Calam
watched the mul out of the corner of his eye. She stood off to the side,
armored, wearing weapons the way other women wore jewelry. One by one, the cook
dished some of the savory soup onto one of the spongy flatbreads he first
placed on their ceramic dishes. One by one, guards and mercenary soldiers big
enough to break him in half all said ‘thank you’. The ugly mul male, the disgustingly
muscled one, never did, but he also did not strike out and hit him the day Calam
spilled a few drops of soup on the mul’s boots. There had been murder in his
eyes, but the mul woman tightened her grip on her sword, and nothing was done. Calam
hadn’t stopped shaking for a few days afterwards, but beatings never came.
Life
here was not bad at all. It was actually as pleasant as it could be, while
still enslaved. The mistress - Zarnian, he
reminded himself, she does not want to be
called mistress. She wants to be
called by her first name like another slave - bought him comfortable enough
bedding, and made sure he had enough
water and food. Even his tasks were not overly difficult. In the morning, he
would get the coin from the house and the mul woman to purchase ingredients at
the market to make everyone’s meals. Then, one or two of the “guards-that-laughed-a-lot”
(there were five of them in this category) would escort him to the market and
help carry everything back to the house. Then he would spend the day making
food for the guards, but it was not overly difficult.
Before
this, he had been the slave in a noble estate from well outside the city. When
the templars came to claim him and the other slaves for King Kalak long may he reign he added in case
anyone was reading his mind, they had marched them toward the city. It was a
long, blistering trek to the city and when everyone rested at night, elves came
and stole him and a few others away. After he had been taken by the templars
and then the elves, Calam expected an even harder life than his noble house.
His overseer at the noble house was no worse than many. The overseer did beat him
and the other slaves, and routinely burned those that burned the master’s food,
but Calam was sure this was common in many kitchens. He was never allowed to
eat what he prepared, since that would result in a horrible whipping if he was
discovered, but he had gotten enough gruel to survive.
He
was snapped from his reverie by the arrival of the first child. It was the
smallest one, the one that talked to himself. Standing at his shoulder
protectively, holding both their plates was the mistress’ son, the one the
others called the murderous boy behind the child’s back. Calam gave them a
smile, and more food than he should for children their size, as was the
mistress’ direction. Zarnian, he
reminded himself again. Not for the first time, he wondered why others called the
older, thin child the murderous boy. Yes, he seemed happiest when he was training
with his spear, yet the boy had not hurt anyone and was quite polite to the
cook, saying please and thank you. One thing was apparent, though. The mis… Zarnian, loved him. Once, she had given
the kitchen worker a small heart attack. He had been asleep when he heard
someone trying to sort through pots in the night. He woke to find her trying to
put together a snack. The idea of his owner trying to prepare food for herself
had nearly frightened him to death. He pleaded with her not to sell him or beat
him, and whatever offense he had given her he would rectify. Her answer stunned
him- she wanted Calam to sleep and her child had a nightmare, so she was trying
to find a treat for him. He quickly made something based on what he had around,
which she took gratefully. He would never forget how his fear and begging made
her look perplexed and uncomfortable. Now, he tried to send the pair to their
rooms for the night with a snack or two for the boy.
Finally,
Zarnian came through the line with her plate. She always wanted to be last,
even after the children. In other circumstances, her actions could be seen as
being less than the others, or dominating them by watching. With her, it came
across that she was protecting them all somehow, except possibly the other mul.
With her own plate full, she gently reminded, “Make sure to serve yourself, as
well.” It was something she said after every meal, when he was the only one
left. Then, she took her plate and sat down among the others, next to the
murderous boy and the other guards, talking to them casually about the events
of the day. As he made his own plate, a roar of laughter came from the group as
the youngest guard stood up and used his hands to imitate the eyebrows of the
bushy browed guard. After timidly tasting his first bite of dinner, he hoped
that the mistress would not sell him. This house was a good place to be a
slave.
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