My name is John Smith.
Eleven days ago, it became “John Smith, Ph.D.” when I received my doctorate in organic chemistry. Now I was on my first interview trip - to South Carolina, where at least it was warm. I had grown up in southern California, and the years of grad school in frozen Wisconsin had been more than enough for me.
At the Ph.D. level, an interview includes a talk given to ones potential future colleagues. I stood in front of two dozen of the company’s scientists, ready to launch a variant of my dissertation defense. I thumbed the remote to bring up the first slide, and then there were two of me.
And I couldn’t breathe.
One of me stood in the meeting room, remote in hand. The other me stood against a stone wall, looking at the back of a man mixing something.
And I couldn’t breathe.
My audience waited for me to begin my talk, unaware of my sudden two-ness as I stood both before them and in the strange room.
And I couldn’t breathe.
The man stood at what looked like a very old-fashioned chemistry bench, something out of a museum, or from a chemistry department display of how things were done a century ago. I could see stoppered jars on the shelves above the bench, with hand-written labels, and a big carboy with “water” etched into the glass.
I breathed in, and there was only one of me, the one watching the man in the strange room. The other me had also breathed in, and as he did so I lost contact with him. I considered my situation, trying to beat back my confusion.
My skin tingled, and I felt life and strength flooding back into me. I could smell the familiar lab-odor of stored chemicals. My hearing seemed unusually sharp: My breath sounded loud in my ears, and I could hear my heart pound. I could also hear the tinkle and splash as the man at the bench stirred some solution, and the faint rustle of his clothing as he moved. He was a short man, with dark hair close-cropped, wearing tight black shorts, a loose green shirt, and a sash in darker green. The cloth looked like silk, and the style struck me - who knew almost nothing about historical costume - as vaguely ren-faire-like.
I also heard a clatter and clamor a room or two away, and a female voice whimpering briefly just to my left, close by but out of sight. The man at the bench didn’t seem to notice these sounds. He turned and started toward me, not looking up, carefully holding a liquid-filled dish.
I stepped forward, coming to within just a couple of steps of the man. “Excuse me,” I said to him. “Can you tell me - “
He looked up at me and his eyes widened. His mouth fell open, then snapped shut. “Forker take it!” he wailed. “It’s too soon!” Then his eyes narrowed. I expected him to dash his liquid at me, but instead he threw it off to my left. I glanced in that direction and did a classic double-take. A naked woman lay there, bound to a low table with straps at her wrists and ankles. She had dozens of shallow cuts on her belly and breasts, and she screamed when the liquid splashed over them.
My laboratory reflexes kicked in. Chemicals spilled on a person must be washed off immediately. I shoved the man aside as I rushed to the bench, grabbed the largest empty beaker I saw, and filled it with water from the carboy. Three long steps brought me back to the bound woman, and I poured the water over her, rinsing away the other liquid. She stopped screaming and began to sob instead.
The sounds of the furniture-smashing brawl outside the room had grown louder, and now the man noticed them at last. He’d produced a sword from somewhere, while I took care of the chemical emergency, and after glancing at the woman he muttered some pungent-sounding words while splitting his attention between me and the door. I eyed the sword warily and bit down on some pungent words of my own. The woman continued to sob.
The door burst open and a gray-bearded man entered, dressed in a lace-trimmed costume that struck even my ignorant eyes as elegant. Two associates in blue and tan uniforms followed him. All three carried swords of their own. “Simon del Vair,” the graybeard said, “In the name of the King, I arrest you on the charges of -”
“Belzac!” first man - Simon del Vair - said. He pointed at me. “Help me stop it! It’s wild, dangerous.”
Graybeard looked at me, sword ready. “Um,” I said. The point of that sword looked unpleasantly sharp. I realized that I still held my dish, and also that I didn’t have any clothes on. I tried kicking my wits into activity. “Excuse me, sir, but I don’t feel very dangerous at all.” I smiled weakly at my attempt at humor.
“ ‘Wild and dangerous,’ is it?” Graybeard sheathed his sword and gestured to the uniformed men. They disarmed Simon del Vair and escorted him from the room. Graybeard turned back to me. “My name is Belzac del Boise,” he said, bowing slightly.
“I’m John Smith.”
“Well met. We will collect the girl, get you both covered, and retreat to discuss this more comfortably.” He turned to the female on the table. “What is your name, my dear?” he asked politely.
“Luce. I am named Luce, if it pleases my lord.” She had stopped sobbing and now seemed limp with relief.
“Very good then, Luce. Just relax for a minute while I -” He broke off, noticing the same thing I did: Luce’s injuries were gone. Her wet skin still had smears of blood, but the cuts had vanished. She didn’t even have any scars. Belzac then looked me and the dish I still held. “Well met indeed, sir,” he said softly. “I think, John-Smith, that you ought to be the one who unties Luce while I locate some coverings.”
He left the room while I attacked the bindings. They consisted of fat leather straps, knotted rather than buckled, and tied so that Luce couldn’t reach the knots. I found them easy to undo, and in short order Luce sat up on the edge of the table. She had almost-black hair that fell well past her shoulders and a body just slightly better endowed than a ballerina’s. She watched me in return with brown eyes set in a round face that would be even prettier if she smiled. We studied each other, not saying anything, until Belzac returned carrying an armload of stuff. He found a dry spot and set the load down: Plain shoes, baggy pants, a long shirt, a blanket, and a set of brass chains.
“Go ahead and shackle her,” Belzac told me. I would have balked, but Luce held out her arms, smiling slightly. I fastened the smaller shackles on her wrists, and then she sat back on the table, legs extended for the larger pair. She seemed oddly pleased by my attentions.
“The blanket is also for Luce,” Belzac continued. “You will have to carry her, I am afraid. The other clothes seem to have been made for you. They are not very stylish, but they should at least fit you.” I draped the blanket around Luce and began to dress myself.
I realized several things all at once: Luce was a petite young woman; it should be no trouble to carry her. Belzac was a short man, and Simon del Vair and Belzac’s uniformed assistants all stood only slightly taller. I looked at my hands and the final realization hit: I had a different body from the one I grew up in. This body was leaner and more muscular than the original body, the one that my other self must still be wearing back in the hotel. I looked at my feet and saw the floor further away than I remembered it being. The others then, weren’t short; I was tall.
I made myself finish dressing. Questions could wait. Later, I promised myself as I picked up Luce. She wiggled for a moment, trying to get comfortable, as I followed Belzac out the door.
Half an hour later, I sat in the library of Belzac del Boise and tried not to boggle. An animated wooden manikin - an arbi Belzac called it - served us snifters of brandy. Luce wasn’t with us. We had installed her in a luxurious suite with another arbi to act as her servant, but she still wore shackles on her wrists and ankles. She was a prisoner, but a pampered one.
I was not a prisoner. The first thing Belzac had done was to send yet another arbi (he apparently had several) to fetch a sword for me. It hadn’t yet returned, but I understood the meaning: One does not give weapons to prisoners.
“I do not know if this will mean anything to you,” Belzac said “but you are in the Kingdom of Cern, on the world of Trion.” I shook my head. “How much do you know about the theory of meta-worlds?” he asked. “Our own knowledge of the subject is largely theoretical, with only a few pieces of indirect evidence showing that the other meta-worlds exist.”
“If you’re talking about alternate dimensions, or alternate universes,” I said, “our theory is pretty scanty. In fact, we don’t really have any theories, just speculations. And science-fiction stories. But now I do have evidence: I’ve traveled from one ‘meta-world’ to another, right?” I spoke glibly, trying to hide my fear from both Belzac and myself.
“Well. I am glad that you do understand the concept. It will make explanations simpler.” He sipped his brandy, then went on: “Simon del Vair - the Black Druid, as he is known - is an old enemy of mine. When he started investigating the theory of meta-worlds, I began to study it as well. Unlike myself, however, he sought to make practical use of the theory, using black alchemy.”
I looked a question at him.
“Black alchemy is alchemy that makes use of a human sacrifice in its operations.”
“Like Luce,” I said.
“Yes,” Belzac said. “A human sacrifice like Luce was to be. In any case, the Black Druid probed for a meta-world having a higher level of power than our own - than this one, I should say - but with a lower level of vitality. He wished to summon a being from that meta-world and make it into his thrall. The higher level of power meant that the being would have the strength and skill of a man, but the lower vitality meant that he could command it, much as he could an arbi.”
“But he got me, instead.”
“Yes. Or rather he summoned your spirit. If he had succeeded in his true plan, even at the last moment, then Edmond and Guilliam and I would be dead, at- not at your hands, but at the hands of whatever thing he summoned in your place. So I am thankful that he failed and summoned you instead.” He sat silent for a moment, then went on. “Tell me, can one make matter appear or disappear from nothingness in your meta-world? Or is that impossible?”
“It’s impossible, as far as anyone knows.”
“It is the same here. Which leads to a point you may find disturbing: The Black Druid could not summon you here bodily. Instead, he prepared an alchemical mass and conjured your spirit into it. He would have to purge it of his own spiritual influences first, of course, since two spirits cannot occupy a single body at the same time. Then, once he had your spirit in the mass, he intended to kill Luce in a horrid ritual, one that would allow him to command the mass and shape it into a proper body. However, he miscalculated: Your spirit began shaping the mass immediately upon entering it. I hope this does not overly disturb you, but you are not wearing your original body. Rather you are wearing an identical duplicate, shaped by your spirit.”
I looked at my hands. My new hands. “I know,” I said. “But this isn’t a duplicate of my original body. It’s more like my idealized body-image. What my spirit believes or wishes my body to look like.” I smiled at him. “It’s better than my original body.” And I was glad of it. My original nearsighted, soft body would have given me problems in this sword-using fantasy world.
“You seem to be taking this quite calmly,” Belzac said. “I do not think I could be so calm, if I found myself in a new body. Do you often change bodies in your meta-world?”
“No,” I said. “Or only in stories and myths.” I felt pleased by his compliment. Then my heart sank, again, at the though of being stuck here. Even if I could return home, I couldn’t take this nice new body with me. I took a swallow of brandy to buck myself back up.
“Even so, you must have wonders in your meta-world that cannot exist here.”
“Sort of,” I said. “We have engines and machines to do a lot of our work for us, that you don’t seem to have here.” I waved my hand around the room. “This all looks old-fashioned to my eye, and yet... There’s more light in here than can be accounted for by the fireplace and the two lit candles. The chandelier and mirrors seem to be reflecting more light than there is to be reflected. Then there’s the arbi. We have machines a little like them, but they’re not really practical yet. Not for serving drinks, anyway. And this carpet, it’s very fine. It’s deep and soft and, and clean. It must be hell to keep clean.”
Belzac smiled into his own brandy. “Yes, I am rather proud of the carpet. It is my own invention: It cleans itself. For the other things you mentioned, they are all the workings of vitality rather than of power. We do things differently, here, it seems.” He grew more serious. “And there is a difference I should warn you about: Our females. I noticed your surprise when Luce presented herself to you for chaining. Doubtless you are familiar only with unintelligent females; females with the minds of animals. Our slavegirls are not like that. They are not only intelligent, they are actually more intelligent than we men.”
“But the women of my world are intelligent. Why shouldn’t they be?”
“They are?”
“Yes!” I realized that I valued Belzac’s good opinion. It bothered me that he should think of me as a Neanderthal, as someone who thought of women as being mere animals. I also found something deeply disturbing about the idea of completely unintelligent women. I had once picked up a science fiction novel where the aliens had unintelligent females and where they infected the human race with a virus to make human females the same way. I had stopped halfway through; it wasn’t an entertaining idea, even as a fictional horror.
Belzac sat silently for a time, looking into the fire. Finally he said “Perhaps that is how the Black Druid made his miscalculation. Tell me, do you know if vitality in your meta-world is intensive or extensive, or if male and female spirits have defined shapes?”
“I don’t know. We don’t really have spirits or vitality in our meta-world.”
“Ah,” Belzac said. “Well, in this meta-world, vitality is extensive: Split a spirit in two, and one has two half-spirits. And it follows from this that male and female spirits have defined masculine and feminine shapes.”
“If you say so.”
“But if vitality is intensive in your meta-world, rather than extensive, then splitting a spirit in two will result in two spirits identical with the original. Furthermore, your vital spirits will not have any definite shape, which means that feminine vitality can support intelligence. Even your free women will be intelligent.”
“Was my spirit split in half?” I asked. “I had this weird sense of there being two of me, and then I ended up here. Or one of me did, anyway.”
“Yes, that would explain matters,” Belzac said. “The Black Druid expected to receive either a half-spirit, or else a spirit in shock from the death of its original body. Instead, he received you. You have a whole spirit, since spirit is intensive in your meta-world, and your other self has a whole spirit as well. In fact, your other self might not even notice that anything happened, except perhaps for an brief odd memory, as if from a dream.”
I should be happy for my other self, I thought, but anger came welling up instead. My other self had stolen my life, leaving me stuck here. Even if I could somehow return... I remembered how I couldn’t breathe while there were two of me, and how life and strength had returned afterwards. Belatedly I realized the cause: I had been dying. “...of course, since two spirits cannot occupy a single body at the same time,” Belzac had said, and it was true. Even if I could somehow get back to my old body, the return would only kill me. Both of me.
I’d been nursing hopes of returning home, and now they had come to an abrupt end. I could not be happy for my other self in my original body, living my original life. I drained my brandy in an attempt to drown my anger. For a moment I thought I’d succeeded, then the anger and fear came roaring back. I stood and flung the snifter into the fireplace, smashing it into shards. “Dammit dammit dammit!” I cried. “I’m stuck here. I’m exiled. I can’t ever go home again because I’m already there!” I sank back down into my chair and managed to keep from sobbing, but tears streamed from my eyes. I wrestled with my emotions some more and regained a brittle measure of control. “I’m sorry,” I said at last. “I- I apologize for my outburst. You’ve shown such kindness to me and this is a terrible way to repay you.”
Belzac waved my apology aside. “It is the part of a good gentleman to be generous. As for the other: You have received a great shock, and no man can tell how he will react to such a shock until it comes. I cannot say that I myself would have done any better, were I to find myself in your position. Consider your actions a toast - or rather an anti-toast - to your current situation.”
“An anti-toast. I like that. Thank you.” The brandy was warming my stomach nicely and providing me with courage - false courage, no doubt, but I’d accept false courage as being better than no courage at all. “But now that I’ve drunk my anti-toast it’s time for me to go on learning about this world. My new world,” I amended.
“There is another matter to be attended to first,” Belzac said, looking toward the doorway. The arbi he’d sent out earlier had returned, leading two other arbi. These other two were larger, stronger, and somehow cruder, and they carried a wooden case between them. Setting it down, they opened it to reveal a number of swords. At Belzac’s invitation I picked one, choosing at random. It felt awkward in my hand, yet at the same time oddly familiar. I saluted one of the mirrors mounted between the bookshelves, and ran through the motions of a sword drill. Then I stopped, confused. I had never even heard of the eight sword drills, much less learned them, and yet I knew them: I knew that there were eight standard sword drills, and I knew I could run the other seven through in order. “Try a larger blade,” Belzac suggested. Shrugging mentally, I chose a bigger sword.
In the end I selected two blades. The larger one, Belzac informed me, was a ‘boot sword,’ so called because it was worn with boots and left with them on entering a residence. The smaller, knife-sized blade was a ‘slipper sword’ that replaced the boot sword when one removed boots and put on slippers. I sent my new boot sword down to stay with my new boots, stuck my new slipper sword in my sash, and sat back to continue my conversation with Belzac.
“One thing I should warn you about,” Belzac said. “The Black Druid gave you his skill and style of fencing. I could recognize it in your sword drill. You no longer have your old skill at swordplay.”
“I never had any skill with fencing until now. It felt odd, knowing the sword drills without ever having learned them,” I said. Strangely enough, that wasn’t an understatement on my part. A mildly bemused voice in my head told me that I ought to be having a hysterical fit over this, but I’d already had one hysterical fit. What good would a second one do? It would only betray the trust Belzac had shown me by putting a sharp blade in my hand. Still, I did feel mild worry. “I wonder what other things the Black Druid might have left buried in my brain? And didn’t you say that he would have had to purge the ‘alchemical mass’ of his ‘spiritual influences’?”
“That is correct: He would have had to purge the alchemical mass of his spiritual influences,” Belzac said. “He could only bequeath you dry knowledge and skills, devoid of any motivating influence. I would not worry about anything ‘buried in your brain’ as you put it, any more than I would worry about being corrupted through reading his notes. However... I am afraid that others might not see it that way. Not everyone properly understands the workings of alchemy, even in the Kingdom of Cern, and some will see you as a thrall of the Black Druid.”
I opened my mouth to swear and then closed it, unable to think of what to say.
“I can see what you are thinking,” Belzac said. “‘It’s not just!’ But justice is not very realistic, and I do not consider it terribly significant, either. Generosity is the much more important virtue.”
“But you don’t think other people will be very generous, either.”
“I am afraid not,” Belzac said. “However we will deal with that when it comes. In the meantime, there is something else you need to do.” He signaled his arbi, who brought over a tray holding a pitcher of water, a large beaker, and a tiny knife. “Fill the beaker up to the line.” I poured the water in, estimating the volume at about a liter. “Now prick your finger and let a drop of blood fall into the water. Just one drop.”
I took the knife over to the nearest candle and ran it through the flame. “I’m sterilizing it,” I said in answer to Belzac’s look.
“That is not necessary,” Belzac answered. But if you insist his shrug said. I pricked my middle finger and let one drop of blood fall into the beaker. “Now stir,” he told me. “Now put a bit of the liquid on the cut.” I did so, and stared stupefied at my finger when the cut disappeared. “It is aqua vita, the Water of Life,” Belzac said in answer to my look. “It is the font of our civilization. It vitalizes our arbi, and all of our devices. And on a more primitive level it serves as a powerful tonic and healing agent. You should drink part of that now, to restore yourself, and save the rest for later use. There should be a clean bottle somewhere around here.”
“So that’s how Luce’s wounds healed. The carboy in the Black Druid’s lab contained this ‘aqua vita.’“
“Er, no. Aqua vita can only be used by the man who made it. The carboy contained plain water. What happened with Luce was - odd. Aqua vita can only be made from a man’s blood.”
“Luce certainly isn’t a man.” I smiled, remembering how feminine she felt, snuggled against my chest as I carried her from the Black Druid’s lab.
“No, she is certainly not a man,” Belzac smiled back. “But, indirectly, her blood is a man’s blood: She is your slavegirl; she belongs to you, and you are a man. It is odd, though. Usually that sort of indirection does not produce aqua vita of worthwhile vitality.”
“She’s my slavegirl? I’m not...comfortable with that idea.” I suddenly had the sense of needing to move very carefully, so as to avoid doing unintended damage.
“She is very much your slavegirl. You paid an extraordinarily deep price for her: The loss of your original body, and exile from your old meta-world. On top of that, you saved her life - and that is not an exaggeration. The Black Druid had thrown a solution of tain salts on her, to kill her in a last effort to reclaim his power over you. I heard her scream through the door, the scream of a girl who knew that she would soon be dead. If you had not acted as you did, washing away the tain salts, she would have been dead within a hundred heartbeats. It was an extraordinary moment that produced extraordinary results.”
“I don’t suppose I could set her free.”
“You could - but it would be terribly cruel. It would diminish her completely.”
“Excuse me,” I said. “I’m lost, here. I think I need to know what ‘diminish her completely’ means.”
“The vital spirit of a female is normally held elevated by that of a male,” Belzac said. “Specifically, it is elevated by the vitality of the male who owns her, her master. This elevation is what allows slavegirls to be intelligent - more intelligent than us men. However, if a female does not have a master, or if her master does not properly support her spirit with his own vitality - if she is set free, or allowed an easy escape, or even given away or sold too cheaply - then she is diminished. Her spirit sinks, since it does not have the right shape to hold itself high. As her spirit sinks, her intelligent also falls until it reaches an animal level. She becomes a wild woman, running feral in the forests.
“Sometimes young men will go out hunting wild women, capturing them for sport. The females’ minds revive at this, a little, and they beg not to be set loose again. It is heartrending: They can barely remember how to speak, and they must struggle to find the words to beg. So you see it would be terribly cruel of you let you Luce go.”
I looked again at my finger, at the tiny cut that, impossibly, wasn’t there. Aqua vita. Slavegirls. Feral women who begged to be kept captive. Then I gave myself a mental kick. I had already indulged in one outburst of self-pity, and that was enough. It seemed petty to gripe about having to be a slaveowner, when women were stuck with being slaves. I remembered how pleased Luce had seemed when I chained her wrists. If she accepted this, then who the hell was I to tell her that she ought to resent her status? I’d just have to learn how to own slavegirls and like it. Or at least I’d have to do so until I found out what the real alternatives were. “So almost all women are slavegirls, here?” I asked. Belzac nodded. “Then where do they come from? Are they all born as slaves?”
“In a sense everyone here is born as a slave or a thrall,” Belzac answered. “Children can only be conceived at the nexus points, where the ley-lines meet. Communes have been established at those points, in order to raise families. Technically, a commune owns every person in it; every male in a commune is a thrall and every female a slave. This keeps the commune females from being completely diminished, especially since vitality behaves in a slightly different manner at the nexus points. However, the young people cannot all stay in the commune, nor do most of them wish to. Young men, of course, can simply run away from their commune and take their freedom without being diminished. But the girls cannot escape so simply. Instead, the commune holds an auction each year and sells the females who have reached the appropriate age. In past times, the unsold girls were abandoned to become wild women, but recent reforms now forbid this. All the girls put on auction must now be sold.”
“It still seems...unjust,” I said.
“Generosity is more important than justice, as I said before. Young men worry about justice, and you seem to worry about it more than most, but justice is an overrated concept. It would be a miserable thing if life were merely just, if everyone received no more than they deserved: Men would be savages and women would be animals. Civilization cannot exist without injustice, without takings that cannot be repaid.
“Generosity is the better ethic,” he went on. “Generosity makes civilization worthwhile. A gentleman should be generous to others, of course, and a master should be generous to his slavegirls while keeping them within the bounds of their status.”
“ ‘Within the bounds of their status,’“ I repeated. “Just what are the ‘bounds of their status’? How generous can I afford to be? Wait,” I raised my hand. “I shouldn’t have asked that, right now. It’s too big a question. It’s late, and I’m tired. I’d just forget your explanation and have to ask again later. I should ask: What is customary for me to do? What does Luce expect her new master to do on the first day?”
“I think your are correct about long general explanations. Now is not a good time. So I will give you a general principle instead: Your generosity toward your slavegirls should not consist of giving to them, but rather of sharing with them. Beyond that, there are a number of important details and symbolisms - which you can read about some other time, in Leschmits Guide or some other manual. As for your last question: Have some more brandy, and I will explain what is customary when a young master first acquires a slavegirl.”
I awoke the next morning with Luce snuggled against me. My thoughts came fast and sharp, and my mind was wonderfully clear: I had a sort of anti-hangover.
I heard a clink of chain as Luce shifted slightly. A fetter clasped her left wrist and right ankle, each attached to the bed with a generous yard of chain. The wide wrist and ankle fetters had rounded edges, and such a high polish on their inner surfaces as to make them seem padded. I suspected that magic had something to do with it as well, that the same magic which produced aqua vita and animated the arbi also prevented the fetters from harming a girl’s flesh. It was a nice touch, I decided, especially since owning a slavegirl seemed to involve a lot of chaining and shackling.
It had begun with a bath. The tub had its own set of shackles, fetters attached to the ends of a bar about eighteen inches long. A chain connected the bar to the tub, one long enough that the victim could stand either outside the tub or in it. I locked Luce’s ankles in place while an arbi filled the tub with buckets of cool water. A dose of my aqua vita applied to crystals set in the tub magically warmed the water to a comfortable bath temperature. Then I lifted Luce into the tub and climbed in after her.
“May I scrub you, master?” Luce asked.
“No,” I smiled. “Maybe next time.” Luce made a small noise of disappointment, but didn’t seem surprised by my refusal. Which, of course, was the idea.
I washed both of us, taking my time. As we soaked, I tried to ‘open my spirit’ to Luce, to listen with the ‘Master’s ear’ that Belzac had described. Then we stood, and rinsed, and I lifted Luce out of the tub. The arbi brought towels, and as I started drying Luce, she grabbed the end of a towel and started trying to dry me. But the arbi had brought strips of terry-cloth, along with the towels, and I used one to tie Luce’s wrists behind her back. She tugged at the bonds, and tried to reach the knots, but she could not get free. She giggled and wiggled as I finished drying her. This, too, was part of the script that Belzac had given me. “Do not allow her to perform any tasks for you,” he had told me, and I followed his instructions on faith.
I unshackled Luce’s ankles and led her to the bed, then crossed and tied her ankles with another terry-cloth strip. I stepped back and let her struggle briefly, to prove to herself the inescapability of her bonds. She came to rest on her side, naked and bound and helpless. She looked at me and smiled. I remembered how I had first seen her, tied down on the Black Druid’s table. But this was different. Then I had seen suppressed terror in her eyes, followed by painful hope when I splashed her, and giddy relief when I untied her. Now those eyes studied me, thoughtful yet trusting. But what I sought wouldn’t be found by looking in her eyes.
I moved forward and touched her naked skin, trying again to listen with the ‘Master’s ear.’ I tried not to feel silly. I reminded myself of the cut-healing aqua vita, the animated arbi, and the magically heated bath water. And then I heard.
I heard Luce’s mind. Not her thoughts, but her emotions and feelings and desires. I heard the faint jangle of fear falling away, the rising sigh of pleasure, and the squeaks of expectations. I heard the itch on her shoulder, and as I scratched it I heard the thrum of relief as Luce knew that I now was listening.
A heady sense of power filled me. Here I had in my hands - literally in my hands - the answer to the age-old question: “What do women want?“ As long as I kept Luce physically restrained and maintained contact with her skin, I would know what she wanted. And I knew that I would have to be generous, and share with her the benefits of my power.
I began to caress Luce, working with a surety that no lover on Earth had ever known. With my ‘Master’s ear’ I could hear what she wanted, from moment to moment, and I gave it to her - generously. I soon had her squirming and thrashing, her mind ringing with pleasure. I grinned like a fool as I let the music of her spirit wash over me, clearing away the fog and cobwebs of my own mind. I heard her feeling that it was fitting and proper for her to be my slavegirl and for me to be her master, and in the flood of her certainty my own doubts sank and drowned.
After a time our desires became more physical. I untied Luce, removing the terry-cloth bindings and replacing them with the bed-shackles. They held Luce less strictly but they also locked, and I found that they let me continue listening with my Master’s ear. Luce stretched, fettered now only by her left wrist and right ankle, and lay back as I continued to touch and kiss her. Then I fell on her and ravished her. Or perhaps she ravished me. We ravished each other four or five times, before finally coming to rest, wrapped in each other’s arms.
It had been a pleasant night, last night, and waking up with this anti-hangover made the morning equally enjoyable. But my new clarity of thought had a drawback: I could clearly see more in my future than a series of pleasant nights ravishing slavegirls. It would take an effort to establish a place for myself here, in the Kingdom of Cern. Belzac was right: I’d face a lot of suspicion and hostility from people who though of me as a tool - a thrall - of the Black Druid. I would have to overcome that, along with learning a new science and a new set of customs and laws. But I felt up to the challenge. I had already earned one doctorate; I could do it again.
An arbi came into the room, bearing a set of slave bands and an ewer of hot water for washing up. The time had come to replace real bonds with symbolic ones; the last part of the script Belzac had given me last night.
The slave bands consisted of a collar, two anklets (one with tiny silver bells) and two bracelets (again with silver bells on one). All locked, of course, using the standard fetter-key. Belzac had explained to me that in the past, masters applied all five bands at once to their slavegirls, or else permanently attached collars. But the ‘modern’ custom had the master apply a single band, changing it each day. That way, Belzac claimed, the bands would burden the girl less, but at the same time would make her more aware of the one she wore that day. It had not made sense to me at the time, but now I believe I could see his point.
Luce was awake now. I took the belled anklet. “Ankle, please,” I told her. She smiled and extended her left leg to me. I took it, and my Master’s ear told me that she had an even better anti-hangover than I did. I locked the anklet on her ankle, then unlocked the bed-shackles and turned to the arbi: “Attend to Luce,” I instructed it. Then I began to wash and dress myself.
(On to Chapter 2)