Chapter 20.5: The Things We Make

The third house had a broken hinge. Lucarien could tell before the woman opened her door. It hung crookedly in its frame, the lower corner scraping against the stone threshold. Someone had tried to repair it before, judging by the mismatched nails and the strip of leather wedged beneath the ironwork. 

His father noticed it too. “That’ll need replacing,” Garron muttered, shifting his weight against the wooden crutch beneath his arm. Lucarien glanced at him. Sweat had gathered along his father’s temples despite the cold morning air. His bad leg trembled beneath the weight of his body, and the lines around his mouth had grown deeper with every street they crossed. 

They had already visited two houses. At the first, an elderly man had paid them three copper pieces to repair a window latch. At the second, a woman had promised payment for a broken stove but asked them to return after the next market day. Three coppers. That was all they had earned. The door opened to reveal a broad faced woman with flour dusting the front of her apron. She looked between the two men, her gaze lingering briefly on Garron’s crutch. 

“Morning, Mistress,” Garron said, managing a smile. “We’ve been offering repairs. Hinges, locks, tools. Anything that might need a steady hand?” 

The woman shook her head before he finished. “Nothing today.” 

Lucarien looked at the sagging door. He could have fixed it in less than an hour. The iron pin was worn, and the wood around the fastening had begun to split. He had a replacement pin in his satchel, salvaged from an old cart wheel; the woman was already closing the door. 

They stood there a moment before Garron turned toward the street. “Come on, then.” His father managed another dozen steps before stopping. 

Lucarien pretended to examine the contents of his satchel while Garron leaned against the wall of a neighboring building. His father’s breathing had become shallow, and his fingers were white where they gripped the crutch. The accident had happened four years earlier, when a support beam gave way in the lower eastern shafts. Garron had been trapped beneath fallen stone for nearly a day before the other miners managed to free him. 

The healers had saved his leg, though sometimes Lucarien wondered whether that had been a kindness. The bones had knitted crookedly, leaving one hip higher than the other. His knee no longer bent properly, and the muscles along his thigh had wasted until the limb was little more than skin stretched over bone. There were days when Garron could walk several streets without stopping. This was not one of them. 

“I think we’ve done enough for today.” Lucarien said. 

His father looked toward the next row of houses. “There a cooper down that way. Heard his press was giving him trouble.” 

“We can try him tomorrow.” Lucarien told his father quietly. 

Garron frowned but did not argue. Lucarien took the heavier tool satchel from his father’s shoulder and adjusted his pace to match the slow, uneven rhythm of the crutch. By the time they reached home, the morning had nearly passed. 

Their cottage stood near the outer edge of the mining quarter, where the stone streets gave way to packed earth and the houses leaned together as though holding one another upright. It had once been painted yellow. Lucarien knew this because a few stubborn patches of color remained beneath the eaves, protected from the rain. The rest had faded to the dull gray of the surrounding stone. Moss grew between the foundation blocks, and the roof sagged beneath layers of old slate that Garron had repaired so many times there was scarcely an original piece remaining. One shutter hung slightly crooked. Lucarien had meant to fit it for weeks. 

Inside, the air smelled of damp wool, woodsmoke, and the faint sourness of laundry that never quite dried. The cottage had two rooms. The larger served as kitchen, workshop and sleeping quarters for the younger children. A narrow doorway led to the room his parents shared, though in winter they often slept beside the hearth with everyone else to conserve firewood. 

The furniture was a collection of things other people had discarded. Their table had three different kinds of legs. Two chairs had been repaired so often that very little of their original wood remained. A narrow shelf held six chipped bowls, four cups, and a handful of cooking utensils polished smooth from years of use. 

Everything had been mended. The blankets, the curtains, the children’s clothes. Even the basket beside the hearth had been woven together with strips of old leather where its reeds had broken. Lucarien had fixed most of it himself.

His youngest sister, Nessa, sat on the floor beside the cold hearth, carefully arranging wooden animals in a crooked line. She was five, with round cheeks that had grown noticeably thinner over the past year and enormous gray eyes beneath a tangle of dark brown curls. Her dress had once belonged to her older sister and hung loosely from her narrow shoulders. 

The animals were Lucarien’s work. A horse, two birds, and something that had begun as a goat before Nessa declared it a dragon. One of the birds had moving wings, operated by a small wooden wheel beneath its belly. 

Nessa looked up when they entered. “Did you bring bread?” Garron’s expression changed. 

Lucarien reached into his pocket and withdrew the three copper pieces. “Not yet, little bird.” 

Nessa nodded and returned to her toys. She had stopped crying about being hungry several months earlier. Somehow, that was worse. Their brother Rellan sat near the window attempting to mend a torn fishing net. At thirteen, he had inherited their father’s broad shoulders but none of his height yet. His dark hair fell into his eyes, and his wrists protruded sharply from the sleeves of a shirt that had become too short. He worked carefully, though Lucarien could see several knots had been tied incorrectly. 

Their other sister, Mira, was nine and small for her age, with straight chestnut hair braided tightly against her head. She was seated at the table, sorting buttons by size for their mother’s sewing work. A little pile of bent needles rested beside her. 

“Mother’s at the inn,” Rellan said without looking up. “She came home for the washing, then went back.” 

Lucarien glanced toward the hearth. A large copper pot sat beside it, filled with cloudy water and several pieces of clothing that had been left soaking. His mother had probably been awake since before dawn…again. 

Garron lowered himself into his chair with a quiet exhale. The movement took longer than it once had, and Lucarien noticed the way his father’s hand lingered against his injured thigh. He set the satchel beside the table. “I’ll see about the cooper tomorrow.” Garron nodded. Neither mentioned the three copper pieces. 

Seryn returned shortly before sunset. Lucarien heard her coughing before the door opened. She was a narrow woman with dark hair threaded prematurely with gray, usually pinned into a tight knot at the back of her head. Stands had escaped throughout the day and clung to the damp skin of her forehead. She had once been pretty. Lucarien knew because Garron kept a small painted portrait of her tucked inside an old wooden box. In it, her cheeks were full, her eyes bright, and her smile wide enough to show the little gap between her front teeth. Now, her cheeks were hollow and the skin beneath her eyes carried permanent shadows. 

Her hands were worse. The skin across her knuckles had split from washing linens in cold water and harsh soap. Several fingers were wrapped in strips of cloth, and a dark stain beneath one fingernail suggested she had caught it while scrubbing pots. She carried a bundle wrapped in a faded blue cloth. “I managed to bring something home.” 

Mira abandoned the buttons immediately. Seryn set the bundle on the table and unfolded it carefully. Two small potatoes, half an onion and a heel of dark bread hard enough that Lucarien could hear it strike the tabletop. She shook out the cloth to reveal a handful of vegetable peelings. 

Nessa appeared at her mother’s side. “Is that supper?” 

“It will be.” Seryn smiled and brushed a curl from her daughter’s forehead. Lucarien watched her move toward the hearth. She was limping slightly, though she had no injury that he knew of. Her feet had simply become so swollen from standing all day that her shoes no longer fit properly.

She worked three mornings each week washing clothes for families in the upper quarter. On other days she cleaned the kitchens at the inn, sometimes staying to scrub floors or prepare vegetables when the cook needed extra hands. In the evenings, she mended clothing. There was always another torn sleeve, another pair of trousers needing a patch, another hem that someone wanted repaired for a copper or two. Sometimes the customers paid late, sometimes they did not pay at all, and sometimes, like today, the innkeeper allowed her to bring home scraps instead of wages. 

Lucarien took the potatoes and began peeling them. Seryn protested that she could manage, but he had already picked up the knife. The potatoes were soft in places, and one had begun to sprout. He cut away the worst of it and saved as much as he could. Nothing was wasted in their house. Not potato skins, not onion roots, not bones from the rare occasions they could afford meat. Even the water used to boil vegetables was saved for the next meal. 

By the time supper was ready, the cottage had grown cold. Seryn divided the thin soup between six bowls. Lucarien watched her ladle the portions. Nessa received the largest piece of potato. Rellan and Mira were given most of the onion. Garron received a generous helping of broth, though there was little else in his bowl. Seryn’s portion was almost entirely water. She set the bread in the middle of the table and cut it into six small pieces. 

Lucarien waited until his mother turned away before slipping half his portion into Nessa’s bowl. His little sister looked at him. He pressed a finger against his lips and she smiled. It was a small thing, but it made the hunger twisting inside his stomach a little easier to bear. 

The family ate quietly. Outside, the wind rattled the crooked shutter, and somewhere farther down the street a dog barked. Garron struggled to keep his injured leg beneath the table. He eventually stretched it toward the hearth, apologizing when his boot brushed Mira’s chair. 

Seryn ate three spoonfuls before setting her bowl aside. “I’m full.” Lucarien looked at the broth still remaining. She had said the same thing yesterday…and the day before. 

After supper, Mira washed the bowls in a little basin of cold water while Rellan helped Nessa prepare her bedding. Lucarien remailed at the table, turning a small iron gear between his fingers. He had found it in a scrap pile behind the cooper’s shop several weeks earlier. Two teeth were broken, and the central pin had worn almost smooth. Most people would have thrown it away, but Lucarien had been studying it ever since. 

His father had taught him that nearly anything could be repaired if a person understood why it had broken. Sometimes the answer was simple. A new pin. A stronger brace. A different arrangement of teeth. Other times the problem was not the thing itself but the way it had been made. Lucarien found those problems particularly difficult to leave alone. He could spend hours examining a mechanism, forgetting the cold or the passage of time until he understood what needed changing. But tonight, the gear held little interest. He could hear his mother coughing as she carried the washing toward the door. There was still work waiting for her. 

Later, when the children had fallen asleep, Lucarien found his mother beside the hearth. She was repairing a miner’s jacket, its heavy fabric spread across her lap. The light from a single candle barely reached her hands. She had pricked her finger twice. A small dark spot marked the cloth near the seam. 

Lucarien pulled out the chair opposite her. “I heard the eastern mines are hiring.” 

Seryn’s needle stopped. For several moments she said nothing. Then she resumed sewing. “No.” 

He had expected that. “They’re offering regular wages.” 

“No.” 

“Enough to buy grain through winter.” 

She pulled the thread too tightly, puckering the fabric. “Lucarien.” 

He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. “They need men to work the lower shafts. There’s also repair work on the lifts. I could do both.” His mother looked up. The expression on her face was one he remembered from the day the miners brought Garron home. He had been thirteen then, standing beside the door while two men carried his father between them on a board. There had been blood on the floor. 

For weeks afterward, Seryn had awakened in the night to make certain Garron was still breathing. Lucarien had never forgotten it, and neither had she. “You’re not going down there.” 

He looked toward the sleeping children. Nessa lay curled beneath a blanket too short to cover her feet. Mora had tucked herself against her sister, sharing what little warmth they could manage. Rellan slept nearest the door, as he always did, with one hand beneath his head. 

Lucarien wondered when his brother had become so thin. He had noticed the boy growing taller, but somehow had failed to notice how his clothes now hung from him. “We can’t keep doing this.” he said. 

Seryn lowered her eyes. From the doorway, Garron shifted against his crutch. Neither of them had heard him approach. His father stood for a moment, looking at the jacket in Seryn’s lap and the broken gear beside Lucarien’s hand. Then he moved slowly toward the table. “The eastern shafts?” 

Lucarien nodded. Garron knew those tunnels. He had worked them for nearly twenty years. The mines were among the oldest in the region, their passages cut deep into the mountains where Qarthos’s valuable metals lay hidden beneath layers of stone. The ore was worth a fortune to the noble houses. The men who pulled it from the earth were worth considerably less. 

Garron lowered himself into a chair. “The supports in the eastern shafts were already failing when I worked there.” 

“They’ve replaced some of them.” Lucarien explained. 

“Some.” Garron said slowly. Lucarien said nothing. His father looked at the iron gear on the table. “You still working on that.” 

“A little.” Lucarien shrugged. 

“Figured out what’s wrong with it?” 

“The teeth are too narrow. They wear against the housing. Whoever designed it didn’t leave enough space for the movement.” Lucarien explained. 

Garron examined the piece. “And you’d make it differently?” Lucarien nodded. His father turned it over once more before setting it down. For a while, the only sound was the wind pressing against the shutter. Seryn had stopped sewing. 

Lucarien knew what they were thinking. His father had entered the mines as a young man. He had worked hard, earned his wages, and believed that if he continued doing so, his family would always have enough. Then a support beam failed. The mine had paid him for the days he had worked before the accident…nothing more. 

There was no allowance for his injury, not compensation for the years of labor he had given them, and no promise that his family would be cared for. His place had been filled before he could stand again. Lucarien had spent four years watching his parents struggle because of it. He knew exactly what the mines could take, but he also knew what they could give. Regular wages, bread, warmth. Perhaps even enough money to buy his mother a pair of shoes that did not leave her feet bleeding. 

“I can do this.” he said. Seryn pressed the heel of her hand against her forehead. Garron studied his son. At seventeen, Lucarien had already grown taller than his father, though he remained lean from years of inadequate meals. He had inherited Garron’s light hair and strong jaw, but his mother’s gray eyes, which seemed almost silver in certain light. His hands were broad and rough, with small scars across the knuckles from years of working with tools. He had been fixing since he was old enough to hold a hammer. Broken toys at first, but then chairs, hinges, cooking pots and whatever else the neighbors brought to their door. 

Garron had taught him everything he knew, and somewhere along the way, the boy had begun finding solutions his father had never considered. But Lucarien was still seventeen. He was still young enough that he should have been thinking about the years ahead rather than calculating how many days his family could survive on a sack of grain. 

Garron looked toward his wife. Seryn shook her head. There were tears in her eyes now. “He’s our boy.” 

“I know.” Garron said quietly. 

“Look what they did to you.” 

Garron glanced at his leg. He had spent four years looking at it. Four years of waking in pain, watching his wife leave before dawn, and listening to his children ask whether there would be supper. He knew better than anyone what the mines could do, but he also knew that Lucarien had already made his decision. And perhaps the worst part was understanding why. 

Garron reached across the table and placed his hand over Seryn’s. Neither spoke for a long while. At least, she nodded. Once. Lucarien felt no triumph. Only the terrible weight of knowing that his mother had agreed because she could see no other choice. 

The following morning, Lucarien woke before dawn. The cottage was dark; the hearth reduced to a few dull embers beneath the ash. He dressed quietly, pulling on his oldest trousers and the thick wool shirt Mira had patched at the elbows. His boots were worn but serviceable. He had replaced the soles himself using leather from a discarded saddle. Beside the door sat his father’s old mining satchel. Garron had cleaned it the night before. Inside were a small hammer, a measuring cord, a handful of iron pins, and several tools Lucarien recognized from childhood. The leather was cracked, and one buckle had been replaced with a strip of wire. 

Lucarien lifted it carefully. His father had carried that satchel into the mines for twenty years. Now, it belonged to him. On the table lay a small parcel wrapped in cloth. Two pieces of bread. His mother had risen sometime during the night to prepare them. Lucarien knew there was no more bread in the house. He stood for a moment, looking at the parcel, then he took one piece and left the other beside Nessa’s bowl. 

Before leaving, he crossed to the hearth. His youngest sister had fallen asleep clutching the little wooden bird he had made her. One of its wings had come loose again. Lucarien adjusted the pin, turning the small wheel beneath its belly until both wings moved together. He placed it gently beside her hand. 

Outside, the streets were beginning to stir. Men and women emerged from the surrounding cottages, pulling on coats and scarves as they made their way toward the mountain roads. Some carried lanterns. Others carried tools or small bundles of food. Lucarien joined them. 

Somewhere beneath those enormous slopes lay enough metal to make the noble houses of Qarthos wealthy beyond imagining. Lucarien had never seen such wealth. He had seen broken tools, empty cupboards, and his mother washing the same blood from her cracked hands night after night. He had seen his father struggle to walk across the room. He had seen his youngest sister learn to stop asking for food. 

The mountain had already taken enough from his family. Lucarien adjusted the satchel on his shoulder and continued up the road. He did not know whether the mines would be any kinder to him than they had been to his father. He only knew that, by the end of the week, he might be able to bring home enough food for everyone to eat, and for now, that was enough.