The womenfolk, some of whom were
accompanied as well by elder daughters, were taking their bundles of
wash out through the two tall narrow rear gates of the walled compound,
to the nearby stream where they would pound and slap the soiled
garments on the rocks whilst wailing together as one the old,
long-familiar tribal ditties.
Si'Wren's memories of such were too vague and distant, to recall her
own mother and father. For she was an orphan from earliest memory, a
slave taken or sold out of her own mother's arms too long ago to have
any recollection of it.
But she was not entirely alone. Did not the House of Master Rababull
claim and feed and protect her just like any family member, albeit one
of the very lowest possible rank?
As a mere slave, was she not more privileged than the richest of
beggars who dwelt in their so-called glorious 'freedom' amongst the
flies and dogs and dung of beasts without number, and who called out
incessantly as they begged by the wayside in the filth and scum, and
despaired of their very lives? They who had freedom and family had it
worse than Si'Wren, as they waited and begged and cowered, not knowing
whether it be for a shred of food or the bruising end of a staff in the
dirty gutters and tilting hovels of the Emperor's numberless narrow
city streets and alleyways.
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