The Slave World Abductions Ch. 06

Some will see Charla's grip slipping. There's going to be a challenge in the future. Charla will either look for revenge against the new girl, or come down harder on the others.

One thing for sure, the new girl made an impression, But can she keep it up?

Sara washed and douched. Evanna stayed near, in part to ensure no more harassment from the girls, or retaliation from Charla.

When Sara finished, Evanna instructed.

"Go to the other side. The pool there is full of rosewater. People will be waiting at the edge."

Sara looked at Evanna. Evanna's face was stone. She opened her mouth to speak but Evanna stopped her.

"Don't thank me. I'm not your friend. I just enjoy seeing Charla taken down a peg. Now get the fuck out." Evanna turned and walked back into the pool.

"Not a friend, but maybe not an enemy," Sara thought, "Neutral's good as any. Well, let's go see who my 'owner' is." Even the thought nearly made her puke.

The small pool behind the bath smelled heavily of roses. Two women, human and middle-aged, waited at the top of an incline rising out.

Their gray robes befitted their domestic servitude. Their bland faces made them almost like twins.

"The look is deliberate," Sara realized, "They're supposed to be invisible."

The flat drone of their voices completed the innocuous image.

"Come with us," they said as one.

The room into which they ushered Sara couldn't be called a salon. It reminded her, actually, of a somewhat more luxurious prep room, where models, performers, and dancers were made up for display.

Marble tables displayed crystal containers, filled with perfumes and scented oils, along with silken clothing, rested and folded.

"You will stand here and stand still," they said, "Do not move unless instructed."

Sara stood in front of a table while the Grey Women gathered the oils and perfumes.

They poured and rubbed the scented oils into her skin, getting every pore and crevice. Sara detected nothing sexual about their intimate, near intrusive massage, in spite her body's reaction.

When the Grey Women finished, Sara's skin glowed with a porcelain sheen, almost reminiscent of a tinted statue.

The Grey Women followed with an application of the perfumes, spritzing her body head to toe. They filed her nails, painting them with a clear polish, lending them a gloss to match her skin.

The Grey Women took a minimalist approach to preparing Sara. They dried the Dancer's hair using a contraption composed of a bellows, a brasier, and perfumed oil as fuel. The same oil was used as conditioner for her hair, rendering a glossy sheen to it.

The Grey Women examined her ears. "You pierce your ears, good," one said. The earrings they gave her were pearls, mounted in silver.

In the end, dressed in silks of light blue, Sara examined herself in the mirror.

Fuck, I look like a belly dancer, but I never looked better.

The last statement held some grudge. She noted also, with distaste, the sheer transparency of her clothing.

Why the fuck did they dress me in this getup? I may as well be naked.

Sara figured she'd be naked soon enough, given the nature of this place.

A knock sounded at the dressing chamber door.

The Grey Women opened it to let in a very dark elf. The blue-black of his skin contrasted sharply with the snow-white of his hair.

"Drow," Sara thought.

The drow looked at Sara, mild contempt matched with some admiration in his blood red eyes.

"You will follow me." His voice was lightly accented, almost English in inflection.

The drow wore a pale white uniform with black trimmings; a style befitting a valet or mid-level servant.

The drow led Sara outside the dressing room, through the halls outside the harem. They continued down a promenade, edging a lush courtyard, until entering through an archway, great brass-trimmed wooden doors open on each side.

The archway led to a great throne room, with marbled floors, pillars, and a throne near gasp-inducing in opulence.

Elaborate decorated carpets, gold-trimmed, brightly colored, draped from the ceiling, and across the floor. Plush pillows, expensive like the carpets, were placed at a comfortable distance from the throne. The room was empty.

"You do not meet him here," the drow said.

He led Sara around to a hidden curtain behind the throne. The curtain concealed the entrance to a small passageway. The passage led to a room.

The room was the size of a large studio apartment, a size familiar to a Manhattan resident. It was well-furnished with strong Arabic influences.

A large polished mahogany desk sat in front of a wide window, curtains drawn to let the bright sun illuminate the room.

The desk top held a variety of objects suited to an office, albeit archaic: quill pens, ink stand, scrolled papers, and a wax seal. The mahogany chair behind the desk looked almost a mini-throne.

The prick with this set up is either small and overcompensating, or a big player.

"Stand here," the drow ordered, gesturing to the center of the room, equidistant between the desk and the entrance. "He shall be here shortly."

The drow went to a corner and stood, watching, silent and still to the point of invisibility.

Sara worried the wait would be long, but ten minutes, as she estimated, passed before he entered the room.

Farid ibn Hassan ibn Kassir, Sharif of Avarakan, was handsome as characteristic of high caste djinn.

His face wasn't exactly male model, but Sara would have cocked an eyebrow if he were human.

His skin was a deep, lustrous maroon, with a gloss, either from body oil or sweat, Sara didn't know.

The maroon contrasted with the crown of glossy black curls atop his head. Two large gold rings dangled from his ears, matching the gold in his eyes.

His dress, light blue satin pantaloons, and a silvery white shirt, open to show a hairless chest and torso.

The Sharif's height was an impressive eight feet. He was cut like a Greek statue. Sara was intimidated, and attracted.

Farid ignored the young dancer, and strode directly to his desk. He settled in his great chair and took a scroll.

He unrolled it, read the contents, exhaled a derisive snort, took a quill, and wrote a brief message on the bottom.

He stamped it with a seal, rolled it up, tied it with a silk ribbon, then started on the next scroll.

He repeated these mundane tasks for twenty or so minutes. Sara subtly shuffled her feet, uncomfortable in the quiet office. She focused on the Sharif and the scrolls.

Some of the scrolls he sealed with wax, imprinting his seal with a ring. He sprinkled a few with perfumed salts before sealing them.

Others were tied with ribbons, some red, some black. Sara, perceptive, made a guess.

The wax sealed ones are the most important. The ribbon tied ones are the most routine. I think the black and red ribbons are about the type of message.

It looked mundane, uninteresting, but Sara took note anyway. Small boring details could be important in this place.

Farid took a last scroll and read its message.

"Clerik," he barked, not looking up.

The drow trotted from the corner and stood at attention to the desk's right.

"Excellency," he said.

Farid wrote a message on the last scroll, "Take these to the appropriate offices. Tell Judge Abbad I want these sentences carried out immediately. I don't want to deal with this shit again."

"Excellency."

"The caravan from Winterfell was ambushed. Shaharabad knew the route. That means there is a mole in the courier service. Get on it."

"Excellency."

"Lock the door when you leave. I don't want any visitors while I interview the new acquisition."

"Excellency," Clerik took the documents and left with nary a glance at Sara.

The curtain dropped in place. A few symbols sewn into the fabric glowed, and the next instant saw a thick oaken door in place of the curtain.

Sara braced herself. She knew how this "interview" would go. I hope he's better than the Initiation.

The Sharif rose from his chair and strode to Sara. The first thing which struck Sara was the expression on his face, or its lack.

Typically, expressions directed Sara's way ranged from cold contempt to cruel amusement, varied levels of hate interwoven within. Sara, long since, had gotten used to such looks.

The Sharif's face held nothing. No contempt, no hate, some mild interest maybe. Sara was at once suspicious, and curious. He's up to something. What?

The Sharif circled the Dancer, pensive, looking over her body. Sara felt like a piece of furniture being examined.

Nope, not feel. I am furniture, an appliance, to these shits.

The Sharif finished his examination, and leaned back on his desk, watching the Dancer, and rubbing his chin in thought.

"Well," he said, "I'll give this to Matty. His assessment is spot on. Good haunches, athletic body, a dancer's legs. Your profession, I take it. You may speak freely. I don't bite . . . usually."

"Yes." Sara planned to keep her words to a minimum. Don't give him more than necessary.

"Ah, hmmm. I had some suspicions seeing you on the auction block. You have a skill I can make use of. Your name?"

"Sara. Sara Sundstrom."

"Ah, Sara Sundstrom. Sounds like an Aesir. You are from Aesgaard, then?"

"No, I'm from Earth . . . Midgaard," Sara heard Earth referred to as Midgaard in the dungeons.

"Ah, hmmm."

Sara's face betrayed none of her mild confusion over the Sharif's reaction. Throughout her captivity, especially with the slavers, the dungeon wardens, the Breakers, and that venal little goblin ("Muck Muck," she thought), her origins were discussed in hushed tones.

There was a feeling her capture and sale caused a serious complication, some sense the slavers' actions held risk for them.

Her sense increased during her brief encounter with the twins. Her time with them was too short to get much information. Only that their names were Jill and Jane, and they were from Minneapolis. The slavers forbade them to speak with one another, but among the usual contemptuous, sadistic, or lustful expressions, Sara detected snippets of worry.

She noted some words among the whispers: names such as Department and Lighters, and Magistrates, but Sara couldn't make heads or tails what they meant.

She did know the slavers were anxious to auction her off, quickly.

The Sharif was interested in her, but Sara detected no furtive worry or lust.

He's looking at me like I'm some sort of puzzle, maybe a toy. Something to use, and he's not surprised I'm from Earth . . . Midgaard.

"Well," the Sharif continued, "I suspect the harem gave you a proper welcome. You seem to have come through it intact."

Sara opted to keep her face blank at that.

"I see some fire in your eyes. Good. You're going to need it. The harem is no place for the weak. I'm sure I don't have to tell you watch out for Charla. She's a vicious dog. There's one like her in every harem. Your best bet is to ally with Evanna. She's a wolf, but the girls respect her."

Sara's confusion reached near cacophony. The Sharif was advising her on how to survive the harem. He had no reason to do so. She was property. He could just easily leave her to the wolves. Why is he doing this?

Was it concern for valuable property, or her person? Something else is at play here. It's mystery made her nervous.

"Do you have any questions?"

"I . . . I'm . . . not sure what to ask," Sara stuttered.

The Sharif smiled, with slight amusement.

"I am not surprised. I will have to tell you Sara Sundstrom, I am not a saint. I'm quite the opposite in many, many ways. There are things, actions, that will be required of you in the future. I'm sure you know what I mean, but . . . the path to where you want to be, runs through them. There is . . . necessity . . . in your use."

The Sharif returned to his desk. "You may leave."

"Um, am I supposed to be escorted?"

"You know the way. There are guards and watchers everywhere, so don't try to escape. I'm sure Matty told you of the dangers in the city. Dismissed."

Sara hesitated. This meeting had not gone the way she expected. The Sharif said nothing more, concentrated on another document.

Sara turned and left the office. She walked back to the harem, past sentries, servants, and others on some unnamed business. Most ignored her so she did so in return.

Her main, overriding concern centered around the question, What was that about? It couldn't be filed away on the walk back to the harem.

To Be Continued.