“War and slavery,” Magnus said grimly. “I’ve helped people who were worse off, but this is surely bad enough. Yes, I think it’s time for Gar Pike to conduct a fact-finding mission.”
And the first fact he had to find was whether or not the people of Siegfried were really as miserable as he thought—or if he was reading his own desire for purpose into their situation.
“Where do you wish to land, Magnus?”
“Near the border of the land of the medium-sized people,” Gar said. “Since they seem to be fighting both of the other nations, they should give me the best chance of understanding the whole situation at one experience.”
“You might not fit in,” Herkimer warned him, “and might not be accepted. In fact, they might take you for an enemy. After all, you are a giant among your own kind, or have been on every planet you have visited.”
Magnus was broad in proportion to his seven feet of height, constant exercise and martial arts practice having made him very muscular.
“I shall prepare the appropriate garments, Magnus,” the computer told him. “You will find them in the wardrobe of your sleeping chamber.”
“Thank you, Herkimer.” Magnus rose and went to his suite, to enjoy what might well be his last civilized shower for a very long time.
Dinner was served by two women from the farmhouse kitchen, from huge buckets carried by two of the oversized men. Gar expected the slaves to race clamoring to the doorway and fight one another to be first, but they only pulled wooden bowls from their pallets and lined up. Their eyes bulged and their mouths watered, but no one pushed his way past anyone else. Gar was especially surprised that none of the semi-giants kicked any of the small people out of line, and the few who tried it were shoved back into place and scolded soundly by the nearest of their fellow huge ones. Gar took his place at the end of the queue, even though his stomach growled and his mouth fairly ached with hunger—but he knew he had eaten better than any of them, and probably just as recently.
He studied the line, trying to figure out how they decided who had what place. He would have expected the smaller people to either have to accept last place, or to be allowed to go first, but they were sprinkled throughout the line. It wasn’t even big person/small person in alternation, but one here, two there, even three in one place. Finally he cracked the system—the ones in front were the oldest, with the youngest next; the middle-aged came last, forcing themselves to wait, presumably because the others needed their food more.
Finally Gar came up, and the server scraped the bottom of the bucket to come up with half a ladleful for him. She started to hold it out, then stared. “You have no bowl!”
“I’m new today,” Gar told her.
“Are you indeed!” She peered up at him, squinting—she was one of the small ones. “What’s your name, lad?”
“Gar,” he answered.
“Well, I’m Lalle.” The little woman turned to her partner, a woman two feet taller than herself. “Vonna, have we an extra bowl?”
“Always.” The big woman set down her ladle and fished an empty wooden bowl out of a huge pocket in her apron. She handed it to Gar. “Scrub it with sand when you’ve done, and keep it under your pillow! Here, now.” She scraped around the bucket with her ladle and plopped a half-dipper of porridge into his bowl. Lalle added her half dipper, and Gar thanked them numbly, then turned away, staring into his bowl and wondering how he was supposed to survive to do heavy work on a bowl of thickened pea soup.
He also wondered how he was supposed to eat it, but one look at his fellow slaves told him the answer. He sat down by the door and dipped two fingers into the mess, then stuck them in his mouth and sucked off the food. It was crude, but it worked. The porridge was, at least, reasonably tasteless. He reminded himself that it could have been worse. In fact, he was so hungry that it actually tasted good—or felt that way.
When he was done, he followed the others outside to a sand heap where he scoured his bowl, then went back indoors. He was amazed to hear the slaves beginning to sing. It was a slow, mournful ballad, even as he would have expected, but it was full of the promise of the joys of tending the gardens of the gods amid the fragrance of fruits that made people always young, and where all work seemed play.
Gar listened, feeling his stomach sink. Were their lives so miserable that this was the golden afterlife that made the burden of existence bearable—an eternity of work for a kind master, in a garden where perfume induced euphoria? He shuddered inside at the thought.
Then a rough voice tore through the song. “Greta!”
The slaves fell silent on the instant, and the girl who had brought Gar his drink stood up, paling and backing away, hands out to defend. “Not me! It was only three nights ago!”
“So I find your body pleasing.” Kawsa strode into the slave barracks, two other overseers behind him, grinning eyes gleaming with lust. “Out, girl, and into the barn!”
“No!” Greta cried. “It’s not fair! Not so soon! Choose someone else!” She turned to her fellow slaves in appeal. “Someone who hasn’t been in a while, please!”
Stone-faced, Rega started to rise, but Kawsa just pushed her back down. “It’s you tonight, Greta lass, and none other! Come now!”
“No! I won’t!” Greta backed away, then suddenly bolted for the window.
Kawsa caught her in two strides, wrestling her down to the floor, then catching her wrists. She screamed and kicked, then managed to lever herself up enough to bite at his hands.
He dropped her with an oath, but one of the other overseers caught her wrists and another her ankles.
Kawsa nursed his bitten hand, growling, “Take her out and tie her to the post.” Then he kicked a very small boy nearby and said, “Run and fetch the steward.”
Eyes huge with fear, the boy ran out the door. “Everyone out!” Kawsa bellowed. “All of you! It’s been too long since you watched what happens to a slave who disobeys an overseer!”
They moved with the speed of fear, for all the overseers were red with anger and watching closely for an excuse. They gathered around the whipping post as Kawsa tied Greta’s wrists to it. She screamed and fought, of course, and another overseer had to hold her in place while Kawsa bound the rope tight.
As they finished, Steward Wulfsson came up. He was a thick, beefy man in early middle age with lowering brows and a fleshy face. “What’s the matter, Kawsa?”
“This woman Greta, your lordship.” Kawsa was breathing hard from binding the woman. “She refused an order, she argued.”
“He had me only three days ago!” Greta protested. “Not so…”
Wulfsson stepped up and, quite methodically, backhanded her across the mouth. “I don’t care what the order is or what your reasons—you don’t refuse one of my overseers! It’s the same as refusing me.” He looked her up and down, and his eye glinted. “Who knows? I may call for you myself, one of these nights.” Then he barked to Kawsa, “Bare her back and give me the whip!”
What followed was as ugly as anything Gar had seen, but he couldn’t look away, because the overseers paced along the semi-circle of slaves, snarling, “Look, damn your hides! If one of you tries to close your eyes, we’ll beat the lot of you!”
The overseers made lewd comments as they tore Greta’s tunic open along the back, and Wulfsson plied the lash himself, eyes glinting hotter with every scream. Gar warred within himself, weighing Greta’s pain against the freedom he might bring the whole country if he stayed undercover long enough to learn the bosses’ weaknesses. He had to do something, so he tried to pull the cat-of-nine-tails short with each stroke, but it wouldn’t obey his thoughts. In desperation, he tried to make the knots at Greta’s wrists untie themselves, but they barely twitched. His stomach sank as he realized the blow to his head had indeed done as much damage as he had feared. He could only hope it would heal, and quickly, for he was trapped here until it did.