Thrall by Catherine Miller

Author:Catherine Miller [Miller, Catherine]
Language: eng
Format: epub
Published: 2017-08-26T05:00:00+00:00

12. Work

Olivar had not been exaggerating about the heat. The fire in the forge was bright, the flames high, and it made the sooty lower room feel like an extension of the hearth. She sweltered, but Olivar seemed to think nothing of it, working the bright, burning metal with ease.

She watched, fascinated, not at all sure of what he was doing, yet she could begin to see a weapon take shape, a blade with a pointed end yielding to Olivar’s strokes with the hammer.

She watched, but the longer she was there, the more she recognised that there was nothing she could help with here. Not that directly related with smithing, at least.

Olivar offered her a pair of gloves, eyeing the forge dubiously as if she would combust simply by being near to it. Apparently they were worn by very young apprentices whose skin had not yet thickened to be able to handle such work, yet even those wanted to slip off her more delicate hands.

She handed them back with a timid smile, and he gave one in turn, though he still looked nervous to have her here with him.

She should offer to return above, not wanting him to feel so uncomfortable—and in truth, the heat alone was beginning to make her think that would be her own preference—but she hadn’t yet given in.

There was one thing she could do, if perhaps only with one hand.

And that was to try conquering the soot.

There would be always be more of it, of course, but that could be said of most anything—a dirtied pan, a dusty table, a rumbling belly. She found a water pump and a bucket, a much larger offering than what was upstairs, and after watching Olivar fill one, she managed on her own, dragging the heavy bucket along with her as she carefully wiped down each surface.

She looked down at her rag ruefully. A single stroke left it almost entirely black, but she did not have many to waste, so she would do what she could.

She could feel Olivar’s attention straying to her often. It was difficult to talk when he worked, the strike of metal against metal a deafening thing that made her ears ring, the smell of wood-smoke and coal burning her nostrils with every breath.

So she worked, and she wiped, and rinsed, and even managed to shove her bucket full of black-water outside. She was rather proud of that, as she didn’t spill even a drop onto the stone floor, pushing it along with her foot since it was difficult to manage with only her one hand.

Her satisfaction dimmed, however when she could not find a surreptitious place to dump out the contents. There was no drain, not like in the basin upstairs, and she eyed the road bemusedly. It wasn’t clean, not exactly—it was a road, after all—but that didn’t mean any neighbours would appreciate her adding filthy water to it either.

“You look lost, Ness,” someone called, and she turned, feeling caught at doing something she wasn’t supposed to.

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