In the Tent of Clark

originally posted March 31, 2006

Sucha watched it from the floor. The brassy red-haired slave slut dancer of the Filthy Urt Tavern in Port Kar watched from beneath the boot of her master. Emily hadn't moved for more than a few ehn when her owner realized it would not be Sucha bringing home fifty silver tarsks from the tent of Clark, Slaver of Thentis. She has sneered derisively at Emily when we arrived. She did not sneer now. She had not been fully pleasing. Her neck was beneath his heel.

Fateemah from the Oasis of Nine Wells in the Tahari, favored pet of Sulemein, watched Emily dance. She wore diaphanous, pale green silk. Chalwars clung to her sweating body. A small vest about her bodice hung open. We had watched her dance only moments ago. Her breath was shallow. She had lovely, full breasts. I will not deny she was fantastic, both in the sand and out of it. She was the pet of a Pasha, permitted to lean close in her kneel beside him as we watched. And we all watched.

Lit candles flickered within the grand tent of Clark of Thentis. Honoring his Caste, the walls of the tent were blue and yellow. Wide lengths of silk in that color billowed down from the high ceiling. Emily danced. I had belled her wrists and her ankles in thick leather straps with fat copper bells that jangled as tambourines. She could not move without setting them to a lewd shake. Stripped nude of her sarong, she wore only a sheer, red shawl. It framed her face and the length of her body, as it reached the floor, in a gold threaded hem. Picture that, if you would. Her lean curves fully on display with her wrists and ankles strapped in bells that brought to mind shackles, thick and heavy as they were. A curtain of sheer silk billowing about her tanned flesh, hiding nothing. She clutched the silk about her at times, the denial of a slave girl with respect to her nature. The fabric, to her supposed horror, mocked her as holding it close only revealed her further. It was brilliant. More than once I shared a nod with a fellow who watched her, conceding the excellence of her technique. She danced to a mirror, unable to take her eyes from it. Each time she turned, her eyes sought the mirror. "Is that me?" she seemed to say. "No, no, that is only a slave," her pained expression seemed to lament. In time, her dance showed acceptance of the girl in the mirror. She brought down her foot hard, stomping it. The bells brought more than one man up, leaning forward in his seat. "Yes, I am a slave," she seemed to say then. Boldly, her mouth even allowed itself a smile. She met the eyes of men. Coin was already starting to rain into the sand. More than one fellow, myself included, was already starting to strike his fist to his shoulder in applause. She danced to men, playing their passions, stroking it. Lighting fires within every man in the room. Women, too, cannot help but stare enrapt at such a display. It affects them keenly to see one of their kind in such a display. They can be only women. Men will be the men. They will serve. He will command. Emily knelt high on her knees, thighs open, hiding nothing. She knew this. She reached behind her toward the mirror, toward the source of her denial. She no longer denied what she saw. She wanted it deeply. She seemed to say, "Yes, that is me. Allow me to be her. You are men. Allow me only that."

A fellow called out "Hail Ar!" so moved he was by a girl that served in his city. And then another called out the cry of my city. None who held the Home Stone failed to stand, caught with the emotion and love for a city and with the beauty of a girl. Others were not long in following, getting to their feet. Every woman I owned, from Sandal to the bottom girl of two chains, Six, gave themselves to cheering or applauding for Emily. They were knelt in a semicircle behind me that commenced with Sandal, my Joy at left. Emily, I placed before me as we awaited the word of judges. The Pasha Sulemein of the Oasis of Nine Wells looked in my direction, offering a nod. He knew that Emily was better than his Fateemah, but he did not seem displeased. I had cultivated Emily's legend from the Teiban District of Ar to the very base of the black Sardar Mountains. Men knew her. They needed only to recall her. Recollect they did. She danced last, the girl of a mere Poet. A barbarian.

"Judged fourth, Selke of the House of Prius in Ianda," the Scribe called.

Selke was a dark girl, very beautiful. She danced, I knew, the day before. She, too, was not given a first round bye. She must prove herself first in a group of ten and then, as she did tonight, in the final group of nineteen. Her owner seemed well pleased with her. Of one hundred women, the best dancers in the world, a panel of twelve judges felt she was fourth best. That was quite the achievement.

Tellia, a pretty blonde wearing a golden collar and white, shimmering silk, part of a matched trio of girls, took third prize. She was of the House of Clark in Thentis, one of Clark's own. Men cheered for her. Clark was gracious, offering a smile to those who met his eyes. He wore the blue of his caste, trimmed tastefully in yellow. The cost of his tunic alone, I thought, might feed a village of peasants for a year.

Then it was Fateemah's turn, Sulemein's girl, to be awarded. Second prize. In the world, this girl living in the oppressive heat of the Tahari, was judged second. That left only first prize. Sucha was wide-eyed. No. She had watched Emily dance. Perhaps she might have been better than Fateemah or Selke. Maybe even Tellia, Clark's own, but not Emily. Her master knew this as well. He removed his boot from her neck and hauled her up by the hair. Few noticed, I think, as most were enrapt by the Scribe in the sand. He was about to award first prize. Men speculated, opining to one another who would win. The tented room was alive with the din of anticipation. Until finally, the Scribe would announce the winner.

Phais.
Of the House of Clark. In Thentis.

"Son of a sleen!" was the first cry. "NO!" was another. Men had paid their admission. Had watched three days of girl's dancing. One hundred of them from every corner of the world. I did not watch them all, I admit. I was not pleased, but it was what it was. Emily did well, but she did not do well enough. She was instructed to cut the others down, not to lose my silver tarsk, the cost to enter her in the competition. She would be beaten. She had not been absolutely obedient. I allow her arrogance, at times she must be cuffed for the wideness of her mouth, the cattiness of her commentary, but I allow it. In the sands, she is other than a simple barbarian slave. If this Phais, whom I did not witness myself, was her better, then she failed. She would be beaten.

Phais.
Of the House of Clark. In Thentis.

Men of Clark were entering the tent, Guardsmen with poles. They were armed with the Gladius as well. A patron of the competition approached one with a rude gesture, angered at what he perceived to be a disservice, a breach of trust. He felt the competition was rigged. He was smacked down, the hilt of a sword knocking him back. And that was all it took. Others rushed to that fellow's aid, passions high, and battled the men of Clark. It was mostly shoving and pushing. The tell tale snap of a broken limb sounded twice. There was not, that I saw, much blood shed, but it would soon escalate to that. The exits were blocked. I must wait. The Scribe was shouting from the sands. He was flanked by men of Clark. It did not stop the barrage of things thrown at him. A sandal. A small stone. A peach that splattered across the bridge of his nose. Still, he insisted he must be heard.

"There has been an error!" he declared. "Having to do with the weighting of scores in the six categories of judgment! There has been an error!"

Well, that was interesting. Others, as well, thought so. Those engaged in fisticuffs, however, did not release one another. They merely paused, fingers still clenched in a fist and/or one another's tunic. They would listen to what the fellow had to say, but it was with skepticism.

"It has been discovered there is actually a tie for first place!" he declared.

He went on to explain some detail about how such competitions are judged. Different attributes receiving different degrees of importance and, therefore, being weighted more heavily in the scoring. I supposed it was not impossible that an error might have been made. He went on to explain, also, that in the spirit of goodwill Phais was to be withdrawn from the competition.

"Emily of the House of Samsara in Ar," the fellow called out nervously, trying to appease the angry crowd, "is judged first."

Validation in the face of scandal.
The legend of a girl.
Memories of a lifetime.
It is time to go home.