Outer Pastures, Kharbarinth
Fifteenth of Neap Tide, Year Twohundred Twentytwo of the Reckoning
The small shed stank - not of offal, or of blood, or anything else the young man was used to. No, it had a very peculiar odor; sheep sweat and sheep fear. You'd think he was busy strangling each of the little bleating vixens to death with his bare hands from how they yowled and mewled, and how their brothers and sisters burbled about outside, a veritable cacophony underlining the otherwise peaceful season between the last snowfall and the time of ploughing. But no. No such thing. Sure, you could slaughter sheep for food, and hides. Lambskin in particular was popular right now with the men of Government Hill, for binding folios and documents to be presented to the Families. The shearer wasn't opposed to a bit of mutton himself now and then, roasted well in the skin to seal in the fat.
But his employers would have been disappointed if he was butchering their prize flock. And this job paid well enough that he had no intention of messing it up. Into the loops of leather one hoof went, then another, then the last two. Not to prevent the animal from escaping, no, they were too placid for that. More to prevent it struggling excessively and the shears from going awry. His employers preferred the beasts have as little wool remaining, praising 'efficiency' and 'completeness' endlessly to the skies, and so their workers had learned to mouth the slogan - time and motion, least and fewest - with practiced precision. The effort of getting the last few strands of wool off of the charges seemed inefficient, to the shearers' eyes, for the minutes used to obtain the tiny threads left over which would be doubtlessly discarded at the weavers struck him as wasteful.
It was not humble shearers who set the rules though.
With a click-clack, click-clack, the recently sharpened shears moved easily through the thick winter pelt of the sodden sheep. Its winter wool, thick with dust, grime, fleas, and all manner of filth, fell away from its body swiftly. It would have to be carded, pulled through lengths of iron to align the fibers, and washed extensively, but eventually it would take on the near-white color which the merchants in the City of Bells and the City of Iron prized so highly. Once men and women with more skill than he had turned it into neat yarn and thread, a hundred goodwives would turn it into the long baggy warm tunics which had all the rage this winter.
Click-clack, click-clack.
Less than ten minutes later, the shearer released the animal from its constraints, and it fled him like a thing possessed. After gathering up the wool and stuffing it into a basket almost full with the fluffy stuff, he hung the shears up again and left the shed, searching for his next victim to torment.