11. N
The morning sun shone down, too bright and too green for Triana, but promising a beautiful day.
It looked to be hot later, but for now, the night’s cool air still lingered, and the last of the dew dampened the chairs and benches of the eating area.
She glanced towards the entryway. Nora made it a point to be on time, particularly during mealtimes. Quite unlike her to be late.
Triana decided that she had waited long enough.
Courtesy was one thing, but too much this morning and she risked not getting her ration.
She went to the back of the short queue.
Odd, usually the line filled just before the chime, as late risers hurried for their morning ration.
Many of the morning tables were empty as well, the usual chatter of workers starting their day had been reduced to a few sparse seats. Something was up.
Still no sign of Nora. She was cutting it fine. Triana glanced to see who served this morning … someone Nora knew, who might break a rule and save her a bowl? She frowned. Mortom held the ladle. Neither good nor bad … Nora was good with people, but Triana had no idea whether she had cultivated Mort.
Some who served were sticklers for the rules. No food after the chiming of the 8th mark. Others could be a bit more flexible. She would have to try.
“Good morning,” she said brightly, “May I?”
He gave her a long look, then glanced to where the water chime would sound the hour. Still a hair before the chime. He made a face, and picked up his ladle. She held out her bowl.
“You’re cutting it fine,” he said.
“Yes,” she replied, “my friend ….”
“Eighth mark means eighth mark.” He cut her off. “Rules. Or can’t you read?”
She felt her face flush with shame. She was an elven lord, wealthy and powerful, now reduced to (unsuccessfully) cadging an extra bowl of gruel.
She was also hungry, and it would be a long time until lunch. He might cut her off now, say it was too late.
“Yes, I can read,” she stammered.
“Now you must ask me politely,” He replied, holding the ladle.
She felt her face flush, and every instinct told her to tell him what he could do with his ladle. She felt her stomach rumble, and she swallowed her anger.
“May I please draw my ration?” she said, hating how subservient she sounded.
The others in the line stared at her, carefully not taking sides.
The chime rang then. Triana felt the stares beginning to harden from the others in the queue.
This moment might put their rations on the line, if Mort wanted to push the issue.
He made it a point of looking at the water chime, back to her, then to the queue, then slowly filled her bowl.
Relief and fury washed over her in equal measure. Petty tyrant! Give him a ladle and now he’s a king! She sat down, at a closer table, and felt the dew soak through the seat of her trousers. Her good mood destroyed, she spooned up the bland porridge. Where the hell was Nora?
She finished her morning ration. Still, no Nora. She grew more concerned. Nora sometimes met her at the door when the guard came to unlock it and let her out. Other times they met here, at the ration queue. But Nora had never been this late.
Haldeen had made it quite clear that she was to be escorted at all times, and being left to her own devices worried her. She lingered as long as she could, then rose to find someone in authority. She left the bowl on the table as a tiny act of defiance.
Triana crossed the estate’s courtyard, looking for someone to ask, and again noticed that there appeared to be many fewer members of the household about than usual. She saw a male she thought she recognized, and went to ask.
Two guards, their expressions stern, intercepted her as she approached the servant.
“Come with us.” the taller said, his voice flat and hard.
Triana saw they wore some type of light armor. Each carried a truncheon on his belt.
She gestured back over her shoulder, to the eating area. “I was just ….”
“Save it,” the shorter of the two said, pointing with his chin. “There, to the workers’ gantry. Walk.”
She followed his gaze. “Umm … I’m supposed ….”
The taller one broke in. “You’ll do as you’re told.”
Triana felt quite taken aback. The staff had treated her with indifference, and Nora had insulated her from any unpleasantness. The guards’ hostility alarmed her.
She bit the inside of her lip as the two guards flanked her and walked her over to the main entry where the workers went down into the ration-making room. As they passed her quarters, she saw the door open and servants carrying the bedding, and what few clothes she possessed out.
“Hey!” she said angrily, breaking formation and starting towards where servants cleared her room. “That’s my—”
She never finished the sentence. The guard on her right side shoved her hard between the shoulder blades, and she fell to her knees, tearing her trousers and scraping the palms of her hands when she thrust them out to break her fall.
She glared up, furious, ready to bounce to her feet and give him a piece of her mind.
“Go for it,” the guard said in a mild voice. Triana saw the truncheon poised to strike, and realized she would never make it before they clubbed her down. She relaxed her shoulders fractionally. Her mind whirled, trying to understand the hostility. What had happened?
“Good girl,” he said
The guard behind her tapped her bottom with his truncheon. “Get up,” he said. “Do what you’re told, and only what you’re told, or you’ll get more than a shove. Understand?”
She looked back at him and nodded.
She stood, limping a bit as the torn cloth worried the deep scrapes on her knees. She hissed a bit in pain as she crossed her arms and pressed her palms against her blouse.
They escorted her into the work building, and down the Workers’ Gantry, which proved to be an open metal staircase that descended into the floor and work spaces that supported the estate’s workshops and craft houses.
Both guards followed her, nudging her along with their truncheons when she lagged.
They guided her down a couple of levels to a hallway.
Well lit at intervals, with deep shadows in between.
They sent her past workshops with ringing hammers and tools, and into a small office, no more than a few paces on the side.
A male about her height with well-muscled arms and a thick waist spoke to a trio of others. Triana was still a few paces away when he grinned, clapped one on the shoulder, and the three men departed.
Triana opened her mouth to speak. He raised a hand to forestall her.
She stayed silent, while he called out to another elf, who came at a jog.
The thick-waisted man leaned in, said something to the younger fellow, and sent him on his way.
He then ignored her to talk to an older woman, leaving Triana, flanked by the guards, to fidget while she waited for him to notice her.
She had done exactly the same thing once upon a time, and back upon her estate, when she sought to put someone in their place. She might recognize what was going on, but she still felt the sting of it.
He deigned to notice her. She opened her mouth to speak but he cut her off.
“I am Troniar Vaylan, Lord Haldeen Gatekeeper’s Master Overseer. I run all of the belowstairs operations. You will address me in my presence as ‘Sir,’ or ‘Master Overseer,’ and in no other way. If you are talking about me, you will use my title … the Overseer, or The Master Overseer.
You will not use my name. Only my title. I earned it. Do you understand?”
“I think there has been a mistake … ” she started.
“The question calls for a ‘yes’ or a ‘no.’ Do you understand?”
“Look,” she said, “I need to talk to Nora.”
The Overseer tipped his head to one side. “Stupid or stubborn. Either way you are wasting my time. Waste more and I will fine you a ration. Yes. No. Do you understand?”
“Yes,” she answered, through gritted teeth. She felt her anger boil. He saw it as well.
“Yes, what?” he countered.
“Yes … Master Overseer.”
He dipped his head, a nod of satisfaction. “Stubborn. Not stupid. Good, provided you can learn.”
Triana knew a rehearsed speech, having given more than a few of her own. She felt one coming.
He didn’t disappoint. “We will have one pleasant conversation. This is it. If we speak again directly, it will be because I am taking something from you. Probably food, as punishment for failing to do something required of you.”
He opened his mouth to continue. She interrupted.
“What about my things?” she said, her indignation bubbling up. “They’re taking everything I have!”
She saw his eyebrows go up. “Of all the stones! You have nothing! Everything from the clothes you wear, the food you eat, and the bed you sleep on, is the property of Lord Haldeen Gatekeeper, and loaned … loaned … to you through his generosity. Having abused that generosity,
it is his prerogative to make you earn your keep.”
Her anger boiled over. “I have done nothing wrong. I have followed your stupid rules, and I have answered every question asked of me. I have withheld nothing!”
He barked a single laugh. “Done nothing wrong? Your nightly excursions … breaking into our lord’s personal offices, rifling his goods, and violating his hospitality? Nothing? Really?”
Triana blinked in surprise. She had been so careful!
“Yes, we know all about that,” he continued. “You forfeited any claim on his kindness. You owe him for his grace and generosity … and for the rations you ate while under his roof. Until that debt is paid, you owe him your labor.”
Triana was shocked. Her temper, never far from the surface, exploded. Her voice rose “I am noble! Common labor? I will do no such thing.”
He shook his head slightly, his mouth pursed as though he had eaten something sour.
“Then you will starve. We have a simple system. You work. You eat. Refuse to work, and see how your belly likes spooning with your backbone.”
His voice dropped an octave, purring on the edge of threat.
“Work and eat, but you’ll not have another morsel except by the labor of your own two ‘noble’ hands. Steal another’s rations, and I will take those noble hands at the wrists. Do we understand each other?”