Dirty Work, Part 7 of 9

DIRTY WORK

7. 

Two evenings later, Yerzle and Gustaf stood on either side of Stillwell in his bathing chair as they watched a pair of villagers push a cart of dirt into the mill. A new addition had been built onto the building, without windows or doors, yet three other villagers with farm implements stood about the perimeter. “Those three aren’t very discreet,” Gustaf observed.

“That’s the whole point,” Stillwell said. “They’re supposed to look like they’re being subtle, and failing. So, they’re actually succeeding at failing.”

The donkey rubbed his chin and regarded the workers dubiously. “If you say so,” he said. He took off the cooking pot he still wore and ran his fingers through his bristly mane. “Did the leak go as planned?”

Yerzle nodded. “Szera said her brother left the house just before sunset, and was seen heading towards the hills. He returned about two hours later. That part seems to have worked.”

“Then we just wait.”

“It may take a day or two,” Stillwell reminded them. “You’ll need to rotate.”

“We’ll take care of that,” said Gustaf.

Portia walked up behind them, from the direction of the smithy. “So,” she said. “I’ll go first. Who wants to join me?” She already had her sword buckled on, and rested both hands on its pommel.

“What do you mean you’ll go first?”

“It means exactly that,” she said, and stared at Yerzle critically. “I know that we’re ready! You weren’t planning on keeping me out of this, were you? I thought I made things clear back on the ship. I can take care of myself!”

Yerzle spun through a number of conflicting ideas and emotions, some of which he did not care to admit even to himself as he worked to sort out a sensible answer. “All right,” he finally said. “You’re up first.”

“I’ll stay, too,” Gustaf said. “It’s my village, after all.”

“Are you sure?” Yerzle asked. “You’re no warrior.”

“But he and Szera were the only two to challenge us,” Portia said. “That counts for something.” She tapped the donkey’s cook-pot helmet. “And why let this stylish helmet go to waste? Besides, if everything works out correctly, there’ll be very little danger after all!”

“If you say so,” Gustaf mumbled, although he did not sound or look convinced. “I just want to get this over with so that we can get the dirt harvest in. We haven’t shipped anything out in nearly two weeks, and I’m afraid that our buyer in the capital will find another source for his dirt! If that happens, it’ll be worse than the borers!”

“This has been bothering me ever since I first learned about it,” Yerzle said. “What do they actually do with the dirt you send?”

“Who knows?” Gustaf replied. “Who cares? Jorke End is at the end of the road, literally. We don’t grow any food, and don’t have any resources besides our dirt. We harvest it, mill it, pack it into sacks we also make, and ship it off. If someone is willing to pay for our dirt, how can we complain? We use the money we make to buy our food and other supplies.”

“Well,” said Portia, scratching herself behind one ear, “if the dirt is so good, why don’t you use it to grow food and sell that? You might make more money that way, plus you’d have, y’know, food.”

“My father before me grew dirt,” Gustaf said firmly. “His father before him grew dirt, and his father before him grew dirt. In fact, every family in the village has a similar tale. We are a proud dirt-farming people! Who am I to challenge the traditions? That would be like saying the hills aren’t haunted!”

“But you never go into the hills!” Portia said. “So you can’t really say whether they are or are not, can you?”

“You’ve never been into the hills,” Gustaf pointed out. “So you can’t say, either.”

Portia opened her mouth to respond, then closed it. She opened it again, and then closed it again. She closed her eyes and sighed. “I’ll be back in an hour,” she muttered.

“You’re lucky all she’s got right now is that sword,” Stillwell told Gustaf as they watched her walk up the street, tail dragging in the dust. “Otherwise, you might have caught a snout-full of lightning.”

True to her word, Portia was back at the mill within the hour. Gustaf was also there, dressed once again in his makeshift armor and carrying his hatchet. Yerzle stood beside him. “Let’s get this going,” she said, and opened the door to the mill.

She and Gustaf entered, and the donkey shut the door behind them. Inside, the only light came from four small windows in a cupola, dim now at sunset. The millstone occupied the majority of the space and the earthen floor was hard-packed from years of either beasts or men traveling in a circle as they pushed and pulled the stone. On the right was a small door that led to the new room. Portia and Gustaf took their place in the far left corner, hidden from the front door by the stone.

“Do you think they’ll come tonight?” Gustaf asked?

“Who can say? They’re probably pretty desperate after all this time, so, probably. Not before full night, I don’t think, but likely soon after that.”

“I hope it’s soon. I want this over with.”

“The waiting is hardest,” Portia agreed.

They sat in silence as the gloom within the building grew. “You really never ask what happens with the dirt you sell?”

Portia could just barely see Gustaf shrug, guessing his reaction more from the rustling sound the bolster made. “We don’t ask many questions. We usually don’t like the answers we get.

“I get the idea that’s not your style, though.”

Portia chuckled. “No,” she said. “I’ve challenged a lot of traditions. I always want to ask ‘Why?’” She sighed. “Not that I always like the answers I get, either.”

“But it got you out of your village. What’s so funny?” he asked as Portia repressed a snort of laughter.

“My ‘village,’” she said with a giggle. “You could say that.”

“I sometimes wonder about leaving Jorke End, about seeing what the Middle Kingdoms have to offer. Is it worth it?”

“It’s amazing,” she said. “And terrifying, and gratifying, and aggravating. There are people like Rendtooth, who’d knock your teeth out for a few copper moons, and there are people like Yerzle who’d step up to keep you from getting your teeth knocked out. There are people far worse, and far better.”

She shifted on her haunches and swept her tail up into her lap. “People have died so that I could live. I’ve died, and people fought so hard for me that they pulled me back. I don’t regret leaving the palace, even though nearly every day I wonder whether I made the right choice.

“So, my answer to your question is yes, but be careful what you wish for.”

“That’s what I figured,” Gustaf said. “Now, what was that about a palace? And about dying?”

Portia began to answer, but at that instant the front door to the mill rattled.

“This is it!” Gustaf whispered. He scrambled to his feet.

“Stay low!” Portia whispered back. She climbed into a crouch and drew her sword. She tugged on the donkey’s sleeve, and the two moved to put more of the millstone between them and the front door, while keeping the door to the addition in view. Both crouched behind the bedstone, staring hard to see through the darkness. The door rattled again, then once more. Too far away to hear anything, Portia and Gustaf took a firmer grip upon their weapons, clenched their teeth, and waited.