##Myriad##

My garments as a slave include a well worn, sleeveless top and a length of cloth for a skirt. I am glad for the thin, scarce material of the shirt when the noon sun beats on me, but it offers nearly no warmth when we work at night. I fold the cloth for the skirt over and tuck it against my body to secure it instead of making complicated knotwork the other slaves seem to favor. They jeer at me for this, and it marks me as an outsider. I have no choice and no opportunity to learn to tie it differently, as they have not accepted me. The skirt is short enough to allow freedom of movement, for which I am also glad. The serving slaves more often than not wear close fitting skirts down to their ankles for modesty in the house. While I sometimes am called upon to cover the role of a sick or injured servant, I am not required to don the longer garment. I think it is because they are too cheap and too preoccupied with other matters to provide each of us with more than a single set of clothing; I am content to keep my field wear. I like to being able to run when I need to.

I will not be in the house anytime soon. My legs are crisscrossed with unsightly red marks from working in the fields at the turn of this season. The nobles seem offended when a slave serves them with the evidence of their labor visible on their bodies. The hardest working slaves are therefore never allowed the luxury of a night in the house. Only the most beautiful get that privilege. They are the ones skillful enough to avoid getting marked in the field from the tasks or getting marked in the field from shirking the tasks. A decent shirt can usually cover the whip marks, however, so usually the slaves intent on a stay indoors lean towards controlled laziness to preserve their appearance, usually by sidestepping problems.

I have never been graceful; I never seem to step out of the way of problems soon enough.

~~~**((0))**~~

It is pruning season. The flowering bushes climbing the walls are overgrown and need to be cut back. We have pruned for a week, and no one has come out untouched. The serving master is angry because he has no appropriate replacements for the house workers. The field masters have nothing to offer him.

I am told there are more slaves this season than last, yet the task still seems to progress at a crawl. All day we labor to tame the wildly blooming branches that scrabble over the fence. The sun glowers at us from his imperial seat in the sky. Today was the worst, I believe, for all of us.

This morning, a noble I didn't recognize nearly bumped into me as I was turning a corner of the palace. My arms full of laundry, I managed not to touch him, a formidable offense, as he came charging around the bend. He looked startled, then started shouting at me. I couldn't understand the language he was throwing at me, and waited motionlessly while he ranted. Then he asked some sort of question, expecting me to answer, and I just stood there holding my bundle of clothes. Exasperated, he plucked the bundle from my arms and threw it on a table, asking the question again. I carefully grit my teeth so I wouldn't bite my own tongue when he struck me for not understanding. I waited, and he just stood there, his look of annoyance slowly being replaced with a perplexed expression. He asked another question, softer, in a different language. When I said nothing, he came forward and took my chin in his hand. He firmly but gently pulled my mouth open and looked inside to see my pink and complete tongue. He dropped his hand, muttering, "You can speak then. Perhaps you are deaf."

"No sir," I said quietly. He looked surprised again.

"What? You speak Riftic?" he asked. I felt my throat tightening and nodded briefly. "Interesting. I've never encountered a Southern slave that speaks the northern civilized dialect." I bristle faintly at the word "slave", then stifle my movements, hoping he doesn't notice. I am still new to the concept, and it is jarring to be labeled in such a matter-of- fact way. He continues, full of his own thoughts and unaware of mine.

"Here then," he says, all business now, "I need an account of the herbs the Household is low on, so I can order accordingly. Go to the supply room and find someone to make a list of the ten most important herbs we need, and bring it to me immediately." I open my mouth to protest, then close it. His tone of voice is final. I have been ordered to my task directly: it takes precedence above all others.

I walk quickly through the House to the store room, where green, wrinkly bunches of herbs hang from the rafters and dusty, faded flowers collect in glass jars on the shelves. There is not a soul in sight, and I realize it is the supply master's break hour. I don't have time for them to come back, and it is impractical and time consuming to go find somebody else. I snatch up a scrap of paper and a writing tool to do the task myself. I scan the shelves, finding five essential cooking and medicinal herbs that have almost run out. A few others I am unfamiliar with but believe they should be replenished because they are on the easy access shelf and they don't grow around here. I look to the rafters and realize several near empty jars have only to be filled with the supply above. A few more I've seen grow locally, so I figure they're not hard to obtain. Hastily scribbling down the herbs I've chosen, I pluck the quill back in its ink pot and exit the storeroom.

Waving the paper and blowing on it to dry it as I pace quickly through the halls, I fail to see the Overseer until he bumps into me. Or rather, I bump into him.

He strikes me across the face, then hauls me up from the ground by my arm.

"Wait," I say. "I have to deliv-" He strikes me again.

"You're late," he growls simply. "All the other slaves are in the field already." He tugs me along, and I tuck the paper into my skirt. There is no time to retrieve the work clothes from the Atrium where the unfamiliar lord tossed them. I will be severely marked by the end of the day. The young lord will be angry for the delay of his note. I have no power over either of these situations, so I ready myself to deal with the consequences later.

I follow the Overseer meekly. It is all I can do.