On Mount Alyppia

The Drudge

It was sundown when Arista left Gregor's that day.

She had broken a bowl in the kitchen when she had left Gregor's breakfast dishes. The Cook had whirled round and smacked her on the cheekbone, shouting that she wasn't to have trouble in her kitchen, and that payment for that bowl was coming out of her pay, and that she only tolerated miserable, barely-human vagrant like her in her presence because it lightened the workload, and that she was lucky enough to be alive and breathing at all, and it was a pity no one had stopped that little heart of hers long ago, and was she going to overstep their kindness in letting her live by being such a bother and a clumsy fool, and why didn't she do them all a favour and go hang herself over the edge of a hill somewhere? When Arista had stammered that she wasn't paid, trying to ignore the sting of incoming tears, the cook had spat that of course she wasn't, why would anyone waste a copper on her whoring carcass? Then she had thrown a washcloth at her and set her scrubbing pots and pans until her knuckles were raw, shouting some more whenever she missed a spot.

It was two hours later when she finally escaped Cook on the pretense of taking Gregor his dinner. She usually would have taken something for herself, but today she didn't dare. Perhaps Gregor would not care for the food and she could polish his plate off herself. But luck wasn't on her side that day.

Gregor was in the courtyard with a student when she appeared with the tray, and he waved her into his workroom, following moments later.

"You disappeared," he said, slipping into his chair.

Arista shrugged, setting the plate before him. "Cook had me with dishes," she murmured.

"Your face is bruised," Gregor noted. "Are you alright?"

She nodded.

"Hmm," Gregor said. "There is vomit on the ground outside. Clean it up. Oil the sword rack after that...Andrea!" he called to his student. "Come here, and repeat to me the names of the maneuvers!"

Scrubbing vomit off of stone was tedious, and oiling down wood even more so. She could only reach the top of the sword rack by standing on her barrel. She glanced up at the sun as she did, biting her lip and thinking of the boy chipping at his stone. She wished she could get away, but Gregor and then the housemaid kept giving her odd jobs. Dust the workroom, sweep the workroom, tidy the workroom, run to the blacksmith to pick up the swords she had dropped there last week, mend the broken buckle of a sword belt, fix the dummies Gregor had destroyed the day before, fetch the students their water, run to the kitchen to drop Gregor's dishes only for Cook to pounce upon her and set her doing kitchen work yet again. Arista slipped out when Cook had her back turned, muttering over a stewpot, and took a large hunk of bread as she left. It was a bit stale, but it was the first thing she had eaten since the raw egg in the morning.

The sun had nearly finished slipping over the horizon when Arista pushed open the back gate and stepped into the street. Her stomach grumbled in outrage even as she munched her dry hunk of bread, and her hands were red and raw, blisters popped and calluses scraped off. Each step was heavy. She wilted when she thought of the climb up to her rooftop.

"Oh, back to the streets like the rest o'us, are ya?" came a sour voice. "Tired of living off that fool's crumbs?'

Arista turned her head to look behind her at the sneering, bedraggled beggar girl. She was taller, and stronger, and dirtier than Arista, and looked even meaner than she had the last time. Street children's loyalties were shifting, allies one moment and enemies the next, but most realized friends were more useful than enemies. To Tulla, everyone was an enemy. Especially Arista.

Arista tossed her the piece of bread, even though she was hungry herself, hoping she would leave her alone once she had food.

Luck was not on her side. Tulla caught the bread and took a large bite, the crumbs spilling from her lips as she chewed, her sneer growing as she edged closer.