Medalon

Crisabelle had instructed her gravely this morning.

“Knowing implies a certain need for a brain,” Mahina had muttered, a comment which Crisabelle had loftily ignored.

R’shiel had orders to wait for the garments and to not let them out of her sight. Crisabelle didn’t trust those “thieving whores” in the laundry. She was then required to pick up a packet of herbs from the physic so that Crisabelle’s evening would not be ruined by one of her “heads.” Mahina had suggested loudly that with a head like that, it was no wonder it ached, at which point R’shiel had managed to escape the house. Mahina was in rare form today.

“Move along!”

R’shiel turned at the voice, stepped back against the wall of the tannery, and watched as another wagon load of prisoners trundled into the town square, as it had every week since she had been in the Grimfield. The wind was chill this morning, with winter almost over and spring doggedly trying to gain a foothold on the barren plains. They all looked desperate, she thought. Desperate and hopeless. She stopped and watched as Wilem emerged from the verandah of his office and the prisoners were lined up before him. As he had when she arrived, he glanced down the manifest, glanced at the prisoners, and gave the same orders. Send the men to the mine. Send the women to the Women’s Hall. Sometimes, when he had requests from various workhouses for personnel, he selected one or other of the convicts to be assigned elsewhere. The ritual varied little.

As the prisoners were dispatched, the small crowd of onlookers wandered away, and Wilem caught sight of her. He beckoned her to him. She crossed the square and bobbed a small curtsy.

“What are you doing out and about, young lady?” he asked.

“My Lady’s washing, sir. She wasn’t sure what to wear for the dinner party on Fourthday.”

Wilem rolled his eyes. “Well, you’d best be on your way then girl, not hanging about the square.”

“Yes, sir,” she agreed and hurried off in the direction of the Women’s Hall.

The Women’s Hall was actually a complex of low, gray, single-story buildings that housed the female convicts and their industries, including the laundry. R’shiel hurried through the main gate unchallenged by the guards, who knew her by sight at least, and wisely left Crisabelle’s maid strictly alone. R’shiel passed between the sleeping blocks, shivering as the shadows cut off the struggling winter sunshine. The distinct odor of lye soap hung in the still air as she crossed the small cobbled yard to the laundry to report to Sister Belda.

“My Lady wants these washed and pressed today and told me to wait for them,” R’shiel explained. The Sister was stick-thin and old. Belda was so unlike the elegant Sisters at the Citadel, it was hard to credit she was one of them at all. She glared with pale, worn-out eyes at R’shiel before ordering a girl in prison gray forward to take the basket from her.

“Well, you’re not waiting in here,” Belda snapped. “Come back after the noon break.”

R’shiel backed away from the old Sister and glanced around. Despite Crisabelle’s order not to let her dresses out of her sight, R’shiel knew whose orders carried the most weight in the laundry. Belda ruled the laundry like a Defender battalion. As there was no one else about – everyone had their assigned work to do – R’shiel slipped between the buildings to the court’esa quarters to see if she could find Sunny.

The court’esa normally slept during the day, but they frequently lazed around in the mornings and took their rest in the afternoons. Sunny could usually be found soaking up the meager sunlight after her evening’s labors, comparing notes with her cohorts. As she entered the small enclosure at the front of the sleeping quarters she found no sign of the plump little whore.

“Well if it ain’t the Probate,” Marielle called out, as R’shiel came into sight. “You here to invite us to the Ball, no doubt?”

Marielle, like most of the court’esa, envied R’shiel not at all. They considered a position under the constant scrutiny of the Commandant and his monstrous wife to be a dubious honor. Few of them would have traded places with her, even if offered the chance.

“I was looking for Sunny.”

Marielle jerked her head in the direction of the sleeping dorms. “She’s in there,” she said, her expression suddenly grim. “She’ll be glad to see you.”

The sleeping quarters were long, narrow buildings, with bunks three tiers high running down each side, leaving a narrow corridor in the center. Each bunk had a straw-filled mattress rolled up on the end, with the few possessions of their absent occupants stuffed inside. Light filtered in from an occasional barred window and a number of cracks in the walls where the weathered wood had split and never been repaired. R’shiel gagged momentarily on the smell as she hurried inside. Marielle’s tone only partly prepared her for what she found. Sunny was lying on her narrow wooden bunk, her face turned to the wall. R’shiel gently laid her hand on the court’esa’s shoulder and gasped as Sunny rolled over to face her. Her face was a battered mess and she flinched as R’shiel touched her, indicating many more bruises under her thin shift.

“What happened?” she asked.

“Unsatisfied customer.”

“Did you report him?”

Sunny struggled up onto her elbow and shook her head. “Girl, how long have you been here?”

“Sunny, the Commandant would see that he was punished. He would.”

“Now, you listen to me. You might be living the high life, but down here in the real world it doesn’t work like that.”

“Sunny, this is the third time this has happened to you. Why?” R’shiel had a bad feeling she already knew the answer.

The plump court’esa grinned, making her battered face even more distorted. “Maybe I’m losing my touch.”

“I could get you out of here. I could talk to Crisabelle or Mahina.”

Sunny flopped back onto the bed with a groan. “Forget it, R’shiel. I’m not working for those silly old cows. Drive me loony in a week.”

“Better loony than beaten up.”

“Maybe.” Sunny closed her eyes. “Look, I know you mean well, but I’m not like you. You got yourself fixed up real good here, so don’t go spoiling it on my account.”

“Do you want me to fetch Sister Prozlan?”

“Founders, no!” Sunny groaned. “Her cures are worse than the beatings. Besides, she’d probably throw me into the box just for being trouble.”

“Khira might come if I asked her. You need a physic.”

“Khira’d have to report it. You know the rules.”

“Can I get you anything?”

“No. You just get along and stay out of trouble.”

R’shiel left her alone in the long cold building. When she emerged into the sunlight she sought out Marielle.

“Who did it?” she asked.

Marielle grimaced. “Who do you think?”

R’shiel nodded and walked slowly back toward the laundry. She knew who Marielle was talking about. Three times now, in as many weeks, Loclon had beaten Sunny. Three times, had Sunny reported him, Wilem could have had him charged, maybe even whipped. Each time Sunny bore the brunt of Loclon’s temper, it was on a day when R’shiel had thwarted his attempts to intimidate her.

The first time had been only days after her arrival in the Grimfield.

Loclon had been called to the house to meet with Wilem on some matter, and he had caught her coming down the stairs to the kitchen as he waited in the hall. The second time had been last week while on an errand for Crisabelle. Only the fortuitous appearance of Dace in the alley behind the physic’s shop had saved her then. R’shiel was certain that Sunny’s injuries this time were a direct result of her accidental meeting with Loclon yesterday. Crisabelle had sent her to the inn to collect a bottle of mead from L’rin that the tavern keeper had ordered for her from Port Sha’rin. Loclon had been in the taproom, drinking with several other officers when she arrived. He had called her over to his table, and she had ignored him. No, she hadn’t ignored him. She had deliberately snubbed him, which had brought howls of laughter from the other officers at his table. She did not know what Loclon had said to his companions before he hailed her, but her disdain had made him look a fool.