Icevein: Chapter 32
Her father never called for the mead, but Peridot decided to take a large mug of it for herself and retreated into her sleep alcove alone. She brought an oil lamp and hung it from an iron hook, lying on the soft lambskins and opening the books of claim law her father had given her to read. She read, but she thought more—on the arbitration and judgment, trying to understand every possibility, every implication.
She slept without knowing.
She stood atop a mountain, beneath a bejeweled sky. Vast stretches of ridges and peaks fell away before her. Snow blew sideways in the wind, but she was not cold. She was warm, and above her, she thought she could faintly hear the stars, like the sound of deep ice.
No, it was not Peridot atop the mountain. Peridot merely watched the maid—observed her from somewhere else. And the maid was magnificent. She was arrayed in cloth-of-gold and cloth-of-silver, draped in gold-wire meshes encrusted with jewels, and her skin shone in the starlight like deep crystal amethyst. She glowed, as if the last ray of a fallen sunset lingered upon her, and on her brow was a circlet of gold and garnet enamel, red like fire.
No, it was not the rays of the sun. It was the eye-light of the folk. They covered the mountain slopes below her, staring up toward her. The mountain wore them like a pelt, the long beards of the dwarves blowing sideways in the wind, their eyes fixed upon her. Tears dropped from their cheeks, freezing as they fell to shatter as crystals on the slope. In their midst, she saw her father and her mother. They watched the maid, and in their gaze she knew herself.
It was Peridot on the mountain—she and not another.
She awoke to her mother’s voice.
“Peridot.”
“Ay, yes?” she asked, rising. She had not even undressed before falling asleep.
“The pack train from Deep Cut has arrived,” Onyx said. She stood outside the hanging tapestry to Peridot’s alcove. “Iolite and I will labor on the overlay. Go down to the Warehall and welcome the rinlen of the pack train. It will be three more days before the exchange. Make sure the agreed amounts have arrived.”
“Ay, yes, mother,” Peridot said. She knew she was being sent on this errand because Onyx would rather have Iolite in the workshop, but she did not take that to heart. Though she had fallen asleep in her robe, she had taken off her veil, and this she put back on. Her robe was dark grey, made of fine-woven wool and unadorned. Many maids and wifs chose to wear brightly dyed fabrics. Bright yellows, reds, oranges, and even greens were much favored. Peridot could have done the same, but she had always avoided it. Sometimes her mother wore bright clothing, but more often than not, she wore simple work clothes. Yet as she stepped from her alcove, her mind was full of the glowing vision of the mountain.
After attending the necessities of the mourning, Peridot made her way to the samovar and poured a cup of the mint tea that was brewing. She breathed in the steam and drank it down, feeling the comforting burn of the hot liquid. With that little to fortify her, she left the hold and made for the Warehall, nodding to the wardens standing guard at the door of the Owner’s Drift. They nodded in return.
As she made her way down the Downward Drift, walking at the quick pace she reserved for errands outside the Owners Drift, she saw a wif ahead of her. Something caught the light. It was the luster of gold, coming from a scarf wrapped around the wif’s neck and head. Her dress too was fine, a vibrant crimson. Peridot suspected it was Prase, wif of Lowpleat. Lamps burned at the door of the Warehall, and huddled there, speaking. They all turned and fell silent as Prase approached, staring at the wif. The dwarves watched her entry into the Warehall in rapt silence. They hardly glanced at Peridot as she entered behind.
A strange hush had fallen within the Warehall, as well. Dwarves at the long counter had turned to stare. Even another wif with a basket of cavebread gazed at Prase. In the drift, Peridot had suspected that the luster was from gold, but now she saw that the clothier’s wif wore an entire scarf of cloth-of-gold, with some kind of enameled crimson wire delicately interwoven throughout, matching her dress. Fivepouch, the rinlen of the Warehall, approached Prase personally to assist her.
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“Your pardon,” a dwarf said to Peridot, and she turned to him, expecting to find one of the Warehall kulhan asking what she needed, but instead it was a strange dwarf not wearing the apron of the Warehall and instead wearing heavy travel-clothes and a dark cloak. The dwarf leaned in and asked in a voice barely above a whisper: “Is that the wif of the Irik-Rhûl?” He made an almost imperceptible nod toward toward Prase.
“No,” Peridot said. “It is not.” She was surprised by the dwarf’s impropriety. She was not used to being spoken to by strange dwarves.
“Oh,” said the dwarf. He continued to watch Prase as if he was not quite sure he believed Peridot. “One of the Owner’s wifs?”
“She is the wif of one of the clothiers,” Peridot added.
“The wif of a clothier?” he asked. “Wearing such a treasure?”
“Are you the rinlen of the pack train from Deep Cut, here to trade with Onyx of Glint?” Peridot asked.
“Ay, yes,” he said, turning took look at her and narrowing his eyes in question.
“I am Peridot, daughter of Onyx of Glint.”
The dwarf took a step back to put a more respectful distance between them. He inclined his head.
“It is my honor, Peridot Onyx’s daughter,” he said. “I am Tarhalter. Our goods are inventoried.”
At this moment, Fivepouch saw Peridot and Tarhalter, and it was clear from the momentary widening of his eyes that he knew he had made a mistake.
“You have our sincere welcome to Glint, Tarhalter,” Peridot said. “Is it your first visit?”
“I am happy to say it is not. I have been blessed to see your halls thrice before, though I have never met your worthy kin.” Though he was speaking to Peridot, Tarhalter glanced again toward Prase and the cloth-of-gold, his lips slightly parted. Peridot watched as Fivepouch motioned one of his assistants over to take his place in assisting Prase. Making his apologies to Prase, the Warehall rinlen hurried to Peridot and Tarhalter.
“Ah,” he said. “I see you have met.” He offered Peridot a feeble smile. “I personally inventoried the pack trains. If you would?”
Peridot and Tarhalter followed Fivepouch’s outstretched hand toward the counter. Fivepouch produced a few sheets of paper from one of the many, many cubbies carved into the stone. He laid the papers out, and Peridot glanced down the bills of lading.
“I must admit, I am surprised to be honored with the presence of a daughter of Chargrim and Onyx,” Tarhalter said.
Peridot did not take her eyes from the pages as she responded:
“The business of the Workshop of Onyx are conducted only by members of the stonehold of the Irik-Rhûl,” she said. “No hands will have touched the overlay but our own until we give it over.”
Peridot reached the end of the lists. Satisfied with the accounting, she looked up at the dwarf. “The overlay will be complete in three days. Until then, you, your kulhan, and your beasts will be accommodated with our hospitality.” She looked at Fivepouch, and found that he was again watching Prase. He noticed her attention, though, and returned his gaze. “Fivepouch, please see to the comfort of our guests,” she said.
“Ay, yes, of course,” he answered.
Peridot addressed Tarhalter again:
“At the end of three days, my mother will present the overlay herself in the Hall of Judgment.”
Tarhalter bowed.
“I thank you, Onyx’s Daughter.”
Peridot nodded in return.
“Be welcome, and if you should need anything, let Fivepouch know. Guf anak.”
“Ya anül guf,” Tarhalter replied, the formal call-response. And good assay.
It was still quiet in the Warehall. Peridot headed for the door and found that her departure coincided with that of Prase. Judging by the wif’s empty hands, she had left her order for the kulhan to bring to their hold.
“Ah, Peridot,” Prase said with a smile. She grasped Peridot’s hand in friendly greeting and they proceeded hand-in-hand. Outside, the dwarves stared again, but Peridot knew it was not for her, this time.
“You are wearing cloth-of-gold,” Peridot said as they moved beyond earshot. “It is lovely. I have never seen you wear it before.”
“Ah, yes,” Prase said. “I have not before.”
“Why now?”
“There are many dwarves arrived in the pack trains,” she said. “I wanted them to notice.”
“You want them to notice you?” It was a strange impulse for a wif, Peridot thought.
Prase laughed.
“They did not notice me,” she answered. “The cloth-of-gold. The prestige. Those pack trains come and go between East Spire, Glint, and Deep Cut. Let them be awed and carry the reputation of the craft of Lowpleat and his cloth-of-gold. I wish them to see to bear witness.” Prase grinned at Peridot. “And I wish to sell.”
Peridot could not deny that the presence of the cloth-of-gold, paired with the fineness of her crimson robe, had elevated Prase in the eyes of all those at the Warehall. Prase squeezed Peridot’s hand as they came to the Crafter Drift.
“Come for tea again, sometime,” the wif said, and they parted.