12 Gremurr Mines

As administrator of the Gremurr mines, Tukar held a position of some power and importance. Nevertheless, he remained an exile from his home in Olabar. He was comfortable enough, yes, but his situation was not so different from that of the workers and soldiers.

The decree of the former soldan-shah, his own father, was clear. Tukar was lucky he hadn't been executed for his mother's treachery.

So he made the best of his circumstances. Though the mines were above the Edict Line on the Middlesea coast, and therefore technically in Tierran territory, this outpost provided vital metals and weapons for the war effort. Since being sent here, Tukar had tried to make amends, prove his loyalty, and make the mines an example for all of the faithful; he owed it to his brother Omra, the soldan-shah of all Uraba.

He had grown accustomed to his eyes burning from the constant haze of black smoke, which even the Middlesea breezes could not sweep away. He no longer noticed the sulfurous stink from the smelters, the soot from the coke ovens, the rock dust that always made his mouth taste gritty. This was his life now, and Gremurr was his home, the place where he had a family. It wasn't so bad.

Even so, Tukar had not forgotten the fresh smells of the Uraban capital city, the perfumes of the palace, or the fine meals he'd once eaten.

Now, Workmaster Zadar led the weekly inspection tour of the slaves and facilities. Bald and stocky, his body a solid lump of muscle, Zadar was hard on the laborers, though not unfair. They would never love him, but they respected him. He fed the workers enough to keep them strong, and maintained harsh conditions to keep them cooperative.

For the past month, the workmaster had been particularly proud of their ambitious new rolling mills designed to manufacture heavy iron sheeting to armor Urecari warships. Inside the factory, Tukar heard the clanging of metal and the shouts of men pouring molten iron from a crucible into molds. In adjacent smithies, captives chained to anvils hammered on swords, while others stood inured to the spray of sparks from grinding wheels. In the oppressive heat, soot-covered Aidenist slaves hauled still-warm sheets of iron and stacked them into piles; their bare skin glistened with sweat.

Tukar nodded in satisfaction. “Good work, Zadar. Those plates will make our warships invincible.”

The workmaster wiped a bare palm across his forehead. “The iron sheets are here, my Lord, but the war galleys are on the Oceansea, on the other side of the isthmus.”

“Caravans can carry them overland from Sioara,” Tukar said.

“As easy as that?” Zadar gestured toward the rolling mill. “It takes two men just to lift a single plate. How many sheets do you think a horse can carry, on a cart, over rough roads? And how many plates are needed to cover the entire hull of a single war galley? And how many warships does our navy possess?”

Tukar struggled with the math, feeling deflated. He had been excited to see the added output with the new rolling mills, but he hadn't bothered to consider the difficulties of transporting the armor plates away from Gremurr. “It's like a game of xaries. I was seeing only one move ahead, while you looked farther.”

Zadar brushed aside the compliment. “And the soldan-shah needs to see many more moves beyond that. I don't envy your brother at all.”

Tukar's brow furrowed as he tried to think of a brilliant solution to offer Omra, but Zadar pulled him away from the working area, chuckling. “Come, it's not a problem for you to solve. I merely pointed it out to keep you distracted during today's game.”

Tukar brightened. Their daily match of xaries was a highlight for him. Over the past decade, he had become an excellent opponent, seeing strategic nuances on the board that his wicked mother had never taught him. But Villiki's goal had always been to demean him, while Workmaster Zadar wanted a challenging opponent.

The two men left the dirty industrial area and followed the gravel path up to Tukar's residence. The hints of comfort and finery in his home here were nothing like what he had left behind in Olabar. Outdoors in a red-and-green-striped silk pavilion, Tukar's dear wife Shetia had spread out a tray of fruit and skewers of roasted songbirds for them. He smiled adoringly at her.

Shetia was quiet and shy, not unattractive, though she wasn't one of the gorgeous noble daughters he might have married. After so many years, however, Tukar wasn't sure he would have wanted it any other way. His kind, loving Shetia never complained about being sent away to this hot and dirty place. She was the twelfth daughter of a wealthy merchant from Lillotha, and considering her own prospects she had married reasonably well. Tukar treated her with respect, even a touch of love and sweetness. She made him content.

Their nine-year-old son, Ulan, ran toward them from the main residence. He grabbed his father's sleeve. “May I play a game with you today? You said I was good enough to challenge Workmaster Zadar!”

The other man looked at Tukar in surprise, his lips quirking in a curious smile. Tukar said, “Yes, I am teaching the boy xaries. He was even good enough to defeat me once.”

“Twice,” the boy piped up.

Zadar teased, “On the other hand, my Lord, defeating you is no great challenge.”

Tukar sent the boy away with a fond pat. “You and I should practice a bit more together, Ulan. Let me enjoy my conversation with Zadar for the afternoon. Go play with your puppy.” Dejected for a moment, the boy went back to his mother, and the pair retired into the residence. Soon, however, the sounds of barking and a child's laughter changed the mood.

Tukar knew it was unkind to raise Ulan in a place like this, where there were no other children. So when a recent supply ship arrived, and the captain's dog gave birth to a litter of puppies, Tukar took Ulan to see them. Isolated at the Gremurr mines, the boy had never played with a dog before, but he was instantly smitten. After negotiating with the captain, Tukar presented his son with one of the puppies—a bouncing brown energetic mass of fur.

Tukar recalled how much pleasure his own puppy had given him long ago in the Olabar palace… for a few weeks until his mother took it away. Villiki did not want him to waste his time with such things. Later, though, Tukar had tended the hounds once owned by the soldan-shah's wife Asha. He wondered what had happened to them since his exile here….

A breeze rustled the silk fabric of the pavilion. Tukar, sitting across the game board from Zadar, touched the carved jet and jade, planning his opening move. The bald workmaster ate one of the skewered birds, crunching the bones. Tukar moved his first piece, and the workmaster responded quickly. The ebb and flow of the game was automatic to them.

They talked about their work. He countered the workmaster's offense with a move his mother had taught him.

Thinking of Villiki, he shook his head. “I cannot forgive my mother for trying to poison Omra and bringing disgrace to the entire royal family. But I miss my father, and Omra, too.” He moved another piece, sipped his warm tea. “Things could have been so different. Now I wonder if I'll ever leave here.”

“You could ask the soldan-shah to reconsider your sentence.”

Tukar shook his head. “No, I couldn't do that, although one day… one day I hope to see the new Ishalem that Omra has built.”