The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder Icevein: Chapter 8

The samovar stead with a brew of spiced ad, mint, and lemonbalm leaf, a mixture deed festive by those who could afford it, commonly called Honeysteam, though the recipe had many variations. Her mother insisted on adding a pinch of listone powder. Peridot was dropping chunks of cavebread fungus into a grinder, reducing it to a powder for the making of flatbread, when her father erged from the inner passage of the hold. He carried a ceramic mug encrusted with garnets, a favorite vessel of his that Peridot sotis stole away from his chamber to clean, putting it back after scouring.

“Ah,” he said, smiling. “I am summoned by the scent.” Chargrim moved toward the samovar but Peridot intercepted him, taking the mug and filling it. herself. She handed it back. He cupped the mug in two hands, holding the steam up to his face and breathing deeply.

“Once, I braved a wilderness. Now I cannot fill a mug. What would an invalid such as I do without the gentle ministrations of my gilna?”

Peridot arched an eyebrow, not bothering to respond. She knew her father’s attempts at humor well.

“Is your mother ho?” he asked, looking toward the workshop.

“No, she’s in the terraces yet, but she should return any mont.”

“Ah,” he said, and ventured a sip of the brew.

“I rember the first Day of Deliverance here at the claim,” he said. Her father often referred to Glint rely as “the claim,” especially when talking about the early days. She had heard her father recount that first Day of Deliverance before, but she did not stop his reminiscence.

“It was just us. Your uncles. Warmcoat. And Savvyarm.” He smiled again, staring at one of the wall-hangings as if he could see through it into the past. There was more than a little sadness in the smile. “We had fish and eel, caught that day, with a little salt, and pine-needle tea. Hobblefoot had saved the last of his hill-smoke. We sat in the old adit, the lower adit, and ate. Savvyarm wanted to pick a na for the claim.”

“And what did you na it?” she asked to keep him talking. Her father appeared to be in a good mood.

“Warmcoat suggested Quartz Dell.” Chargrim chuckled. “That didn’t last long.”

“Do you like it more than Glint?” she asked.

“Nas are tricky things.” He shrugged. “You know, it was the day when Warmcoat first suggested we stay. That we live here, and not return to Deep Cut.”

“Was it?” she asked.

“Ay yes. I haven’t thought about that in years, but it just ca to my mory, like a vision. He was leaning against the adit wall. His eyes were aglow. Everyone was so eager.”

“Even you?”

Her father’s smile faded, and she regretted the question.

“I was. . .”

While he searched for his next words, the outer stonehold door swung open and Iolite and Onyx entered, wide baskets piled with leafy greens and turnips hanging from their arms.

“Look who’s here,” Onyx said, handing Peridot her baskets. Onyx and Chargrim placed their foreheads together for a mont.

“I see you’ve gotten into the Honeysteam,” Onyx said.

“I’d sll it from the adit.” He held the mug up to his face again, breathing deep.

“There will be no al tonight,” Onyx said. “There is too much to be done for tomorrow. But we will fry cave bread.”

He nodded.

“You know, you could purchase enough food to make all this work unnecessary.”

“Must we have this conversation again?” Onyx asked, moving to the quartz slab that served for al preparation. She began laying out turnips for dicing as Peridot slid her grinder and bowl aside to give room.

“We wouldn’t, if you would give in.”

Onyx sighed and picked up a thick-spined cleaver. Chargrim raised a hand as if in defense.

“Easy,” he said.

“Oh, you’re ridiculous,” she said, shaking her head and starting to dice the turnips.

Iolite returned from the larder and took a place on the far side of Onyx with another cleaver. Peridot flicked a sizable dollop of tallow into the bowl of ground cavebread al and started to mash it.

“Bring so cave bread when it’s done, Peridot,” Chargrim asked, and turned toward the inner passage. He hesitated. “A double portion.”

“What, you’re going back already?” Onyx asked.

“There is more I’d like to do.”

“What needs doing now?”

“I suppose I could always pay soone to do it for ,” he answered with clear sarcasm.

“Branna,” Onyx said. Chargrim grinned and headed for the passage.

“You won’t stay away all night?” she asked. Peridot kept her focus on the bowl in front of her. She was old enough, now, to understand the aning behind so of her parents’ interactions, but she found it embarrassing.

“If I do, it’s because I’m dead,” he answered, and left.

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There were vents cut near the ceiling of their stonehold, allowing them to cook over braziers without having to have their stonehold door open or use a chamber-bellows. It was a luxury, but sotis Peridot begrudged it—her mother might have insisted less on preparing all their food themselves if they had to contend with the poorer ventilation of a lower or smaller stonehold. Even with the good air, frying cavebread was a smoky and aromatic affair, and the sll of garlic filled the chamber.

Peridot’s stomach rumbled, but she would not eat before her parents. Rightauger appeared in the chamber again, lured by his stomach, but even he would not eat, knowing his parents had not. As the third oldest in the stonehold, Rightauger would be served before Peridot as well. The stack of flatbreads grew slowly. She intended to fry up a number of portions at once, but her mother interrupted her.

“Go ahead and take all those to your father,” she said.

“All of them?” Peridot asked. She had thought she was working on the third portion.

“That is what I said,” her mother answered without looking over. Peridot sighed and picked up the platter, passing Rightauger where he sat cross-legged on a cushion. The inner passage took her to the back entrance of the Rhûl’s Holt.

“You’ll never sneak up on carrying that,” Chargrim said as she entered. He pushed aside the ledger he was reading to make an open space for the platter. She set it down, smiled, and turned to go.

“Pull up a chair,” he said.

“What?”

“Sit and eat with .”

“But. . .”

“I asked for a double portion, did I not?”

“Ay, yes.”

“So sit down and eat.”

Her father stood and began stacking books, clearing even more space. He went to the wall and pulled the Ingots stone from a cubby, setting it on the table.

“Mother will expect back. I was making the cave bread. It will irritate her.”

“Are there not three gilke in the hold?”

“Ay, yes.”

“There were no maids in my father’s hold,” Chargrim said. “Before I reached rhundal, I fried the cave bread. When I ca to the Red Ridges, Ihunted and I cooked. Stay and sit. I will see to it.”

Chargrim left by way of the back passage. Peridot sat and waited obediently, though she did not touch the cavebread. Her father returned before long.

“Now,” he said, sitting. “Eat and play.”

Gretti’s twelve-hour shift ca to a close with the soft approach of his relief. Thankful that he was not found sleeping, Gretti made his way back to the adit of Sledge Rock. He was tired and looked forward sleep. The Day of Deliverance festivities would co with the sunrise. He made his way into the main drift and heard songs and slled the cooking. When he entered the stonehold of his cadre, he t Latehalf exiting at the door.

“Ironleg, where are you going?”

“In,” Gretti answered.

“Out!” Latehalf said, taking Gretti by the shoulder and turning him. Gretti had half a mind to punch him, but Latehalf continued: “The casks are open in the Long Hall, and they’ve had a whole ewe on the spit for twelve hours.”

“Feasting isn’t until morning,” Gretti answered.

“No,” Latehalf said, his hand still on Gretti’s shoulder. “This is to prepare for the feasting! Sledgefist does not make his Hamrs go hungry!”

From his breath and attitude, Gretti knew Latehalf had already begun his drinking, and the idea of falling asleep with a belly full of roasted at and cold beer seed better than sleeping on an empty one, and so Gretti allowed himself to be steered into the Long Hall.

The Long Hall was aptly nad. It was originally an early-claim stope that had followed a vein of copper. Since then, it had been expanded and leveled. It was only forty feet wide, but it continued for two hundred yards straight into Sledge Rock. The Long Hall was the biggest open space beneath the stone, and it served for any sizable gathering deed necessary. In this case, long trestle tables ran down the center, and bronze braziers lined the walls, full of hot coals. Already, hundreds of dwarves filled the hall, and the air was thick with hill-smoke, despite the ventilation draft. Sledgefist and his rinlen had not yet arrived with the mbers of their stoneholds but no doubt they would make their appearance in a few hours.

Gretti followed Latehalf to a side table stacked with stone mugs which they filled with ad from tapped casks, then proceeded to a spit where a roasted ewe was already well along its way to being utterly devoured, cutting off slices of haunch as the roast kept warm over coals. Latehalf was wrong, though, or at least he undersold it; there were no less than four sheep and goats roasting on spits, grease dripping into sizzling coal-fires. All the burning coals and fires in the hall sucked the air inward through vents and doorways, making the pall of smoke swirl and dance.

A few Hamrs, most in their off-duty clothes, nodded to Gretti and Latehalf as they sat. Other dwarves at the tables were neither Hamrs, Wardens, nor Sledgefist’s kulhan. Many were prospectors from surrounding claims who ca to sample Sledgefist’s well-known hospitality on the Day of Deliverance. No one would go hungry or sober except by choice. Even those sad few who must stand guard would do so in short shifts, so that they might partake for more of the day than not. Gretti, having stood the night, was exempt.

He chewed his mutton in silence while a hubbub of talk, laughter, and song rang in the hall. Food and drink, he would not refuse, but celebration felt empty. How could he celebrate, with his duty undone and his forebeards unsatisfied? A dwarf squeezed onto the bench to his left, a stranger he did not recognize. The newcor raised a cup and made a toast that Gretti ignored.

“Do you not drink, friend?” the stranger asked.

“I am not your friend,” Gretti muttered, his mouth full of roast at.

“Pay no attention to him,” Latehalf said, laughing. “Our Ironleg is a sour one, but you don’t want to fight him! We haven’t lost a cadre grappling match since he joined us.”

“I’ll toast to that!” said Cantlever across the table, from the sa cadre as Gretti.

“To Ironleg!” Latehalf said, and they drank. The stranger joined them in the toast.

“Where are you from, outsider?” Cantlever asked.

“East Spire. On our way to Glint. We stopped for the festivities.” He held up his mug.

“Pack string?” Cantlever asked.

“Grain,” the stranger answered.

“Have you t a thin dwarf, brown hair like brass, with blue eyes and a crooked nose?” Gretti asked, holding up a bent finger to show the crook of the nose. He had to be careful. The feud had beco well known, especially after he had killed the two cousins and the Ridge Warden. He had heard more than one half-true story about himself during his ti in Sledge Rock. It was too risky to ask by na, and he knew that the Highlodes were hiding their identities, anyway. At least, Gretti would have, if he was a cowardly murderous pile of shit.

“No?” the stranger answered, clearly a little befuddled by the question.

“He asks everyone that,” Latehalf said.

“Who is he?” the stranger asked. Gretti took a drink rather than give an answer.

“We think he owes Ironleg a lot of silver, whoever it is,” Cantlever quipped.

“I did know a fellow with a nose as crooked as a pry bar,” the stranger said. “But his head was shaved.”

Gretti turned to look at the stranger.

“Where?”

“Back in East Spire.”

“Was he from there?”

“No. Deep Cut, I think.”

“And his eyes?”

The stranger shrugged.

“Maybe blue.”

“Did he wear anything in his beard?” Gretti asked.

The stranger hesitated.

“What do you have against him? Is it truly a debt?”

“It is.”

“Told you!” Cantlever exclaid to Latehalf, laughing.

“His beard was bound.” The stranger held up his hand to insinuate a beard-ring with his fingers. “Silver I think.”

Gretti’s heart beat, now.

“What was his na?”

“You don’t know his na?”

“What did he go by?”

“Shim— Shim— Shimline, maybe? But don’t think you’ll get much silver out of him. Their claim hadn’t co to much, last I knew.”

“Which working?”

“Defthand, I think.”

Gretti nodded and stood. He extended his hand out to the stranger’s mug.

“Let refill your drink, friend.”

Gretti heard Latehalf’s low whistle of surprise, but he ignored it. The stranger handed the mug, and Gretti went to pour him fresh ad.