Deep Water (66 page)

“Except with you, Medric. I’d never keep a secret from you.”

When Fursey finally becomes a hewer, months behind the other sixteen-year-olds, it’s a relief to everyone, even Sami. Fursey
was like a chained bear, sullen and dangerous, those last two months.

“If Medric can start hewing, I can too,” he argued. “I’ve been here longer than anyone. You know I know the mine like no one
else. I can pick a reef better than you can!”

But Sami was firm. No one becomes a hewer until they reach the height mark on the kitchen doorway. Not even Fursey, no matter
how he argued and cursed.

His first day, Fursey fairly races down to the rock face, laughing and swinging his pick. He chooses a completely different
part of the wall to work on. Ignores the foreman.

“Here, Medric,” he calls. “This is where the reef is thickest.” He talks to the rock. “I can hear you,” he says. “I’m coming
to get you out. Fall to my left,” he says. He swings his pick as though he’s been doing it all his life. The pick head hits
the rock and a whole section falls off, to his left. The way only the best and most skilled hewers can do, after years of
practice.

Underneath there is pure gold. The full seam, shining so bright in the weak candlelight it looks molten, glowing. The hewers
gather around silently. Even the bonded ones, who have no choice about being here, even they sigh a little, looking at the
gleam of it. Fursey reaches out and touches it, traces the broad river of it down the wall.

“Hello,” he says.

That’s the way it goes. Fursey chooses where we hew. Each time, he talks to the rock, tells it where to fall, how to split.
And it does. The mine production triples. Fursey is Sami’s pet. He gets new clothes, the best food. No one minds because,
with Fursey telling them where to lay their picks, and talking to the rock face, no one dies. There are no more tunnels collapsing.

At night, he lies staring at the ceiling, smiling.

The other hewers in the barracks whisper to each other of the girls down in the valley, whisper and touch and groan. They
talk about what they’ll do when their bond time is up. Where they’ll go. Sandalwood. Carlion. Foreverfroze. Who they’ll shag,
and how. Then they touch again.

Fursey talks about gold, and then touches.

“Gold and you, Medric. What else do I need?”

Only three months until the seven years are up. Fursey was sold in for fourteen years. He has another nine months to go.

“I’ll work the nine months with you, Furse. Then we can leave together.” It’s a faint hope. There’s no chance.

“Leave?” he says, not understanding.

“My bond is up in three months. Yours is up in nine. I’ll work the extra six months with you, get a bit of pay in my pocket.
Then we can both leave together.”

He stares. “
Leave?
”

He’s right, of course. It would be crazy for him to go. As soon as his bond is worked out, Sami will hire him back at three
times a normal hewer’s pay. He’s worth twice as much again. He could have a house in the valley, live a good life doing what
he loves. Why should he leave?

“I never chose to come here, Furse. I’ve got family, somewhere to go.”

“Your own da sold you!”

“Not my da. I wouldn’t spit on him. But I’ve got two sisters. I want to find them. Make sure they’re all right.”

He relaxed. “Well, you can do that and then come back. No need to go for good.”

No need. Except the dark and the cold and the flickering of gold at the edges of vision like madness, waiting.

Except the hard slog of the walk up the mine ramp. Except the ugliness of the barracks and the dirt and the smell. Except
having to watch the young pushers heave their hearts out and no way to help.

Except the girls in the valley. And the girls in the world beyond the valley. And the idea of children, someday. Children
to be loved. To be cared for. Not hit, not terrorized. Loved. Never, ever, sold.

Nine months can seem longer than years put together. And shorter than a day.

Three days to go, Sami tries a recruiting talk. “You’re a good hewer, Medric. You’ve got a real gift for it.” That’s true.
“Why not think about staying? Fursey’s going to have his own house up here, you know. The two of you could have a good life.”

He’s frightened that Fursey might desert the mine. He can’t afford it.

“It’s not such a bad life, when you’re not a bondsman,” he says confidentially, leaning close. “The valley girls like a free
hewer.” He winks, then thinks again as he sees Fursey’s face. “Course, there’s no need for you to go anywhere, really. Nice
house of your own, good food, good company. There’s many a man in the outside world would cut off his right arm for a life
like that.” He chuckles. “Course, he wouldn’t be any use to us then!” His hand descends in what he means to be a friendly
pat on the back. But he’s a heavy-handed man, like my da, and it hurts.

“Don’t go,” Fursey says when Sami leaves. It’s the first time he’s said it straight out.

“I can’t take the dark any longer than I have to, Furse. I’m not like you. I’ve never loved it. There’s a whole world out
there. Don’t you want to see it?”

He shakes his head. “And the valley girls?” he asks bitterly.

“Oh, gods, Furse, I don’t want them like I want you. But don’t you want a family? A real home?”

He looks up with his eyes full of tears. “You’re my family. You and the gold.”

“Well, you’ll still have the gold. I hope you enjoy it.”

Maybe that wasn’t kind. But he talks always like gold is human. Like it has feelings.

On the last day, he stays at the rock face until after the mine whistle, until the other hewers have gone up the ramp and
there is no one else around. No one will come back. They let him make his goodbyes in private.

“Don’t go, Medric,” he says.

“I have to.”

“No, you don’t. You can change your mind and stay here, where you belong. With me.”

His eyes are as black as always, down here, but they are shining gold, too. Strong flickers of gold. Nav’s warning comes back
to mind, from the first day. “He don’t never forget nothing; and he don’t never forgive.”

Love is not a word that’s ever used at the mine, and it’s too late to try it now, anyway. But it’s true. Even when he’s acting
like a madman.

“I only stayed in the world because of you,” he says. “I never wanted to go up into the light. You know that. I went up there
for you.”

“I know, but —”

“I’m not going back again. Not without you. I’m staying down here.” He pulls up the pickaxe, hoisting it casually, as hewers
do, and I’m suddenly aware of the muscles in his shoulders and arms, the broad hewer’s chest. The pickaxe can hew rock — it
would go straight through blood and bone. Who knows what he’s going to do, but he has to be stopped.

“You won’t be able to help the gold anymore. What will it do without you?” It’s a forlorn, stupid argument, but it makes him
frown, considering.

He stands at the tunnel mouth and smiles, fair hair shining in the candlelight, just like gold. The only warm thing in the
world.

“The mine will still go on,” he says. “A little slower without me, that’s all. But I’ll be here forever.” Then he walks right
up to me and kisses me, the pickaxe held between us so that all I feel is soft lips and rough wood and cold steel against
my neck. Then he walks past me, down into the darkest part of the mine.

As he walks, he whispers to the gold, “Show me where they are, the delvers, lead me to them, honeyfall, bright stream, sweet
gold, you’re my only love now, lead me to the people of stone . . .” And he disappears into the darkness.

The only warm thing. How could I help but go back?

T
HE PEOPLE OF
Foreverfroze had gathered in the open space before the hall, examining the strangers with interest. Fathers hoisted their
children onto shoulders so the little ones could see the warlord and his companions. Larger children wormed their way to the
front. There was a holiday atmosphere, cheerful and expectant. Martine felt that she was as much a focus of interest as Arvid — the
strange woman who looked like one of them.

Skua and Fox led her through the crowd, following the others. Safred, Arvid, Cael and Zel reached the hall steps first and
turned to watch Martine come through. Men and children and old women touched her lightly as she passed: on the arm, the shoulder,
the back, patting, saying “Welcome,” a word that sounded exactly as it had in her own village. Tears rose in her eyes and
a woman clucked gently at her, “Now, now.” She felt overwhelmed by the sense of family. She wondered if she could come back
here to live after… afterward. Perhaps, finally, she had found somewhere she could belong. Then she looked up and saw
Arvid.

He was staring at her as though she were a miracle. She flushed, the lingering cold of the wind banished by pulses of heat,
by a deep blush that swept through her, from head to foot, the fire spreading as though she stood before the altar in the
middle of the ritual. She kept walking, trying to control her face, but she could see from his expression that he had seen
her reaction. His breath was coming faster, his eyes darker than normal. As Martine reached the group, trying to focus on
Safred and Zel instead of Arvid, Skua gave her a little push so that she stumbled and landed in his arms.

Skua said, “Hah!” and Fox slapped her hand, mock reproving. Martine was only just aware of them. One of Arvid’s hands was
under her elbow, the other on her back. Her own hands were spread across his chest, fingers splayed. Every point where they
touched was alive, warm, intense. She didn’t dare look at his face, although they were almost the same height and all she
had to do was raise her eyes to his. She could feel his breath, warm on her cheek; fast breaths that comforted her because
it was clear that whatever was happening, was happening to both of them.

“She’s cold! Better warm her up, lad!” Skua said. The crowd cheered and laughed and Martine broke away from Arvid and turned,
glaring at Skua.

“I’m too old for these games,” she said sternly, and Fox, for the first time, laughed.

“Never too old,” she cackled, digging Skua in the ribs. The two of them chuckled and made some clearly lewd comments to an
old man standing behind Skua, speaking too fast in their own language for Martine to understand. He took it with a private
smile buried under a long-suffering air, and exchanged a glance of sympathy with Martine. She had forgotten this part of having
a family — the lack of privacy, the assumption that the aunties knew best, the interference. She
was
too old for this, too old to get accustomed to it again. Her vision of a future homecoming wavered.

Then they took pity on her and chivvied everyone into the blessed warmth of the hall, and fed them fried whitefish and salmon
roe, mushrooms and greens, snowberries and smoked eel. Martine made sure she wasn’t sitting next to Arvid, but she ate the
whole meal with every sense tingling, aware of each move he made.

Toward the end of the meal, Arvid spoke directly to Skua. “The ship?” he asked.

“Tomorrow,” she said.

He nodded, satisfied, then said, “There may not be room for the horses.”

For a moment, Martine didn’t realize what he meant, then she and Zel and Cael all spoke at the same time. “Trine’s coming!”

Arvid was perplexed. “It’s just a horse.”

“Bramble’s horse,” Safred said quietly.

He shrugged. “Very well then. The wagons will arrive tomorrow, we can load and sail with the next tide,” he said. He grinned
at Martine and she had to bite her tongue to stop herself smiling foolishly back. “One thing about Foreverfroze, there’s always
lots of strong men around to help load ships!”

“Why is that?” Martine asked Safred.

“The shipmasters prefer women fishers,” she said absently, picking over a platter for the last of the mushrooms.

“But why?”

Arvid turned toward her. “Because the shipmaster has to pay a levy to the family if a fisher is lost at sea, and when a ship
is blown far off course and has to limp home, women take starvation better than men and are more likely to survive,” he explained
seriously.

Martine smiled grimly. “So it’s a matter of silver,” she said, leaning forward so she could hear him better above the hubbub
in the hall.

“Silver and gold,” Arvid agreed. “A ship that loses its crew will bankrupt the shipmaster and he will lose the ship.”

“Shipmasters are men?”

He shook his head. “Not always. But to steer a ship in rough weather, you need a man’s strength, so the shipmaster is either
a man or has a steersman as a husband.”

“You know a lot about it,” Martine observed.

“They are my people,” he said simply. “It is my job to know them.”

She realized abruptly that she had been lured into private conversation with him, and sat back, trying to seem calm. The memory
of the moment outside rushed back and to cover her embarrassment she spoke with severity. “And to make sure they know you,”
she said. “And your guards.”

“Of course,” he agreed gravely, but with a hint of a smile, “they must know their warlord and the people who protect them.”

She sniffed with disbelief, and he laughed.

“Don’t judge me so swiftly, stonecaster! Things are different up here in the north.” Heads had turned as he laughed, and indulgent
glances were cast at them.

Martine couldn’t wait to get out of Foreverfroze, and preferably without Arvid. She pushed herself back from the table and
stood up. “If you’ll excuse me,” she said.

He let her go, but called after her, “Go breathe the northern air,” he said. “It clears the head.”

She threw him a withering look, but he looked back without a smile, his guard down, eyes dark with emotion and desire. For
her. The fire flared up inside her again.

Martine went out the door fast and into the bracingly cool air. She turned away from the houses and made for the ridge, where
she might find solitude and time to reflect. The climb was a stiff one, but there was a path and she ploughed up it, glad
of the movement after the day spent riding. At the top, she had used up enough energy to stop and appreciate the view. The
sun was setting and the light had changed quality, losing its brilliance and becoming misty and golden. The moon was just
rising, huge over the dark, moving sea. She stood on the ridge and reached out her hands, one east and one west, until the
sun and the moon seemed to sit in her palms, and felt herself and the world come into perfect balance, poised on the ridge
as if she were riding some great beast, one of the giant bulls of the Ice Giants, or a sea serpent, and she a hero out of
the legends of her people: Mim, or the Prowman, or old Dotta herself, savior of the fire.