Page 49 of Elvenbred

There was absolute silence.

“I welcome your loyalty and wisdom,” he said. “Please follow this lady to speak with the Overseer, and make all the arrangements necessary for your change in duties. You will find your planters already in your quarters, and the Overseer will supply you with the seeds of your choice.”

He watched with repressed glee and unrepressed satisfaction as they all filed out. Translator neutralized—she’s not stupid; if she’s conscripted, she won’t have access to anyone important to spill my secrets to. Valet disposed of … no one to be spying on my comings and goings now. And the handmaiden … that will annoy my wife so much she’ll shun my company for weeks. Maybe forever. And I’ll be able to make that damned quota. He chuckled quietly to himself. Now to make a call to the king and suggest he start the worker conscription. That should distract him for a little.

I swear. I am a genius.

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.”