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CaveLeather Bronn shoved the flap aside.
“My lord.
Mouth’s shored.
No one will go down.” Lyonel took his heels off the table.
“Why.” “Another fall.
Clef led.
He stopped at the hole.” “Come on.” Night on the bed.
A ring of men around the pit and no one in it.
Fifty pairs of eyes on the dark.
Spoil sloped to a gap the width of a man.
A mouth.
Clef stood first in line, pick white in his hands.
“My lord—” “Move.” Lyonel took the lip and looked in.
Geological Survey woke on its own.
Five yards of wreck.
A hollow under it, three yards high.
The signal under that was worse.
Or better.
Gold-green.
Right under the stone that had tried to kill them.
“Rope.” No one moved.
“Rope.” Bronn kicked the nearest shin.
“He asked you a question.” The rope came.
Lyonel knotted it at his waist and put the coil in Bronn’s hands.
“Hold it.” “You’re going in.” “Seven men under that.” “You don’t go yourself—” “You pull.” He took the edge and went down the spoil on his heels.
Rock rolled.
Dust to the knee.
Noise above him.
Bronn swearing and leaning back on the line.
The gap was wider than it had looked.
Sideways, he fit.
He drew the short dagger and probed the lip.
Stone went.
Hit bottom.
The echo came back metal.
Ore.
He turned sideways and went in.
Shoulders on wet rock.
Rust in the air.
Night Sight put an edge on the dark.
The survey painted the rest.
Ten paces.
Left.
Stop.
Something under the spoil threw light.
He crouched and cleared with the blade.
A fist of stone.
Gold-green.
Clean.
No waste in it.
Like someone had already dressed it.
[High-density gold.
Purity 78%.] Twenty-six points over the surface take.
He put it inside his coat and went on.
Three more steps.
The floor changed.
Grey-black to gold-green.
A field of it.
He scraped.
Dust off.
Ore under.
Turned.
Scraped.
Ore.
The roof caught what little light there was and gave it back green.
The whole throat of the hill was the vein.
He stood in it for two seconds and did not speak.
[Strike running east.
Call it two hundred yards.
North branch unread.] He did not finish the line.
Further in, the dark had breath in it.
He found them in a pocket the fall had left standing.
Seven.
Grey.
One with a bad arm.
All still leaking air.
“On me,” he said.
“You crawl or I drag you.” They crawled.
Moon at the gap.
Half his face in it.
Bronn from the lip: “You alive?” “Alive.
Pull.” Bronn hauled.
Lyonel came up last, knees raw, coat filthy, seven coughing men spilling onto the boards behind him.
In his hand, the gold-green.
He held it up.
Moon sat on it.
A thin halo.
Fifty miners stared.
“What is it.” Clef’s voice had a crack in it.
Lyonel tossed the stone.
Clef caught with both hands and turned it three seconds.
The eyes went wide.
“Deep stuff.” “How clean.” Clef pulled a whetstone, cut a scratch, and read the color against the moon.
“Seventy.
More.” “Seventy.” “That’s a lie.
Last deep take Silverhill had was forty years back.
Sixty.” “Look again.” “…Seventy-five.
At least.” The ring broke.
“That lot kept this hill fat for ten years—” “How many carts—” “My lord.
How far does it run.” They all looked at him.
Lyonel beat the dust off his coat.
“Two hundred yards east.
North I have not walked.” No one spoke.
Then fifty men pulled the same breath.
Bronn cracked a knuckle.
“Two hundred yards.
Three wide.
I can’t do that sum.” “Don’t.” Lyonel put the dagger away.
“It’s enough.” Two words.
Shock went to noise.
A pick went up and nearly took a neighbor.
A man dropped to a knee and came off it by himself before anyone had to say it.
No one stayed down long in front of him now.
Clef came forward with the stone.
Hands still not steady.
“My lord.
This is yours.” “I know.” “I mean—” A swallow.
“Silverhill’s cut on iron is seventy to the holder, thirty to the crew.
Gold has no cut.
Gold is bread and a hole.
This… what do you call the split.” The panel sat quiet.
[Clef — crew chief.
Loyalty 68%.
Waiting.] Lyonel looked at him.
“From tonight, ten parts in a hundred of every cart goes to the men who lift it.” Clef stared.
“Ten.” “Too thin.” “No.” The voice jumped.
“Gold crews here eat.
That is the whole wage.” A man behind him: “Thirty years on iron we took a share.
Gold never gave a hair.” “My lord.
You mean it.” Lyonel let his eyes walk the ring.
“Who are you cutting for.” Silence.
“Hellstone?” A head shake.
“The Rock?” Clef shook his.
“Who.” Lyonel held their faces.
“Me.” “You cut for Lyonel Lannister, you take a piece.” “You lift it, you share it.” “Ten the cart.” Three seconds of nothing.
Clef’s pick went up first.
“Lyonel—” The rest found it.
Fifty lengths of iron toward the moon.
A sheet of cheap steel taking the light.
Bronn, behind him, low: “If your father hears that—” “He can hear it.
He’ll call it good.” “Why.” “Because ten gone still leaves ninety that did not cost him a shovel.” Bronn thought about it.
“…Your sums are cleaner than mine.” “I know.” They went down.
Ropes on the posts.
Men on the ropes.
Picks started in the throat of the hill.
Clef’s voice came up muffled and glad.
“The wall is it.
All of it.” “Another lift under this one—” “Three years of work if it holds—” More bodies at the lip.
Men who had run at dusk coming back on the rumor.
Bronn counted.
“Twenty more.” “Put them in a line.” “For what.” “For a shift.” Lyonel turned for the tent.
“We work the night.
Oil is on me.” Bronn’s thumb behind his back.
“Open-handed.” Lyonel did not look around.
The lamp was still burning.
He sat.
Heels on the table.
The stone in his coat dug at a rib.
He left it there.
Geological Survey kept writing.
East: two hundred yards.
North: still tasting.
The reserve jumped.
Eight thousand.
Twelve.
Sixteen.
He shut the glass.
Sixteen thousand carts.
Enough to stand an army up and still have coin to feed it.
Outside, the chant was louder than last night.
Someone had found a tune with no words worth catching.
Lyonel tipped his head back and closed his eyes.
[Daily draw: fourteen hours.] A card in the morning.
Sixteen thousand in the hill.
Bronn’s mouth would run out of jokes by the third day.
The flap moved.
Half a head.
“My lord.” “Speak.” “I did the sum.” “And.” Bronn’s teeth.
The look of a man who had found a purse on the road.
“Sixteen thousand at seventy-five.
Market—” “It buys banners.” Bronn stopped.
“How did you know I was going to say that.” Lyonel opened one eye.
The green one.
“Because I pay you.” The head withdrew.
A curse on the other side of the canvas, fond and filthy.
Lyonel shut the eye again.
Iron in the hill.
One.
Two.
Three.
Every blow a coin.
Every blow a thicker West.
He pulled his heels down, put his head on his arms, and left the smile where it was.
CaveLeather