Sending a Message

"Tupita," I called, summoning the messenger girl at the Cylinder of Justice into my presence. She was shorn from head to toe. A bit extreme, I would say, but it had the effect of making her less a distraction. She was garmented in something plain of brown rep-cloth. The bells on her ankle were less ornamental and more to announce her presence. One finds it a nuisance to have slaves sneaking up on them. She knelt chastely, eyes downturned, silent. She would wait in that manner until spoken to. I was in the midst of writing, so she suffered waiting for half an ahn or so. The office, truth be told, was sadly lacking in decoration aside from the shelf of dusty scrolls and the singular window that had a view of only the stone and mortar of the building next door. Even with the grooming and garmenture of a municipal girl, Tupita was not an unwelcome sight. I handed her what I'd written. It was a Writ of Arrest that had been posted about the city a few days prior. The text was essentially the same. Guards at every gate were already apprised. It was doubtful the defendant would make it out of the City without being hauled directly back into it, straight to the holding cells beneath this very Cylinder to await trial.

"Fifty copies, Tupita," I told her. "Have them reposted where the others have been taken down or papered over."

I admit turning my head to admire the slave as she scurried off to do as she was bid. She was a bit thin for my liking and, of course, her hair was dreadfully short, but that was a product of her station. It makes little sense to fatten up such a slave girl or allow her to dress her hair in a manner that would have her accosted at every corner. This one was enough of a distraction as it was. When she was gone, I returned to the work of a People's advocate.