It must be he, she thought.
But perhaps not!
He may know nothing of the knife.
She did know matters of moment were afoot, as perhaps many in the camp did not, recruitments and alliances, matters supposedly of political and military consequence.
Would not an agent less conspicuous be more judicious?
“Clean and groom yourself, Cornhair,” said the brunette. “You are to sparkle.”
“Yes, Mistress,” said the blonde.
“Slave cosmetics, and slave perfume,” said the brunette.
“Such?” inquired the blonde. They were, after all, in a wilderness camp, far even from the modest comforts and amenities of a provincial capital.
“Surely,” said the brunette. “You are not a free woman.”
Little did the brunette know, thought the blonde. How she would pale, and cringe, if she knew she were free.
We would then see in whose hand the switch reposed!
The blonde thought of the subtleties of the dressing table, before which she might kneel, and avail herself of the assorted pencils and brushes, disks and vials, on its surface, and in its tiny, shallow drawers. How different those articles and supplies were from those with which she had once been familiar, ordered at great expense from a dozen worlds, long ago, before she had fallen on straitened times. How little she had thought of such things then, the darins slipping through her small fingers like water, before the glistening, spinning wheels and the tiny plates on the marked tables had turned against her. She had fled creditors on more than one world, only on another to once more drain family resources and accounts.
How she despised that miscellany, suitable for slaves, on the low table.
Even the mirror was small, and cheap, mounted in its unpainted frame. How different it was from the large, broad, ornate, expensive mirrors she had had installed in her various boudoirs, particularly before falling upon her straitened times.
“How are we to garb ourselves?” asked the blonde. “In serving gowns, as at the captain’s table, on the Narcona?”
They were ample, flowing, long, tasteful, and modest.
“You are no longer on the Narcona,” said the brunette.
“How, then?” said the blonde.
“In tavern tunics,” said the brunette.
“Surely not!” said the blonde.
“Why not?” inquired the brunette.
“They are so tiny, so short, there is so little to them, they are too revealing.”
“They are fit for slaves,” said the brunette.
“One might as well be naked,” said the blonde, petulantly.
“If the men grow drunk, you may well be,” said the brunette.
The blonde shuddered.
“Accustom yourself to what you are,” said the brunette. “You are a slave, a property, to be exhibited, or displayed, in any way Masters might wish.”
“Still!” protested the blonde.
“Do not fear,” said the brunette, “there will be no free women present, to beat you, because you are beautiful and owned by men.”
“Such tunics are disgraceful,” said the blonde.
“Not on a slave,” said the brunette.
“They are too tiny, too short, too revealing,” said the blonde.
“You will wear them,” said the brunette.
“As Mistress wishes,” said the blonde.
“Men like them,” said the brunette, “and do they not excite you, as well, the display, the revealing to all who look upon you what you are; do they not well impress upon you your helplessness and vulnerability; do they not mark you as a mere property, an object whose very raison d’être is to delight. Have not women been bred over millennia for the pleasure of men? And what is an enslaving but putting the confirmation and seal of legality, of implacable law, on the decree of nature? And surely the touch of such things on your skin, a rag, a rope, a leather strap, a collar, heats your limbs and belly.”
“Please do not speak so!” cried the blonde.
“And is there not a reciprocity here, between women and men, between slaves, and Masters?”
A tiny cry of anguish escaped the blonde.
“Have I dismayed Cornhair?” said the brunette.
“Of course not,” said the blonde, looking away, adding, “—Mistress.”
“You are a slave,” said the brunette, “a plaything for men. Make them cry out for the having of you. What other power do we have?”
“Where are the others?” asked the blonde.
“They prepare themselves elsewhere,” said the brunette.
“I am then different, special?” said the blonde.
“Apparently,” said the brunette.
“How so?” asked the blonde.
“I do not know,” said the brunette. “But I do not think you are surprised.”
“Mistress?”
“There are subtleties here,” said the brunette, “things I do not understand.”
“What sorts of things, Mistress?” said the blonde.
“Do not concern yourself,” said the brunette.
“Has it to do with a Master, or Masters?” asked the blonde.
“Do not concern yourself,” said the brunette.
“Perhaps I have been spoken of, or you have noted my behavior being unusually observed or monitored?”
“The things are subtle, hard to place,” said the brunette.
“Perhaps you have seen one with a closed package, a small, flat box, one storing it, one who might have glanced at me?” said the blonde.
The brunette regarded her, puzzled.
“Perhaps I am to be given something, a gift?”
“A gift?” said the brunette.
“Yes,” said the blonde, “a gift, in a small, flat, black, leather case, perhaps an anklet, a strand of beads, a bracelet.”
“What are you talking about?” asked the brunette.
“Nothing,” said the blonde.
“Are you mad?”
“No, Mistress.”
“You smile?” said the brunette.
“Forgive me,” said the blonde.
“Consider our group,” said the brunette, “shipped from Lisle on the Narcona, brought to Venitzia on Tangara, and then carried here, into the wilderness.”
“Mistress?” said the blonde, uncertainly.
“Are we not a very unusual group, an anomalous group?”
“How so?” asked the blonde.
“There are twenty of us, twenty,” she said.
“Mistress?”
“Surely you are aware of what we all have in common?”
“We are all slaves,” said the blonde.
“Other than that,” said the brunette.
“What?” asked the blonde.
“Not one of us is branded,” she said.
“So?” said the blonde.
“An unbranded slave is extremely rare,” said the brunette. “Many markets will not handle an unbranded slave. Many ships will not transport them between worlds. You can understand the commercial and societal wisdom of marking slaves. It is an almost universal practice. On many worlds, it is required by law.”
The blonde smiled to herself. She was not a slave, of course, but, if she were the only unmarked girl in the group, that would have surely excited undue speculation and interest. Accordingly, brilliant Iaachus, in his cunning, had arranged that she would not be conspicuous in her group on account of the absence of an expected slave mark, perhaps the tiny, tasteful “slave rose.” If she was not to be marked, for she was free, then let the others, true slaves, lowly and owned, be unmarked, as well.
“Perhaps we are too beautiful to mark,” said the blonde.
“Do not be absurd,” said the brunette. “All slaves are to be marked, and the more beautiful the most of all, for they are the more costly merchandise. One does not wish to lose them.”
“I see,” said the blonde.
“So why are we, slaves, not marked?”
“I am sure I do not know,” said the blonde.
“I long for the brand,” said the brunette.
“You long for it?” asked the blonde.