The Magic Mines of Asharim

by Pauline M. Ross

  “Yes.” I kept my voice level, but elation thrummed through me, making me tremble with excitement. I had succeeded!

  “You will be a companion-servant – you know what that means, I suppose?”

  “Yes.”

  She grunted. “Well, better than the brothels, I suppose.”

  Oh yes, very much better. That would never have worked. Far too much noise. This way – it was bound to be quieter. That was what I needed, three years of quiet to restore my equilibrium. To recover. To grieve. To forget, if I could.

  “The work is light enough. A little domestic work, and usually no more than four or five men to take care of. They generally have a rota worked out already, but the first few days are always – a little hectic.” She blushed, which amused me. I guessed what she meant, though. With a new woman, there was bound to be some initial enthusiasm. Well, that was all right.

  “You will wait here until we have an assignment for you. Waiting time does not count towards your three years. You may not refuse the assignment. Do you wish to proceed?”

  “I do.”

  Another grunt. “Very well. There are a couple ahead of you on the list, but it should not take long. You may return to your room, Nine Seven One.”

  ~~~~~

  So I waited. I had a different room now, a bigger room with a window and a chair in one corner, in a square brick-built compound adjoining the Mine Office. More noise, but I could cope with it. A box held an array of better-fitting clothes, although still in boring brown. My hair was cut properly, tidying up my ragged efforts. I ate meals in a common room, and exercised in a high-walled yard alongside it. I was going to be doing physical work, not something I was used to, so I trained with weights and climbed ropes to strengthen my feeble muscles.

  There were many others awaiting assignment. One or two I recognised from the barge, but they soon disappeared. Assigned, I suppose. Others replaced them, and were in their turn assigned, but I lingered on.

  Some of those waiting struck up friendships, but there was little point. I would have to pretend to be friendly at the mine, but until then I intended to keep clear of these people as much as possible. I was so much better on my own, and they were better away from me too, if they’d only known it. So I spent most of my time in my room, staring into space, growing increasingly restless. There was an edginess in everyone that set my nerves vibrating.

  My nerves were jangling for other reasons, too. I was jittery by day, and woke sweating several times each night. The longer I waited, the worse it got. I was desperate to get to a mine, to be shut away, to be safe. Every day I expected someone to come for me. Surely they were looking for me by now? But no one came.

  Three moons I waited. Then I was called to a room I’d never been to before. The woman was different, too, her hair not dragged back like everyone else, but cut short around her face, softer, more feminine. The brooch at her throat was large, with an intricate design.

  “Well now, we have work for you at last.” Her smile was gentle, her accent city-educated, and for a gut-wrenching moment I was reminded of my father. “You will be going to Twisted Rock Mine.”

  “Twisted Rock?” After all the numbers, it was odd to find that the mines had actual names.

  She smiled. “Yes, such silly names the mines have. So. Twisted Rock. There are three men there, but two of them have been castrated.”

  “Gracious, why?” I had forgotten the accent in my surprise. My hand flew to my mouth, but she either failed to notice, or chose not to comment.

  “We get quite a few former criminals here. In some places, convicted rapists are castrated. Many of our male wagoners and mulers are like that. It does make life simpler all round. So – just the one man, the Master, but that does not necessarily make things easier for you. But we have had no complaints about this man. As to domestic arrangements – his sister is the Mistress, and she does the cooking with a couple of old women, so you need not worry about that. She will assign your daily chores. You get a half day off every quarter moon. Do not get pregnant there – it is a very bad idea. Keep your herbal brews locked away so they cannot be tampered with. Go and pack your box.”

  “When do I leave?”

  “Today. Right away. Be quick now.”

  The wagons were waiting in the yard at the back of the Mine Office. Three covered wagons loaded to the roof with sacks and barrels and boxes and mysterious packages wrapped in hessian, and a fourth only half full, which also conveyed the human cargo, perched atop the goods in the most uncomfortable manner. I had barely scrambled aboard, my box tossed in alongside me, when the lead wagoner cracked his whip, the oxen heaved and we rolled slowly out of the yard and headed for the mountains and the mines.

  2: The Mountain Path

  At first the road rose slowly through rolling pastureland, the grass withered and autumn-brown. Goats scampered away as we passed by, the children tending them watching us with dull, incurious eyes. Here and there we saw small villages, ramshackle collections of cottages with crumbling walls and sagging roofs, the sweet smell of burning turf masking other less pleasant aromas.

  From my perch in the wagon, the flaps wide open for ventilation, I had a fine view back down to Crenton Port, its bustling wharves along the lakeside alive with activity. Beyond, the grey waters of the river sprawled their way across the plains, the wide bends linked by neat lines of canals to avoid stretches where the river was too shallow for navigation. Further out, the summer haze hid the rest of the Two Rivers Basin and the endless plains. By noon of the first day, we had travelled far enough for a shoulder of the hills to hide the view and then there was nothing but the undulating grasslands around us and the snow-dusted peaks ahead.

  There were five of us in the wagon. One was the simple-minded son of the lead wagoner, whose primary job was to watch over the wagons at night, so he slept the days away in a corner, snoring loudly. Two girls were going to be extractors. They were sisters, a little younger than me, who giggled and whispered non-stop. The final passenger was a young man going to be a companion-servant for the women. He was good looking and very sure of himself, flirting outrageously with the two girls and boasting of his prowess in bed. He didn’t flirt with me, though, not when he realised I wasn’t going to be one of his clients, but he watched me covertly when he thought himself unobserved.

  At noon we stopped to rest the oxen and ourselves in the shade of a patch of kilicranji trees. Then onward and up, always up. Our evening stop was at a small shelter – not much more than three walls and a skin canopy – with an open fire pit and a rough hut behind it. The hut housed an elderly couple who provided a hot meal of some indeterminate grey blobs of meat in a watery stew. I was getting used to dreadful, tasteless food now, so I ate everything I was given.

  There were two other groups of wagons there, heading for different mines, and all the wagoners gathered together to chat and chew some foul leaf and spit frequently. The two girls and the young man mingled with the other passengers around the fire (”No screwing!” our lead wagoner yelled at them), and I heard high-voiced chattering, masculine rumblings and shrieks of laughter. I found a rock to sit on some distance away until it was time to sleep. Too much noise for comfort.

  The women slept in the shelter, the men under the wagons. I had nightmares that night, hearing voices in my head and dreaming of fire and ash again, but I managed not to scream and wake everyone.

  The following day we passed the first branch in the road, leading to other mines. The other wagons turned off and after that we saw no other wagons but our own, and an occasional rider carrying messages back and forth. Gradually the pastures shrank to become slivers of grass between rocky outcrops, and the goat herders were left behind. We spotted a few deer on distant slopes, and numerous small rodents hopped fearlessly almost under the oxen’s feet. Hawks circled slowly far above us. Occasionally feral goats skittered up the rocks as we approached. The only inhabitants we encountered were at the overnight stops.

  It was hard
to avoid exchanging information with the other passengers. The wagoners were uninterested, just doing their job, but the other three were going to be my co-workers at the mine and they approached me with friendly curiosity. The two women gave their names as Dilla and Janna, from Wetherrin, the largest port in the western canal system. Nobody asked about their aptitude, but they volunteered the information anyway. Dilla’s connection was to mice and rats and other small rodents, which I supposed accounted for the lack of fear in the creatures as we rumbled past them. Janna wasn’t sure what her connection was – she thought it might be mushrooms – but she said she’d always known she had one. The young man called himself Rufin. His parents were lock keepers just west of Wetherrin, or so he said. There was no way to be sure.

  I gave them my new name, and told them I was from Hurk Hranda. It was true enough in its way, I just wasn’t there recently. There was no way I dared mention Caxangur, though, in case any news had filtered along the waterways.

  Rufin raised an eyebrow. “I’d have said you were coastal, by the look of you.”

  I shrugged, used to the question. “’Spect my ancestors were from further north. My great great something.”

  “Yeah, probably.” He drifted away from me. He kept circling round the two girls, though, flirting and teasing, whispering in their ears and stealing kisses when the wagoners weren’t looking. Lust hung around him like mountain mist, and once he actually screwed Janna behind the shelter wall. I kept well away from him until he’d calmed down.

  On the fifth or sixth day, we came to a fast-flowing stream, racing down from the mountain peaks looming above us. The road passed over a narrow bridge, and for the rest of that day we were confined within a narrow gorge alongside the stream, gloomy and dank. The road crossed and recrossed the valley, and sometimes dived through short tunnels, the sound of the rumbling wheels bouncing ominously around us so that the two girls clung to each other, or to Rufin, in fear. Late in the afternoon we emerged onto a windswept plateau, brown with bog and spattered with murky pools, the road tiptoeing across on a causeway.

  It felt like a release, but ahead of us now the mountains loomed closer, craggy peaks towering over us, as if during our time in the gorge they had stealthily crept much nearer to block our way. How were we ever to go any further? There was nothing here except rock and wasteland, home only to bog plants and tiny insects and twisted shrubs, stunted by the wind. Even our breath was hard to draw, as if the mountains had sucked all the air away.

  But there at the far side of the causeway, huddled low to the ground, was a walled compound with several buildings. This was the mule station, where we would leave the wagons and oxen behind, making the rest of the journey on the beasts.

  This was the most populous overnight stop since the first night. The mule station housed about twenty people to tend the animals, and help with the loading and unloading. There were several married couples amongst them, which made the atmosphere more civilised, somehow. I didn’t feel quite so out of place. And the food was better: a roast haunch of venison as well as the inevitable stew, plenty of cheese (goat, but I was quite used to that now) and the pleasure of fresh bread. There was even a basket of apples. We ate indoors, and there were dormitories with proper beds and several blankets.

  That night for the first time I stayed with the group as everyone relaxed around the fire after the meal. One of the mulers played a crincheon and two of the women sang, and later one of the men told a long, dramatic story of some hero or other who reversed any number of disasters and set everything to rights. If only there were heroes like that in the real world, to come sweeping in with their swords and dragons and magical powers. But the dragons and mages were gone, and heroes were hard to come by, so injustices lingered on and too many terrible things happened that could never be set right.

  ~~~~~

  We left at first light the following morning, and as soon as I put my nose out of doors I understood why. The temperature had dropped sharply overnight, sprinkling the ground with frost, and the clouds were dark enough to presage snow. The lingering warmth of the plains had gradually disappeared as we’d climbed into the foothills, but this was the first hint of winter. The mulers laughed and joked as we prepared to depart, their breath clouding. I shivered and pulled my cloak tighter about me. But as I breathed, the frosted air chilled me inside. It felt good, as if it were cleansing me, scouring away all my evils.

  Although part of our wagons’ contents was for the mule station, most of it was now repacked and strapped onto a long train of mules. It was astonishing how much those little beasts could carry. Dilla, Janna, Rufin and I were to ride, with six mulers to keep us safe. I had ridden before, although nothing so undignified as a mule, but the other three were new to the process. The two girls squealed every time their beasts moved, until shouted at by the mulers. Rufin was too proud to admit his fear but his eyes were as round as plates.

  In reality, there was nothing dangerous about the journey. The path we followed was a clear one, wide enough for two mules to walk abreast, and far away from any steep slopes. Small bridges traversed the numerous streams, and hurdles were laid across the worst bogs.

  There was something exhilarating about being out in the open air, the sharp tang of frosty air in my nostrils, the mule beneath me blowing and snorting. The few flurries of snow that fell from time to time added to the enjoyment. I had not seen snow since my time at Hurk Hranda, and even then it was never deep or long-lasting. Here in the high mountains, I could barely wait to experience my first proper winter, with snow deep enough to bury a wagon.

  Once the mulers realised my competence with the mule, I was allowed to ride nearer the front, keeping me well away from the fear infusing the three novices. It was very pleasant, and I hummed under my breath as I rode.

  The overnight stops now were a little different. There were no shelters and huts, no kindly old couple to greet us with hot food already prepared, however poor the cooking. The first night we stayed in what was clearly a natural cave, large enough to hold us and all the mules. Two of the mulers built a fire, while the others tended the mules. There was no hot food, only dried meat, bread and cheese, although we were given hot tennel, the slightly minty local brew.

  The girls and Rufin were euphoric at having survived the day unharmed, without once having fallen from their mounts. They bubbled away, giggling and teasing each other, and it was obvious where their thoughts were heading. I went outside the cave with my cloak to huddle on a rock until they settled down to sleep and it was safe for me to return.

  One of the mulers found me out there. I suspected he’d followed me out. “Allandra? You all right?”

  “Oh yes. Fine.”

  He grunted, but said nothing, settling beside me on the rock, chewing on an apple. It was almost brightmoon, so I had a clear view towards the mountains, the snow on their peaks perhaps a little thicker than before, reaching lower down their shoulders.

  “Is it much further?”

  “Two more days. Y’see that ridge to th’left o’ that double peak? Well, it’s jus’ behind that.”

  Before I could say anything else, the ground shifted under us, shaking slightly, and there was a distant rumbling sound.

  “Jus’ an earthquake,” he said. “Happens all th’time here.”

  I heard squeals and raised voices from the cave, then a deeper voice, as one of the mulers reassured the two girls and Rufin. I felt no alarm in the muler beside me, though, chewing stolidly on his apple. It was rather exciting. I’d read about earthquakes, but the descriptions were quite unlike the real thing.

  “Do you get stronger ones?”

  He shrugged. “Sometimes. Nothin’ big enough to cause damage, mostly. Just lots o’ these little ones. Nothing t’ worry about.”

  I wasn’t picking up anything untoward from him. Usually a man of that age – not much above thirty – who seeks out a young woman, alone, is feeling something towards her, but he just seemed friendly and perhaps concerned. B
ut then his wife was another of the mulers so perhaps that wasn’t so surprising.

  “Y’know, Allandra, those three in there, they may be a bit childish in lots o’ ways, but you’re going t’be spending lots o’ time with them at th’mine. It might help t’be – a bit more open. You’ll need friends inside.”

  Perhaps he was right, but I couldn’t be close to them when they were in that mood. It was too difficult. At the mine, Rufin’s energies would be absorbed and the girls would settle down, everything would be quieter, but just now they were too excitable for me. He meant well, though.

  “Thank you, but I prefer not to rush into friendships.”

  He nodded. “Well, jus’ take care, all right? The last girl was quiet, too, and look what happened t’ her.”

  I said nothing. I didn’t know what had happened to the last girl, but it hardly mattered. She wasn’t me. After a while the muler went back inside.

  The moon was setting before the cave was quiet enough for me. I crept in to the nearest empty space, then, exhausted, curled up on the sandy floor and slept where I lay.

  I woke in the middle of the night, filled with someone’s distress. One of the girls – Janna, I thought. She was sobbing quietly, and the older girl was whispering soothingly to her, although she was upset, too. Homesick, it felt like. As always at such times, I wished above all things that there was something I could do to help, instead of being an impotent witness. I crept silently to the far side of the cave, near the mules, and tried to sleep again.