Dunes of Gor Chapter Thirty Five

Chapter Thirty Five: The Dancer

“The spiced verr is excellent,” said Hassan of the Kavar as he sat cross legged in the great hall of Al-Quada-a-Dhum and helped himself to some more from an engraved bowl set on a rug before him. “Would you perhaps consider selling the slave who cooked this meal?” 

Like Hassan, Daan Shahzad sat on the one of the rugs scattered around the hall in the Bedouin manner, and close beside him knelt his woman, Reyhan. Reyhan wore modest veils and hoods and nervously regarded Hassan from time to time. She had deliberately spoken very little during the meal, and felt sure that Hassan could not possibly recognise her from that day out in the desert when he had commanded her to strip, and he had assessed her body with his hands. 

“I am pleased it is to your liking,” said Daan. “And I shall ensure that the slave in question is tethered to your kaiila when it is time for you to leave. Please accept that small gift as you are my honoured guest.” They ate the spiced verr with the aid of chapatis – an unleavened flatbread – with which they scooped up some of the spiced verr and wrapped it into bite size morsels. For their entertainment, musicians played in the corner of the room, offering the hypnotic rhythms of the desert as a lithe limbed dancer in fluttering silks span and pirouetted sensuously around the room. Hassan’s eyes were drawn to her from time to time as he ate. She was belled of course, and beautiful, with henna designs on her hands, and deep kohl drawn around her eyes.  

Close by, occupying another position of honour, sat Javad Mohsen, commander of fifty Sardaukar gifted to House Shahzad. He of course knew the secret relationship between Hassan and Reyhan, but was discrete enough not to embarrass the Lady in any way. No doubt he found it amusing though that the lady was seated close by a bandit who had stripped and touched her intimately. 

“And how are our Landsraad friends?” asked Daan as he signalled for Hassan’s goblet to be refilled by a serving slave.

“They do not appear happy,” said Hassan with a sympathetic expression. “On they plod through the Hamada desert, stopping frequently to re-tie their sandal strings and adjust their burnooses. Their column is a lumbering serpent, beset by constant raids up and down its line. How frustrating it must be for them, for it seems wily bandits plunder at will, swooping down upon them with much whooping and hollering, only to gallop away again once their fine lancers are assembled to prick and discomfort those bandits.”

“And the fine ladies travelling with them?” enquired Daan. He had been very pleased to hear that many of the Landsraad women had joined their men to witness their most glorious victory at the high gates of Al-Quada-a-Dhum. The presence of women would make the military column even more unmanageable.  

“They skip and gambol when the bandits attack, eager to attain the snug security of Harl rings, to be chained next to the slaves they happen to whip early in the morning and late at night. It as an efficient system to protect the women, I confess. We have yet to seize a single one of them.”

“We?” enquired Daan with a smile.

“I meant, those abominable rascals, the desert bandits, of course,” said Hassan with a wink. “I may have met one or two of them during my travels. They are actually, on the whole, quite pleasant fellows.”

“Indeed,” said Daan as he too gazed at the lithe dancer who now moved closer to Hassan, fluttering her silks in a teasing manner, yet remaining just outside his extended reach. “The dancer is Liselle. She is yours tonight in your rooms, if you wish.”

“Perhaps,” said Hassan as he watched the dancer swish away again, to dance now before Javad. “She is not without skill and interest.” 

“Women are a great pleasure,” said Daan. “Greater even than wine.”

“Though this ka-la-na is exceptional,” remarked Hassan. “You spoil your honoured, but humble guest.”

“It is nothing,” said Daan. “Here at Al-Quada-a-Dhum you will always be made welcome, as the noble free companion of my daughter.”

Hassan grinned from ear to ear at the mention of the Shahzad daughter. “It will be good to have a Landsraad companion. A man at my age begins to dream of children, and leaving a dynasty behind when his time has come. She is certified as good breeding stock, yes?”

Reyhan winced at the way her youngest daughter was referred to, but she knew only too well the purpose of daughters born to the Landsraad. 

“Physicians have certified her in the past as healthy and at her peak,” confirmed Daan. “She is capable of bearing you many children. And children born to Jaleesa will have Landsraad blood in their veins. Your children will have a claim to that ancient line.”

“Perhaps now is the time for me to see the proposed mother of my children?” suggested Hassan, eagerly, for this was the main purpose for him coming to Al-Quada-a-Dhum. He had been assured that the daughter was beautiful, but then parents would always claim that. He wished to see for himself. If she was as ugly as a sand sleen he would still take her for the lineage she could give to his children, but he would not be happy.

Daan motioned to two sandal slave girls. “Bring Jaleesa into the hall.” The collared girls, in their simple but demure skirts and sleeveless rep cloth blouses, hurried out of the hall to fetch their mistress, as commanded. They were slaves who tended on the whims and commands of free women and were dressed more modestly than most. Their lives were often unhappier than the common kettle slaves, for they would commonly be whipped by free women if they so much as gazed longingly at a man. 

Liselle, the dancer, span around the floor again, her feet skipping across the mosaic tiles. Again she danced before Hassan, who was the most honoured guest here. The bells on her ankles chimed softly as she thrust herself towards him, shaking the coin belts around her belly and those stitched to her brief, translucent vest that barely covered her breasts. 

“She is yours, tonight, if you desire her,” said Daan once again.

“I am considering the matter,” said Hassan with a smile. “A woman makes the night time agreeable.”

A few ehn later, the doors to the hall opened wide and Jaleesa Shahzad was escorted into the chamber by the two sandal slaves. Jaleesa wore her finest feasting clothes – rich layers of silks and embroidered cloths, shimmering with colourful threads and gold stitching. She wore elaborate veils, the last one heavy and embroidered with further opulent gold stitching. She walked gracefully into the hall, nervous of course, knowing she was to be presented to her companion-to-be. 

“The flower of House Shahzad,” said Daan as he motioned for his daughter to stand in front of Hassan. The sandal slaves each held one half of her silk train – a length of fabric that flowed behind her as she walked. “Speak, daughter.”

“Tal, most noble Hassan of the Kavars,” said Jaleesa with a slight quaver to her voice. “I am overjoyed to meet you, and pray to all the Gods of the desert that you find me pleasing to behold. I promise to be a dutiful and obedient companion, and bring respect and dignity to your fine House.” And then she curtsied slightly before the bandit. 

“Lady,” said Hassan with a smile, raising his goblet in acknowledgement.

Reyhan watched her daughter closely. She was still very angry with her. She had confronted Jaleesa seven days ago and learned the truth at last. The girl had broken down in tears as she had given her mother her side of the story, culminating in the disgrace she now felt at wearing a collar around her neck. Reyhan had felt like fainting, but had held her composure and demanded to see it. When Jaleesa drew aside her hijab to reveal the slave steel, the poor girl herself actually fainted in front of her mother. Reyhan brought her around with smelling salts and then slapped her hard across the face.

“You stupid girl!” she had screamed, releasing her pent up frustration and anger. “I cannot tell your father of this! It would break him! He has to be strong. He has to think that at least one of his daughters is worthy of his respect!” Reyhan ordered Jaleesa to strip completely. She told the girl to lie on her belly on her couch, and then she examined the girl’s body roughly, without caring that the girl was crying, in search of any brands. When there were none, and after she had roughly assured herself of the girl’s continuing virginity, she told Jaleesa to kneel on the floor in tower.

“Mother,” sobbed Jaleesa. “Please may I dress myself?”

“You wear a collar!” snapped Reyhan in anger. “You are a disgrace! Be thankful I don’t take my switch to you! Do not move from that position!” 

Reyhan had left Jaleesa kneeling naked in her rooms for the space of three ahn. She needed to calm down before she made any decisions or plans. She knew that a wise free woman did not say or do things when angry. Politics required a rational mind at all times. She walked through the garden grounds for three ahn, thinking over and over again about what was to be done. The girl had told her everything about Ghadir, and now Reyhan knew that Ghadir would die after he had saved House Shahzad with his strategical planning skills. She also knew that she would not speak of any of this to Daan. She would bear this dreadful secret herself, and herself alone. Let Daan think that Jaleesa was innocent and un-abused. And then there was the matter of the political companionship to the bandit, Hassan. Nothing could jeopardise that while Hassan’s riders harried the approaching Landsraad column. They relied on Hassan to slow the advance of the army long enough for Daan’s allies in the Council of Steel to assemble a relief force for Al-Quada-a Dhum, at which point Hassan’s riders would unite with them to attack the Landsraad on two sides. Daan felt confident that the Council of Steel would, in the end, support him, come what may. They could not risk losing the fortress. It meant too much to the Steel World cause in the Tahari. Even the cautious voices on the Council would be forced to act. 

When Reyhan finally returned to the suite of rooms, she found Jaleesa still kneeling in tower position. The collar would be a problem. Killing another metal worker locksmith would arouse Daan’s suspicions. He knew of course why the first one had been killed and was intelligent enough to put two and two together if another one ended up under a blood stained rug. Reyhan told Jaleesa to stand so that she could examine the collar lock. It was beyond her expertise. She had no idea how to pick locks, and any man she summoned to do so would ask awkward questions as the last one had.    

“Please unlock this collar, mother,” begged Jaleesa.

“Be quiet, you stupid girl!” Reyhan removed some hair pins and fiddled around in the lock mechanism but found that the pins were of no use. The more she tried to spring the lock, the more the girl sobbed as she realised her mother couldn’t do anything. “You’re going to wear the collar. For a time at least,” said Reyhan in frustration.

“Can’t you send for someone?”” begged Jaleesa. 

“No.” She was in no mood to offer an explanation. She would obtain the key from Ghadir when his essential service to House Shahzad was over. Reyhan had no doubt that Ghadir would release the key and the location of Jaleesa’s slave ownership papers, once he was bound to a rack and someone Reyhan could trust would begin working on the slave’s flesh with torture tools. The important thing was that Ghadir must not die before he answered her questions in full. Afterwards she would have the torturer’s throat slit. It would complicate matters, but all this would be discovered in the aftermath of the battle with the Landsraad and could be confused by the fog of war. “You will keep that collar concealed at all times,” said Reyhan as she threw Jaleesa’s underslip and foundation garments to her. “I am greatly displeased with you, child. Be thankful you do not have a brand or pierced ears. Some things cannot be fixed, even by a mother. You will never speak of this once this is over. You will companion soon with Hassan of the Kavar.”

“Mother, please, he is a Bedouin…” sobbed Jaleesa, fearing a life out on the desert sands, alone in a camp of raiders, confined to the women’s tent.

“Be thankful you don’t spend your remaining life as a kajira, you ungrateful child! You have no idea the lengths I am going to, to keep you free!” Reyhan slapped her daughter again. “You will obey me without complaint. Dry your tears. I have no more I wish to say to you today.”  

That had been seven days ago, during which the Landsraad army had been hounded across the desert by the Kavar raiders. And now Hassan had come to Al-Quada-a Dhum to view his prize.

“Remove your veils,” said Reyhan, as Jaleesa stood there in front of Hassan. The revealing of a woman’s face was the final stage in arranging a free companionship for political or business needs. Hassan had a right to see what he was buying with this armed support for the Shahzad cause. Hassan had a right to know in advance whether his companion-to-be was beautiful, or as ugly as a sand sleen. The unveiling would be before Hassan, the girl’s immediate family, and one witness – in this case Javad Mohsen, standing as Hassan’s witness.

Reyhan could see how Jaleesa trembled as she placed her small hands to the fabric of her veils. She had never formally unveiled in ritual herself before a man before, and it took a lot of courage for any woman to do so. She began to strip the veils one at a time until the last veil hung in place. This too she slid away from her features and presented herself, face bared, for Hassan to view.

“Ah,” he said, with an admiring tone to his voice. “The Lady is lovely, as you said.”

“My daughter,” said Daan, proudly. “You find her pleasing?’

“I do,” said Hassan. “Perhaps she can join us while we eat. It will be pleasant to look upon her from time to time while we discuss weighty measures.”

“Of course. Join us, Jaleesa. But eat small delicate portions, drink no wine, and do not speak unless Hassan asks you a question.”

“Father,” Jaleesa nodded nervously and knelt in tower, a modest distance away, but where the Kavar could view her as and when he wished.

“We shall discuss detailed strategy, I think,” said Hassan as he watched the dancer turn and move before him once more. “But tonight I think I would like a woman chained to my couch.” He smiled as the dancer, Liselle, danced a graceful and smooth undulation of her body, centring on her torso, from front to back and then from side to side, to the insistent beat  of the kaska – the small hand held drum.  

“Of course,” said Daan. “I shall send Liselle to your chambers in good time.”

“Not her,” said Hassan pleasantly.

“Oh?” Daan was surprised by that. He glanced at Liselle who faltered in a couple of steps as she heard that the Kavar did not desire her. She was Liselle! The most talented dancer in Al-Quada-a-Dhum! But the Kavar did not want her! Her face flushed with rejection. “Leave us, Liselle,” said Daan, with a sudden clap of his hands. He did not seem very pleased with her. Obviously her dance had been unsatisfactory. She would no doubt have her wrists tied to a slave ring and be whipped later that night for failing to please an honoured guest sufficiently. 

“You may choose any of my slaves, obviously,” said Daan, spreading his hand in welcome. “I shall assemble them all later for you to…”

“That will not be necessary,” said Hassan with a smile. “I already know which slave I desire tonight.”

Daan seemed perplexed by this. Had Hassan taken a liking to some kettle slave he had seen scrubbing the floor on the way in to the great hall? 

“When I first met Javad Mohsen, out in the desert, when we took tea together, and Javad suggested this alliance on your behalf, he had a slave girl with him in a kurdah,” said Hassan, pleasantly.

Reyhan felt a cold shiver run down her spine as Hassan said that. 

“The slave girl was most pleasing to behold,” explained the Kavar. “She had a beautiful body and I knew that I desired her. Alas, she was being taken to Al Janish as a gift to the Khuda there.”

“I have sent gifts to many men,” remarked Daan. “A shame then that this one you liked was given away.”

“Ah, but you see, she was not,” said Hassan as he took some more of the spiced verr, wrapped in a torn piece of chapati. “I made enquiries afterwards, for I had a mind to perhaps make an offer for the sweetly curvaceous slut. But it transpired the gift was never given! How strange! She was in fact, and I made enquiries here to confirm, taken back to Al-Quada-a-Dhum.”

“Strange,” said Daan. “Perhaps the gift was declined. It is a little rude, but I will not take it to heart.”

“The Khuda would be foolish indeed to reject that girl,” said Hassan, “but as you say, he must have done so, for why else would she have been returned to your fortress after travelling all that way? But, still, fortunate for me then,” said Hassan. “I would have this girl sent to my rooms tonight, if you wish to please me. It will be my final requirement for our alliance to be binding.”

“It will be done then,” said Daan. It meant nothing to him of course. One girl was very much like another when it came to honouring a guest. “Javad, see that this girl, whoever she is, is sent to Hassan’s rooms tonight.”

“That… may not be possible…” said Javad, without looking at Reyhan. “I do not know if we still have…”

“Find her. None of my girls have been sold, so she will still be here. Find her, Javad, and take her to Hassan for the night. I have spoken.”

“She will be perfumed, of course,” said Hassan.

Reyhan’s hand trembled a little as she made to reach for her goblet. She withdrew it before anyone might notice.

“And she will be dressed in pleasure silk of course,” added the bandit.

Reyhan drew in a deep, troubled breath.

“See that it is done,” said Daan, finally.