He leaned his weight into the straw broom and drove it across the flagstones, kicking up a thin, dancing haze of grey dust. In his drab, ill-dyed tunic of rough hemp, Marcus moved from one side of the corridor to the other, sweeping, dragging, and pretending he had the mind of a simpleton.
It was mind-numbing work. For an operative who had desecrated the corpse of an Emperor and laid the groundwork for the fall of the Fingers, sweeping corridors felt like a particularly spiteful practical joke played by his King.
Still, a master of the craft did not pout. He kept his spine slightly bent and his eyes fixed on the grime, maintaining the slow, vacant rhythm of an obedient drone. This is an honor, he recited to himself, burying every scrap of his true nature deep down where no sharp-eyed bailiff could find it. They feed you hard crusts, they grant you a pallet of straw in the cellar, this is an honor. You'll starve and sleep in stable, this is an honor
