Opposite our camp, across a deep valley and scattered high across the rocky mountain slope, were the mansions of the Chosen. Built out of rock they were: huge rambling structures that seemed to climb out of the mountainside itself, their ancient walls and buttresses and towers the same dull brown of the earth they sprang from. Today was special to the Chosen, and they had hung splendid banners over their balconies, and crimson flags from their uppermost windows.

The line shuffled forward again and I picked up my basket and dragged it over the stones. The wind had dropped now, and our breath made mists in the dusky air. Our hands and faces ached and became numb. Slowly we moved forward, and after a time I saw the fire of the overseer’s torch, a tawny flag against the smoky sky.

At last it was my turn I hoisted my basket onto the weighing-hook and stood respectfully aside while the overseer read the scale. I showed him my family sign on the board, and he made a charcoal mark beside it. I took down the basket, heaved it onto my back, and started to walk over to the carts.

“Harsha!”

The overseer called me back, using the Quelled word for female slave. We had no names, with them. I turned and slowly lowered my basket to the ground, and waited with my head bent.

“Harsha, yesterday you brought up seven-and-twenty full baskets. Today, twenty.”

I dared not look at him. That was forbidden. I looked at the gold embroidery on the shoulder of his emerald coat, and arranged my face into a look I hoped resembled contrition I knew he looked at the air over my head, for no Chosen ever looked into the face of a Quelled. We were not worthy.

“Those seven loads will be made up,” he said. “They will be made up before you begin tomorrow’s work, and will be counted separately. Altogether there will be four-and-thirty loads. Do you understand?”

My mind whirled. Four-and-thirty loads! That was not asked even of the strongest men. It was a sentence of brokenness – or death. For an instant, shocked and questioning, my eyes met his. He strode over to me, and raised the small whip he carried I did not move. I looked at a point beyond his left shoulder, at a far calm mountain peak, and the lash burned a line on my face.

“There is defiance in you, harsha,” he said, his voice shaking and low. “You, I have watched.”

The mountain peak was wreathed in mist, and the shadows were purple below. In my soul I flew to them for calm.

“Do you understand?” he spat.

I fought the urge to answer him. I nodded, and bent my head low.

“Be here in the hour before the dawn,” he said loudly. “You will work at the pace I decree, and not stop until I have weighed four-and-thirty loads. If you fall, you will be forced to your feet. If you refuse, you know the penalty. Next.”