‘Chamberlain,’ Rigora said with a nod.
‘Good afternoon, Rigora,’ Tragar said. His eyes scanned the room. It was a long time since he’d visited Rigora in her den: normally he summoned her to his study. How could she work in such clutter and gloom, he wondered?
‘Any difficulties today, overseer, down here in your subterranean workshops?’
Rigora shifted her weight from one ham to the other. ‘None worth bothering you with, chamberlain.’
‘Ah, good.’ With the formalities over Tragar could devote his attention to the intriguing new slave. He turned to Ace and inspected her.
Rigora had been keeping her clean and well fed, he noted with satisfaction. The overseer’s standards were usually high, but he’d known the overseer to ignore his instructions on occasion. He looked behind Ace’s ears and pulled back the neck of her shirt: thoroughly scrubbed. He sniffed. The girl smelt clean, too: in fact he detected a hint of cheap scent, which to his surprise made him tremble with a sudden physical desire.
He stepped back. Rigora had been tending this slave particularly conscientiously. The new outfit had been competently tailored, presumably by another of the Twos, and Rigora hadn’t skimped on the quality of the cloth. Tragar was not surprised that the overseer hadn’t been able to find a match for the heavy material of Ace’s original trousers, but the black linen was a suitable substitute, and the new garment clung to the girl’s legs even more tightly than the old. The new black shirt was an improvement, too: as before Ace’s arms were left scandalously bare, but now she had buttons and a collar, so that the costume was more than ever a parody of respectable attire.
‘You like what you see, chamberlain?’ Rigora said. She was leaning forward, and her vast bosom was flattened against the piles of paperwork on her desk. Tragar thought that she might be preparing to lift herself out of her chair.
‘You’ve done well, overseer,’ he said. ‘At least in the matter of appearances. Has she taken instruction well?’
‘Well enough.’ There was a pause while Rigora pushed herself from her chair. ‘I’ve reported every day, as you know.
Ask her, if you want. She’ll tell you.’
‘I will, overseer.’ Tragar turned again to Ace. ‘Tell me, Ace, what have you been taught here? Can you remember what you learnt on your first day?’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ace said. Her face was more animated now, she was looking and smiling at Tragar. ‘That’s easy. I did basic duties, eating and washing, forms of address, and the rules of the household.’
‘Very good, Ace. And on the second day?’
‘The routine chores of the kitchen, sir. I’m a wizard with a mop and bucket now.’
Tragar couldn’t help laughing, and when he did so Ace’s smile widened. She really was a remarkable discovery.
Despite the effects of the potion the embers of her personality still glowed within her.
Rigora misunderstood Tragar’s fascination with Ace. ‘Don’t you worry, chamberlain,’ she said, ‘she’s been properly processed, even though she sometimes answers back a mite too freely. But I’ve trained her in kitchen, deportment, table service, even a bit of cooking, and she always does as she’s told. Ask her about the hot plates. Go on.’
‘Very well.’ Mystified, Tragar addressed Ace. ‘Tell me about the hot plates, Ace.’
‘Yes, sir,’ Ace said brightly. ‘Madam Rigora told me to take six clean white plates from the kitchen to the bakery. I saw clean white plates on the range, so I picked up six of them and took them to the bakery. They were the wrong plates.
They were hot.’ Ace held up her hands. They were bandaged.
Tragar spun round. ‘She’s damaged,’ he cried. ‘Have you any idea how much of Balon’s cash I spent buying her? What have you done?’
‘Don’t fuss,’ the overseer said. ‘It was just a mistake. Every Two gets the odd knock during training. She’s young. She’ll heal. The point is, she didn’t make a scene or drop the plates.
She’s properly processed, like I said.’
‘And how do you feel, Ace?’ Tragar asked. It was a question he’d never previously thought to ask a Two, and he wondered how Ace would reply.
Ace pursed her lips as she thought about her answer. ‘I feel all right, thank you, sir,’ she said. ‘No worries.’
Behind him, Rigora snorted. ‘Stupid question,’ she huffed.
‘Twos feel whatever we tell them to feel. Rest of the time, they don’t feel anything much. Not such a bad life, if you ask me.
It beats worrying about these bloody butchers’ bills.’
She shuffled towards the door. ‘Come along, chamberlain,’
she said, ‘I’ve got something to show you. Ace, follow me.’
The overseer led Tragar out into the passageway, and stopped at a pair of wooden doors that were black with age.
‘Where are we going?’ Tragar asked, while Rigora struggled with the latch. He couldn’t remember ever seeing these doors open, and he didn’t want to admit that he had no idea what lay beyond them.
‘You’ll see,’ Rigora said, panting from her exertions. ‘She’s full of surprises, that one. Ah! That’s it.’
The latch gave way, and the overseer pulled open the doors.
Daylight illuminated the stone corridor, revealing stains and mildew that had passed unnoticed for years. The doors gave on to a small courtyard: its floor was flat stones, its four sides were the grimy walls of the east wing’s kitchens and outhouses, and it was open to the sky. There were no other doors.
Standing in one corner was a Two: Tragar recognised him as the one who usually worked in the meat store. He was a big, ugly fellow, and he looked no better on this occasion for being stripped to the waist. Tragar noticed with alarm that the Two was carrying a cleaver, and his hand went automatically to the hilt of his sword.
‘Rigora,’ Tragar said from the corner of his mouth, as if he didn’t want the Two to hear him, ‘what’s that brute doing here?’
‘Don’t fret, chamberlain,’ the overseer said. ‘I put him in here earlier. Like I said, I’ve got something to show you. Now let me have a word with young Ace.’
Rigora beckoned to Ace. ‘You remember, Ace,’ she said,
‘what you did here yesterday afternoon? With the lad from the kitchen? Well, when I say the word, you just do the same again. Understand?’
‘Yes, madam,’ Ace replied. Then, to Tragar’s surprise, she looked at her empty, bandaged hands, and a confused expression appeared on her face.
‘Don’t worry, dear,’ Rigora said. ‘There’s your stick, in the corner. Make yourself ready, then pick it up.’
Tragar looked into the corner of the yard, but was immediately distracted. Ace was removing her clothes.
‘Overseer!’ he said. ‘What licentiousness are you proposing?’ He was appalled and, he realised with a pang of self-disgust, excited in equal measure at the thought of Ace performing with the Two from the meat store. He couldn’t take his eyes from her.
Rigora laughed: an unpleasant, gurgling sound. ‘None whatsoever,’ she replied. ‘She’s just getting ready. Stand in the doorway with me, chamberlain. And prepare to be amazed.’
There was barely enough room in the doorway for both the chamberlain and the overseer. Tragar was slender, but Rigora more than made up for his narrow girth. Ace, without a thought for her own modesty, had removed her shirt and her trousers. She was wearing only a cloth tied around her bosom, a pair of brief shorts, and heavy boots. In her hands was the stick she had collected from the corner of the yard: it was in fact no mere stick, Tragar saw, but a staff of seasoned wood.
Ace and the male Two stood impassively in the courtyard.
‘Good-looking, for a Two, isn’t she?’ Rigora said.
Tragar shrugged.
The overseer chuckled. ‘Ready to be amazed, then?’ she asked. Without waiting for an answer she called out, ‘Ace!
Har-Gur! Fight each other.’
‘What?’ Tragar struggled to
turn in the doorway to face his overseer. ‘Are you mad? He’s twice her size. And he’s got a meat-axe.’
Rigora merely laughed. ‘Just you watch,’ she said.
Ace and Har-Gur circled each other for a while. Both were eerily silent, and the only sound was the padding of their feet on the stones. Ace began to lunge with the staff, forcing Har-Gur to parry. Tragar was no warrior, but he had seen Balon’s household troops in training, and he knew that Ace’s technique was poor. Her movements were awkward when they should have been fluid; her opponent was able to predict the swing of her staff. Nonetheless, Tragar couldn’t deny that guiltily he was enjoying watching her move.
Ace stepped back, opened her mouth, and emitted a howl that echoed around the towering walls. Then she attacked.
The fight was over within seconds. The staff in Ace’s hands became a blur; her arms worked like the pistons of a steam engine. She pressed forward, driving Har-Gur into a corner.
Tragar closed his eyes as he heard the sound of the staff striking Har-Gur’s flesh. The Two sank to his knees, and still Ace harried him with the end of the staff.
‘Stop!’ Rigora shouted.
Ace immediately became still. Her bosom heaved as she drew in deep breaths. Her legs shone with the sweat of her exertions.
‘Well, chamberlain,’ Rigora said, jolting Tragar from his reverie. ‘What do you think? I reckon she could be one for the arena. That’s big money, if she’s good enough.’
‘Indeed, overseer,’ Tragar said. ‘It’s unusual to find a Two who retains so much spirit.’
‘You’re not wrong there,’ Rigora said. ‘I’m glad I didn’t meet this one before she had the potion.’
Tragar grunted in agreement. His eyes were once again fixed on Ace. She was a Two with many possibilities. He’d considered her as an amusing domestic, but she might be more valuable fighting in the arenas. Then again, she would earn back Balon’s investment many times over, Tragar now realised, if she were trained for pleasure.
Tragar had no doubt. He had secured for Balon Ferud a most valuable asset.
Some of the traders had insisted on buying Twos: they had arrived with specific commissions from aristocratic patrons, and they refused to leave the landing-site with nothing to show for their journeys. Commissioner Dallid had been unable to resist the cash offers, and had set up an informal, hurried auction at which he disposed of a few score of the most obviously docile Twos.
The remainder - one hundred and fifty-three men and women - were put in chains as they stood in the square.
There were still some among them who had eaten the drugged soup, and who were as a result without any will of their own; the majority, Bep-Wor reckoned, were, like him, merely pretending.
Bep-Wor had a manacle bolted around each of his wrists. A length of chain connected the manacles. Surreptitiously he tested the strength of the metal: it was heavy, well-made iron, and he knew that he would not be able to remove the shackles without a hammer and a pick.
The Doctor’s bonds were much more substantial: his ankles, as well as his wrists, were shackled, and a long chain was wrapped around his torso. He was carried away, struggling, and placed in a cart.
Bep-Wor could think of nothing better to do than to endure the chains, continue the pretence of being affected by the drug, and wait. Bep-Wor was the Doctor’s mouthpiece, and the other prisoners were becoming accustomed to following his lead. Therefore they also waited.
Bep-Wor, tanned from years of working in the fields and on board ship, was used to the heat of the sun. But he had never before known it to shine directly above his head. He marvelled at his own shadow: a black patch around his feet.
On his home world the sun was always low in the sky, and shadows were always long. As he stood staring for hour after hour at the dusty ground, Bep-Wor fought back the waves of homesickness and despair that threatened to overwhelm him.
He told himself he had to be strong. He was the Doctor’s chief follower, and all the others were depending on him.
While he was alive and still had his wits, there was a chance he might find Kia-Ga. The Doctor would not let his followers remain chained for long. There was hope.
The sun had passed its zenith, and the midday heat had begun to dissipate, before the prisoners were moved. The auction had ended: some of the traders had disappeared into their tents, and others had trundled away in their vehicles with their purchases stumbling behind. The soldiers from the transport ship had long since retired inside their vessel.
Commissioner Dallid and his staff were in their pavilion, and apart from half a dozen guards the lines of prisoners were the only people to be seen across the wide panorama of the valley.
Now, at last there was movement. Bep-Wor lifted his head a little, and saw the commissioner’s assistant, Sarid, emerge from the pavilion. He was clutching a bulging purse. He called to two of the guards, and strode to the enclosure where several large, four-legged beasts were standing lazily in the sun.
The animals were taller than any Bep-Wor had seen on his own world, but it was clear that the men were going to ride them. Bep-Wor could see that with their long legs the animals would make good speed. As the commissioner’s assistant and the two guards mounted their steeds and galloped away in a cloud of dust, Bep-Wor concluded that the threesome was an advance party: the commissioner had sent them ahead, with a purse of money, to procure food and lodging for the unexpectedly large host which the commissioner was bringing with him.
Sure enough, shortly afterwards the commissioner and four more of his underlings emerged from the pavilion. The commissioner stood and watched while his staff carried bags and bundles from the pavilion to the three nearby carts. After a while a thought struck him, and he strolled to one of the carts, knocked on the side, called out, and waited for a reply.
Bep-Wor realised that he was checking that the Doctor was still in the cart.
The guards abandoned their posts near the prisoners and went to fetch animals from the enclosure. As some of the animals were saddled, and others were manoeuvred between the thills of the carts, Bep-Wor realised that no one was guarding the prisoners. He dismissed the idea of escape as soon as it arose in his mind: they wouldn’t get far burdened with heavy chains, and Bep-Wor had no way of knowing in which direction to lead them. In any case, he wouldn’t leave the Doctor.
A thunderous clattering interrupted Bep-Wor’s thoughts.
He squinted towards the pavilion, and saw smoke issuing from the back of a vehicle parked next to the carts. It was the type of vehicle that moved by itself, without the need for draught animals: Bep-Wor had seen many of these machines on his own world. There the noise and appearance of the machines had scared him: they were alien, and the invaders used them for destruction. Now, he realised, he was no longer afraid. He had seen the worst that the invaders could do, and he had survived; he had been transported from his world to theirs, and he had survived; they had tried to poison him and destroy his will, and he had survived. They might yet enslave him, or even kill him. But at least he’d never again hide from the sound of their raucous machines.
It seemed to him that he had the Doctor to thank for that.
The motorised vehicle, with the commissioner inside it, started to move. The cart containing the Doctor followed it.
The guards, mounted on their steeds, rode towards the prisoners.
‘March!’ they shouted. ‘Come on, you lazy Twos, get moving. Follow the cart. Don’t stop until you’re told to.’
The rows of prisoners unravelled into a single line, plodding in step behind the cart. The long column wound away from the square, and on to a road that ran along the valley, between fields full of crops and types of trees that Bep-Wor had never seen before.
The line of prisoners marched up hills, through a narrow pass overhung by rocks, down a corniche road perched halfway up the side of a gorge, into a wide valley, and across a sluggish stream. Bep-Wor, who had lived all his life on islands dotted across the ocean, could har
dly comprehend the vast majesty of the landscape.
There were no stops for rest or refreshment. Having been dosed with the drug, the prisoners were expected to obey instructions: they would walk until they were told to stop walking. Bep-Wor’s feet were blistered and his legs ached: he wondered how Hap-Lor was managing to keep up the pace.
The sun had descended into a bank of clouds beyond the distant peaks of a range of mountains, and had stained the horizon a vivid crimson. Bep-Wor, his feet moving automatically beneath him, didn’t realise that both the day and the journey were coming to an end until he walked between two stone pillars and found himself on a track illuminated by flaming torches.
The place was a farm. Bep-Wor recognised the smells, the wooden fencing, the barns and outhouses. Despite the weariness of his limbs he smiled: he was pleased that farms were the same, even when worlds apart.
The mounted guards rode alongside the line of prisoners.
‘Turn left at the end of the path,’ they shouted. ‘Into the stockade. Then stop walking. Find somewhere to lie down.
You can rest. Don’t leave the stockade.’
Bep-Wor stumbled along the prescribed route, and into a fenced area of dry earth already milling with the prisoners who had preceded him. His legs felt as heavy as anchors, and the manacles were chafing his wrists. He was so tired that he was no longer hungry or thirsty. He wanted only to find a space in which to stretch his aching body on the ground.
The daylight was failing fast, but Bep-Wor saw that the fenced area included an open-fronted barn with a thatched roof, as well as a farmhouse. The barn contained hay: it looked to Bep-Wor as welcoming as a feather bed. Also in the barn was a cart - the cart that contained the Doctor.
In an instant Bep-Wor forgot his weariness: like many of the prisoners, he began to amble towards, and then into, the barn. He risked looking over his shoulders, and found that no guards were watching over the stockade. They thought they could be sure that the obedient prisoners would make no attempt to escape.
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