“One would think,” Tresting noted, “that a thousand years of working in fields would have bred them to be a little more effective at it.” Tresting turned to the man standing beside him on the hill. The passing whip of a taskmaster would force them into dedicated motion for a few moments, but as soon as the taskmaster passed, they would return to their languor. Instead, they simply worked with bowed heads, moving about their work with quiet apathy. They didn’t complain, of course they knew better than that.
The peasants were an indolent, unproductive lot. There was a sluggishness to their efforts-but, of course, that was the way of the skaa.
Hundreds of people in brown smocks worked in the falling ash, caring for the crops. Tresting stood with his guest on a small hilltop patio that overlooked the fields. Fortunately, there wasn’t much wind the parasol would likely be effective. Ashfalls weren’t that uncommon in the Final Empire, but Tresting had hoped to avoid getting soot stains on his fine new suit coat and red vest, which had just arrived via canal boat from Luthadel itself. Lord Tresting frowned, glancing up at the ruddy midday sky as his servants scuttled forward, opening a parasol over Tresting and his distinguished guest.
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