Lodira was utterly relentless, casting herself into her new role the way she’d thrown herself into the bed of the Prince of Pas’en.
“You don’t just fluff the cloth, Lodira, you have to properly wipe it along every surface.” Albaer said with stern patience. He took one finger and ran it over the mahogany rail and held it up to the light. Dust clearly streaked it.
“See, it isn’t clean unless your glove is.” He said with a haughty voice but a patient, exaggeratedly long suffering expression, “Now do it again.”
Lodira did as he said, rubbing the cloth along the rail, only for him to then move his finger to the inner grooves and hold it up again. “Dust.” He said.
She did it again… and again… and again.
“Dust.”
“Dust.”
“Dust.”
Each time he said it, she hated the word more, and she fumed. The other maids of the house stared at her with a mixture of amusement and contempt as the former noblewoman strove to accomplish what to them, was a simple routine task.
Finally, after six straight hours over various surfaces, he held up his finger. “Clean.” He said with a slow nod.
He removed a perfectly folded cloth from his pocket and wiped his white gloved finger, a forewarning of what was to come.
“Now this way.” He said and she scurried behind him, leading her to a small closet in which a bucket sat. “Take the brush, rag, and bucket, and follow me.” She obeyed, the bucket was full of water, it sloshed around as she tried to lift it up, she needed both hands, and had to waddle with it in front of her, her face red from the effort, but Albaer slowed down by not even a step.
“Now scrub.” He pointed at the cold, uneven stone floor when they reached the sunroom. “The space between the stones as much as the stones themselves can get dirty, it doesn’t matter if ‘you’ get dirty cleaning it, it matters that the master’s property doesn’t stay that way.”
Lodira looked briefly appalled, but caught a glimpse of herself reflected in the glass. ‘You are a maid. You don’t matter anymore.’ She reminded herself, and lowered herself to her hands and knees, she took the brush from her pocket, dunked it in the water, ignoring the cold water that splashed on the back of her hand, and began to scrub the stone.
She heard her father’s voice behind her, and did her best to ignore it, he was talking with someone, a man. She thought she recognized the voice, but couldn’t place it.
‘Not a maid’s business.’ She bit her lip, clenched her jaw, and scrubbed the stone.
She felt someone’s eyes behind her, “New maid?” The familiar voice asked.
“Very. Not very bright, doesn’t know anything but… maybe she’ll turn out to be worth something yet.” Anton’s answer was as cruel as it was cryptic.
Lodira squeezed her eyes shut and hid the hurt, she missed a half a beat with the brush as a result. “Hurry up.” Albaer demanded with a hurried whisper.
She got back to scrubbing, and watched the feet of the master of the house and his guest walk past. If Anton had looked at his daughter, she missed it, but she missed it, because she was scrubbing grime from between the stones of his floor.
It was nightfall, late, when she was at last dismissed and sent back to her room by Albaer. She staggered to her quarters, stumbled to her room, took off her clothing, instinctively reached for the wardrobe to find nightclothes, only to remember, ‘Oh, you have none anymore.’ She was too exhausted to care. She fell into her bed, indifferent to the straw that poked into her delicate, soft skin at a thousand places, indifferent to the smell of rags in the old sack that made up her pillow, and at least the night was cool without being cold, so she didn’t have to care about her threadbare blanket.
She longed to fall into deep, blessed, dreamless sleep. However weary or not, the day troubled her deeply. ‘Could I send a letter to Rasgy… ask him to do… to do something. Anything. Maybe, but he let you come back here, he didn’t stop this… why would he stop anything else, he knows what your options are, and he still let you leave.’
She stared up at the ceiling that had turned black with the night and the dying of her candle. ‘Who else can you ask? Sobella is gone… maybe… maybe the elf woman… maybe the Duchessa? She’s gone with Sobella though. But… well maybe if she survives? She’s not tied to anyone right now? She’s nice to Kaiji, maybe she’ll be kind to you too? Then at least you’d be in Pas’en. You wouldn’t have to see… Anton.’ She glared into the dark. Her father was up there somewhere, asleep in a warm bed, probably with a warm maid. Prudish or not, behind closed doors and away from judgement, prudes became wantons.
‘It can’t hurt to send a letter, maybe the Duchessa will believe you when you say you didn’t murder your husband and his family. Maybe… maybe she has no reason to believe me, but it is a chance.’ She closed her eyes as she recognized she was talking herself into hope.
“It’s better than hopelessness at least.” She whispered to the dark.
It was only then that she fell into a deep and much longed for sleep.
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Nua woke before dawn, and found to her surprise, that she was looking up at bright red eyes, and beneath her head, was a soft, firm thigh. “You slept well.” Sobella said with a bemused smile on her face. “I’m sorry… again, for how I spoke to you… after you went so far, stayed with me, risked your life just to keep me comfortable and unafraid… you’re the last person in the whole of this world I should yell at, demand anything of. I had no right to do that, and I am sorry.”
Nua didn’t raise her head, she flashed a gentle smile of her own, trying to reassure the woman. “No, I know what I’m like. Why do you think my slaves live in terror of my anger. They saw a hint of a monster too. Only the evil are good, only monsters can have justice, only the most ruthless find their heart’s desire… maybe I go too far, and I shouldn’t have frightened you. So for that, I am sorry too.”
“Good, friends again.” Sobella clapped her hands together with childish delight, “But maybe we should go, I’m sure the God-Emperor is starting to get hungry, and we’ve got a long ride ahead.”
“That’s the first time you’ve told a joke about that…” Nua managed a smirk that was more than a little proud.
Sobella stood as Nua rose up and went for the now mostly dry clothing, only to find her wrist in the hand of the demon-elf. “No. Let me. I’ve lived my whole life, except for the last few years, in service to others who I had no choice about. The Prince was the first one I wanted to stay with, you’re the second. Let me do what I know best to do. Let me look after you the way I know, as you look after me the way you know.”
Nua could find no argument against that, and so she waited and let the woman arm her for fighting again, before tending to herself. Before long they were prepared, had the camp cleared after a brief meal, fed and watered the horse, and were on their way again to an end that neither of them truly wanted, and neither could have hoped to avoid.
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Priceless bent over the books in the mayor’s office. It was, at least, clean, but the mayor herself was the definition of a sloven. The desk was expensive… exceedingly so. She traced her finger over the paper with her left hand, and scribbled numbers with her right.
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It didn’t take long to find the problem.
The mayor paced around the office while Priceless worked, “You know, it’s very hard work being a mayor… I’ve got this whole town breathing down my neck for things. Everybody wants me for one thing after another, it’s just work, work, work, all the time work.” The mayor was already huffing and puffing from pacing, Priceless did her best to ignore the breathing and the pacing and the constant chatter.
“I see, I see.” Priceless said cryptically, she raised her head briefly, caught sight of the bare, collarless throat of the mayor, then lowered her head back down to work, forgetting whatever she wanted to say.
As if she picked up on Priceless’s sudden nerves, the mayor sat herself on the opposite side of the desk. “It must be hard, being a slave. I wouldn’t know of course, having always been free but… I have seen slaves be released before. The happiness on their faces said plenty about their lives.” The mayor’s voice was ingratiating, and it lit a fire in the belly of Priceless.
She turned the page, and got back to adding up numbers again. But she chose to answer the woman, “It depends on who you work for. Some are kind, some are cruel, you get used to not belonging to yourself very quickly. I have a good mistress now.”
The mayor’s chubby face contorted itself into a mask of sympathy. “I’m soft hearted, I could never bear anything like that. It’s why I don’t purchase people.”
Priceless’s inner fire redoubled, the quill almost broke in her hand, ‘No, it’s because you’re skimming from the tax rolls and you don’t want a slave reporting you in exchange for a reward of freedom.’
However, out loud Priceless said sweetly, “You must be very kind, perhaps you should have bought a few, and given them better lives. Or… well those people out there, you heard them didn’t you, mayor?”
“I hadn’t thought of that… but, yes, I heard them, why do you ask?” The mayor cocked her head, flapping heavy jowls as she did so.
“They were offering to sell themselves for food, so… if you are so kind, why are you letting them starve…?” Priceless asked the question like one would the time of day, and it set the mayor to furtively blinking.
“Well, there’s simply, there’s simply no money. The temple helps too but, well, you know there are just so many projects that need things… just keeping the town running. You know, everything is expensive…” The mayor stammered out, unprepared for the reversal Priceless brought down on her.
She felt her heart pounding in her, fear rising like smoke into the air, but the fire in her belly became an inferno and it consumed the pounding fear in her heart. ‘Let’s take her home…’ Priceless recalled the words as her mistress carried her body to the carriage. ‘I name you ‘Priceless’.’ The hour of her naming came to her again, and Priceless slowly began to stand from the expensive chair she knew now was bought with stolen coin. ‘You were worth the loss…’ Kaiji’s encouragement on this very trip came back to mind, and Priceless made a fist, and slammed it down on a table. She raised her chin to bare the purple tag.
“Liar!” She snarled at the woman, who almost fell out of her chair in shock at the sudden reversal of character.
“You are a thief, and a lazy one at that!” She slapped a hand on the books, “Do you expect me to believe you only took in taxes in conveniently even numbers?!”
“I… no, I…” The mayor shot to her feet and raised her hands to calm the suddenly angry slave.
“Guards!” Priceless shouted with her face twisted in anger.
“Arrest her!” The mayor panicked, shouted and pointed, but with the purple tag clearly visible, they froze.
“I am the voice of the Duchessa of this town! Lay one hand on me, and I promise my mistress will not cut it off, she will shave it off! The last one to hurt me, she skinned alive.” Priceless sounded the word out slowly, dragging it like the knife that shaved away a bicep.
The hesitation to act kept them briefly at an impasse. Priceless tipped the scales, “Your mayor has been paying you with stolen funds… I promise you two…” Priceless began, and recalled the desperate people outside offering to sell their children or themselves to Kaiji for nothing but food and a place to sleep, “when my mistress learns of this, you will lose everything… your only chance is to show that you work for the town and not for,” she pointed to the mayor who was doing a very poor job of trying to make herself seem smaller, “that.”
“Arrest her, and summon the master of coin!” Priceless shouted the order perhaps a little higher than she needed to, but… the militia guards in their half plate armor, obeyed. “Oh, and send someone to the Majordomo in the town square! Tell her I’m finished and I need to see her!”
She shouted at the retreating backs.
As soon as she was alone, Priceless collapsed into the expensive chair, the soft cushion sewn into the wood was like falling into a cloud. Her hands rested on the desk, she looked around, everything felt… right. The desk, expensive as it was, was a joy to touch, its rich smoothness and reflective polish, on the walls were decent paintings, if not to her liking, but the walls were smooth as well and polished to a shine.
It got her thinking. ‘Wood is the most popular building material here, and with good reason. The forests are all over the place on the outskirts of Pasenian territory. But the mountains aren’t ‘that’ far. Maybe if the Mistress bought a mining operation, we could get building stone and create more permanence.’ It was a wild thought, but nothing spoke more of the glory of the ruler than that their work was literally as enduring as the stone.
No sooner than that momentary thought had come and gone, than Priceless began to laugh, she held her belly, and laughed out loud, it was different than the brief moment of a functionary handing over documents… or a commoner handing over a slave for some coins… or even just custom compelling people let her through.
‘Guards… actual guards did what I said… the mayor looked at me in fear and I… I made a real decision of my own…’ The realization brought her to reach up and touch the purple with divine reverence. But her joyful peels of laughter were still ringing out when Kaiji joined her an hour later.
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Sergeant Vargas shouted at the marching line from his position, from his shoulder hung a bag of rocks which he threw at the advancing line as hard as he could. “Do not hide!” He shouted, “The line must hold! Trust your own shield!”
He rolled his eyes, he didn’t really need to shout. The stones in his pouch were all dipped in cheap white paint. Anyone at the front who had a dot at the center of their shield when they got to the far end of the field, got a copper coin as a bonus. Anyone who had one anywhere else, got nothing. At first the arrangement had upset the soldiers, who felt it unreasonable… until Sergeant Vargas threw twenty stones in rapid succession at a target and hit it dead center every time.
“Where did I learn that…?” He wondered, and again the image of the terrifying eyes that haunted his nightmares came to him, the memory of the pain of a thrusting sword, and then it was gone.
He threw another stone, his accuracy was almost completely idle, it took no effort at all on his part as he stepped back, and the Komestran infantry, the pride of the city, was slowly being reforged.
“Hoo! AH! Hoo! AH! Hoo! AH!” The rhythmic chant of the soldiers in perfect step brought them closer and closer, and Sergeant Vargas continued to back away.
Behind him, he could hear the same thing, that group was resentful over the lack of a chance for the ‘easy’ bonus. It made them angry.
Onimeus’s drums reached his ears, and without looking he knew exactly what was happening. It was his cue to get the hell out of the way, and he ran like it.
Onimeus’s unit had the hard bonuses. Their wooden swords were dyed red, and they had to plant their blows across chests, sides, faces. ‘Kill’ someone, then the “dead” soldier would lose their bonus and it would be added to the common pool of the ‘winner’. Referees would call out numbers of those whose ‘deaths’ they spotted along the way, and look for any attempt at cheating.
One of a dozen exercises Onimeus and Sergeant Vargas had developed alongside Sado, it recreated chaos and drove hard work, not to mention competitiveness.
It made them excel. As soon as Sergeant Vargas was clear, he saw the clever strategy of Onimeus. The heavy center that advanced, pressed hard into the lighter center he commanded, driving them back. But his heavy wings then folded in on the flanks of those who thought they were winning.
In minutes, it was over.
Onimeus had defeated the advance, and men with broken arms were shouting in pain. Slaves came on from the sidelines and began to drag out those with broken limbs, including a few who had taken some hefty blows to the head and fallen unconscious despite their helmets.
The magic of the healers was put to the test for the hundredth time, and Sergeant Vargas approached the old man to extend his hand. “Well done, very well done. Giving ground in the center is practically unheard of. No, completely unheard of.” He winced… ‘Is it… why do I think I’ve heard of it somewhere before?’
He brushed off the brief pain in his head, and focused on the proud looking General. “Victory is easiest when the other side thinks they’re going to win. Once the bonuses are accounted for, let’s try the castle capture.”
“Give the healers a little rest at least, it may cause fewer injuries, but I’d rather they not run out of mana.” Sergeant Vargas proposed and looked at the line of laid out, injured men.
The invincible strategist looked at the same line and stroked his heavy beard, “Alright, that’s fair. I don’t want to explain to the mistress that I got her people killed before any real fighting. Give them all a rest, a hearty meal, and after our little faux castle is up, we can do that. But not too long,” Onimeus raised a finger in caution, “When the mistress returns, I want to be prepared to move three thousand soldiers onto Komestran training grounds, ready to fight, ready to kill, ready for the war season to remind the city-states that there is nothing more terrifying than a Komestran on the battlefield.”
“Sir… it would bring me no greater pleasure!” Sergeant Vargas grinned and snapped the salute their mistress had taught the first twenty-five of them.
“Speaking of… how are they?” Onimeus asked in a lower voice, coming a little closer as he spoke.
Sergeant Vargas looked over to where the twenty-five were drilling with fanatical will. “Most of them are frightened, if you want my opinion, not for themselves, but for their mistress. Going alone into Tlalmok territory is suicidal. Nobody really knows if she’ll come back… but…”
“But what?” Onimeus asked, “Go on, Sergeant, speak freely.”
Sergeant Vargas felt the wind go out of him and his shoulders slumped, “Lots of things, one of the stories going around is that she volunteered to go alone because we were too weak to survive. Others are saying that it was a plot by priests to kill her so we could be kept down and she couldn’t help us rise. That scrap against Bracer has been built up to legendary proportions… but at the same time?” Sergeant Vargas took off his helmet and scratched his head sheepishly, “Sir, well some of them have started to worship her, like Kaiji. Calling her a goddess. When Freyjin was with us yesterday, she called her the goddess of will.”
Onimeus shrugged, “So what?”
“Sir…” Sergeant Vargas whispered hoarsely, “This can only make trouble with the temples.”
Onimeus put a hand on Sergeant Vargas’s shoulder. “Sergeant Vargas, the temples said the stars decided your wife should end up where?”
Sergeant Vargas shuddered as the answer arose in his mind.
“Exactly. I welcome trouble with the temples… because by the time they realize what’s happening, we’ll be ready.” Onimeus said with a deep, bearlike voice that held not one hint of piety for his former faith.
When it was put that way, Sergeant Vargas found it hard to argue, so he did not even try.