long drawers, and three pairs of stockings. So. Pack your new belongings into the bag—along with these.” Reaching into the pouch at his belt, he withdrew a hairbrush, a wooden comb carved by a competent craftsman, and a roll of parchment. “Put this document where you won't lose it,” he commanded.
Once again shocked to the core by her owner's thoughtfulness, the slave, who until now had avoided calling her owner by his name and title, employed the form of address to which this man's rank entitled him within his native city, rather than calling him “master,” a term she found equally galling to use. “I thank you, both for anticipating my needs, and for satisfying them, Lord Astur,” she stated graciously, her head held high, and her eyes meeting his directly. “And for arranging that I go free, should anything evil happen to you.”
“I despise being forced to resort to buying a human chattel,” Astur retorted, speaking the bald truth. “I'd have freed you then and there, and trusted you to keep your word, except for one consideration. A man's permitted to slay a slave he owns, but if I drove my sword through the heart of a free woman, I'd be accused of murder. Much as I hate the thought of killing you, I'll keep my sworn oath, should you prove so obstinate as to choose death over honorable life, a moon-cycle from now.”
Shock melted into an emotion the intent viewer failed to identify. “I honor your staunch adherence to your oath, O Nobleman of Benizar,” came the softly uttered reply, as Karan thrust the parchment into a side pocket in her tunic.
She just thawed considerably , the Tenzar congratulated himself even as his face concealed his satisfaction. I've gained ground . Picking up the pots, he strode off toward the rows of stalls tenanted by food-sellers.
Watching over the piled purchases as Karan haggled vigorously with a succession of sellers of spices, vegetables, and dried beans, Astur wondered whether her determination to pay no more than she absolutely must, and to clean filthy ware rather than asking that he purchase far more costly pots, revealed concern for his welfare, or merely represented a habit too strong to break, even in her present circumstances. Deciding that the latter explanation most likely struck closest to the truth, he experienced a clutch at the gut as he pictured himself driving his sword through her heart. Silently cursing his inability to avoid including that provision in the hastily amended agreement, he wondered uneasily just how difficult it would prove to turn her mind towards the alternate suggestion he intended to outline only after she thawed to a far greater degree than she just did. If she does , he bleakly qualified his thought.
When the Tenzar burdened with two soot-stained pots, and the servant bearing an armload of bundles came into view of Saladur, Dakur, and the contingent of guards that just came off leave, all eyes riveted themselves to the pair approaching. When the new servant of her own accord produced a skin bag containing a mixture of rancid grease, ashes and sand, slapped a handful of the noisome substance onto a rag, and began scouring the pots, Astur saw his Mozar and his Goyazar exchange glances expressive of surprise and approval. Leaving his servant to her own devices, he snapped out a series of questions regarding his subordinates' respective areas of responsibility.
Finding that this tough, battle-wise warrior thus openly displayed his willingness to trust a slave bought only hours earlier to care adequately for his private possessions, Karan marveled anew at his behavior to her. Fully expecting that when he swore to treat her considerately, he meant that he would refrain from beating her, or working her brutally, she savored relief at finding herself accorded the freedom to pack the panniers as she saw fit, and to cook as she normally did. Heartened despite her consciousness that she would die by his hand twenty-eight days from this moment, she finished scouring the pots.
Having anointed the clean interiors of the iron vessels with cooking oil, the woman well used to packing cooking gear on packsaddles set one pot and lid edgewise in each pannier, nesting the basins, plates, and cups inside the pots, and adding small bags of spices, onions, sweet peppers, and other fresh vegetables until no wasted space remained. Around the pots, she wedged the bag containing the forks and spoons, the crock of bread starter, the glass jug full of oil, the jar of butter, the metal shaker full of salt, and the cloth bags containing salt, brown sugar, flour, dried beans, and the S-shaped iron hooks. Satisfied that no item would rattle about inside, she closed the wooden lids, and fastened each.
Rising to her feet, Karan grasped with both hands the loop of stout rope attached to each end of the pannier shaped so that its back wall would fit the curve of a horse's side, and lifted the heavy object. After raising the other, she judged one to be slightly heavier than the other. Lifting both lids, she switched a few light objects with a few heavier ones, juggling the contents of both panniers until they seemed to be of equal weight when she again hefted each in turn.
Satisfied, she laid the lid-lifter, the two forked iron bars, and the single straight, pointed one, on the flat wooden lid. After bagging the tall, enameled teapot tapering inward from a broad, flat base, and tying the bag shut with a thong, she repeated that operation on the matching pail. Those she set on top of the other pannier.
Purposefully, she walked over to where the Mozar stood talking to Dakur, and waited until Saladur strode away in response to Astur's beckoning gesture. “O Goyazar, I won't be needing either the grill Obur used, or this set of rods for cooking spitted meat,” she announced. “If you can't use them, would you put me in debt to you, by finding some place to pack them? I don't know whether they're Lord Astur's personal property, or that of your company of guards.”
“They're his, but I'll be glad to stow them for him,” Dakur replied, impressed and relieved by the courteous phrasing of the request.
“Might you have an axe, and a short-handled shovel I could pack?”
“I'll find you both. Oh…while I remember…I borrowed the hobbles Obur always packed, yesterday. You'll need those. I'll leave the bag on one of your panniers.”
“I thank you.” Without conscious thought, the woman who had not smiled once since being captured by the Shobrunni favored the Goyazar with a smile that rendered her striking face memorable.
Watching covertly from where he stood informing Saladur of the contents of the document he pressed on him, Astur beheld her reaction: the first such expression he had ever seen surface on his servant's face. She's lovely , he conceded as his gut knotted. How long will it be before she smiles at me? Shame scalded him, as he recalled her reaction to his skilled attempt to give her pleasure. You should have pried into her beliefs before taking her virginity ! he chided himself bitterly. But instead, you blithely assumed that she'd welcome your attentions, once she realized that you intended no brutality. But … could I have shared a tent with her … a bed … for an entire moon-cycle … without succumbing to the lust she generates? I doubt that. Whatever, the harm's done. So win your new campaign, O Leader of Men and Alienator of Women !
Her cooking gear packed, Karan unfastened the long roll of lightweight cloth sewn from numerous pieces cut in an intricate pattern, which she saw to be Astur's tent. Spreading it, she acquainted herself with its structure. Beholding a frayed place, she asked Dakur to lend her a sewing kit, and patching material. When he promptly obliged, and then urged her to keep the kit, she replied, “I owe you, O Goyazar. When next you tear a rent in a tunic, come to me.”
“My name's Dakur,” he replied, smiling warmly. “You're not under my command, O Woman of Kithar. So call me by my name.”
“I'll do that, if you'll call me Karan.”
By the end of the day, certain that all the gear in her charge exhibited good repair, and that she could pack all of it on Astur's two packhorses quickly and efficiently, she approached her master, and asked if he wished her to cook on this night.
“No,” he asserted swiftly. “We'll eat in Jankar. I see no sense in your having to clean and then repack what you've readied for loading tomorrow.”
Relieved by his decision, Karan asked, “Do you wish me to help the Goyazar?”
“No need. Ahhh…I see the men returning from leave coming down the lane.” Having hastily counted heads, Astur turned to Saladur. “Take command. I'll return at dawn.”
Walking at a brisk pace beside this man whose behavior mystified her, Karan stopped when he did, before a stall where a vivacious girl hawked food cooked by an older woman obviously her mother. The smell of spiced meat wafted out from the pots arrayed along the rear of the stall. Without consulting his companion, Astur purchased four flaps of bread baked so as to form a pocket, and stuffed with hot meat moistened with a dark, thick sauce. Smiling at the girl, he paid the price that included a wrapping of thin, waxed cloth, and accepted the package. Stopping once again at a new stall, he bought two juicy plums.
Preceding her owner into the rented chamber now growing dark, Karan watched as Astur set the food on the bench, lit the lamp, and hung his sword on the hook. Glancing at her, he commanded, “Sit on the floor—we'll use the bench as a table,” as he unwrapped the food. Handing his slave two of the four flaps of meat-stuffed bread and a plum, he bade her eat. Reaching for the newly filled wineskin, he passed it to her before lifting it to his own lips.
The hot, exceedingly tasty meal revived the woman beginning to suffer from exhaustion: the result of a combination of emotional stress, residual tiredness generated during her captivity, and hard physical labor. Expecting to be impregnated again, she braced herself to submit gracefully.
“Strip,” Astur commanded. “And unbind your hair.”
When the Kithari stood naked, her hair falling over her untanned shoulders, he bade her brush her hair. While she complied, he undressed in leisurely fashion, projecting no hot lust, although the sight of his nude companion caused his shaft to stiffen.
“Get into bed,” he directed.
Slipping between the coarse sheets provided by the proprietor, Karan turned so as to lie facing the man who reclined beside her, and gathered her into his arms. Feeling a momentary, instinctive stiffening metamorphose into pliancy consciously induced, he savored satisfaction. “Are you sore, inside your love-grotto?” he inquired, his tone conveying that he would brook no evasion of his query.
“No,” the Kithari replied truthfully, disdaining to lie in the hope of avoiding being penetrated.
“You'll grow sore, if I drive my cock into you again, so soon after taking your virginity,” her owner stated flatly. “So I won't. I'll simply enjoy the warmth of your body against mine. Go to sleep.”
Lying within the circle of a pair of strong arms, held against a muscular body, Karan marveled at this latest example of considerate treatment. Fatigued to the core, she relaxed to the point of bonelessness. Letting her mind drift, she slid into the oblivion she craved.
Sensing her relief at not being obliged to couple with him, Astur reviewed his earlier encounter in this bed. Frowning, he reviewed the words seared into memory: her statement of how she perceived his actions, and her frank admission that Kithari custom demanded that she employ guile so as to slay a ravisher. Might her seeming willingness to become a model servant constitute a ruse—a means of putting me off guard, so that she can rise in the night and strike me over the head with the stool? Or drive my own sword through my heart?
Morosely, he wrestled with the doubts rising to assault him. If she planned on killing me as I slept, why would she have described her beliefs? he flung at his alter ego. She'd have feigned submission, so as to catch me entirely off guard.
No…that wouldn't have worked, he amended glumly. If she offered no objection whatsoever…meekly accepted my caresses…that would have struck me as suspiciously out of character for a Kithari woman…one twenty-four sun-cycles old…one who comes of a prominent, well-to-do family. What if she cleverly spoke the truth, so as to appear convincing, while keeping to herself only one aspect of the truth: her resolve to slay me as I sleep?
If that's her intent, she'll do it tonight. She could kill me, rob me, slip out the door, and hide in some rented room. Or … worse yet … she could deal herself some superficial wound, and raise an alarm! Both Saladur and Dakur observed her willingness to serve me! They'd never suspect that her tale of a robber's breaking in, killing and robbing me, and wounding her, constituted a monumental lie!
Chilled by that thought, Astur sought to drive it from his mind, but it persisted. She might not sound the alarm, he mused. She might fall on my sword, and die beside the man on whom she avenged herself. Ill luck plagues me still! Just when I thought I was making progress!
Once again, he reviewed her words, her face as she uttered them rising vividly in his inner awareness. She spoke the truth , he assured himself. But was it the whole truth? Unable to see her face in the deepening darkness, he listened to her breathing: long, regular respirations that sounded like genuine slumber. Resolving to stay awake for a time at least, he maintained his hold on her.
An hour later, the still uneasy Tenzar fell into a light, dream-shot sleep, his arms still enfolding the warm, slack body of his slave.
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