Bronn shook him out of the chair.
“My lord.
Trouble.” Lyonel opened one eye.
“Five men tried the dark.
We caught them at the storehouse.” Bronn’s face was not happy.
“Not ours.
Bound crew off the Tooth.
Mixed with the line for two days.
Went for a pocket of ore tonight.” Lyonel sat up and rubbed his face.
“Bring them.” They came in shaking.
The first was thirty, thin as a rake, a scar from brow to jaw.
Dirt on him.
Eyes too bright for the rest of it.
“Knees,” Bronn said, and hooked one.
“Don’t.” Bronn took the boot back.
Five men standing.
No idea which way was safer.
“Tooth,” Lyonel said.
The thin one nodded.
“Yes.” “Why run.” “Hungry.” One word.
“They don’t feed you.” A look up.
Then down.
“Once a day.
Thin.” The man beside him found a voice.
“Five years.
Never a full plate.
Sentries at night.
We heard this hill puts food on.
Shift change.
Drainage cut.
Five of us.” “And my ore.” “Not stealing.” The scar came up fast.
“We wanted a belly.
We wouldn’t touch the clean stone.
Scraps—” “Scraps are mine too.” Five mouths shut.
Three seconds of tent.
The panel marked the first man.
[Tooth runaway.
Labor.
Loyalty 0%.] Zero.
No master on the books yet.
“How many in the Tooth pits.” The scar blinked.
“Six hundred.
More.” “Rations.” “Gruel.
Once.” “Take.” “A dozen carts a day.
Dirty.
Not thirty parts in a hundred.” Lyonel put his heels on the floor.
“From today the Tooth crews sit under my hand.” The scar’s eyes went wide.
“Lord Denys will not—” “He will.” Lyonel looked at Bronn.
“Raven.
Denys Prester.
Silverhill.
One line: come for your men, or come with the book.” Bronn grinned and went.
Denys hit camp at noon the next day.
Ten guards.
Horses blown.
Face dark when he came through the guy-ropes.
“Lord Lyonel.
You took my people.” Lyonel sat on a stool outside the tent.
A board in front of him.
Two stacks.
Left: Silverhill roll.
Right: ledgers thick enough to hurt.
“Sit.” “I will not sit.
My men—” “Sit.” Denys sat.
Bronn behind the chair did some of the work.
Hand on the hilt.
Idle.
“Those five stole from you—” “They stole chips,” Lyonel said.
“Two coppers of dust.
You rode a day for two coppers.” Denys choked.
“I came for the dignity of my house.” “What does that sell for.” Lyonel pushed the right-hand book.
“Read.” First page.
Second.
Third.
Red to paper to something worse.
“These figures are wrong.” “You know if they are.” Lyonel laced his fingers.
“The Tooth takes four thousand carts in a year.
Your book writes three.
Where did a thousand carts go.” Sweat.
“Your pit-reeve ate eight hundred of those.
I will not name the purse they walked into after the sale.
That is your work.” “And this.
Gruel once a day.
Backs give out.
Yield sits forty parts under what the stone should pay.
Three meals and you lift two hundred extra carts a month.
Does that cover a pot.
Do the sum.” Denys could not do the sum.
His hands were not still.
Lyonel turned to the last leaf.
A red ring.
The number sitting in it like a nail.
“From today my people run the Tooth crews.
Rations match this hill.
The reeve loses his head.
What you save on his fingers feeds the line.
Enough.” Denys’s mouth moved three times.
The fourth found air.
“Enough.” “Anything else.” “No.” “The five.” “Keep them.” He stood.
The ten behind him found the dirt interesting.
“I do not want them.” “It is not whether you want them,” Lyonel said.
“I have already taken them.” Denys went to his horse with legs that had not agreed to the trip.
The ten followed faster than he did.
Bronn watched the dust.
“That speech.
I’m writing it down when we have a table.” “For what.” “For the next man who needs his own name explained to him.” Lyonel let it die.
He turned to the five at the tent-wall.
Scar.
The other four.
“You heard.” Nods.
“Six hundred at the Tooth sit under me now.
Name.” “Roger.” “Roger.
You go back.” The scar came up.
“To the Tooth.” “Yes.
You tell six hundred men this hill feeds three times.
There is a sickhouse.
Ten parts in a hundred on every cart.” “They will not believe it.” “Take a stone.” Lyonel picked a gold-green piece off the board and tossed it.
“Tell them that is two days.
If they still blink, take three more.” Roger caught it.
Knuckles white.
“My lord.
The five of us—” “Stay on the book.
Ride at first light.
Say it.
Come back to work.” No one spoke.
Five spines found a new angle anyway.
[Roger — 0% → 55%.] Lyonel looked away.
The quest closed itself.
[Miners’ Loyalty — 71% → 100%.
Complete.] [Settlement: crew loyalty locked.
Golden Tooth pit-rights live.] He killed the glass.
The flap tore open.
Merrick Hellstone, out of breath.
“My lord.” “Talk.” “The dry bed.
Under the fall.
I put men fifty yards in—” “And.” Hellstone swallowed.
Color high.
“East wall is hollow.
The mountain is the vein.
All of it tied.
The two hundred yards you walked may only be the mouth.” Lyonel waited.
“The point.” “The point is—” air “—three years.
At least.” The tent held that.
Bronn’s mouth open.
The stone in Roger’s hand nearly left it.
Lyonel’s heel was still on the table-edge.
The smile came slow.
“Three years.” “At least, my lord.” He put the foot down, stood, and took the flap.
Picks from the hole.
Dense.
Even.
West of that, six hundred men still eating water with a memory of grain in it.
Tomorrow those six hundred would learn a different count.
“Bronn.” “Here.” “Dawn.
You fetch them.
Six hundred.
If one is missing I will know the number.” Bronn’s heels came together.
“Yes.” [Westerlands Expansion — Stage One: 42%.] Lyonel shut it and went back in.
The iron kept time outside.
Roger stood at the canvas the rest of the afternoon with the deep stone in his fist, and did not loosen his hand.