"Mr. Srovoccan’s Servants" by Lauren Christine

Shadows veiled the building, the morose shroud of fog effecting everything it touched, sending people scurrying home in a panic they could not explain. It was unnatural, this fog, and it was the making of a very well hidden figure on the buildings top.

When the figure was satisfied that everyone who would know her was gone, she crept out of the shadows, and slunk across the wall of the building. Turning a corner, a stone clattered, and she cursed herself. Mentally giving herself a kick, she threw her weight on the ball of her heel, making only a slight rustle as she passed the windows above her.

When at last she arrived at the Lost Promise, an inn sheltered in the corner of the two streets, with a thatch roof, and brick body, she stopped to catch her breath. For the hundredth time she wondered over the inn’s name, and for the thousandth time she told her self not to worry about silly things. But was it silly? She wasn’t sure. It probably was some twisted clue of her employers. Shaking her head, she walked in the doors of the Lost Promise.

Nobody greeted her, and nobody sent a smile in her direction. They all just continued their musings. She paused by the inn keeper. He too showed her no response, just shivering slightly as if bothered by a draft of errant air. So she helped her self to a key, reaching up to the wall to get it off its hook, where many of them hung suspended by their own hooks. She glanced at the inn keeper, and shook her head, then dropped a few coins onto the counter. The sound of money falling lifted heads, and drew shudders out of a few of the people in the main room enjoying a beer or such. They went back to their dealings, and she sighed and walked upstairs. She turned into the room numbered 172, and wondered at that, since she doubted that there were even 30 rooms in the Lost Promise.

Sitting on the bed she took down her hair, letting it fall in thick waves of black-brown down her back, then brushed it. It felt so good to have her hair brushed, and she wished she could feel the brush strokes, but her hair must have gotten thicker, because she couldn’t. But it was the principal of it, familiarity of normal things. She laid down on the bed with out taking off her boots, and fell into a fitful sleep.

With dawn came the sunlight that burned her face and made her feel less whole. That was another oddity of working for Mr. Srovoccan, a man she had only seen once. She couldn’t even remember what happened at the meeting. All she remembered was pain… and then nothing, and then she woke up to a man standing on the edge of her bed, saying that she was now under the employment of Mr. Srovoccan and that she had a stone to steal. Mr. Srovoccan had few rules, but those he did have were strict.

1) do not look in mirrors

2) do not speak to other people

3) do not eat food other then what is given to you by Srovoccan him self

As long as you followed those rules, you lived happily. But you did not break the rules more then once. She had, going to speak to her family against the rules, and had paid dearly for it. First of all her family had not spoken to her, pretending she did not exist despite her best efforts of apologies and begging. When she had, exasperated, thrown a plate of food at the wall, they had looked at her and screamed, and begged for her to leave. She had fled, as quickly as she could.

Mr. Srovoccan had also chastised her, explaining when he had finished that she was marked as his servant, and that was why people ignored her. And that if she broke any of his other rules, she would be punished more harshly.

She never broke the rules again.

Walking out of the Lost Promise, she pulled her hood up around her face, to shield her sensitive skin for the sun. The harsh un-forgiving sun. She ducked into an overhang that provided some comfort. Mopping her brow, she surveyed the streets, the faces that ignored her existence. It was disconcerting. She didn’t know what marked her as a servant of Mr. Srovoccan, or how every one knew what it meant. She understood why they would shun her, she was a glorified thief, the best, able to steal anything from anyone. She wrapped her arms around herself, suddenly chilled. A man, walking across the street stopped to duck into the shade.

People hurried past him also. She frowned. Was this another of Mr. Srovoccan’s servants? People certainty ignored him as they did her. She started to make her way across the street. Surely it would not be breaking the rules if she talked to another of his servants. She studied him as she walked, looking for some sign of his servitude, but she could find none. Shaking her head, she stepped onto the curb and stopped in front of him.

He looked at her, and she in turn searched his face.

“You are Mr. Srovoccan’s servant?” she asked, and her voice felt raspy and hard on her ears, not musical and lilting as it used to be. He raised his eyebrows.

“Servant… it is a mockery, that term. We are his slaves.” His voice was also harsh, as though it to was unused.

“We are not slaves, we chose to serve,” she said, wondering how her voice had gotten so flat when she wanted to raise it in an exclamation at the end of that remark.

“You are new then.” It was not a question, but a statement.

“No, I’ve been working for 8 years,” she protested, her voice still toneless.

“And I have been working for a hundred.” Her eyes widened. She tries to process this information.

“What?” was all she could manage.

“Mr. Srovoccan chooses servants that cannot disobey. Have you ever wondered why people chose to ignore us?”

She shook her head.

“It’s because they can’t see us.”

“What?” She was confused… what was he talking about? Of course they could see them… of course they could…

He didn’t answer, he just turned around and walked back into the crowd. She stared at his retreating back and shook her head. She looked closer at his brown hair… and wondered at the dark patch of mottled brownish red at the base of his hair line. She blinked, and disappeared back into the crowd, the incident already forgotten.