Icevein: Chapter 16

Peridot poured two mugs of spiced mead from the samovar and headed toward the inner passage of the stonehold.

“Peridot, where are you headed?” her mother asked from the door of the workshop. Peridot held a frustrated breath so as not to sigh.

“I’m taking mead to father.”

“Two mugs.”

Peridot turned and faced her mother but did not reply.

“I can’t have you staying long again,” Onyx said. “Ingots is not more important than your duties here.”

“I completed my labors today,” Peridot answered. Iolite and Onyx might continue working, but did they expect her to spend more than a full shift per day?

“There are still the gilke.There is still the stonehold.”

Peridot knew it was a rude response, but she had held her tongue for years, and the temptation to let out her frustration won her over:

“They are not mine. ”

Onyx inhaled in surprise.

“You are mine ,” she said, her voice low and threatening, “and until you reach rhundal, you will do your duty. Then you can marry and dig your own hold.”

“Who says I will marry?” Peridot asked. She certainly hadn’t declared that intention.

“What else will you do?” Onyx asked, her tone shifting from anger to honest surprise. Peridot stared at Onyx. Whether or not her mother had meant to tell her she was not worthy of marrying a craft, the message was clear, and it struck Peridot hard. She didn’t even disagree, but it was another thing to hear it so plainly in her mother’s question and see it on her mother’s face.

Peridot’s feelings must have been plain on her own face, for her mother’s expression fell.

“I only mean—” Onyx said, “—you just. You haven’t loved it. It is clear you do not love it.”

“There are more crafts than yours.”

“You have interest in another craft?” Onyx took a step closer to Peridot. “Tell me.”

Peridot looked aside, wishing she had not said it. It was deflection, nothing more. Surely, she had interest in many things—enamels, faceting, even paper-making—and it was not that she disliked the working of wire. Yet to dedicate herself to one thing for life? There were so many things beneath the stone. Nor had a dwarf caught her eye enough to seriously consider marriage. There was something she wanted, she just didn’t know what. It was just out of sight, just out of reach.

“I do not know,” Peridot said at last. “I do not know what I want.”

“Your rhundal is two years away. It may seem far, but it isn’t.”

“I know it isn’t,” Peridot said, irritation slipping back into her voice. She took a breath to try to calm herself.

They stood for a while, her mother watching her, Peridot looking away, not wanting to meet her gaze. At last, Onyx spoke:

“Take the mead to your father before it cools more,” she said. “Then go to the Warehall and purchase a pound of lavendar, a jar of oil, and five pounds of cavebread. After that. . . you can see if your father wishes for a game.”

“Ay yes, mother.”

Onyx nodded and returned to the workshop while Peridot hurried toward her father’s holt. It was well that she had two mugs, for when she reached the chamber she found her father sitting with Thrushbeard, rinlen of the Ridge Wardens. They stood on either side of the table, bent over a map, speaking in low tones even though they were alone in the chamber. They looked up as she entered.

“Ah,” her father said. “See what a dutiful daughter.”

“Indeed,” Thrushbeard answered. She handed them each a mug, smiled, and departed, even though her curiosity at their business was great. This time, she left out the front of the Rhûl’s Holt. The two dwarves were back to their whispering even before the door was shut behind her. She could not help but hear the name One-Ear.

The Warehall was near the Low Adit where it was easier for pack donkeys to be unloaded. It was a spacious old stope with squared walls full of inset cubbies and back-to-back rows of shelves. Further drifts led to storerooms where extra stock was kept. There were few other traders within Glint; her father ensured that pack trains dealing with others in the claim were levied a fee. This allowed the mine’s own outfitter to undercut prices nine times out of ten . Glint was as much a trading post as a mine. Thousands of claims had been staked in the Gold River Range, each requiring tools, food, clothes, boots, weapons, and so much more. . . Most thought the wealth of Glint came from its veins of gold, but that was only a part of the truth.

There was always activity at the Warehall. Wardens stood guard at the Low Adit, and prospectors came and went along with goatherds, crafters, and wifs. As she approached, a group of young dwarves hushed and watched her. The lull brought her from her own thoughts, and she realized she had not worn a veil. She’d been distracted when she left the hold.

It was not unheard of for a maid to walk the drifts unveiled, but Peridot never did. She did not enjoy the eyes of dwarves upon her. Now, she felt naked and she knew a blush was rising on her cheeks. The dwarves watched in silence as she reached the open door and passed within. Lamps hung from the ceiling, illuminating the long aisles. Onyx often sent Peridot to the Warehall, and she could have found the items she wanted without help, but as soon as she entered, one of the outfitter dwarves approached her. He wore a leather apron, and his sleeves were rolled up to his elbows.

“ Guf anak,” he said in greeting. Good strike . “How may I serve?” His face was red, but Peridot did not think it was from drinking.

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“One gallon of oil, a pound of lavendar, and five pounds of raw cavebread.”

The dwarf inclined his head.

“Just a moment.” He disappeared around the end of one of the rows of shelves with more than usual haste. There were others in the Warehall, including one wif being assisted by another aproned dwarf, but Peridot still felt the eyes on her. When she glanced over, a few of the dwarves stared back without even looking away.

“Peridot!”

She turned to see Beryl. Shineboot’s daughter had just entered the Warehall carrying a large wicker basket in both hands. She was wearing a veil, but Peridot had no trouble recognizing her friend. She raised her hand.

As Beryl strode to Peridot, another dwarf hurried over. Beryl rattled off a list of supplies and handed the basket to the dwarf. At the same moment, the other dwarf returned with Peridot’s acquisitions and set them down on a long granite counter.

“It is to the Irik-Rhûl’s account,” Peridot told him.

“I have it marked,” he said.

Peridot squinted. The dwarf knew exactly who she was, though he had likely never seen her unveiled face before.

“Will you stay while I wait?” Beryl asked. “We can walk back together.”

Peridot wanted to flee the eyes of those in the Warehall, but for her friend’s sake, she nodded. Beryl leaned in close. “You are wearing no veil,” she said. Her eyes crinkled, telling Peridot that she smiled. “Has someone caught your fancy?”

“No!” Peridot whispered. “I forgot it.”

“You forgot?” The disbelief was clear in Beryl’s voice.

“It’s hard to explain.”

“No doubt.” Beryl arced an eyebrow at her and half-turned toward the shelves, facing away from the counter. She squared her shoulders and breathed deep. “It always smells good in here.”

That much was true. Jars and bags of imported spices and dried herbs, crushed minerals like feldspar, oils for coating metals and for burning in lamps. . . Peridot couldn’t relax enough to enjoy the smell though. There were close to a dozen dwarves in the chamber, there to do business or talk, and they either stared at the two maids with unbroken gaze or constantly glanced their way.

“Peridot!” Beryl whispered. “Look how you blush!” Beryl’s eyes widened in surprise. “Did you truly forget your veil?”

“I told you so. And I do not like being looked at.”

“They watch you because they cannot approach you. It will all change when we reach rhundal, believe me. The offers will flock to us. We can take our pick.”

Peridot knew this already. They were considered children until that day. For any dwarf to approach them outside of duty would be seen as an affront to their fathers.

Dwarves married by paying a bride price that enriched the maid’s family. Most dwarves could never afford such a bride price. Love played little enough part, though liking might guide the maid’s selection among similar offers. But Peridot’s family needed no wealth, and no dwarf outside the Owners Drift could hope to offer a bride price of any meaning. That didn’t keep the dwarves from looking. To marry one of the Owners’ daughters? Such a dwarf would never fear poverty.

She knew that her father could have chosen any maid for a wif, yet he had chosen her mother even though it made his life harder. Peridot wanted that for herself, but she knew it was a fantasy. Who was the dwarf who didn’t know of herfather, didn’t know who she was, and happened to fancy her above all others? Her mother was the most fortunate of wifs among the dhar.

The truth was, every dwarf had every reason to pursue Peridot other than liking. There were fewer dwarf-maids than dwarves anywhere, but the disparity was greater in Glint. Far greater. A whole generation of hungry young dwarves had come to Glint in search of wealth and opportunity. Some had even found it.

“I would rather not be seen,” she told Beryl. “Offers will be made through our fathers, anyway.”

“You are the Irik-Rhûl’s daughter. You will always be seen.”

The dwarf assisting Beryl returned with her basket heavy-laden. He held it with both arms.

“Did you have everything?” Beryl asked.

“Ay yes,” he answered.

“Then deliver it to the Owners’ Drift.”

“As you say,” the dwarf answered, heading toward the door.

“Walk with me,” Beryl said, taking Peridot’s hand.

They left the Warehall, passing an even larger group of dwarves—wardens, prospectors, and laborers—who loitered outside the chamber near the Low Adit. She knew the dwarves watched them as they walked away. She strode arm in arm with Beryl up the descending drift. Peridot did feel better in Beryl’s company, relieved to be heading back to the Owners’ Drift, but when they went to pass by the Crafter’s Drift, Beryl swung her to the right.

“What are you doing?” Peridot asked.

“Come, I want to see something.”

“What?”

“I want to show you what Lowpleat has been making.” Beryl led her down the drift at a quick pace. “It will only be a moment.”

Lowpleat was a clothier and one of the first crafters to migrate to Glint. Now, he had a full stonehold and family of his own, and many assistants in his workshop. He even had a gilna, though she was much younger than either Peridot or Beryl. When Beryl led Peridot through the door of Lowpleat’s spacious workshop, Peridot was relieved to see that only Lowpleat’s wif Prase sat at the gorgeous polished granite cutting table. The first chamber was for showing off their wares, while Lowpleat and his assistants would be working out of sight in chambers further back.

The cutting table sat with pride of place in the chamber. Shelves held bolts of cloth on display, a panoply of colors and weaves. There were as many shades as there were jewels, for the Lowpleat stonehold also dyed cloth. The smell of spiced tea flowed from the samovar that sat upon a silver platter in the center of the table, surrounded by porcelain mugs.

“Maids,” Prase said, rising from the table and gifting them a smile. Most of the wifs and maids of Glint were well known to each other. There were fewer than three hundred, still. “What can I do for you?”

“I wish to show Peridot the cloth-of-gold.”

“Ah,” Prase said.

“Cloth-of-gold?” Peridot asked.

“Watch,” Beryl whispered.

“You will have to come with me,” Prase said, motioning for them to follow. “We do not keep it out front.” Prase lifted an oil lamp from a hanger and led them back through an inner passage, her voluminous skirt swishing with her strides. The skirt was a strong linen, no doubt made of flax from Laith or one of the other human lands, and it was dyed the most vibrant shade of green that Peridot had ever seen. Its hem was worked in silver. Prase herself was thickset, a mark of wealth for a wif. She led them into a second chamber and hung the burning lamp from a hook. A sturdy kist of andesite sat against one wall. Using keys produced from a pocket beneath her sash, Prase opened the lid and lifted out a bolt of cloth.

Peridot’s mouth gaped wide, though she did not know it. She had never seen anything as luxurious or resplendent. Prase unrolled a section the length of her arm, holding it to catch the glow of the lamp and the red Miner’s Eye.

“Marvelous, no?” she asked.

Peridot had no words.

“It is woven with real threads of gold.”

“How is it done?” Peridot asked.

“Gold leaf,” Prase answered. “Finest leaf, cut and then wraped around the thread, smoothed until there is not a wrinkle, and woven in with the dyed fibers.”

“May I touch it?” Peridot asked.

The wif held it out to her, and Peridot stroked the cloth with her fingertips. It shimmered at the shadow of her hand, the passing light playing upon its luster.

“They have silver, also,” Beryl said. Praise smiled, rolled the cloth-of-gold back onto its wooden core, and replaced it in the kist. She removed a bolt of silver-hue, stretching out another length for Peridot to observe.

“I hardly know which I like more,” Peridot said, for the light played differently on the silver, more diffuse but no less lovely. “Have you used it?” she asked.

“Used?” Prase echoed. “I have a scarf, but other than that, not yet. Though we have sold some to the Council of Deep Cut. Few could afford it. Even in Glint, only the Owners could afford this. . . or perhaps their daughters.” The corner of the wif’s mouth turned upward.

“I intend to ask my father for a veil of the cloth-of-gold fashioned for my rhundal feast,” Beryl said.

“He has merely to request it,” Prase answered, replacing the bolt and relocking the kist. “May I request the honor to share a mug of tea with you both?”

“We would be delighted,” Beryl answered, and they returned to the bartering chamber.