The slaves waited and watched, eager for their next meal and curious about whether the new ropes would, in fact, hold, and whether or not Bloody Hand would be returning.
The hopper ascended into the darkness. Then at last came the old familiar sound of the support arms turning, swinging the hopper over to the ledge to be unloaded.
The ropes hadn’t broken. Arlian heard shovels and rattling ore as the crew up above began transferring the ore to the waiting wagons.
The other slaves began chattering among themselves, but Arlian stood apart, farther down the tunnel than the others.
Eventually the ore was gone, and a series of quick thuds could be heard as supplies were tossed into the hopper. The slaves, who had been resting against the walls or sitting on the stone floor, stood up and awaited the signal.
The hopper began its descent, the rigging creaking anew—though less than before, since its new cargo weighed far less than the load of ore.
Arlian peered out of the tunnel mouth and watched the huge iron tub creep downward.
Bloody Hand was standing on one edge, steadying himself with one of the cables and watching everything as he was lowered down into the mine.
That answered that question—Hand was back, and although he wore a bandage around his head and his face displayed a few cuts and bruises, he did not seem to have suffered any permanent damage from his misadventure.
The injuries he had received were hardly enough to equal Dinian’s, Arlian knew that, but perhaps they would help to appease the other miners.
Were they enough to salve his own conscience, though? Why had he saved Bloody Hand, instead of letting Fate collect the debt owed to Dinian’s shade?
Then the hopper was down, and Bloody Hand and Lampspiller signaled to the nearest slaves. A moment later Rat and three of the others were heaving out the two barrels of water, the keg of lamp oil, and the sacks of food that would keep the miners alive for another day or so.
Then the slaves were banished from the pitshaft again as Lampspiller rode the hopper up out of sight.
The hopper was never left at the bottom for so much as a minute except under the direct supervision of one or both of the overseers, and only when there were men in the upper tunnel; the owners feared that slaves might climb the robes and escape. At the end of each shift the procedure was the same—the hopper was lowered empty, and then filled; ore was hauled up and loaded into the wagons, and then provisions, adjusted according to how full the wagons were, were sent down, attended by the incoming overseer. The departing overseer then rode the empty hopper up, and made sure it was safely stowed.
Several of the bolder slaves had argued that it would be more efficient to lower the provisions and incoming overseer first, and then haul the ore up, so that only one roundtrip would be needed, but when the overseers bothered to reply at all the response was obvious: The slaves would fill the hopper faster if they knew the food would only arrive when they were done.
When the hopper was gone Bloody Hand stone alone in the pit, looking around.
The pile of rags was still there, but sprinkled with dust and gravel; torn scraps of rope lay piled against one wall, the last remnants of the old, worn-out rigging that had been responsible for the accident. The water barrels and oil keg had been shoved to one side, as well.
And two dozen slaves were slouched in the tunnels, sharing out their newly delivered meal.
There were four other men in the tunnel with Arlian, with one sack of food; he waited while they each took what they wanted.
One of them, Rumind, looked at Arlian, then at his companions, Wark, Olneor, and Elbows.
“That’s all of us, isn’t it?” he said.
Arlian straightened up.
“Oh, give him his food,” Wark said. “The overseer won’t like it if we don’t.”
“Oh, yeah, I forgot, Arlian’s the Hand’s special friend, isn’t he?” Rumind said with a sneer.
Arlian held out a hand, and Rumind threw the bag at his face; Arlian was able to duck the throw, but not catch the projectile. He had to retreat down the tunnel to fetch it.
As he picked it up Rumind shoved roughly past him.
“Excuse me,” Rumind said. “We’ve got work to do, and I don’t care for the company here.”
Elbows jabbed at Arlian with his namesake joint as he passed; Olneor didn’t touch him, but muttered, “Thought you might have some potential, boy. Guess I was an old fool.”
Wark simply walked past without comment.
Arlian stood, the food sack in his hand, and watched them descend until they turned a bend in the passage and vanished. Then he sighed, settled to the floor, and opened the bag.
He had just pulled out a heel of black bread and a handful of cheese crumbs when a shadow obscured the lamplight.
“You,” Bloody Hand said, “Get up.”
Arlian got up.
“Your name’s Arlian, something like that?”
“It’s Arlian.”
“You’re the one who pulled me out before the whole thing came down, are you?”
Arlian nodded.
“You expect me to be grateful?”
“No.” Arlian couldn’t really see Bloody Hand’s face, as the light was behind the overseer, but he thought he saw the man frown.
“You made life harder for yourself, saving me, didn’t you?”
Arlian shrugged.
“Why did you do it?”
“It seemed like a good idea at the time.”
“You know about Dinian?”
“I’ve heard,” Arlian said. “I wasn’t here at the time.”
“You saved me anyway?”
Arlian shrugged again.
“You didn’t make my life any easier, either, you know. Longer, yes, but no easier.”
Arlian didn’t even bother to shrug in response to that.
“It doesn’t look good, owing my life to one of the slaves. It’s trouble all around. I’d like to know why you did it.”
Arlian hesitated; then he raised his eyes and looked directly at the shadows of Bloody Hand’s face.
“I’d like to know why you killed Dinian,” he said.
Bloody Hand snorted.
“Would you?” he said. “Haven’t the others told you?”
“They told me you killed him because you’re a heartless bastard,” Arlian said. “But I’ve been thinking about it. If you really were as heartless as that, you’d have been freer with the whip all these years I’ve been here. I don’t think that’s it.”
“Maybe I tried it and decided I didn’t like it.”
“Or maybe you didn’t mean to kill him at all,” Arlian suggested. “Maybe you just panicked.”
Bloody Hand stared at him. “You think so?”
“I don’t know,” Arlian said. “I would like to know why you killed him, instead of guessing.”
“So would I,” the overseer said. “It just happened. It wasn’t anything I decided to do. I was young and scared and needed to prove I was in charge, and once I started hitting him I couldn’t stop—I was too scared to stop.”
“You think about it often?” Arlian asked.
“Every night,” Bloody Hand said. He let out a sound half snort, half laugh. “The funny part is that it was wrong, it was evil, it was the worst thing I could do, killing an innocent man who was just trying to teach me something—and everything that’s come of it since has been good for me. It gave me that name I hear you men whisper. It frightened you all so much that I’ve never had to really beat a man since, and my shift still outproduces the other. There’s no justice in this world, Arlian, you know that?”
“I know that,” Arlian said, his heart suddenly pounding as he remembered the sight of his village, burned and desolate, his family destroyed at the whim of three heartless monsters. “Not unless we make it.”
“But you had your chance to make it,” Bloody Hand said. “You could have let me die for what I did to Dinian, and you didn’t. Why not?”
&nb
sp; Arlian hesitated again. He could have given all the explanations he had made to Rat and the others over the past three shifts, all the reasons it was better to keep Bloody Hand alive than to risk an unknown new overseer or tighter precautions in the mine, how he hadn’t wanted to miss even a single meal—but that was all lies, and right now he didn’t want to lie to this man, who had admitted what was unmistakably the truth about Dinian’s death, who had clearly been troubled by that death for years.
“You were in danger, and I could help you,” Arlian said. “Who you were didn’t matter.”
Arlian could see Bloody Hand’s brow lower at that, could almost hear him growl. The overseer’s hand lashed out and grabbed him by the beard, pulling Arlian forward.
“It does matter,” he hissed. “You’ve seen that it matters! You saved someone’s life, and what did it get you? I killed a man, and what did that get? It’s a sick, unjust world, Arlian, and it does matter who we are!” He released his hold and Arlian tumbled backward, catching himself against the tunnel wall.
For a moment the two men stared silently at one another; then Bloody Hand turned on his heel and marched back out into the pit.
“Get to work, slave,” he called back over his shoulder. “There’s ore to be mined!”
8
Into the Light
Arlian was asleep in his niche when a booted foot kicked him awake.
“Get up, slave!” Bloody Hand shouted. He stood over the sleeping miner, lamp in hand, boot ready to kick again.
Arlian rolled aside and struggled mazily upright.
It was his time off, his sleeping time—he had dug and carted his share for this shift, and was entitled to a few hours’ rest. He knew better than to argue, though.
As he stood, Bloody Hand leaned forward, his mouth close by Arlian’s ear, and whispered confidentially, “If there’s anything you prize here, bring it.”
Astonished by this sudden change in manner, Arlian blinked at him, then quickly snatched up his bag and belt. He reached for his lamp, but Bloody Hand shook his head and knocked his hand away from it. “Leave it,” he whispered.
Arlian left it, and waited for orders.
“It’s time I settled with you once and for all!” Bloody Hand bellowed, stepping back, reverting to his usual bullying self and astonishing Arlian anew. “Come out and take it like a man!”
Confused, still half asleep, Arlian staggered out of the niche and up toward the pitshaft, Bloody Hand close behind, shoving him forward every time he slowed or stumbled. He tied his belt in place as he walked. Other than the belt he was wearing only a tattered pair of breeches, and he wondered whether there was anything else he should have grabbed while he had the chance.
Well, it was too late now.
“What do you want with me?” he asked.
“I’m going to ensure that you never lay hands on me again!” Bloody Hand roared. He snapped his whip.
Arlian was baffled. He had saved Bloody Hand’s life; was a flogging to be his reward? Perhaps it was what he deserved for aiding a murderer, but he hadn’t expected it. Was this Bloody Hand’s way of showing Arlian that there was no justice in the world?
It was hardly necessary; the dragons had done that long ago.
Then they were in the pitshaft—and Arlian was surprised to see that it was almost totally dark. All the lamps had been put out; only the one Bloody Hand held remained to provide illumination.
A faint glow came from above, as well, but Arlian wasn’t sure whether that was anything out of the ordinary or not. Perhaps there was always a light up there, and it simply wasn’t usually visible through the glare of the lamps.
“Now!” Bloody Hand barked, as the two of them reached the base of the rag pile. He blew out the lamp he carried, plunging the already shadowy pit into near total blackness. Only the glow from above alleviated the gloom.
Arlian heard the sound of a rope uncoiling, and a thump—but it wasn’t the Hand’s whip. The sound had come from the other side.
He turned and found something dangling close beside him, faintly visible, dull gray in the darkness.
A rope.
For a moment he couldn’t move; he stared at it in shock. The almost invisible rope seemed so out of place to his sleep-clouded mind that at first he had trouble accepting it as real, and wondered whether he was still asleep and dreaming this entire episode.
He reached out and hesitantly, ready to snatch his hand away at the first sound from Bloody Hand, touched it.
The rope was real. He could feel its rough texture clearly. He was awake.
No rope should be there. No ropes were permitted except during the shift change, when the hopper was lowered and raised. What was this one doing there?
Bloody Hand snapped his whip, and Arlian jumped.
“Darkness for dark deeds,” the overseer said loudly. He laughed. Then, in a whisper, he added, “I can’t have you down here anymore.”
“What?”
“Keep your voice down!” Bloody Hand hissed.
Arlian whispered, “What?”
“I can’t have you down here,” the overseer replied, in a whisper so low Arlian could barely hear it. “It’s bad for everyone. The others hate you for what you did. You make me look weak—you remind them I’m human and mortal. You remind me I’m mortal—and how can I abuse the man who saved my life, and treat you like just another slave? You can’t stay.”
“But I am a slave…”
“Do you deserve slavery?”
“No, of course not,” Arlian said, confused.
“As far as the others are concerned, I’m going to kill you, just as I did Dinian, for your effrontery in trying to help me. And if you don’t climb that rope and get out of here, I will kill you, I swear by the dead gods.”
“Climb…?” Arlian grabbed the rope, a sudden rush of hope rising in his breast.
“There’s a guard at the top, but he’s my brother, Linnas—he’s ‘accidentally’ lowered the rope, and in a moment he’ll throw down a bundle of rags I’ll say is your dead body and throw in the hopper at the end of the shift. When you slip past him he’ll be away from his post, relieving himself. After that, Arlian, you’re on your own, and we’ll be even—I’m paying for my life with your freedom, and just as you might have been killed if the ore fell sooner, if I’m discovered at it I’ll be killed or enslaved.”
“I don’t … I mean, thank you…” Arlian began.
Bloody Hand cut him off. “You said there’s no justice unless we make it. I’m making my bit. Climb!”
He cracked the whip against the rag pile, and Arlian, with sudden inspiration, screamed. He flung himself up the rope, clinging desperately with hands and knees—he had never climbed a rope before, although he had seen it done often enough.
He managed to haul himself upward, little by little, as Bloody Hand flogged the heap of rags. A louder thump sounded from one side that Arlian guessed was the promised imitation corpse—and then Arlian felt the lash across his own legs, and shrieked.
“Good,” Bloody Hand said. “Yell if you want, you poxy fool!” Then he stepped closer and whispered, “I need blood on the whip and rags if I’m to be believed. I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be,” Arlian whispered back, though the pain in his legs was intense. “Thank you, Hand.”
“My name is Enir,” the overseer whispered back. “Go!”
Arlian went. He panted with the effort of pulling himself up the rope toward the light, trying to match his gasps for air with the beating of the whip on the rags. Every so often he moaned or wailed.
Then his hand struck stone, and a moment later he was scrambling up onto the ledge at the mouth of the entry tunnel, a tunnel lit by two bright lamps.
A man was standing there, a man not in the rags of a miner or the leather apron of an overseer, but in a bright tunic, green worked with gold, over black velvet breeches. He wore a sword on his belt, and after a few seconds of confusion Arlian recognized him as the swordsman who had come
down into the pit when the hopper lines broke.
“I’m Linnas,” he said, holding out a hand and smiling. “You understand that we never saw each other, that if anyone asks I’d had a bit too much beer and stepped away from my post?”
Arlian nodded warily, and took the proffered hand.
“I wanted to thank you for saving Enir,” the swordsman said, as he grasped Arlian’s hand. Then he released it, stepped back, and lifted one of the lamps down from its place on the wall. He handed it to Arlian and said, “You’ll need this. Now, go on! Get out of here!”
“Thank you,” Arlian gasped as he accepted the lamp. Then he staggered past Linnas and headed up the passage, limping on his sore, bleeding legs.
When he had been brought down, years ago, the passage had been lined with lamps and torches, but he knew now that that had been in preparation for a shift change—the mules that pulled the wagons didn’t like the dark. He didn’t know just what time it was now, but it was clearly the middle of a shift, when no one would normally be in this tunnel.
His legs ached, and he wished that Hand … no, Enir … that Enir hadn’t insisted on real blood. He had had plenty of practice in working while sick, exhausted, or injured, though, and trotted on despite the pain.
His lone lamp cast huge, flaring shadows as he made his way up the tunnel. Now he could see, as he had not as a boy, that the passage was an old part of the mine itself, that it followed the course and shape of a great seam of ore that had been dug out; he could see the marks of picks on the walls, the traces of galena too thin to be worth removing, the thick layers of smoke on the ceiling above niches where lamps had been placed over and over.
Seeing it thus was strange, almost dreamlike—he had lived for so long in the same slowly expanding network of deep, branching tunnels that a new, unfamiliar place didn’t seem entirely real.
If it were a dream, he told himself, he didn’t want it to end; he wanted to be out of the mine, out in the sun and open air, free again, to lead his own life, make his own way, and in time find his revenge upon Lord Dragon and his looters, and upon the dragons themselves.
Dragon Weather Page 7
