of that on Big Jasper. Tyreans don’t win lawsuits against their Ruthgari competitors. Not here. So my parents signed the forged documents saying I’d been taken in war, and took the meager sum. They figured slavery for one of us was better than starvation for all of us.
I was the smartest and quickest of my siblings, already able to read and good with an abacus. They could get twice as much for me as for any of the others, and I’m the big brother. It’s my job to protect the others. I volunteered.
We’re all slaves here. Everyone’s got a tale of woe. But even slaves look down on liars like Ysabel ‘Elos.’ She’s a petty tyrant. Our work is good and necessary. We bring light into darkness. But Ysabel is a bloody stain on her office, besmirching what should be pure.
She sees it on my face: how I despise her.
She picks up her small cat-o’-nine-tails.
All the other overseers use only unbraided, uncured leather in their cats. It has been decreed by the master of the Chromeria’s lands and properties High Lord Carver Black himself, that we not be whipped like common slaves. We’re slaves, but we’re precious ones. Privileged. We work alongside our manumitted older brothers and sisters who’ve bought their papers, and came back to work, now paid triple. We’ve all been educated in optics and angles and even enough magic to understand our drafters’ needs and operations. We’re highly trained so as to keep all the mechanisms in perfect repair, from clearing lightwells to greasing the gears, and ordering new ones fit to exacting specifications, inspecting, and then replacing them. Most of all, we’re the keepers of the precious Great Mirrors themselves, which we polish with vinegar and water and special heavy silk cloths up to eight times every day.
Other lesser slaves are given certain holy days off. They pity us because we take none. They don’t understand. Our duty is holy, and it is most important at the holiest times. With the heat and light these mirrors endure, a dirty mirror could shatter on any day, but the risk is doubled on hot, sunny days, and doubled again during executions, such as today, where all the minor mirrors add their full intensity to the sun’s own.
Lowly as we are, we direct Orholam’s Eye.
Slaves we are, but we’re star-keepers. We’re not to be beaten like common field hands.
A smack with nine loose, soft cords is allowed to rouse anyone whose attention is wandering. But Carver Black gets furious when anyone damages valuable property, and we are surely some of the Chromeria’s most valuable property of all.
But Overseer Ysabel doesn’t care. She’s boiled her cat-o’-nine-tails hard, and to one of those tails, she’s tied an old piece of broken mirror. You might get hit half a dozen times and never get caught with that shard. Or it might get you every time, slashing or even sticking into your flesh before being torn free.
“Execution’s starting, Mistress,” one of the older men says quickly. Amadis pretends not to even be aware of me, but I know it’s an attempted rescue.
The overseer steps toward the edge of the tower, and I’m tempted to charge her back and push her out of the tower. Amadis glances at me and shakes his head.
He’s right. I’m no Guile, to get away with such things. They’d put me up on Orholam’s Glare myself if I murdered an overseer.
In fact, I might not be the only one to die. Slave rebellions always meet brutal ends.
The overseer comes back. “They’re jabbering, like they do. We’ll have to be quick. Tunic.”
The others go silent. Overseer Ysabel whips a slave’s buttocks when she intends to draw blood and doesn’t want Carver Black to see it on our bodies afterward. The humiliation is merely a bonus for her.
I do her one better, though. I hitch up my tunic and pull down not just my trousers but also my underclothes. I stick my rear end out at her to let her know my opinion of her.
Gasps go up.
I’m a damned fool.
I know she’s going to beat me terribly. Some brighter part of me is shrieking about the stupidity of presenting one’s naked underside to a savage woman intent on humiliating me. I will my stones to pull up into my body. Orholam have mercy on the stupid and insane.
“No disrespect, Overseer,” I say. It’s much too late, though. “You said we were in a hurry. Just wanted to make it easier for