The overseer had no ready reply for slaves who talked back at him. Such things did not arise in Tsurani culture, and he had no means of coping except to slap the offender with his quirt and swear in an embarrassing display of temper.
This had no effect. Disrupted utterly from her thoughts, Mara heard sounds of a scuffle, and then words of unmistakable rage.
‘Strike me again with that, little man, and I’ll drop you head first into that pile of six-legger’s dung on the other side of that fence.’
‘Put me down, slave!’ screeched the overseer. He sounded genuinely frightened, and since the situation had plainly got out of hand, Mara arose to intervene. Whatever ‘hogwash’ might be, it wasn’t something that indicated proper deference to authority.
She crossed the study, whipped the drapes back, and found herself looking up across an impressively muscled expanse of shoulder and arm. The redheaded Midkemian who had been at the root of the commotion at the auction had a fist twined in the overseer’s robe, lifting him into the air, his feet kicking above the ground. When he saw his mistress, the overseer’s eyes rolled back in his head, and his lips moved in prayer to Kelesha, goddess of mercy.
The barbarian simply looked down at the diminutive lady in the doorway, his expression bland but his eyes as blue and hard as the sword metal that abounded on the Midkemian side of the rift.
Mara felt her own anger rise at that openly rebellious stare. She curbed her temper and spoke evenly. ‘If you value life, slave, let him go now!’
The redhead recognized authority in her dark eyes. Still, he was insolent. He considered her command an instant; then a wicked grin spread across his face and he opened his fist. The overseer dropped without warning, buckled at the knees, and landed on his seat in the middle of Mara’s favourite flower bed.
The grin sparked Mara’s anger. ‘You lack any hint of humility, slave, and that is a dangerous thing!’
The redhead stopped smiling, but his eyes remained upon his mistress with an interest that now had more to do with her thin robe than any respect for her words.
Mara was not too angry to notice. Suddenly made to feel undressed by the barbarian’s frank appraisal, she felt her anger mount. She might have ordered the redhead’s immediate death as an example to the others, except that Arakasi’s earlier expression of interest in the barbarians made her pause. None of the Midkemians behaved in an appropriate way, and unless she could learn the reason why, the only expedient that could end the problem was to slaughter her purchases out of hand. Still, an object lesson was required. Turning to a nearby pair of guards, she said, ‘Take this slave out of sight and beat him. Do not let him die, but make him wish to. If he resists, then kill him.’
Instantly two swords appeared, and, with clear intent to brook no resistance, the guards led the outworlder away. As he moved down the path, the imminent prospect of a beating seemed to have no effect on his self-important posture. The barbarian’s lack of fear at his coming ordeal served only to irritate Mara more, for it was the one thing about the man that was Tsurani-like and admirable. Then Mara caught herself: about the man? What could she be thinking of? He was only a slave.
Jican chose that moment to make an appearance. His polite knock on the doorframe broke through Mara’s angry contemplation.
She whirled and snapped across the room, ‘What!’
The sight of her hadonra jumping back in fright made her feel foolish. She motioned for her overseer to remove himself from the flower bed, then retired to her cushions, where Ayaki still lay asleep.
Jican stepped into the room from the hallway. ‘Mistress?’ he inquired meekly.
With a wave at her hadonra, Mara said, ‘I am about to learn why Elzeki here must argue with slaves.’
The overseer stepped through the outer door, flushing visibly at his mistress’s disapproval. Elzeki was little better than a slave himself, an untrained servant given the office of managing workers about the estate. And authority given to him could be taken away. He prostrated himself upon the waxed wood floor and protested hotly in his own defence. ‘Mistress, these barbarians have no sense of order. They are without wal.’ He used the ancient Tsurani word meaning ‘centre of being’ – the soul that defined one’s place in the universe. ‘They complain, they malinger, they argue, they make jokes …’ Frustrated to the point of tears, he finished in an angry rush. ‘The redheaded one is the worst. He acts as if he were a noble.’
Mara’s eyes widened. ‘A noble?’
Elzeki straightened from his obeisance and glanced in appeal at the hadonra. Jican still winced at the poor choice of words. With no support forthcoming from the hadonra, Elzeki prostrated himself again, his forehead pressed to the floor. ‘Please, mistress! I meant no disrespect!’
Mara waved away the apology. ‘No. That is understood. What did you mean?’
Peeking up, he saw that his mistress’s anger had changed to interest. ‘The other barbarians defer to him, my Lady. Maybe this redhead was an officer too cowardly to die. He might have lied. These barbarians mix truth and untruth without distinction, I sometimes think. Their ways are strange. They confuse me.’
Mara frowned, thinking that if the redhead were cowardly, or frightened of pain, he would not have shown such nerveless composure at the prospect of a beating by her guards.
‘What were you and he arguing about?’ Jican demanded.
Elzeki, the overseer, seemed to shrivel, as if to review the events leading up to his shameful embarrassment were to relive them. ‘Many things, honourable hadonra. The barbarian speaks with such a savage accent, he is difficult to understand.’ Through the screen beyond the drapes came the sound of a distant thud, followed by a pained grunt. Mara’s orders for punishment were plainly being carried out by the guards. Since his own hide might be whipped over the barbarians’ disobedience, the overseer began visibly to sweat.
Mara motioned for the screen door to be closed, lest she be further disturbed. As a house servant rushed to do her bidding, she saw that the remaining barbarians were gathered on the walkway, their shears idle in their hands, regarding their mistress with open hostility and resentment. Stifling outrage at such blatant disrespect, Mara snapped at the overseer. ‘Then tell us just one thing that red-haired barbarian dared to feel important enough to argue about.’
Elzeki shifted his weight. ‘The redhead asked to move one of the men inside.’
Jican glanced at his mistress, who nodded permission for him to cross-question. ‘What reason did he give?’
‘Some nonsense about our sun being hotter than the sun on their own world, and this other man being stricken by the heat.’
Mara said, ‘What else?’
Elzeki glanced at his feet, like a boy caught sneaking sweets from the kitchen. ‘He also complained that some of the slaves needed more water than we were giving them, because of the heat.’
Mara said, ‘And?’
‘He gave excuses for laziness. Rather than work hard, he objected that a few of the men who were set to tend the flowers knew nothing of plants upon their own world, let alone ours, and that to punish them for working slowly was foolish.’
Jican sat back, astonished. ‘These sound like excellent suggestions to me, my Lady.’
Mara expelled a long-suffering sigh. ‘It seems that I acted too hastily,’ she said ruefully. ‘Elzeki, go and put a stop to the beating. Tell my guards to have the redheaded slave cleaned up and brought to me here in my study.’
As the overseer hurried obsequiously away, Mara regarded her hadonra. ‘Jican, it would