The Mine Lord: A Dwarven Survival Base-Builder

Peridot sat in the judgment hall, gleaming upon the rock chair. Instead of the cloth-of-gold robe she wore indigo worked with silver, and upon it a golden-mesh overlay with garnets upon the intersections of the wire. Upon her shoulders rested pauldrons of silver chased with gold, her breastplate of the same craft, and the hem of her mantle spread at the foot of the chair. Rows of torques climbed her arms, and the same circlet glinted upon her head.

The rinlen struck iron to stone three times, and the next petitioner approached, a wif heavily veiled, her dress a traditional yellow. There were few enough wifs and maids in Glint that most were known to Peridot, yet this wif she did not recognize. The wif neither bowed nor greeted.

“I demand restitution,” she claimed.

“What restitution?” Peridot asked.

“Three bolts of cloth.” The wif stared defiantly through the gap in her veil. The tone of her voice made it clear she had nerved herself for the exchange.

“And why should restitution be made?”

“Three bolts of cloth were coming by pack train from Deep Cut,” she said, “guarded by your father’s wardens. They left Deep Cut, paid for by my kin, but they did not arrive.”

“And why did they not arrive?”

“It doesn’t matter. They were packed on your train, and you must make restitution. It is the law.”

“Were they stolen?”

“No, the donkey slipped and fell into a river.”

“And this was a Glint pack train?” Peridot asked.

“It was guarded by wardens once it reached the ridges.”

“That is not what I asked.”

“That is what matters. It is the law.”

“What is the law?”

“That whoever guards the caravan is responsible for loss. It’s the law.”

“That is not the law, thruni.” Even underneath the heavy veil, Peridot could tell that the wif was older, likely past her childbearing years, and so she referred to her with the respectful thruni, which meant skillful.

“I was dealing with pack trains seventy years before you were born, and I tell you it is the law!”

Peridot saw the shifting of the onlookers. Never in all her conversations with her father or in any of the books had she encountered such a law.

“Were the wardens paid for such a service?” she asked.

“Not my concern.”

“If the wardens were not paid, then their protection was a courtesy. You may have a strike against the owner of the pack string, but not against the wardens.”

“It don’t matter if I paid them or not. Law says if they was protecting it, then they are held to it.”

Peridot squinted at the wif. If such a thing were true, then her father would never have allowed—encouraged—the wardens to accompany pack strings whenever possible, regardless of who owned them. It was not unusual for goods to be lost or ruined, donkeys to be lamed, or for other problems to arise in the hundredsof miles of wilds and rough mountain trails between Glint and Deep Cut.

Three bolts of cloth could be paid by Glint without concern, if wool workcloth it was. By the look of it, this wif was unlikely to have purchased other. But it was not about the cost; it was about the precedent. Her father had told her clearly enough: “To grant one and deny another is worse than denying both.”

“It is not the law,” Peridot said. “That is all.”

The rinlen raised his iron rod to strike, but the wif called out.

“Who are you, that you presume to arbitrate? Barely rhundaela. I traded when your father was a gilke, and now this wealth-born sits in judgment. Show me the work of your hands, that we should heed you?”

A murmur ran through the crowd.

“Enough!” Peridot said.

“Enough!” the wif mocked. “Let it be seen that Glint cares not for law or restitution!”

Peridot looked over to the rinlen. The dwarf motioned to the wardens and they moved cautiously toward the wif, clearly nervous. No one wanted to be rough with a wif.

“Shit on you,” the wif said to the approaching wardens, and strode out into the passage.

Silence fell in the hall. All eyes fixed on Peridot. Even the wardens looked to her as if expecting orders. Peridot caught the rinlen’s gaze and nodded. He recalled himself and slammed the rod into the stone thrice.

No one stepped forward for arbitration. The wif was only the third petitioner that sitting, and she could hardly believe that no more had come with complaint or request. As she tried to steady her breathing, no one advanced to the open space. She would have gladly welcomed a request for a larger hold or rights to one of the claim workshops, if someone would simply step forward. She saw it unfolding before her. If no one stepped forward, trust in her arbitration might falter entire, despite the absurdity of the wif’s argument. Such disrespect could undermine her. The folk waited, watching, and she felt the sweat beneath her arms.

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And then, someone moved, stepping into the open space. It took Peridot a few moments to realize who it was; the wif wore plain, well-made clothing and a veil of yellow wool gathered with a blue scarf about her shoulders. It was Prase, wif of the Lowpleat hold, but there was neither gold nor silver in her clothing, nor any other finery that the wif usually wore to show off their wares.

The rinlen slammed the iron rod thrice, the tempo quick and eager. Peridot wondered if he, too, was relieved

“What is your concern?” Peridot asked, feeling a wave of thankfulness for Prase’s rescue, though she was curious what pretense the wif would use.

“We wish to open trade with the humans,” she said. “Directly.”

Another wave of murmuring passed through the folk. Peridot eyes widened before she caught herself.

“By what route?”

“By Laith, north of the Brown Hills.”

“No trade has been opened with the humans since the war.”

“It was Deep Cut’s war,” Prase answered. “Glint did not fight the humans.”

Peridot searched the hall for sight of Prase’s husband or sons, but she did not see them. Was Prase doing this of her own accord? Peridot’s initial sense of relief was turning to a renewed dread, but she tried to control her breathing.

“Why would you wish to trade with the humans? They cannot be trusted.”

“Deep Cut is poor,” Prase answered. “We make wonders here in Glint. Our hoards are full of them, but who can trade with us? How many of your mother’s masterworks have left the claim? Three?”

“Many.”

“I do not speak of torques and festoons. Those are of no account. We should clothe the kings and merchants of Laith and Senland. Our fame should fly to the back of the wind.”

“The Laithans and Sennish subjugated our folk.”

“So let us take their wealth for ourselves. Fruits and grains and wine and jewels not found in the Red Ridges. Our storehouses would overflow and we would never fear famine again.”

“There is more at stake. They cannot be permitted to learn our secrets.” She meant Black Fire, but she was not even willing to speak it in the Judgment Hall, though all present knew of it. It had saved Deep Cut and Glint, but if the humans learned its making?

“They need not come here. Let us dig a depot above the Brown Hills.”

“And what would prevent the humans from slaying your kulhan and stealing your wares?”

“The promise of more,” Prase said. “It is a risk, but the reward would be great.”

“The Ridges are rugged. You will not find it easy to bring great weights of grains and wines to Glint.”

“We could, with Hobblefoot’s engine.”

Peridot looked over at the shelf, not caring that she showed her suspicion. She found Hobblefoot immediately. He watched from the near end of the shelf, and he met her gaze without flinching. Hobblefoot almost never attended arbitrations unless something touched on his interests—and if he knew it was coming. It could be no coincidence that Prase raised this point.

Peridot knew she was in danger—not to her person, but in danger of blundering.

“That which pertains to other folk and other lands will be decided by the Irik-Rhûl,” she answered.

“The Lowpleatstonehold has prepared a pack train of our own donkeys and traders. They are poised to depart. We request only an escort of wardens to the Brown Hills—a courtesy the Irik-Rhûl has shown to many.”

While it was true that her father allowed wardens to escort pack trains to and from East Spire, Deep Cut, and even the Brown Hills, that had not been for the purpose of reaching humans.

“Delay until my father returns,” she said, slipping and not using his title.

“If we delay more, the pack train will not return before threat of ürsi and winter,” Prase answered.

“What is one year?”

“The ürsi besieged Glint for a whole year, and yet mighty deeds were done,” Prase replied. “We would go, now.”

Peridot was growing angry, now. Prase had assisted her in the crafting of her magnificent apparel, the same she now wore. Peridot had seen her as an ally and a friend.

“Stay until the Irik-Rhûl returns,” Peridot answered again.

“We are free dwarves and no kulhan,” Prase answered. “The string is ours and the wares. We leave on the overmorrow. Send us safely with wardens to the Brown Hills. Has not our hold aided the hold of Chargrim, since first Lowpleatarrived in the fifth year of Glint until now?”

Peridot’s thoughts whirled. She could think of no law or precedent that could forbid free dwarves from trading at will, or traveling for that matter—even if they were foolish enough to seek out humans. Moreover, Prase had invoked the duty of aid from their hold as a personal matter, and it was not lost on Peridot that some of that aid was to her. It would be an open slight and insult before the folk to deny. She knew her father would oppose the endeavor. But would he stop it?

“The wardens go no further than the first rise of the Brown Hills,” she answered. “Your blood is on your own head.”

Peridot rose. The rinlen slammed the rod onto the stone thrice even as she turned and strode across the dais, stepping down and making straight for her father’s holt. She did not care if there were more petitioners. They could wait, though she doubted any more would come. Hobblefoot and Prase had conspired to ambush her. They knew what dilemma they would force her into. If they had secured donkeys and traders for such a journey, than they had prepared since long before her father left,and yet they had waited for her. Had they even instigated the old wif?

The two warden guards stopped at the door of the Rhûl’s Holt, and she pulled it closed behind her. She scooted Earwart, the streaked Mine Runner, onto the floor and sank into her father’s chair. Earwart leapt straight onto her lap and started to purr. She put a hand on his back. Normally, she would not sit in her father’s chair, even if he wasn’t present, but she was distracted and irritated. What a fool she was, to think herself equal to arbitration. She was no Irik-Rhûl. Her gold and jewels might overawe the folk, but it did not make her clever, whatever she had thought of herself. She reached for the kiln-bowled pipe that lay on the table.

The chamber door opened again. Onyx entered. Behind her, a guard closed the stone. Peridot did not greet her mother.

“Do not pity yourself,” Onyx said, sitting down across from her. Peridot was packing the pipe, and Onyx lit cedar-resin and held it out for her. Peridot leaned forward, puffing the hill-smoke into life.

“They trapped me,” she said.

“Ay, yes.”

“What was. . . what did I. . .”

“Nothing,” Onyx said. “You did about all you could do. Your father will not be pleased with Hobblefoot.”

“Why would he do this?”

“Hobblefoot is little less stubborn than Sledgefist. Maybe more in some ways. Your father has not given him what he wants.”

“He wants to trade with humans?”

“I think the Lowpleat hold is merely useful to him. He wants to build his engines and lay his track. Great steam-powered mine carts running from claim to claim. That’s his vision for the future, and he is obsessed with it.”

“Such an endeavor would take decades.”

“Perhaps,” Onyx said. “Iron is the greatest barrier.”

“You think it possible?”

“I don’t know. But I know your father fears the humans.”

“That much I know.”

Onyx reached out her hand and Peridot passed her the pipe. Her mother took a few deep breaths, exhaling the fragrant smoke between pursed lips.

“Well,” she said, handing the pipe back and standing. “Iolite has the babe.”

With that, Onyx left the chamber by way of the inner passage, leaving Peridot to her thoughts.