The gravel spine of Oakhaven Crag crunched under six pairs of heavy boots. Ahead, Tamsya Dael lay utterly still in her woven sling, a vision of indolent peace. Barnaby, a vast, shaggy mound, snored gently at her feet, occasionally twitching an ear. Borin’s grimace tightened. This was the picture of defiance. This was the picture of a Class Traitor. “Mrs. Dael!” Borin barked, his voice splitting the midday quiet. “By the authority of the Morndell Directorate, you are hereby detained for gross insubordination and disruption of village labor infrastructure. You will be escorted to the deep-timber logging divisions immediately!” Tamsya’s eyelids lifted, revealing irises the color of faded pond reeds. She blinked slowly, then frowned at the line of armed bailiffs. “Oh, hello,” she said, her voice a soft murmur. “You’re making quite a racket. Is it lunchtime already?” A burly bailiff stepped forward, his baton gripped tight. He looked at Tamsya’s prone form, then at the rope cradle, then back at Borin. “Shall we… extract her, Inspector?” he asked, shifting his weight. The idea of hauling a woman from a suspended net felt strangely undignified. “Extract her!” Borin snarled, wiping gray road grit from his chin. “And confiscate that… that contraption. It’s an affront to honest labor.” The burly guard reached out a tentative hand towards the edge of the hemp webbing. Barnaby, with a low rumble that vibrated the shale, shifted slightly, his massive head lifting just enough to fix a bleary, yellowed eye on him. The guard hesitated, his hand snatching back. “Barnaby, dear,” Tamsya murmured, her hand absently scratching behind the dog’s ear. “Are these people bothering you? They’re being rather loud for this time of day.” Suddenly, Korsen Dael emerged from behind a towering stack of salvaged pipe, a wild glint in his eye. He was holding a small, polished wooden remote. “Unhand my wife, you dolts!” he shrieked, his voice surprisingly robust. “She is performing essential static-load observation for optimal napping conditions! Do you wish to invalidate two months of rigorous data recording?!” Borin scoffed. “Static-load observation? Dael, your bizarre excuses have worn thin! Your wife is a Class Traitor, and she is coming with us!” He gestured to his lead guard. “Grab her!” The guard lunged again. Just as his fingers grazed the hemp cord, Korsen pressed a stud on his remote. A low whirring sound erupted from the piles of scrap metal surrounding the clearing. Then, with a series of sharp, mechanical clicks, a dozen hidden nozzles, crafted from industrial quartz, swiveled into position. “Initiating anti-disruption protocol!” Korsen bellowed, his voice cracking with manic glee. “Phase one: Hydro-Repulsion Array!” From each quartz nozzle, a powerful, icy jet of river water erupted, blasting outwards with astonishing force. The squad shrieked as freezing river water slammed into them. The lead guard was lifted off his boots and sent sprawling backward, skidding down the shale slope like a sack of turnips. Another man spun in a dizzying circle, his baton flying from his grasp, before crashing into a pile of rusted tractor parts. Borin, caught in the direct line of fire, sputtered and coughed, his uniform instantly soaked through. The sheer pressure of the water pushed him relentlessly back, his feet scrabbling for purchase on the loose stones. He flailed wildly, shouting incoherent curses, until he too tumbled backwards, landing with a splash in a muddy puddle at the bottom of the crag, his hat floating serenely beside him. Korsen, panting slightly, lowered his remote. The nozzles retracted with a satisfied hiss. He looked at Tamsya, his chest puffing out. “Are you quite alright, my dearest stationary object?” Tamsya, who had barely stirred, sighed contentedly. A few errant drops of water had misted her cheek, but she was otherwise untouched. “That was… loud,” she mumbled, then adjusted a pillow behind her head. “But rather refreshing. Did you build that, Korsen?” “My magnum opus!” he declared proudly. “A quartz-driven, automated territorial defense system! For ultimate napping sanctity!” Borin, dripping and seething, slowly clambered back up the slope, his teeth chattering. His men, shivering violently, were already stumbling back down the path. “You… you’ll pay for this, Dael!” Borin snarled, pointing a wet finger at Korsen, then at Tamsya. “This is assault on an official inspector! This is an act of open defiance against the Morndell order!” Tamsya, without opening her eyes, reached a languid hand into the pocket of her oversized smock. She withdrew a small, much-handled book bound in stiff, grey canvas. It was the Morndell Commune's Official Labor and Civic Statutes – a volume few ever bothered to read in full. “Actually, no,” Tamsya said, her voice calm and surprisingly clear. She opened the book to a dog-eared page. “Chapter Four, Section B, Subsection Six, Paragraph Three. It states, and I quote: ‘Any individual legally registered and categorized as a ‘Trophy Wife’ shall be considered ‘household inventory’ of the primary male landholder, and as such, shall be exempt from labor point assessments, re-education assignments, or punitive conscription to collective work divisions, as inanimate objects are incapable of labor.’ It’s all here. In black and white.” She tapped the page with a perfectly manicured nail. Borin stared, utterly dumbfounded. “Household… inventory?” he stammered, his voice losing its usual bite. “That’s… that’s preposterous! You’re a person, not a chest of drawers!” “I am a legally recognized beautiful, stationary object,” Tamsya corrected patiently, her eyes still closed. “The governing board itself ratified my status. I cannot be drafted, taxed, or arrested as a laborer, because I am, by definition, not a laborer. I am furniture.” Borin’s jaw worked, but no sound emerged. His face, already red from the cold, turned a deeper shade of puce. He had used that very same clause to grant her the ‘Trophy Wife’ exemption, seeing it as a way to mock her. Now, it was mocking him. He was defeated, humiliated, and drenched. He had no legal grounds to touch her. He had wasted valuable time and soaked his best uniform. Then, a cruel, triumphant glint returned to his eye. He reached into his coat pocket, pulling out a small, metallic box. He pressed a button, and a thin, reedy voice began to echo across the crag. “—and then, once the elders are sufficiently distracted by the potato blight, we can seize control of the labor allotments and re-distribute the farmsteads to those who truly appreciate… um… strategic napping opportunities…” The voice, tinny and distorted, was unmistakably Tamsya’s. “And then we can make sure everyone gets at least six hours of… horizontal repose… per day…” Borin’s grim smile returned, wider and far more menacing. “This, Mrs. Dael, is an audio recording provided by a deeply concerned citizen. It details your insidious plot to undermine the very fabric of our Collective. This isn’t about labor points. This is about sedition.” He held up the small box, his eyes narrowed. “This, ‘household inventory,’ is a treasonous conspiracy against the Morndell board.”

Household Inventory