The Usurper Read Free

to the forest, a dangerous journey through frozen terrain, perhaps under the eyes of furtive, lurking Heruls? His post was surely on the ship.
    It must be he, then, she thought.
    How could wise, cunning Iaachus, Arbiter of Protocol, who, it was said, was depended upon by the empress mother herself, and was perhaps the mind and will behind the throne, have chosen a better agent to transport a small, black, flat leather case between worlds, thence to bring it from a rude provincial capital to a mysterious rendezvous at the edge of a dark forest?
    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?
    â€œClean and groom yourself, Cornhair,” said the brunette. “You are to sparkle.”
    â€œYes, Mistress,” said the blonde.
    â€œSlave cosmetics, and slave perfume,” said the brunette.
    â€œSuch?” inquired the blonde. They were, after all, in a wilderness camp, far even from the modest comforts and amenities of a provincial capital.
    â€œSurely,” 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.
    â€œHow 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.
    â€œYou are no longer on the Narcona ,” said the brunette.
    â€œHow, then?” said the blonde.
    â€œIn tavern tunics,” said the brunette.
    â€œSurely not!” said the blonde.
    â€œWhy not?” inquired the brunette.
    â€œThey are so tiny, so short, there is so little to them, they are too revealing.”
    â€œThey are fit for slaves,” said the brunette.
    â€œOne might as well be naked,” said the blonde, petulantly.
    â€œIf the men grow drunk, you may well be,” said the brunette.
    The blonde shuddered.
    â€œAccustom 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.”
    â€œStill!” protested the blonde.
    â€œDo not fear,” said the brunette, “there will be no free women present, to beat you, because you are beautiful and owned by men.”
    â€œSuch tunics are disgraceful,” said the blonde.
    â€œNot on a slave,” said the brunette.
    â€œThey are too tiny, too short, too revealing,” said the blonde.
    â€œYou will wear them,” said the brunette.
    â€œAs Mistress wishes,” said the blonde.
    â€œMen like them,” said the brunette, “and do they not excite you, as