It is the silent ones that should be looked after. They are the tricky ones. The ones that do things without others knowing. They sit in the background as if they were furniture or a forgotten curtain in the background that does little more than take up space. But no. The Silent Ones, as I call them, aren't simply servents that can't speak; they do speak, just in a way that isn't understood may anyone else. They are the ones that are deseptive and sneaky, that hear everything from the small crumb that falls on the floor to the war plans that the Emporer concocks with his minions. They hear everything.
We hear everything.
It's not like we can't communicate either. Our slightest jesture can mean any number of things. A twist of the wrist could mean "Scat now! Master is angry!" or "Come to me, my love." It's not as if we choose this way of life. We would choose something far from it. But our Master--the Emporer of Olani; King of Phaoa; Prince of Roc, Ijal, Mlani; Duke of Wastnest and Novak; Lord of Yanox, Planik, Ulancils, and Jaknai--rules over us with a flaming fist and an iron grasp. With the brush of a finger he could slaughter thousands of his subjects and millions of his slaves.
That is what I am. A slave. A Silent One.
I hate Master, but I fear him more. Most of the others who aren't like me, who hate him more, are all dead. Tiny whispers of rebellion were heard by someone, Silent Ones don't even squeak so it wasn't one of us, and word got back to our Master. Half of our Silent population was murdered in front of us all to stop such talk.
Lidi died there, my beloved sister. She stood on the wrong side of the line and, even though she was fair to look at and hadn't had the chance to bare children, she was beheaded. Apparently, if you're old enough to loose your tongue you're old enough to loose your life as well. Her dark, liquid coco eyes and sweet smile weren't enough to save her from the line or her dark skin.
Seven is too young to die. To young to even know what death is. No form of innocence was enough to save her from the axe, the rope, the chair, or the cages. There were so many that one form or torture wasn't enough, and the rest of us were forced to watch.
That was three years ago and even in our Gestures we don't "speak" of rebellion. We hadn't the first time either, although hardly anyone talks to me in the first place. To most, I am a rug that people walk over. Something that no one sees unless it starts reaking and then they practically throw me into the bog to wet me down.
