Le Guin, Ursula - Hainish SS - Old Music and the Slave Women.pdf - Ursula Le Guin - chomikbob7

Old Music and the Slave Women

Ursula K. Le Guin

The Chief Intelligence Officer of the Ekumenical Embassy toWerrel, a man who on his home world had the name

Sohikelwenyanmurkeres Esdan, and who in Voe Deo was known by a nickname, Esdardon Aya or Old Music, was bored.

It had taken a civil war and three years to bore him, but he had got to the point where he referred to himself in ansible reports

to the Stabiles on Hain as the Embassy's chief stupidity officer.

He had been able, however, to retain a few clandestine links with friends in the Free City even after the Legitimate

Government sealed the Embassy, allowing no one and no information to enter or leave it. In the third summer of the war, he

came to the Ambassador with a request. Cut off from reliable communication with the Embassy, Liberation Command had

asked him (how? asked the Ambassador; through one of the men who delivered groceries, he explained) if the Embassy

would let one or two of its people slip across the lines and talk with them, be seen with them, offer proof that despite

propaganda and disinformation, and though the Embassy was stuck in Jit City, its staff had not been co-opted into supporting

the Legitimates, but remained neutral and ready to deal with rightful authority on either side.

"Jit City?" said the Ambassador. "Never mind. But how do you get there?"

"Always the problem with Utopia," Esdan said. "Well, I can pass with contact lenses, if nobody's looking closely.

Crossing the Divide is the tricky bit."

Most of the great city was still physically there, the government buildings, factories and warehouses, the university, the

tourist attractions: the Great Shrine of Tual, Theater Street, the Old Market with its interesting display rooms and lofty Hall of

Auction, disused since the sale and rental of assets had been shifted to the electronic marketplace; the numberless streets,

avenues, and boulevards, the dusty parks shaded by purple-flowered beya trees, the miles and miles of shops, sheds, mills,

tracks, stations, apartment buildings, houses, compounds, the neighborhoods, the suburbs, and exurbs. Most of it still stood,

most of its fifteen million people were still there, but its deep complexity was gone. Connections were broken. Interactions

did not take place. A brain after a stroke.

The greatest break was a brutal one, an ax-blow right through the pons, a kilo-wide no-man's-land of blown-up buildings

and blocked streets, wreckage and rubble. East of the Divide was Legitimate territory: downtown, government offices,

embassies, banks, communications towers, the university, the great parks and wealthy neighborhoods, the roads out to the

armory, barracks, airports, and spaceport. West of the Divide was Free City, Dustyville, Liberation territory: factories, union

compounds, the rentspeople's quarters, the old gareot residential neighborhoods, endless miles of little streets petering out

into the plains at last. Through both ran the great East-West highways, empty.

The Liberation people smuggled him out of the Embassy and almost across the Divide successfully. He and they had had

a lot of practice in the old days getting runaway assets out to Yeowe and freedom. He found it interesting to be the one

smuggled instead of one of the smugglers, finding it far more frightening yet less stressful, since he was not responsible, the

package not the postman. But somewhere in the connection there had been a bad link.

They made it on foot into the Divide and partway through it and stopped at a little derelict truck sitting on its wheel rims

under a gutted apartment house. A driver sat at the wheel behind the cracked, crazed windshield, and grinned at him. His

guide gestured him into the back. The truck took off like a hunting cat, following a crazy route, zigzagging through the ruins.

They were nearly across the Divide, jolting across a rubbled stretch which might have been a street or a marketplace, when

the truck veered, stopped, there were shouts, shots, the van back was flung open and men plunged in at him. "Easy," he said,

"go easy," for they were manhandling him, hauling him, twisting his arm behind his back. They yanked him out of the truck,

pulled off his coat and slapped him down searching for weapons, frog-marched him to a car waiting beside the truck. He

tried to see if his driver was dead but could not look around before they shoved him into the car.

It was an old government state-coach, dark red, wide, and long, made for parades, for carrying great estate owners to

the Council and ambassadors from the spaceport. Its main section could be curtained to separate men from women

passengers, and the driver's compartment was sealed off so the passengers wouldn't be breathing in what a slave breathed

out.

One of the men had kept his arm twisted up his back until he shoved him headfirst into the car, and all he thought as he

found himself sitting between two men and facing three others and the car starting up was, I'm getting too old for this.

He held still, letting his fear and pain subside, not ready yet to move even to rub his sharply hurting shoulder, not looking

into faces nor too obviously at the streets. Two glances told him they were passing Rei Street, going east, out of the city. He

realised then he had been hoping they were taking him back to the Embassy. What a fool.

They had the streets to themselves, except for the startled gaze of people on foot as they flashed by. Now they were on a

wide boulevard, going very fast, still going east. Although he was in a very bad situation, he still found it absolutely exhilarating

just to be out of the Embassy, out in the air, in the world, and moving, going fast.

Cautiously he raised his hand and massaged his shoulder. As cautiously, he glanced at the men beside him and facing him.

All were dark-skinned, two blue-black. Two of the men facing him were young. Fresh, stolid faces. The third was a veot of

the third rank, an oga. His face had the quiet inexpressiveness in which his caste was trained. Looking at him, Esdan caught

his eye. Each looked away instantly.

Esdan liked veots. He saw them, soldiers as well as slaveholders, as part of the old Voe Deo, members of a doomed

species. Businessmen and bureaucrats would survive and thrive in the Liberation and no doubt find soldiers to fight for them,

but the military caste would not. Their code of loyalty, honor, and austerity was too like that of their slaves, with whom they

shared the worship of Kamye, the Swordsman, the Bondsman. How long would that mysticism of suffering survive the

Liberation? Veots were intransigent vestiges of an intolerable order. He trusted them, and had seldom been disappointed in

his trust.

The oga was very black, very handsome, like Teyeo, a veot Esdan had particularly liked. He had left Werel long before

the war, off to Terra and Hain with his wife, who would be a Mobile of the Ekumen one of these days. In a few centuries.

Long after the war was over, long after Esdan was dead. Unless he chose to follow them, went back, went home.

Idle thoughts. During a revolution you don't choose. You're carried, a bubble in a cataract, a spark in a bonfire, an

unarmed man in a car with seven armed men driving very fast down the broad, blank East Arterial Highway. . . . They were

leaving the city. Heading for the East Provinces. The Legitimate Government of Voe Deo was now reduced to half the capital

city and two provinces, in which seven out of eight people were what the eighth person, their owner, called assets.

The two men up in the front compartment were talking, though they couldn't be heard in the owner compartment. Now

the bullet-headed man to Esdan's right asked a muttered question to the oga facing him, who nodded.

"Oga," Esdan said.

The veot's expressionless eyes met his.

"I need to piss."

The man said nothing and looked away. None of them said anything for a while. They were on a bad stretch of the

highway, torn up by fighting during the first summer of the Uprising or merely not maintained since. The jolts and shocks were

hard on Esdan's bladder.

"Let the fucking white-eyes piss himself," said one of the two young men facing him to the other, who smiled tightly.

Esdan considered possible replies, good-humored, joking, not offensive, not provocative, and kept his mouth shut. They

only wanted an excuse, those two. He closed his eyes and tried to relax, to be aware of the pain in his shoulder, the pain in

his bladder, merely aware.

The man to his left, whom he could not see clearly, spoke: "Driver. Pull off up there." He used a speakerphone. The

driver nodded. The car slowed, pulled off the road, jolting horribly. They all got out of the car. Esdan saw that the man to his

left was also a veot, of the second rank, a zadyo. One of the young men grabbed Esdan's arm as he got out, another shoved

a gun against his liver. The others all stood on the dusty roadside and pissed variously on the dust, the gravel, the roots of a

row of scruffy trees. Esdan managed to get his fly open but his legs were so cramped and shaky he could barely stand, and

the young man with the gun had come around and now stood directly in front of him with the gun aimed at his penis. There

was a knot of pain somewhere between his bladder and his cock. "Back up a little," he said with plaintive irritability. "I don't

want to wet your shoes." The young man stepped forward instead, bringing his gun right against Esdan's groin.

The zadyo made a slight gesture. The young man backed off a step. Esdan shuddered and suddenly pissed out a fountain.

He was pleased, even in the agony of relief, to see he'd driven the young man back two more steps.

"Looks almost human," the young man said.

Esdan tucked his brown alien cock away with discreet promptness and slapped his trousers shut. He was still wearing

lenses that hid the whites of his eyes, and was dressed as a rentsman in loose, coarse clothes of dull yellow, the only dye

color that had been permitted to urban slaves. The banner of the Liberation was that same dull yellow. The wrong color,

here. The body inside the clothes was the wrong color, too.

Having lived on Werel for thirty-three years, Esdan was used to being feared and hated, but he had never before been

entirely at the mercy of those who feared and hated him. The aegis of the Ekumen had sheltered him. What a fool, to leave

the Embassy, where at least he'd been harmless, and let himself be got hold of by these desperate defenders of a lost cause,

who might do a good deal of harm not only to but with him. How much resistance, how much endurance, was he capable of?

Fortunately they couldn't torture any information about Liberation plans from him, since he didn't know a damned thing about

what his friends were doing. But still, what a fool.

Back in the car, sandwiched in the seat with nothing to see but the young men's scowls and the oga's watchful

nonexpression, he shut his eyes again. The highway was smooth here. Rocked in speed and silence, he slipped into a

postadrenaline doze.

When he came fully awake the sky was gold, two of the little moons glittering above a cloudless sunset. They were jolting

along on a side road, a driveway that wound past fields, orchards, plantations of trees and building-cane, a huge field-worker

compound, more fields, another compound. They stopped at a checkpoint guarded by a single armed man, were checked

briefly and waved through. The road went through an immense, open, rolling park. Its familiarity troubled him. Lacework of

trees against the sky, the swing of the road among groves and glades. He knew the river was over that long hill.

"This is Yaramera," he said aloud.

None of the men spoke.

Years ago, decades ago, when he'd been on Werel only a year or so, they'd invited a party from the Embassy down to

Yaramera, the greatest estate in Voe Deo. The Jewel of the East. The model of efficient slavery. Thousands of assets

working the fields, mills, factories of the estate, living in enormous compounds, walled towns. Everything clean, orderly,

industrious, peaceful. And the house on the hill above the river, a palace, three hundred rooms, priceless furnishings,

paintings, sculptures, musical instruments—he remembered a private concert hall with walls of gold-backed glass mosaic, a

Tualite shrine-room that was one huge flower carved of scented wood.

They were driving up to that house now. The car turned. He caught only a glimpse, jagged black spars against the sky.

The two young men were allowed to handle him again, haul him out of the car, twist his arm, push and shove him up the

steps. Trying not to resist, not to feel what they were doing to him, he kept looking about him. The center and the south wing

of the immense house were roofless, ruinous. Through the black outline of a window shone the blank clear yellow of the sky.

Even here in the heartland of the Law, the slaves had risen. Three years ago, now, in that first terrible summer when

thousands of houses had burned, compounds, towns, cities. Four million dead. He had not known the Uprising had reached

even to Yaramera. No news came up the river. What toll among the Jewel's slaves for that night of burning? Had the owners

been slaughtered, or had they survived to deal out punishment? No news came up the river.

All this went through his mind with unnatural rapidity and clarity as they crowded him up the shallow steps towards the

north wing of the house, guarding him with drawn guns as if they thought a man of sixty-two with severe leg cramps from

sitting motionless for hours was going to break and run for it, here, three hundred kilos inside their own territory. He thought

fast and noticed everything.

This part of the house, joined to the central house by a long arcade, had not burned down. The walls still bore up the

roof, but he saw as they came into the front hall that they were bare stone, their carved paneling burnt away. Dirty

sheetflooring replaced parquet or covered painted tile. There was no furniture at all. In its ruin and dirt the high hall was

beautiful, bare, full of clear evening light. Both veots had left his group and were reporting to some men in the doorway of

what had been a reception room. He felt the veots as safeguard and hoped they would come back, but they did not. One of

the young men kept his arm twisted up his back. A heavyset man came towards him, staring at him.

"You're the alien called Old Music?"

"I am Hainish, and use that name here."

"Mr. Old Music, you're to understand that by leaving your embassy in violation of the protection agreement between your

ambassador and the Government of Voe Deo, you've forfeited diplomatic immunity. You may be held in custody,

interrogated, and duly punished for any infractions of civil law or crimes of collusion with insurgents and enemies of the State

you're found to have committed."

"I understood that this is your statement of my position," Esdan said. "But you should know, sir, that the Ambassador and

the Stabiles of the Ekumen of the Worlds consider me protected both by diplomatic immunity and the laws of the Ekumen."

No harm trying, but his wordy lies weren't listened to. Having recited his litany, the man turned away, and the young men

grabbed Esdan again. He was hustled through doorways and corridors that he was now in too much pain to see, down stone

stairs, across a wide, cobbled courtyard, and into a room where, with a final agonising jerk on his arm and his feet knocked

from under him so that he fell sprawling, they slammed the door and left him belly-down on stone in darkness.

He dropped his forehead onto his arm and lay shivering, hearing his breath catch in a whimper again and again.

Later on he remembered that night, and other things from the next days and nights. He did not know, then or later, if he

was tortured in order to break him down or was merely the handy object of aimless brutality and spite, a sort of plaything for

the boys. There were kicks, beatings, a great deal of pain, but none of it was clear in his memory later except the

crouchcage.

He had heard of such things, read about them. He had never seen one. He had never been inside a compound.

Foreigners, visitors, were not taken into slave quarters on the estates of Voe Deo. They were served by house-slaves in the

houses of the owners.

This was a small compound, not more than twenty huts on the women's side, three longhouses on the gate side. It had

housed the staff of a couple of hundred slaves who looked after the house and the immense gardens of Yaramera. They

would have been a privileged set compared to the field hands. But not exempt from punishment. The whipping post still stood

near the high gate that sagged open in the high walls.

"There?" said Nemeo, the one who always twisted his arm, but the other one, Alatual, said, "No, come on, it's over

here," and ran ahead, excited, to winch the crouchcage down from where it hung below the main sentry station, high up on

the inside of the wall.

It was a tube of coarse, rusty steel mesh sealed at one end and closable at the other. It hung suspended by a single hook

from a chain. Lying on the ground it looked like a trap for an animal, not a very big animal. The two young men stripped off

his clothes and goaded him to crawl into it headfirst, using the fieldhandlers, electric prods to stir up lazy slaves, which they

had been playing with the last couple of days. They screamed with laughter, pushing him and jabbing the prods in his anus

and scrotum. He writhed into the cage until he was crouching in it head down, his arms and legs bent and jammed up into his

body. They slammed the trap end shut, catching his naked foot between the wires and causing a pain that blinded him while

they hoisted the cage back up. It swung about wildly, and he clung to the wires with his cramped hands. When he opened his

eyes he saw the ground swinging about seven or eight meters below him. After a while the lurching and circling stopped. He

could not move his head at all. He could see what was below the crouchcage, and by straining his eyes round he could see

most of the inside of the compound.

In the old days there had been people down there to see the moral spectacle, a slave in the crouchcage. There had been

children to learn the lesson of what happens to a housemaid who shirked a job, a gardener who spoiled a cutting, a hand who

talked back to a boss. Nobody was there now. The dusty ground was bare. The dried-up garden plots, the little graveyard at

the far edge of a woman's side, the ditch between the two sides, the pathways, a vague circle of greener grass right

underneath him, all were deserted. His torturers stood around for a while laughing and talking, got bored, went off.

He tried to ease his position but could move only very slightly. Any motion made the cage rock and swing so that he

grew sick and increasingly fearful of falling. He did not know how securely the cage was balanced on that single hook. His

foot, caught in the cage closure, hurt so sharply that he longed to faint, but though his head swam he remained conscious. He

tried to breathe as he had learned how to breathe a long time ago on another world, quietly, easily. He could not do it here

now in this world in this cage. His lungs were squeezed in his rib cage so that each breath was extremely difficult. He tried not

to suffocate. He tried not to panic. He tried to be aware, only to be aware, but awareness was unendurable.

When the sun came round to that side of the compound and shone full on him the dizziness turned to sickness. Sometimes

then he fainted for a while.

There was night and cold and he tried to imagine water, but there was no water.

He thought later he had been in the crouchcage two days. He could remember the scraping of the wires on his sunburned

naked flesh when they pulled him out, the shock of cold water played over him from a hose. He had been fully aware for a

moment then, aware of himself, like a doll, lying small, limp, on dirt, while men above him talked and shouted about

something. Then he must have been carried back to the cell or stable where he was kept, for there was dark and silence, but

also he was still hanging in the crouchcage roasting in the icy fire of the sun, freezing in his burning body, fitted tighter and

tighter into the exact mesh of the wires of pain.

At some point he was taken to a bed in a room with a window, but he was still in the crouchcage, swinging high above

the dusty ground, the dusties' ground, the circle of green grass.

The zadyo and the heavyset man were there, were not there. A bondswoman, whey-faced, crouching and trembling, hurt

him trying to put salve on his burned arm and leg and back. She was there and not there. The sun shone in the window. He

felt the wire snap down on his foot again, and again.

Darkness eased him. He slept most of the time. After a couple of days he could sit up and eat what the scared

bondswoman brought him. His sunburn was healing, and most of his aches and pains were milder. His foot was swollen

hugely; bones were broken; that didn't matter till he had to get up. He dozed, drifted. When Rayaye walked into the room, he

recognised him at once.

They had met several times, before the Uprising. Rayaye had been Minister of Foreign Affairs under President Oyo.

What position he had now, in the Legitimate Government, Esdan did not know. Rayaye was short for a Werelian but broad

and solid, with a blue-black polished-looking face and greying hair, a striking man, a politician.

"Minister Rayaye," Esdan said.

"Mr. Old Music. How kind of you to recall me! I'm sorry you've been unwell. I hope the people here are looking after

you satisfactorily?"

"Thank you."

"When I heard you were unwell I inquired for a doctor, but there's no one here but a veterinarian. No staff at all. Not like

the old days! What a change! I wish you'd seen Yaramera in its glory."

"I did." His voice was rather weak, but sounded quite natural. "Thirty-two or -three years ago. Lord and Lady Aneo

entertained a party from our embassy."

"Really? Then you know what it was," said Rayaye, sitting down in the one chair, a fine old piece missing one arm.

"Painful to see it like this, isn't it! The worst of the destruction was here in the house. The whole women's wing and the great

rooms burned. But the gardens were spared, may the Lady be praised. Laid out by Meneya himself, you know, four hundred

years ago. And the fields are still being worked. I'm told there are still nearly three thousand assets attached to the property.

When the trouble's over, it'll be far easier to restore Yaramera than many of the great estates." He gazed out the window.

"Beautiful, beautiful. And Aneos' housepeople were famous for their beauty, you know. And training. It'll take a long time to

build up to that kind of standard again."

"No doubt."

The Werelian looked at him with bland attentiveness. "I expect you're wondering why you're here."

"Not particularly," Esdan said pleasantly.

"Oh?"

"Since I left the Embassy without permission, I suppose the Government wanted to keep an eye on me."

"Some of us were glad to hear you'd left the Embassy. Shut up there—a waste of your talents."

"Oh, my talents," Esdan said with a deprecatory shrug, which hurt his shoulder. He would wince later. Just now he was

enjoying himself. He liked fencing.

"You're a very talented man, Mr. Old Music. The wisest, canniest alien on Werel, Lord Mehao called you once. You've

worked with us—and against us, yes—more effectively than any other offworlder. We understand one another. We can talk.

It's my belief that you genuinely wish my people well, and that if I offered you a way of serving them—a hope of bringing this

terrible conflict to an end—you'd take it."

"I would hope to be able to."

"Is it important to you that you be identified as a supporter of one side of the conflict, or would you prefer to remain

neutral?"

"Any action can bring neutrality into question."

"To have been kidnapped from the Embassy by the rebels is no evidence of your sympathy for them."

"It would seem not."

"Rather the opposite."

"It would be so perceived."

"It can be. If you like."

"My preferences are of no weight, Minister."

"They're of very great weight, Mr. Old Music. But here. You've been ill, I'm tiring you. We'll continue our conversation

tomorrow, eh? If you like."

"Of course, Minister," Esdan said, with a politeness edging on submissiveness, a tone that he knew suited men like this

one, more accustomed to the attention of slaves than the company of equals. Never having equated incivility with pride,

Esdan, like most of his people, was disposed to be polite in any circumstance that allowed it, and disliked circumstances that

did not. Mere hypocrisy did not trouble him. He was perfectly capable of it himself. If Rayaye's men had tortured him and

Rayaye pretended ignorance of the fact, Esdan had nothing to gain by insisting on it.

He was glad, indeed, not to be obliged to talk about it, and hoped not to think about it. His body thought about it for him,

remembered it precisely, in every joint and muscle, now. The rest of his thinking about it he would do as long as he lived. He

Le Guin, Ursula - Hainish SS - Old Music and the Slave Women.pdf

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