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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?”
The overseer seemed as if he wanted to protest, but again, he shied away from a quibbling lie. “I sleep,” he said.
“I know,” said Rigg. “Why don’t you sleep at home?”
The man leaned his elbows on the table, put his head in his hands, and began to weep.
“You walk up and down in your rooms. Your children are asleep—why aren’t you?”
The man finally mastered himself enough to speak. “She’s a good woman, my wife. My master chose very well f
or me.”
“I’m sure he did,” said Rigg. “Yet something keeps you from sleeping.”
