Free The Usurper by John Norman Page B

merely at the foot of a couch, on furs strewn on the floor, as might be a common girl, one not allowed the privilege of a couch’s surface. She did note, uneasily, a heavy metal ring fixed in the base of the couch, some six inches above the floor. It was a slave ring, a common convenience in a slave culture, the sort to which a girl might be fastened. That might not do at all.
    But, was the knife there?
    She scurried to the furs at the foot of the couch and then, kneeling, looking about, fearing the barbarian might appear any moment, lifted and shook the furs. No knife was there!
    The chamber was lit by two small, hanging lamps.
    A chest was at one side of the chamber. Doubtless it was from that receptacle, clearly unlocked, the padlock dangling, with its inserted key, that the barbarian had removed the dinner robe.
    Someone was coming!
    She had not yet found the knife!
    She knelt, with her head to the furs, at the foot of the couch, the palms of her hands at the side of her head, a common slave position.
    She dared to lift her head, a little.
    It was Qualius, gross Qualius, the porcine tender of domestic animals, recalled from the Narcona .
    She thrust her head down again. She did not dare address him.
    He paid her no attention. The explanation of her presence there was obvious enough. She was a slave. She heard some object, stout, leathery, dropped on the lid of the unlocked, closed chest.
    Then he was gone.
    She rose to her feet, and went to the chest. It was as she feared. “I will have a whip sent to your quarters,” had said Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian. She regarded the supple, inert object lying on the chest. How she hated Ronisius. “Excellent,” had said the barbarian.
    She was uneasy, regarding the whip, its coils now quiescent. She could scarcely conjecture what it might feel like, wielded by a man, on her soft, bared skin. She did not, of course, expect to feel it. The whip is seldom used gratuitously. Its end is discipline, not meaningless, wanton cruelty. There would be no point in that. It would be easy to avoid its whistling, hissing, lashing kiss. She was determined to do so. It would not be hard. She would be careful, and watchful. She need only, as other slaves, be obedient, attentive, zealous, and pleasing, wholly pleasing. Besides, the knife would be at hand, she trusted. And how could even a massive, formidable brute like the barbarian defend himself against the coated blade, where even a scratch on a lifted hand, or a fending arm, would wreak an almost instantaneous doom?
    She gazed at the instrument lying on the lid of the chest.
    How pleased she was that she was not as other women, not a slave.
    What would it be, she asked herself, looking at the coiled leather tool on the lid of the chest, coiled like a viper, ready to strike, to be truly a slave?
    The slave, she knew, is subject to the whip.
    If she were a slave, she would be subject to the whip.
    For a moment she swayed, giddy.
    Did she sense then, if only for an instant, the meaning of the whip, the thrill and joy of being helplessly subject to command and discipline, the thrill and joy of being owned and mastered, the thrill and joy of being a kneeling, submitted slave?
    No, no, she cried to herself, and spun away from the chest, and the quiet, coiled thing, which rested on its smooth surface.
    The knife, she thought. I must find the knife. There may be little time!
    She then approached the couch.
    It was warm, and soft, lying within the furs on the great couch.
    Her heart was beating rapidly.
    With delicate care, and circumspection, she had felt beneath the covers for the implement. Her fingers, ever so lightly, had touched the smooth, yellow, oval handle, locating it. It would not do to touch the blade, lest the tiniest bit of its transparent coating, invisibly painted on that razor-sharp edge, might open her skin, even slightly. She had found it muchly where she had anticipated it might lie,