As you leave the slave quarters, the first thing you notice is your master's chains, dangling from your neck. They're heavy and uncomfortable, but you've gotten used to them over the past week. You were freed from them last night, only to be put in a different set of chains, and now you're on your way to the central room of the slave quarters.
As you begin to walk, your master's chains are dragged against the rough stone floor of the slave quarters, producing a shrill but soft, high-pitched sound. You can't really get irritated by the noise, as it's the only sound you've heard since you arrived at the complex two weeks ago. The sound serves one purpose, and one purpose only: it lets everyone in the slave quarters know of your presence, your owner, and your status as a slave. It has an immediate effect: peasants, once in your path, quickly move out of it. Some of them make way for you, and even bow their heads, but most don't even bother lifting their heads to acknowledge you.
They have always treated you like a slave; they always will. You're used to it. And you hate it. But you've walked through these corridors a thousand times before, and you know that there's nothing you can do about it, not without getting one of the guards to beat you unconscious. And even then, whoever bought you would just resell you as an injured slave after your wounds healed.
As you finally enter the central room, a dozen or so eyes immediately lock on you. Your lord, sitting in a simple throne carved from rock, stares at you with contempt as you approach him. Disgust is written all over his visage; it's as if he can't believe that his grandmother ever had the courage to have a child with your mother. A minute must pass before your master finally deigns to speak:
"And what do you want, boy?" he says, his voice resonating through the chamber.
You know what he expects to hear. You know you must play the part of a slave well. You know the following response will please your master, so again, you can't blame yourself for imagining the response that your master wants.
"I had some business in the quartermaster's office," you say.
With a nod, your master waves for you to stand in front of him, and he looks at you calmly, his eyes focused on you. You speak every word carefully, knowing that a moment of inattention or thoughtlessness could result in your being beaten – perhaps even killed.
"Yes, I saw," he says, his voice smooth and smooth. "You wasted no time getting on with your work. You're a good puppet. You're always useful to us."
You growl at him inwardly. A puppet is for entertainment, not labor. But still, you smile and nod your head. His sarcasm is meaningless to you: you've heard it from him so many times before. It's just an excuse, a way for him to project his frustration onto you. It's also your cue to leave.
"Then... may I go back to work?" you say. "I have the afternoon shift."
"The afternoon shift? What a coincidence! I've decided that I want to have a light meal now. I want you to provide for me. So you get the second shift. I'll be busy, so you'll be needed in the central chamber as I eat."
You quickly nod your head to your master; he's said his piece. You're supposed to be pleased at being needed – but your master is about to beat you, so you don't get excited.
You turn and leave, almost at a dead run. You need to leave before your master changes his mind about the light meal, or beats you. You need to get back to your overseer.
"Did you need anything else, Lord?" he says.
You've been coming to him like this for two months.
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