not that unprecedented with private slaves, slaves owned by individuals. I found myself wondering, not that I was interested, if a particular slave was now a private slave, or, so to speak, a public, or camp, slave, like most. Presumably she would be a public, or camp, slave, as she had been embarked as such.
I, pack in hand, looked down to the Alexandra, lovely, wide and shimmering, in the morning light, to the huge, partially dismantled framework of mighty Tur beams, to the long dock, with its many sheds, and the broad, towering vessel which was moored there, held in place by gently, strained lines, against the current, its lofty bowsprit high, lifted, like the alert head of a living thing, one waiting to be born, one already scenting the faraway sea.
“Doubtless she is here,” said Asperiche.
“Who?” I asked.
“She whom you seek,” she said.
“You are less than presentable,” I said.
“Master?” she said.
“You are filthy,” I said.
“Doubtless there are washing sheds below,” she said, “with tubs and warm water. I will be able to launder my tunic, and iron it, and care for my pelt, and be more pleasing to my master.”
She lifted her head.
“You may look into my eyes,” I said.
“Thank you, Master,” she said.
“You may speak,” I said.
“My need,” she said, “is upon me.”
“Doubtless the need of a free woman,” I said.
“I am not a free woman,” she said. “That is behind me. I can never go back. My need is a thousand times beyond that of a free woman. I am a slave. My need is slave need.”
I looked down upon her.
“A slave would be caressed,” she whispered. “A slave begs to be caressed, begs as a slave.”
“You are very beautiful,” I said.
“More beautiful than another?” she asked.
“Another?” I asked.
“She whom you seek,” she said.
“I seek no other,” I said. “That is unthinkable, absurd.”
“But, if you did?” she said.
“I would suppose,” I said, “that you are more beautiful.”
“But she is different,” she said. “For you she is unlike all others. She is special to you, in a way that others are not, in a way that I am not.”
“Do not speak foolishly,” I said. “Surely you are aware of your interest, of your attractions. Have I not put you to my pleasure often enough?”
“I have been well mastered,” she said.
“So?” I said.
“As might be any slave,” she said.
“So?” I said.
“I do not think I have been owned as might be your slave of slaves, the one you would die to possess. I have not seen in your eyes the unexampled, terrifying predatory lust of the approaching larl, the keen, piercing glance of the tarn. I have not felt myself as owned, as overcome and helpless, as the tabuk doe in the jaws of the larl, the young she-verr clasped in the talons of the tarn. I have not been seized, flung down, and devastated. I have not known the decisive click of the collar lock which informs me that I have been decisively, triumphantly claimed. I have not felt the ropes on me of that master of masters, by whom I would know myself possessed as the most helpless and most desired of slaves is possessed.”
“You speak as a foolish slave,” I said.
“I fear I am not as foolish as Master might wish,” she said.
“The collar looks nice upon your neck,” I said.
“As it might look upon the neck of any slave,” she said.
“Or any woman,” I said.
“Yes,” she said, “or any woman.”
She inched closer to me. How bold she was. She had not received permission to do so.
“Doubtless you wish to display your collar,” I said.
“It is Master’s collar, and it is locked on me,” she said.
“Beware,” I said.
“Master looks upon me as a slave may be looked upon,” she said.
It is a way, of course, in which one would not look upon a free woman. That would be highly inappropriate. How terrified might be a free woman, to be so looked upon, to be looked upon as a slave. I wondered if they ever considered such things, what it would be to be so looked upon, to be looked upon as a slave. I trusted not, as they were free. And presumably they would never have that experience, unless they were stripped, and a collar, chains or shackles, was in the offing.
“But ela,” she said, “I am not presentable.”
“You are beautiful,” I said.
“I am filthy,” she said.
“Do you think I am fastidious?” I asked.
“Master?” she said.
“It adds to your beauty,” I said.
“Master?” she said. “Oh!”
I then,