The house slave reappeared with a pile of scented bath towels. He entered the study, bowed, and only belatedly realized that his Lady’s request had been made on behalf of the scruffy barbarian who stood pinioned in the hands of the guards.
‘Well,’ snapped Mara, at her servant’s hesitation, ‘dry the brute off before he ruins the floor.’
‘Your will, Mistress,’ the slave murmured from a position of prostration. He arose and began to daub the reddened skin between the barbarian’s shoulder blades, this being the highest place he could reach.
Mara assessed the huge slave in a relatively calm moment, then came to a decision. ‘Leave us,’ she commanded her guards. They released the barbarian, bowed, and let themselves out through the screen to the corridor.
The barbarian rubbed his wrists where the guards’ grip had restricted circulation. The slave attempting to dry him seemed an irritation, and after a glance at Mara, the outworlder reached out, took a clean towel from the pile, and finished the task himself. His hair stood up in spikes when he finished, and the slave looked in dismay at the pile of blood-soiled, damp towels heaped about the barbarian’s feet.
‘Give those to my washing maids,’ Mara said. She motioned for the redhead to select a cushion and be seated.
Mara studied the barbarian’s face; the gaze he returned was as penetrating as her own. Suddenly she felt out of her depth. Something about this man disturbed her. The reason struck her: she still considered him a man! Slaves were livestock, not people. Why did this one cause her to feel. . . uncertain? Her practice in the role of Ruling Lady allowed her to assume the mask of command. She felt challenged to discover why this barbarian made her forget his station. She forced her voice to calm. ‘I was hasty, perhaps.’ As the house slave scooped up the towels and hastened away, she added, ‘It would appear, upon examination of the matter, that I ordered you beaten unfairly.’
Taken aback, but covering it well, the redhead selected a cushion and gingerly sat down. The scar left on his cheek by the overseer at the slave market did not detract from his appearance; rather, the flaw gave heightened contrast to his handsome features, and his heavy beard was a novelty not seen in Tsurani freemen, who shaved as a matter of tradition.
‘Slave,’ commanded Mara, ‘I wish to know more of the land you come from.’
‘I have a name,’ said the redhead in his deep-throated voice, which now was bristling with antagonism. ‘I am Kevin, from the City of Zun.’
Mara replied with irritation, ‘You might have been counted human once, upon your world, but now you are a slave. A slave has no honour, nor does he have a spirit in the eyes of the gods. This you must have known, Kevin of Zun.’ She spoke the name with sarcasm. ‘You chose your lot, chose to forfeit honour. If not, you should have died before an enemy took you captive.’ She paused as another thought occurred to her. ‘Or were you vassal to another more powerful house, whose Lord refused you permission to take your own life?’
Kevin raised his brows, momentarily baffled by confusion. ‘What? I’m not sure what you mean.’
Mara repeated herself in terms a child would understand. ‘Did your house swear vassalage to another?’
Kevin straightened his back, winced, and raked a hand through his damp beard. ‘Zun swore allegiance to the High King in Rillanon, of course.’
The Lady nodded as if all were explained. ‘Then you were forbidden permission by this King to fall upon your sword. Yes?’
Thoroughly mystified, Kevin shook his head. ‘Fall on my sword? Why? I might be a third son of a minor nob — er, family, but I don’t need my King’s permission to sanction what seems an act of total idiocy.’
Now Mara blinked in surprise. ‘Have your people no honour? If the choice was yours, why allow yourself to be taken captive into slavery?’
Careful of his welts, which were swelling uncomfortably, Kevin regarded this diminutive woman who through misfortune had come to be his mistress. Forcing a smile, he said, ‘Trust me, lady, I had no option, otherwise I wouldn’t be enjoying your . . . hospitality now. Had I a choice, I’d be at home with my family.’
Mara shook her head slightly. This was not the answer she sought. ‘We may be having difficulty because of your barbaric use of the Tsurani tongue. Let me ask a different way: when you were taken captive, were you not spared a moment by fate in which you could have taken your own life rather than face capture?’
Kevin paused, as if weighing the question, ‘I suppose so, but why would I think about killing myself?’
Without thought, Mara blurted, ‘For honour!’
Kevin laughed bitterly. ‘What good is honour to a dead man?’
Mara blinked, as if struck by harsh lights in a dark room. ‘Honour is . . . everything,’ Mara said, not believing anyone could ask that question. ‘It is what makes living endurable. It gives purpose to . . . everything. What else is there to live for?’