The sap slowed and they pulled the taps to let the trees scab over. Lambing slowed as well. It was a poor lambing year with many losses, but they still had seventy-two lambs and kids alive and growing. Crookleg promised that next year would be better, so long as the ürsi kept away. Yorvig was encouraged by that promise, not so much for the flock as for a demonstration of a spirit he had noticed among most of the dwarves that spring. They had set their jaws in determination, tightened their belts, and mended their clothes many times over. Few left to return to Deep Cut. Few even spoke of it. It was the hardy and ambitious who ventured out to the wilds, and they were showing their mettle.

The clothier was wrong about the pack-train being more than two weeks behind him, but then, what did a clothier know about making good time on the surface? The pack-train arrived only eight days behind him. Yorvig was working with Shineboot on the third tier of the new tower when Thrushbeard came puffing up the dell waving an arm and calling.

“They’re just turning up from the river,” Thrushbeard yelled. It took a minute before Yorvig understood from him who was turning up from the river. Shineboot and he hurried together to the edge of the causeway across the tailings pond.

Fifty donkeys rocked their way to the dell gate under heavy burdens, attended by seventeen armed dwarves. Word ran through the claim and soon over a hundred-and-fifty dwarves, many newly awoken, crowded to watch the pack train cross the causeway.

One older dwarf, stout of frame but grey of beard, strode ahead of the pack-train, and Yorvig met him at the causeway. The trader bowed with a flourish of his arm. He wore fine, unstained clothes. No doubt he and the rest of his dwarves had changed out of their travel-stuffs when they knew they approached the claim.

“I am Eldenhaul, Chief of Traders on all the routes of the Red Ridges,” he said loud enough for everyone to hear. Something about the self-assertion made Yorvig doubt whether all the other traders would agree, but then he didn't know for sure how many traders there were in the Red Ridges. “I am pleased to add your noble claim as a destination. I bring goods of need. May I ask to be introduced to the rinlen?”

“The Irik-Rhûl stands before you,” Shineboot said, nodding to Yorvig. Eldenhaul made the quickest of glances at Yorvig, from toes to the top of his head, and Yorvig knew he had been more appraised by that quick glance than by many another dwarf who had lingered to stare.

“Ah,” Eldenhaul said, bowing again. “So it is.” The trader couldn't help but show a glimmer of surprise, but Yorvig suspected it was more at the title than himself.

Dwarves from the dell were now approaching the pack-train in throng, and Eldenhaul glanced at them, the slightest knit of worry on his brow.

“If I may request,” he said, “that we be allowed to unload and see to our beasts and wares somewhat apart. There will be time to trade.”

Yorvig nodded, turned, and held up his hands to the dwarves.

“Hold!” he shouted. “Let them unload. You will have your chance. Back to labors or rest for now.”

Many were the disappointed looks, but Hobblefoot, Sledgefist, Khlif, Shineboot, and Warmcoat were all present, now, and they yelled the dwarves who were on their work shifts back into activity, and those who were not on duty at least kept their distance.

“Thank you,” Eldenhaul said. He motioned to one of his dwarves who started to lead the pack-train across the causeway. Eldenhaul’s gaze criss-crossed the dell, taking in the flocks, the armed dwarves looking down from the wall, the tower construction. It wouldn’t take a genius to know that the claim had defense on the mind.

“I find that most rinlen—or Irik-Rhûl,” he added, “after the customary welcome repast, prefer to meet with me and discuss the disposition of my wares before letting the kulhan make their trades. But I am of course your servant and will accommodate your direction.”

The other owners now stood behind Yorvig, including Onyx. They all looked like what they were—dwarves who had patched and mended and made do for years, not wealthy mine owners.

“It is well,” Yorvig said. He turned to Thrushbeard. “Bring out a cask of sap beer as a gift for our guests.” That was all he was going to offer. They didn’t have food to feed an extra seventeen dwarves. The traders were here to grow rich from them, not join them. They could survive on their own stores. Shit on custom. These were the wilds.

He turned back to Eldenhaul.

“When you are ready to speak, you may have Thrushbeard here bring you to us.”

Eldenhaul nodded. Some of his exuberance had drained away with fewer eyes on him.

Yorvig turned and left, and the other owners followed.

It was at least five hours later when Thrushbeard brought Eldenhaul to the chamber of the nine-sided table. With his reception chamber not yet finished, Yorvig had opted to use the meeting chamber. He studiously ensured that Savvyarm’s chair be left open, himself and Onyx to one side of it, and Greal and Shineboot on the other. Hobblefoot, Sledgefist, and Khlif he had ordered to continue the labor of the mine. He could tell from their expressions they were disappointed, but they didn’t argue. Too many mouths—and tempers—were not desirable for a negotiation. He had chosen Greal and Onyx because they had the most experience in the trading and appraising precious metals and gems, considering their crafts. Shineboot was merely another set of eyes and ears on the trader, and Yorvig felt he would keep his wits.

They served the trader hot tea. If Eldenhaul had partaken of the birch beer, he didn’t show the slightest hint of intoxication. The grey-beard carried a leather satchel, and he opened it and drew out a piece of parchment—a valuable commodity of itself—and offered it to Thrushbeard. Thrushbeard took it delicately and brought it to Yorvig. Yorvig motioned for him to set the parchment on the table before him, which he did.

Yorvig glanced down at the lines of speaking runes divided into sections. He knew this was some kind of bill of lading, but there was no way he could read it. There was also no way for him to hide that he couldn’t read speaking runes. It would be obvious to Eldenhaul no matter what he did. Whether this was customary or an attempt to establish that deficiency right away, Yorvig didn’t know.

At that moment, Yorvig realized that if he did ever come by a scribe, he would have to trust them more than he trusted anyone but perhaps the owners. A scribe could manipulate the whole mine with a simple press of a stencil. As for the present, Yorvig had no reason to trust Eldenhaul, but at least the distrust was plain. They both wanted to make the best deal they could. The problem was that Eldenhaul had probably been doing this for over a hundred years, and Yorvig had never done it a single time.

He motioned for Eldenhaul to sit, which he did. The greybeard smiled across the table.

“I am deeply impressed,” he said. “I have been to many claims, but none with such a dramatic tale as this. I have heard much of your battles in the past few hours. You have my respect and congratulations.”

“Thank you,” Yorvig said. “And you have our thanks for venturing so far.” He wondered how much the delay had been to allow Eldenhaul to assess the claim before meeting.

“Nothing ventured, nothing gained,” Eldenhaul replied with a smirk. “And I hope we each have much to gain.”

“I hope so too. Now if you would be so kind as to relate to us your goods, we can begin.”

“Of course,” Eldenhaul said with another faint smile. He did not need the parchment to remember it any more than Yorvig could read it.

“I have five hundred pound-ells of cloth bolts in delivery to a certain clothier who has already claimed it,” Eldenhaul said. “I have two-hundred more pounds which he was eager also to claim at a very reasonable price. Of course, I deferred until we were able to speak. I have five hundred pounds of salt, seventy-five gallons of lamp oil, ten mine drills in two gauges, fifty hammers, fifty picks, fifty shovels—heads only of course. I have fifty pounds of flux powder, a case of tongs, punches, and other smithy tools. Draw knives, axe heads, saws, carpentry drills as well. Let’s see. . . Ten casks of hill-smoke, fifty pounds each—“ Yorvig saw Greal and Shineboot stir at that. “Two case-vessels of Miner’s Eye—alive. Ten pounds each of radish seeds, mangelwurzel, beetroot, and so on. I have five whole Laithan pigs in salt as well. Five barrels Deep Cut beet brandy. . .”

“Clothing? Did you only bring fabric?” Yorvig interrupted.

“I was under the impression you would have the services of a clothier.”

“Was that impression paid for?”

Eldenhaul leaned back in his chair and held up his palms in a pacifying gesture.

“Everything is paid for,” he said.

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“Go on.”

“Leather for boot making, twenty-five sheaves.”

“But no boots?”

“I was also under the impression—” Eldenhaul stopped and shrugged.

“Go on.” It seemed the clothier and the expected cobbler were clever as well as bold.

“I have two cases of tinware. I have two thousand foot of rope in three-hundred foot coils.”

“Do you have flour or meal?”

Eldenhaul’s brow showed the faintest furrow at that.

“No. There is no profit in that right now.”

“I would pay for it.”

“I wouldn’t,” he said.

Maybe Yorvig should have given more attention to Lowpleat’s small-talk about prices in Deep Cut.

“And two bags of candied dates.” Eldenhaul smiled. “It was three. I have a sweet tooth.”

“Is that it?” Greal asked.

“I assure you,” Eldenhaul said. “If I could load any more onto my poor beasts, I would.”

Yorvig knew what a set of miner’s tools cost in Deep Cut. He also knew what salt, hill-smoke, and many of the other basic tools should cost. That at least could form a basis.

“For the five hundred pounds of salt, five yothe of gold.”

“Twelve yothe,” Eldenhaul replied calmly.

“That is far too dear for salt!” Greal interjected.

“Salt, the name of our dear forebeard,” Eldenhaul said. “It isn’t the salt that is expensive. It is the moving of the salt from Deep Cut to your venerable claim that costs. You understand of course that it arrived by donkey, not wagon.”

Yorvig had not expected Eldenhaul to accept the five yothe. It would have cost three in Deep Cut. He had intentionally started low, though not so as to insult. At least, at his best guess. That said, twelve was far too high.

“Seven,” Yorvig countered. Eldenhall placed his hands flat on the stone table.

“I must insist on the twelve.”

“For salt?” Greal asked, exasperated.

“Eight,” Yorvig said, knowing it showed weakness.

“Twelve,” Eldenhaul answered, then held up his hands as if he were relenting out of reasonableness. “Say, eleven and one half.”

So this was how it was going to be. The mine was rich, but they wouldn’t stay that way if they dealt like this. Not if they kept worrying more about food and defenses than actual mining.

“Look at me,” Yorvig said, pushing himself up from a seated position into a stand. He wished he had his walking hammer with him. He felt stronger with it. But this was a civilized negotiation—or should be—not a fight. Eldenhaul looked up at Yorvig, calm and unfrazzled.

“I wear rags. My body has been torn. I have known hunger and thirst and danger and toil. To you I must look like a beggar. I am used to privation.”

Yorvig’s speech seemed to have no effect on Eldenhaul whatsoever.

“It has been difficult for you all, I have no doubt,” the trader said. “But you have overcome! Your story will be sung.”

“The second labor is light,” Yorvig answered. It was a maxim that Eldenhaul was sure to know. All things done once were easier the second time. “We have paid the kulhan according to their oaths. We will release them to trade with you. When they have done, you may leave. We wish you safe travels. You may go.” It was traditional to pay kulhan three quarters of their wages once every six months, with the other quarters held contingent upon their fulfilling the time of their oaths. This allowed them to survive while also encouraging them to stay. They had already paid their kulhan for the first six months.

Yorvig sat down. For the first time, he saw confusion on Eldenhaul’s face, but it was followed quickly by annoyance.

“You dismiss me?” he said, rising now himself. “You are starving!”

“We will live and be stronger for it,” Yorvig said. “I will send my agents for supplies. It will take most of a year to receive them, but I will buy the donkeys for these prices. It may be a better decision to establish our own trade through the Red Ridges. You may go.”

Greal leaned forward like he was going to speak, but Yorvig held up his hand to him and shook his head.

Eldenhaul slammed his hand down flat upon the stone table and sat back down, frowning. The muscles of his face slowly began to relax and his apparent anger dissipated. Finally, a hint of a smile tugged at the corners of Eldenhaul’s mouth and he met eyes with Yorvig.

“What I should do,” he said. “Is walk out and see if you’ll go through with it. See which of us will cave-in first. Test our stubbornness.” He shook a fist for emphasis. Up until then, they had all neglected their cooling tea, but now Eldenhaul picked up his mug and took a long sip. He smacked his lips at the bitter brew.

“Tell me, how does one of the youngest dwarves in a claim become rinlen and then some Irik-Rhûl like in a story?”

It was Shineboot who answered in a tone that betrayed no amusement:

“Our Irik-Rhûl has a peculiar ability to keep us alive. That means a lot in a place where death comes so easy.”

Eldenhaul pursed his lips and squinted, then waved the statement away.

“I like you," he said. "You are youthful and bold. Nine."

“Eight and one half,” Yorvig answered.

“Done.” Eldenhaul said with sigh. Then he clapped his hands. “What next?”

Yorvig let Greal and Onyx do much of the rest of the negotiating, interjecting at times when he felt Eldenhaul was being recalcitrant. But the old trader had known well what to bring them. The seeds they did not need due to the proficiency of their gardeners, except for the hill-smoke seeds. Most of the rest of Eldenhaul's supplies they took. The old dwarf held some of the hill-smoke and all of the brandy back in hopes of greater gain in trade with the individual kulhan. In the end, Yorvig dealt on behalf of Warmcoat and Shineboot for the salt-pork and one lone cask of brandy for the sake of their wedding feasts. It took close to two hours to fix upon the final cost of all.

“That is four-hundred and thirteen yothe,” Eldenhaul said at last. It came dear—a significant loss to their hoard, but not beyond all reason. A month of mining and sluicing would make it back, if they could ever dedicate the effort. It would be necessary in future to establish their own pack trains of donkeys, but this supply let Yorvig put off that need until he could identify trustworthy hands with which to entrust their gold—or send one of the owners back to Deep Cut. He thought of Hobblefoot and Sledgefist. That day may come sooner than later.

“So be it,” he said.

“Of course, we can compare our weights, if you like,” Eldenhaul said.

That simple offer struck Yorvig harder than anything else in the negotiation. He knew for a fact that none of them had brought a set of formal weights with them to the claim. They could estimate closely enough, and the kulhan were satisfied, but it was not without risk of error. Trade was more precise. In the beginning, they had expected to go back to Deep Cut with whatever they found, where weights could be more easily verified. The need for proper scales had simply never come to the forefront of Yorvig's problems. Without their own set of weights, they would have to rely entirely on Eldenhaul’s truthfulness at the scales.

“What we have mined so far,” Yorvig said. “Is merely the beginning. Do you wish trade here for years to come?”

“Of course.”

“Then I trust you with the scales.”

Eldenhaul nodded and smiled.

“As it happens,” he said, “I keep two or three sets of Deep Cut standard weights with me wherever I go. I will make you a gift of a set.”

“Thank you. That is generous.”

“I would hate to think that a trader less fair than old Eldenhaul might take advantage.”

Yorvig smiled. Indeed.

By the third day, Eldenhaul's panniers were nearly empty. Yorvig invited Eldenhaul to a private meal, using his old rough private chamber he had abandoned after marriage, for nothing else was empty and finished for such a purpose. It must have seemed uncouth to Eldenhaul—the stone rough, still bearing the marks of chisel and pick. The meal was rabbit stew, the prize of one of Thrushbeard's snare lines along the river. While Yorvig did not trust Eldenhaul, he did not especially dislike him. The meal was no attempt for friendship, though. The trader was a valuable source of knowledge about the Red Ridges and trade in Deep Cut, and it was not too hard to get him talking. Eldenhaul made sure to make it seem like his own prices and trade were superior to all others in the ridges, but the old dwarf spoke such propaganda in a tone Yorvig had begun to recognize. As they ate and drank, Yorvig made special care to inquire about East Spire, what trade they might gain from that claim—truly a cluster of mines close together, by Eldenhaul's description—and the family who held it by rights.

At last, Yorvig asked a question that had weighed on him.

“How long does it take to learn the ways of speaking runes?”

The trader widened his eyes as if surprised and leaned back, but it was feigned for courtesy. He was not a dullard, and would have seen that Yorvig could not read the bill of lading.

“It could be done in a year of hard study,” the trader said. “But some never learn even though they try. It is like a locked door to them.”

Yorvig had heard something similar, once.

“I will give fifteen yothe to the dwarf who teaches me the speaking runes,” Yorvig said. "I want you to make that known."

The trader hesitated for a few moments, glancing sideways.

“It isn’t my place,” he said. “But are you sure you want to announce that? To have it widely known? You know what you have here. Vultures will come."

"Will they?" Yorvig asked.

"They will also question setting yourself up as an Irik-Rhûl. It is. . . grand.”

“You can announce this with it, if you will,” Yorvig went on. “Say that we did not survive by reading. We survived by killing.”

The trader laughed once and shook his head.

“That is quite a tale,” he said. He must have seen Yorvig's expression because he raised his hands. “I am sure it has been difficult. I have heard you’ve dealt with a few ürsi, too. Yet if you seek to deal with Deep Cut and East Spire on level rock, you’d best learn that sometimes boasts do not go as far as discretion. Even deceit."

Yorvig rapped his fingers on the table. He knew he was blushing, but it was not in embarrassment.

“ I am not your enemy. I merely advise," the trader said, raising his palms.

“There is one other thing,” Yorvig said.

"What is that?"

"Mine Runners. I want Mine Runners. Many of them."

Yorvig had seen kittens, which meant at least two of Striper's offspring had survived the winter and reproduced, but they needed more.

"Cats?"

"Ay, yes."

Eldenhaul looked more puzzled now than ever.

"I admit. . . I am at a loss. Why?"

"Let all under stone wonder. Just bring them."

It was a foggy morning two days later, and Eldenhaul's dwarves led their beasts across the causeway and back into the wilds. They were heading to East Spire first, to take on goods bound for Deep Cut. “I will tell of your progress and of the lode you have found,” Eldenhaul said when the owners had gathered to see him away. “It will cause a stir, I’m sure. Look for me again before Spring is out next year.”

In a few hundred yards, an unsettling sight would present itself that hadn't been there when they arrived: a heap of bones sloping up to nearly twice the height of a dwarf, the remains of scores of ürsi. Months ago during the brief thaw, Yorvig had taken dwarves out onto the ridge and along the river to gather up the frozen dead ürsi before they could begin to stink and defile the air. Many had already been gnawed by animals. It was a foul task. They hauled them on sleds through the slush, piling the carcasses on a slope a mile away. There they left them for the carrion.

When Yorvig returned to the carcasses with a detachment of kulhan the day after his private meal with Eldenhaul, there was nothing left but bones. Even the smell had dissipated. The bones had been dragged about, scattered, and gnawed, but they still collected a great heap of them. They moved and piled the bones atop a rise above the flood plain and along the river path. They made sure to set the fanged ürsi skulls at the top of the heap. Even though they were just bones, it was a gruesome labor, more like something Sledgefist would have suggested than Yorvig. It brought to memory the awful Battle of the Blizzard.

Maybe it was foolishness. Maybe the trader was right about boasts. It was too late now to do anything about it. As Eldenhaul left, he would pass under the glare of all those leering skulls.