Under the Yoke

Glory to the Race

  CHATEAU RETOUR PLANTATION,TOURAINE PROVINCEAUGUST 3, 19470200 HOURS

  It was the quiet hours after midnight; the time of deepest sleep, the time when old men die and young ones lie awake and shiver with an emptiness glimpsed at the heart of things. The wind had died, and the stars shone soft and huge through the damp clear air; grass gave off its heavy scent as the dew beaded on stems, but the flowers were curled in on themselves, petal folded over petal. Mysterious creaks and rustles sounded through garden and field, stalks rubbing one on the other in the slow cellular swellings of growth and decay. A light went by on the river, drifting downstream silently; then others passed overhead with a quiet throb of engines and a long torpedo shape black against the moon.

  Below, a dog-fox crouched and barked shrilly as the dirigible passed, then went about his rounds with swift paws that moved the leaves hardly more than his black questing nose. Green bush-crickets sounded, strident bursts of sound fading into the empty spaces, and a midwife toad pipped from the borders of the lake.

  In the Great House of the plantation, this passed:

  "Non."

  Tanya woke at the stirring, from a dream where burning rubble collapsed again over the vision-blocks, and ventilators poured smoke. For a moment she was bewildered, expecting first the engine-growl and the thunder of the falling building, then the harsh feel of the sleeping-bag, starlight and the bulk of her tank above.

  Home, she thought. I am home. Smooth silk against her skin, the near-absolute blackness of her own bedroom; underneath the wavy resilience of a bed whose mattress was water-filled cells. No prickle of dirt or sweat, clean smells of fabric and wood and the garden odors from beyond the curtains. No light except the radium dial of the clock on the table across the room. She sank back into a half-drowse, smiling to herself. It was a pleasure like waking up early on a school-holiday as a child, just so you could realize that you were free to go back to sleep. Her own home, bulking solid about her. Edward, the twins, the new-born pair, all near at hand.

  "Non."

  The bed was big enough that Solange's thrashing had not touched her, but the sound and the flowing transmitted through the liquid mattress brought her fully awake. With a sigh, Tanya slid over until her hand touched the smooth warmth of the serf's back; the Frenchwoman was curled into a fetal ball, and her owner could feel the shudders of nightmare running under her skin. A running mumble in her native tongue; pleading, Tanya thought, and she could catch Poppa and Matnan occasionally.

  Damn, thought this was tapering off, the Draka mused to herself. Aloud: "Wake up." A firm, arm's-length shake. "Wake up, Solange."

  The younger woman convulsed, shot into a sitting position and screamed twice. Shatteringly loud; Tanya winced but kept her hand between the other's shoulder-blades. The Draka could imagine it from times when the light had been on, the serf's hands plastered to the sides of her face, eyes owl-wide and unseeing. Her quick shallow panting echoed through the room, slowing gradually as the rigid lock of her muscles relaxed. When her hands sank from her face, Tanya pulled her down and close; Solange pushed her face into the angle of the Draka's neck and clung within the circle of her arms, shivering quietly.

  "I was—I was—" she began.

  "Shhhh, shhhh, I know," Tanya whispered into her hair, rocking her gently. "It's all right, all right, yo're not there now." There were several places Solange went during her worst dreams, and none of them were pleasant.

  They lay together in the darkness for quiet minutes; Tanya could feel the serfs heart beating against hers, fluttering in the cage of her ribs. It slowed, and the warm breath against her neck, until Solange sighed and moved her face so that their lips touched.

  "Thank you, maîtresse," she whispered.

  Well, I know what comes next, Tanya thought. There was a complex wiggling beneath the sheets as Solange slid out of her panties. Do I want to? She probed mentally at herself; it was only three days since her period had ended, which was generally a low point in her libido. Also she had only been asleep four hours, and… No, I don't, she thought. I want to go back to sleep. On the other hand, she'll be hurt, she needs the reassurance, and besides, in a few minutes I will feel like it.

  They kissed, and she could taste the slight salt of fear-sweat on the singer's upper lip, the stronger mint from her toothpaste; and the natural flavor of her mouth, which had always reminded Tanya of apples and earth. A pointed tongue flicked at hers, ran lightly along the inside of her lips. The Draka nudged with her knee, and Solange welcomed it between hers, gripping with her thighs.

  "You wish to make love. Mistress?" Solange asked breathlessly, a small catch in her voice.

  Tanya murmured assent, running her fingers through the serfs hair, marvelling at the texture soft as ostrich down, how it was matched in the fine curls pressing against her leg. Solange's mouth was moving across her face to the angle of her jaw, feather-light brushes of petal lips and tongue-tip, while her hands stroked at Tanya's neck with only the pads of the fingers touching, just enough to brush the near-invisible hairs. The sensation was an unbearable mixture of caress and tickle; she heard her own breath catch as the pulse speeded in her ears with a long swelling.

  Now I want, she thought, smiling silently into the darkness. Now I want. Their bodies moved for long minutes in a subtle mutual urging, and then Tanya rose to hands and knees, while the serf slid beneath her and lower. Her hands are so soft, the Draka thought, as they slid down over her shoulders to cup her breasts and then trace delicately along her flanks. They moved in slow gliding circles as the kisses floated down her throat. Tanya shivered as her skin grew tingling-tight, even her lips feeling swollen, like buds about to burst.

  "Ahhh," she hissed aloud as the mouth closed around a nipple, and made a small convulsive arching of her back when small sharp teeth slid over it, nibbling. All sweet goddesses, that's hotwired to my crotch, she thought exultantly. Solange moved to the other breast, stroked her stomach.

  "I—want," the Draka said hoarsely.

  Solange lay back, wiggling lower, and Tanya could feel hands gliding up the backs of her thighs. The serfs voice was still a whisper.

  "Then ride this pony," she said.

  Tanya reached up with her right arm to touch the ivory plaque that controlled the lights. They flickered once and shone dimly on the lowest setting, reflected through gaps between the frosted glass false ceiling and the wall all around the big room. Shadows remained, hinting at a few large pieces of furniture, desk and armoire and massage-table, hiding inlay and rare woods and even the colors of the glowing thousand-knot Isfahan carpet. There was a slightly brighter patch above the big bed, and the crumpled black silk of the sheets had a liquid shine around and across their bodies. The Draka lay back, examining the face in the crook of her left arm.

  Spots of bright red high on her cheeks, that was familiar enough from their more usual times together, afternoons mostly. But not the tears that slid quietly from under her closed eyelids, pooling and beading and then running in slow tracks down the sides of her face. It was a contrast to her usual sleepy-smug-catlike expression of satiation, but common on these rare nights when she woke from the terrible dreams. Amazing, Tanya thought. She looks lovely even when she cries, most people get red and puffy.

  She bent her head to kiss the tears, salt, the taste of melancholy and of life, stroked back the drifting wisps of black hair to join the fan that lay invisible on the pillow. A kiss on the lips, smelling and tasting the warm flavor of sex, her own and the lighter musk of the serfs, mingled on their mouths.

  "Why so sad, my pretty pony, my butterfly, kitten?" Tanya said softly, pulling up the sheet and holding her closer. "Didn't I make you happy?"

  A sigh, and the long curved lashes fluttered back. "Oh, yes, I felt marvelous."

  "Thought so. Do yo' know, you sing when yo' come? Anyone awake on this floor is goin' know I did right by yo'." Solange smiled through the tears and snuggled closer; Tanya could feel the slow dropping warm on her arm
, then cooling, a little chill where the serfs breath ran over the wet skin. "Still haven't said why yo' cryin', though. Happens whenever yo' get like this."

  "I… don't know, Mistress. It was my dream, I was… alone, everyone had turned away from me. I wanted them to come back to me, because there were… things… and I called out to them to help me, to save me, but they wouldn't, they walked away without speaking, I ran from one to the other but my hands could not touch them. And then, just before I woke up, they did begin to turn towards me, and I knew suddenly that if I saw their faces it would be too terrible to bear, my heart would burst."

  Solange gripped Tanya fiercely, hiding her face in the angle of shoulder and neck. "Isn't that a silly dream to be frightened of?" she said, muffled.

  The Draka stroked her back. "No, it isn't," she said, resting her cheek on the other's head. "Not at all."

  "And then… when I wake up and you are there… I want very much to make pleasure with you. Not like other times, but because it makes me feel—" A hesitation. "Real again, not alone. As if I am found, not lost." The tears dripped more slowly onto Tanya's shoulder, and Solange sniffed. A moment later she spoke again, almost too soft to hear. "I love you."

  Never promise more than you will give, Tanya reminded herself, as she stroked the serfs hair. She stretched, feeling a delightful lassitude that was not quite sleepiness, as if every muscle had been individually massaged and soaked and returned painlessly at half its original weight. And tenderness, she mused, reaching up for a handkerchief and gently pushing Solange's shoulder down to the pillow so that her face was exposed.Odd. Ah well, it's my feeling, why not?

  "I know yo' do," she said, wiping the streaks from the other's cheeks and putting the kerchief to her nose. "Here, blow." A tremulous smile, and the Frenchwoman obeyed. "There, isn't that bettah? I know, my sweet. I'me glad yo' do, and I'm… very attached to yo'. Yo' are wonderful and precious to me, yo' give me infinite enjoyment in a dozen ways."

  Solange reached up and gripped her arms, eyes searching Tanya's. "You will never… send me away, Mistress?"

  Tanya kissed her firmly. "What a thought! Nevah."

  "Not even… not even when I am old and ugly?" More quietly: "I am twenty-one this Christmas, mistress."

  The Draka chuckled. "Look… Solange, honeybee, how old were yo' the first time I took yo?"

  "Eighteen, mistress." An answering smile. "So frightened and ignorant… how did you tolerate me?"

  "Easily, sweet." Tanya remembered the violet eyes watching her undress, huge and misted with terror and determination. "Yo' were tryin'… anyways, that's about as young as I care to go." She gave the serf a peck on the nose. "I don't fuck children, Solange, and I'm ten years older than yo', as is. Keep up yo' dancin', and yo'll still be breath-stoppin' beautiful at fifty."

  She rolled closer and took the other's face firmly between her hands. "And," she said slowly, "I've said I care fo' yo'. That means there'll always be a home fo' yo' here, an' I've made provision in my will. Word of a von Shrakenberg."

  Solange sighed again, took one of Tanya's hands and kissed the palm before pressing it against the side of her face. They settled to sleep, curled spoon-fashion in a warm tangle of arms and sheets.

  "Oh, one thing," Tanya murmured sleepily.

  "Yes, Mistress?"

  "When we're sleepin' together alone like this, call me by name."

  Soiange inhaled sharply, knowing the rarity of the privilege, especially for one not estate-born. 'Thank you, ma-Tanya," she said.

  "Yo" welcome, sweet," the Draka said. Twenty-one, she mused. Have to get her a present. Perfume, probably, or more platters for her needle-player. Or another crate of those trashy pre-War romance novels, she devoured them like candy…

  Dirigible, Fred Kustaa thought, leaning out the window and looking upward. The Paris-Alexandria passenger shuttle. Below, the grounds were washed in moonlight and starlight, only a low seeping of yellow somewhere from a curtain not completely drawn. There was a countryside quietness to the landscape; the sounds of merrymaking from the pavilions had ceased. The Draka were early-to-bed even in a party mood. The air smelled of dew but not rain, and he could tell that tomorrow would be another day of dry sun and heat. Good for the crops, he thought sardonically. The harvest of his plans was prepared, and needed only the cutter to bring it in. With a controlled impatience he turned and strode across the room, kicking angrily at the hem of his caftan.

  Past the bed, which the servants had noiselessly stripped of the usual sheets and relaid with smooth linen, less likely to tear. The posts had soft cloth restraints fitted to them, laced to the wood and with quick-fasten loops suitable for holding an ankle or a wrist; there were other fasteners on a table nearby, hard pillows, a jar of what the label claimed was scented, flavored lubricating oil, a blindfold and a whip with a dozen cords of hard-woven silk. Kustaa looked at them for an instant, then turned to the window, hawked and spat copiously into the night; it was silent enough that he heard the tiny splat as it landed on the roof of the shorter tower below.

  Childish, he thought. But sometime's a man's got to… say what he thinks. Then: Where is she: It must be going on for two a.m. There wasn't much time for what they had to plan; not to mention that the sooner she arrived, the sooner he could tell her the truth. It could not have been a pleasant day for her, and the news seemed to have spread rapidly. At least, there had been a couple of hard looks from the servants who arranged the room for his "pleasure"; he suspected that Sister Marya had made herself well-liked.

  A knock at the door. He cleared his throat, grunted. It opened smoothly, and the nun stumbled through. The male overseer leaned his head in past the jamb for a moment.

  "Found thishere wench still ditherin' in her room, 'stead of reportin' to be tupped, Mistah Kenston." He looked her up and down. "No accountin' fo' tastes… Anyhows, enjoy yo'self and maybeso yo' can pump some manners into her, too. Uppity inside her head, I kin tell."

  Marya shrank back against the door. She was carrying a cloth bundle in her hands, probably tomorrow's morning clothing. Some perverse Draka sense of humor had had her dressed in a short silk peignoir, transparent, that lifted her heavy bare breasts and swept open beneath to show the round belly sagging slightly over her thickset legs. He had started forward to whisper reassurance when he saw that her crouch was not a cower; her eyes had gone to the bed and seen what awaited her, and the sound she made was a low growling as the lips curled away from her teeth. The bundle of clothes she held floated down, and time slowed as he saw what came free of it in her right hand. Knife, fighting knife, long and slender and double-edged with a round hide-wound hilt. Draka knife, she must have palmed it somewhere, Ildaren wrist-blade.

  It should have been comical, the fat woman in the obscene silk nightie coming for him with the hilt clutched in a clumsy white-knuckled hatchet grip. It was not, not to a man who had seen and dealt violence as often as Kustaa, not with that face behind the seven inches of edged metal. He backed away behind the corner of the bed, and fear blocked his throat for an instant before he could stutter out words, quietly but in his own voice.

  "American, I'm an American!" The woman kept coming, her eyes rimmed all about with white, the point of the knife moving in the gloom. "I'm not a Draka, the Resistance sent me." Even then, the absurd code-phrase almost stuck in his throat. "The escargot of Dijon are very fine. Goddammit, Sister, the escargot of Dijon are very fine!"

  She stopped, as if a glass wall had come between them. The berserker look faded from her eyes as she began to straighten; it was probably the sound of his undamaged voice that got home, as much as the words and accent. "Not… American? Resistance?" The knife slipped from her hand, bounced once on the carpet, lay still with lamplight breaking off the honed edges. He was barely in time to catch her as she began to crumple.

  "Ah," Edward von Shrakenberg said. "Ahhh." He looked down. The wench Chantal had her legs about him as he knelt on the surface of the bed, thrusting steadily. Her back was arched
, making her a bow with weight resting on her shoulders and neck. His hands were clamped on her hips, thumbs kneading at the edge of her bush and fingers moving her in rhythm with him; he watched the mingling of their pubic hair at the end of each stroke, dark coarse black and tawny down below the ridged muscles of his belly. Obedient, she gripped tighter with her thighs and pushed up to meet him each time, the full plum-nippled breasts jiggling. The air was heavy with sweat and sex and the fumes of strong Moroccan kif.

  They were both sweat-slick, her body seemed to glisten with it, but her face was hidden. He leaned back slightly on his heels and let his head fall back also, looking into the pattern of silvered mirror-tiles on the ceiling. Tanya had laughed at that, calling it a symptom of encroaching vanity. He smiled at the memory, smiled more at the soft warm moistness clenching and unclenching around his penetration of the wench. He could see her face in the mirror, although he doubted her open eyes were seeing much beyond the spray of black hair that lay across them. Her mouth was closed but her lips were wide in a teeth-barring grimace, half the hard muscular effort that was making her grunt with every straining breath, half fury at this steady intolerable invasion of her self.

  But she's learned not to try that passive-resistance nonsense any more, he thought with satisfaction. Amazing what a little pain, a few drugs and patiently ruthless will could accomplish. By Frey, he mused, in the intervals of lucid thought, this may not be a serf-taming technique fo' mass employment, but it has a lot to be said for it in individual cases. Though he doubted the odd Mr. Kenston was having as much luck with his nun; the two thoughts brought a snort of laughter.

  Chantal broke rhythm; his fingers gave her a tweak, and they settled back. Still, can't keep this up all night, the master of Chateau Retour decided. Might get boring.

  He turned his head to Yasmin, who was beside them on the wide bed. She was lying on her stomach with her chin in one hand, the mouthpiece of the water-pipe in the other; her feet swayed in time to the rhythm of the act that rocked the fluid-filled mattress beneath her. Edward nodded at her, and she smiled lazily, blew scented kif-smoke toward him through pouted lips, rolled closer. One hand went down to where the master's body joined the wench he was riding, caressing them both; the other settled on Chantal's fist where it clenched straining beside her shoulder. The brown girl's mouth went close to the other's ear, whispered: about how to bring him off faster and get it over with, Edward supposed.