Rigg wondered if they could really be called slaves anymore. He already had a pretty good idea that slavery was evolving into something else, without losing the name. People had so much freedom to make economic decisions—to buy whatever they liked, and to assign their slaves to manufacture whatever they wanted. Some masters hired out their slaves to others, for a fee; others allowed their slaves to make their own arrangements to serve here or there as they could find work.
It became much clearer when he began his conversations the next day. They were judicial proceedings, to be sure, but they were called conversations and in fact that’s how they were conducted. As slaves, they had no rights, but it was always legitimate for slaves to ask for a conversation with a nearby Wallman. If the Wallman then decided to make decisions in the name of the Lord of Walls, well, that was always his option. And if there were any reprisals against a slave whose conversation might have led to unhappy results for someone, then they could be sure that the wrath of the Lord of Walls would come down on them. For it was not right for one slave to take vengeance on another for merely bringing information before the Lord of Walls or his closest servants.
It was a system that begged to become corrupt, Rigg saw at once. He would have been surprised, though, if someone had come to him with the offer of a bribe. The Lord of Walls, after all, was completely incorruptible himself, and would not be susceptible to flattery or deception by his underlings. If someone was certified as a Wallman, it was because the expendable Gathuuriex had found him to be intelligent, morally decent, and completely honest. Rigg wondered if he would have measured up to Gathuuriex’s scrutiny, if he had attempted to reach this lofty office through the normal means.
But it was not only because Gathuuriex and his men could not be bribed—it’s that every single person would have to account to their owner for what they did with their money. Or so it was, at least, in theory. This first set of conversations was being held in a part of the land that was clearly not held to the same standards as the crisply tended fields and shops they had passed through at first. Everything was just a little raggedy. People moved with less of a hurry. Rigg wondered if they worked with a kind of laziness or carelessness, too. Presumably he had been given the owner’s bedroom, as at any of the relay stations. There was running water in the privy room, which Rigg had come to expect in Gathuurifold. But the hot-water knob merely spun, as if it were decorative.
Which it turned out to be. The owner explained that he didn’t feel much of a need for hot water in the washbasin in the privy room—only the bathroom needed it, and that was downstairs, a single tub to serve the household. “They make the faucets to fit the specifications of richer folk than we are, sir. So I could only buy one with a cold and a hot. But there’s nothing to connect the hot one to, so it spins.”
It all made perfect sense. It just felt… if not slovenly, then slapdash.
But when it came to the conversations, people took a great deal of care. Most plainants came in with their master, or a steward sent by the master. And there must be some kind of legal training, even if there was no written law—slaves having no rights, except the right to petition. Make sure you say this, the master would whisper. She really meant to say, not that, but this, a steward would explain, as the plainant sat there nodding. Yes, yes, that is what I meant.
After the plainant was done, Rigg could either send for the misbehaver—there was no presumption of innocence—or simply announce his decision. Sometimes he was tempted to decide against someone whose complaint sounded frivolous, or for someone who was clearly sincere in her grievance. But his expectations from the customs of Stashiland—laws and practices older than the Sessamids and certainly older than the People’s Revolution—made this impossible for him.
Every time, he learned something important from the misbehaver. Sometimes it became clear that the actual complaint was merely an excuse for bringing the misbehaver before the Wallman. One swaggering overseer was arrogantly dismissive of the complaint—that he was always rude to the woman in question, even though she tried to serve him well. “She’s clumsy, she’s stupid, and she doesn’t even try,” he said. “I’m wasting time I owe to my master, so she not only costs him what she eats without producing anything of worth, now she’s making me less productive.”
Rigg saw at once that the man was blustering to hide some kind of shame. There was something he didn’t want to get caught at. At first Rigg thought it might be that the man was unkind to many other servants, and only this one had the courage to come forward. But it would actually be strangely to his credit if he was equally rude to everyone, instead of singling this one out.
“If you don’t mind sitting here for a moment,” said Rigg, “I’d like to think about something.”
“No, no, I don’t mind,” said the overseer, because what else could he say to a Wallman?
Rigg kept his eyes calmly fixed on the overseer’s face, but in fact his attention was directed elsewhere. He followed the overseer’s path backward in time. The little factory that he managed was only half a kilometer away, and Rigg studied his pattern of movement through the past day. Two days. Three.
“You’re not a very hardworking man,” said Rigg. It had taken him only about a minute to do this examination, because the facemask made everything go so much more quickly.
“I work as hard as I should!”
“It seems to me that you hardly visit the factory floor.”
“What did she say about me!” the man said, outraged. “That’s not her business. She doesn’t own me, the master gave me charge over her.”
Rigg felt Ram Odin’s touch on his forearm. So instead of answering, he smiled and turned to Ram.
“My friend,” said Ram Odin, “do you think that Wallman Rigg came here without first inquiring of the Lord of Walls whether he had any concerns?”
The man settled down at once. “She only has a right to complain about how I treat her,” he muttered.
“Do you think Wallman Rigg doesn’t know that?” asked Ram Odin. “He knows what he knows—that slave only complained about your rudeness.”
“You’re not a hardworking man,” said Rigg. “You walk through the factory in the morning when you arrive—but work has already been going on for some time. If anyone tries to ask you anything or tell you anything, you brush them aside. Too busy for their problems, is that it?”
“They should do their work and not bother me with endless nothing.”
“But the slave who complained—she insisted, didn’t she? She came to your door and knocked.”
“My door is always unlocked.”
“But your rudeness is the same as a lock—designed to teach people to leave you alone. She complained that the equipment kept breaking, and some of it couldn’t be repaired. Three spinners are idle all the time, because their wheels don’t work.”
“Then they should call for the repairman!”
“He doesn’t answer to them, though, does he? When they send for him, he doesn’t come, because it isn’t you sending for him.”
The man opened his mouth to say something, then looked furtively away. He had been about to lie. “I didn’t realize it was so serious. You’re right, I should have summoned the repairman myself.”
“There are a lot of things you should have done yourself,” said Rigg. “What do you do, alone in your office, since you aren’t doing any of your work for the factory?”