by Alma Boykin
Speaking of the ridge… Marta finished her tea and nibbled on one of the little herbed biscuits the cook had sent along. It, too, stayed down, and she ate a second one, then slipped the others into a napkin and tucked them into her pocket to munch later. She needed to look at the records of mining claims. Goodman Dupuy and Mr. Jaqué had petitioned to reopen a mine on Godown’s Grace. Something in the back of her mind had begun to tickle with warning, but Marta couldn’t recall quite what the problem might be. It had been a very long time since anyone had reopened an old work. The current mines on the north side of the valley produced well and still had space to expand. I wonder why they want to look there, unless they’ve had a spat with Master Sylván over something and just want to get away from him. Or are they planning a tree claim as well as minerals? I’m not certain I can allow that. I don’t want to risk landslides onto the farms and convent.
Mining maps had their own small storage area, well away from any fires and in metal shelves and boxes to keep out mice. A few, so old they’d been encased in plaztik by the Landers, hung on the wall. She especially liked one in all sorts of bright colors with little marks on it, like a decorative weaving, and kept thinking that she needed to find someone to copy it as a tapestry. But without those strange black lines and arrow-things that cut through the wavy, swirly colors. I wonder what “fault” means? A mistake in the map, maybe? But then why not just erase it? She shrugged away the question and counted shelves until she located the box she needed, then prized open the tight-fitting lid and hunted through the bundle until she found the five pages that covered Godown’s Grace.
Whoever had made the maps had labeled each mine with a letter and number and symbol. The symbols showed what the mine produced, and the letters and numbers matched pages in a different box, giving the names and dates of the claim. Marta located the map sheet covering the western slope of the mountain and pulled the entire file out of the box. It only had a few claims in it, and she carried everything to the former solar so she could spread the contents out on the table in the light. And with the windows open, she didn’t smell cooking, even though the breeze brought a chill into the room. “Tea in the solar, please,” she ordered one of the maids sweeping the great hall.
“Yes, my lady,” the youngster promised, trotting off to tell the kitchen staff before returning to her task.
Edmund found her there, reading the claim pages and crunching the last of her biscuits. “What are these, my lady?”
“Ya!” Spooked, Marta coughed, swallowed, coughed again, and recovered, her hand over her racing heart. “Mining maps and do not sneak up on me again, damn it.”
Red eyebrows rose a little. “So you do know how to swear. And I knocked three times.” He walked around to look over her shoulder. “Which end is up?”
“Here,” she ran her fingers above the long upper edge of the page. “The map is a strip of the west face of the mountain behind the ridge, Godown’s Grace. The spur with the fort would be here,” she pointed to a knot in the wood of the table top, just to the left of the page. “Above this area the slope is too steep and rotten to mine, and the farm claims cover the area below it.”
Edmund rested his hand on her shoulder as he leaned forward. “Oh. And that’s the smelly stream, the one that has not frozen yet,” he pointed.
“Yes. And it won’t freeze. Well, I suppose if Godown returns with ice instead of Fires it might, but it is boiling when it comes out of the mountain. Father took Liza and I there once and let us cook eggs in the pool.” It had been a fun day, she remembered, smiling a little.
He straightened up. “What are you looking for?”
“I’m not sure. Goodman Dupuy and Mr. Jaqué want to reopen this lead and silver mine, here,” she held her finger just over the spot on the ancient page. “There are no other claims, but something just feels wrong.”
Edmund stroked his short, light-brown beard. “Hmm. I… Do they want an all-season claim?”
She sifted through the pages until she found the application that Master Sylván had forwarded to her. “Yes.”
Edmund shook his head. “No. That steep area above the claim? That’s where the avalanche was just after the solstice, and another came down not that far away two weeks ago. You know better than I do, but I’d just make it a seasonal claim, from equinox to equinox, my lady.”
“And no logging. They have not asked for a logging permit, but that doesn’t stop people from trying to back-claim one.” She’d fined several men for that over the years. “I don’t care if you gather wood by hook and crook, but you are not going to cut my trees without telling me where and how many, and paying the fee,” she had to reminded people at least once a year. Marta added the note to her wax board.
“Thinking of snow slides, my lady. Have there been any at the Western Gate that you know of?”
“Not for a very long time. There’s a streak of pale green on the south of the river cut, this side of the ridge. That’s the last one, and it was a land-slip that happened in late winter, not a true snow-slide. Happened after a fire the previous fall and then heavy spring rain on top of heavy snow. That’s why no one farms the base of the ridge: shahma and sheep can run—houses can’t.”
“Good to know. Especially since Mr. Decharm says there’s a nasty looking snow overhang about to drop onto the Martins River just below the joining and ford.” He helped her out of the chair, adding, “So much for going south early. I don’t want to get flattened.”
“Ask the miners to drop the cornice.”
“What?”
She repeated, “Ask Master Sylván to see if the miners will drop the cornice. They have a way to shake the things loose so they don’t fall onto people. If it is one that will cause a flood or damage if it drops on its own, they will usually agree to bring it down early once they know about it.”
He made an intrigued sound, then fell silent. The first scent of dinner reached them and Marta hesitated. Her stomach remained in place. Edmund liked to work at dinner, so Master Laplace and Mr. Kittle, along with one of the copyists, waited beside the table in the great hall.
So far so good. And the soup looks very tasty. One of the milch cows, an older one, had slipped and broken her leg a few days before. She’d been past her prime anyway, so now her organs and a roast graced the table while her bones simmered in the soup pot and other parts of her hung, aging. Edmund helped Marta into her chair before taking his place. Once the others had sat down, Marta offered thanks and broke the bread.
As the men talked defenses and spring plans, Marta mulled over the mining question and tried to be ladylike while devouring a meal and a half. I did miss breakfast, after all. Or rather, it missed me, she told herself, accepting a second large piece of roast. The cow had been old but still toothsome, and the cook had simmered the roast in stock before putting it on the spit. And it is a sin to waste food, including the juices she mopped up with more bread. Edmund cleared his throat and she glanced up from her plate to find four men watching her.
“Would my lady like the rest of the roast tucked into a loaf of bread for later?”
She frowned, squinting a little. “No. I’m just a little hungry after going over the mining claims all morning.”
Laplace coughed into his hand. “Ah, indeed, my lady, it is said that mental work stimulates the appetite as much as physical labor.”
Kittle tipped his head to the side. “Which claims, my lady?” She rattled off the numbers and he scratched behind one ear. “Lead and silver? That could be useful, my lady.”
“Lead’s good for use in the little hand cannons,” Master Laplace observed. “And we’ll need silver come summer.”
“They might also bring out any sulfur they find, my lady,” Kittle mused. “Medical or for making cannon powder.”
“I’d intended to grant them a seasonal claim, with no timber allowance because of the land-slip problems on that part of the mountain,” she told the men, sitting back and drinking some wine. The red tasted odd, and she
put the glass down. Will red foods give the baby red hair? I’ll have to ask Mistress Dorothy.
“I’ll have the men at the post on the mountain look at the trees from time to time. They need to be familiar with all the trails anyway, and that’s a good excuse for checking on the mine,” Edmund half-asked, looking at Laplace.
The older man nodded as he finished his wine. “Very good excuse, and if they dump mine crap on the trails and block them, they have to clean it up again.”
Marta made a mental note to add that to her claim permission.
She met with Dupuy and Jaqué the next market day. She’d been able to keep breakfast down that morning, but she still wanted to ask Mistress Dorothy what she’d recommend. Marta rode down to Sarmvale with two of the younger soldiers, in case someone decided they wanted her to hear a petition immediately instead of waiting for three more days. She’d had to fend off angry people before. I don’t have any cases pending that I know of, but there’s always something.
Marta used the notary’s chamber in the guildhall to meet with Dupuy and Jaqué. Among other benefits, the small room was wide but shallow, allowing no space for disgruntled men to reach across the big table and hurt her. Her guards, however, could grab the outraged individual and toss him out into the street with little trouble. Marta set out her writing kit and the copies of the contract, and waited.
Her ancestor had claimed all the woodlands and the minerals, at first. He and his partners then took ownership of the entire Sarm Valley through possession and defense. If you keep the bad people out and the good people safe, eventually the bad people go away for a while. Marta played with her prayer beads out of sight as she waited, pretending to be patient. They’d allowed farmers to settle, and a few miners that they already knew before the Fires. Over the past two hundred years or so, a few people left and a few more came in, helping keep the blood strong. Little one, you certainly don’t have to worry about your father and I being too closely related. I don’t think any Sarm has ever entered Florabi’s territory since the Fires.
A shadow appeared in the doorway, then another. “Oh. We’re here to meet with Lord Sarm,” Master Dupuy said. He sounded disappointed. “Did he send you with the contracts, Lady Marta?”
“My husband, Edmund Roy, is supervising the construction of better defenses for the valley and meeting with Master Sylván.” Jaqué flinched at the mining boss’s name and Marta raised one eyebrow. So that’s why you want to try your luck on Godown’s Grace, out from under his eyes. All the more reason to limit their claim. “I remain in charge of all permits and claims on the deSarm lands.”
She held their copies of the contract out for them to see. Dupuy, frowning, almost snatched his out of her hand, then took it to the door to read in the better light. Wiry Jaqué’s wide mouth moved as he read. He stopped, looked at his partner, looked back at Marta, then started reading again, keeping one finger in place. Marta glanced at her own copy and guessed he’d found the seasonal limitation.
“There appears to be an error, Lady Marta,” Dupuy said, smiling, his voice suddenly oily smooth. “Someone miscopied this. I’ll just scratch out the errors,” he reached for Marta’s pen and ink.
She stood her copy up, blocking his hand. “I presume you mean the seasonal restrictions and the clause about where you are allowed to dump the mine waste.”
Jaqué nodded, waving his copy as if he were trying to swat a fly. “Yeah, my lady. No one else has to leave the rock crap inside the hole. And how can we get anything done if we only have summers to work? That’s not fair.”
“Neither is allowing you to make the rock-slides worse and endangering the farms and convent below the mine, gentlemen. I’m seriously considering denying your permit because of the rock-slip hazard as it is.”
Apparently Dupuy failed to get the hint. He gave Marta a patronizing smile that set her temper boiling. “My lady,” he oozed, “I certainly understand your concern, but you know nothing about mining and men’s work. It really would be better from now on if your husband looked at things before you embarrass yourself further. I’ll make the proper corrections so you don’t have to and—”
Marta got to her feet and her guards stepped in behind the two miners. “You will make no changes. If you do not care for the contract, leave it here and go on your way. If you have questions about defending the valley, speak with Edmund Roy. If you want a mining permit, you will deal with me. I also retain judicial power, Goodman Dupuy, Mr. Jaqué. The contract is as it stands, take it or leave it.”
Dupuy’s face turned red and he looked as if he wanted to do something stupid. Marta shifted her weight, one hand starting to ease the knife concealed in her skirt out of its sheath. Instead, Jaqué grabbed his heavier partner and hissed something in an urgent whisper, one eye on Marta and the other on her guards. After a dozen heartbeats, Dupuy grunted, picked up the sturdiest pen, dipped it in ink and made his mark on his and Marta’s copies. Jaqué did the same. Marta signed and sealed all three copies, then sat again. The men left, Dupuy not saying a word. Jaqué bowed, mumbled what might have been “Thank you, my lady,” and hurried after the angry miner. Only then did Marta relax, sliding the knife back into the sheath and locking it.
She collected her things, released the notary’s room, and set out to find Mistress Dorothy. The older woman kept her stall by the horse fountain, and Marta waited as she dickered with a positively ancient dame for something. The customer handed over some coins, took her flat, wrapped bundle, and tottered off, bent double by a dowager’s hump that made Marta straighten up out of self-defense. “Good morning, Mistress Dorothy.”
“Good morning, my lady. Godown’s blessings with you.”
“And with you.” Marta glanced around for eavesdroppers before asking, “What would you recommend for stomach distress, especially early in the day?”
The herbwife’s eyes narrowed a little and the corner of her mouth tipped up. “Queasiness that comes and goes more than once a week, my lady?”
“Yes.”
Dorothy looked down at her samples, giving Marta a good view of the two stripes of green and blue fabric sewn across the back of her starched, light tan head-cover. “Hmm, do I have… no, not this time of, no, too strong… ah, here we are.” She straightened up and presented Marta with a small jar. “Heartberry leaves and spring mint. One horn spoon worth in a cup of hot water. Let it sit for two repetitions of the Shepherd’s Hymn, then drink it before breaking your fast. This should be enough to last for a month. And my lady would be advised to avoid red wines for the next few months.” She pointed to Marta’s stomach with one of the fingers holding the jar and lowered her voice. “They can interfere with proper digestion and growth.”
“One horn spoon in a cup of hot water upon waking, and two repetitions of the Shepherd’s Hymn,” Marta repeated. “And go easy on the red wine. Thank you, Mistress.” She pressed a silver coin in the woman’s hand—more than the herbs and advice cost, but enough to ensure discretion and a “free” refill should it be necessary.
“You are most welcome, my lady, and should you need more, send a maid with that jar and I’ll refill it for you.”
Marta tucked the jar into her arm bag. “Thank you, and Godown bless.”
“And you, my lady.”
Marta told Edmund the news that night, after they’d discussed what to do about the miners. “I think, if time permits, you should come to the next court session with me, love,” Marta said as she brushed out her hair. “Just to listen, not to hear a case.”
“To show that I support you and that I don’t want to deal with having to sort out who owes what when a goat gets loose and eats laundry again?” He got into bed. “Time permitting I will. And Master Sylván is going to have men look at the corn-ice above the river to see what they think. He sounded agreeable to bringing it down, since he has a load of lead, copper, and pewter to go south.”
“That’s good.” She joined him in bed. Marta, a little nervous, took Edmund’s hand and presse
d it against her stomach. “Um, love, I’m pregnant.”
His eyes went so wide she could see them in the dark. “You’re what?”
“Pregnant. My courses are six weeks late and I’ve been sick in the mornings.” Don’t tell me you don’t know what pregnant means. Even I know.
He pulled her close and kissed her. Inner fire turned her kiss hungry and eager, and he responded in kind.
The late spring and summer passed in blessed quiet. After the first court session, the residents of the deSarm lands decided that their lady’s justice remained true, and no one challenged her or asked for her husband to hear their case. It helped that she’d gotten past the giggly, weepy, happy-daze stage of her pregnancy before the docket filled. Andrea helped let out the seams on her dresses, while Esmé proved to have a gift for massage, able to ease the low-back pain that bothered her mistress. Marta panted in the heat, fanning and dreaming of cool breezes. On the other hand, if this were winter and I had to wear boots, I’d have a problem. Sandals and sturdy slippers she could manage without too much difficulty, but now that she couldn’t see her feet, lacing boots might be too much. Edmund doted on her, or did once they’d cleared the air.
He’d started hanging back, pulling away, acting reluctant and more distant. Marta assumed it came from his worries about Phillip appearing at the western gate with an army before they were ready and didn’t say anything. But as days became weeks, finally she’d had enough, and cornered him. “What’s wrong?”
“What do you mean, what’s wrong?” He half turned toward the door, shoulders tight, as if ready to flee.
She planted her fists on her hips. “You don’t stay with me in the evenings. You don’t cuddle with me at night. Love, I want you with me, as much as you can be. Is there something bad coming I need to know about?” Because if you are hiding trouble from me because you think I’m delicate, I will have a shrieking fit that would make even Goody Schellmain stand in awestruck silence.