The hilt would have to be nice, and she'd have to find a scabbard to match it properly. And to do that, she'd have to go into town. She dreaded heading there, where Amarast and his crew were known to haunt shops and eateries.
But there was cloth, wood and soft metal to be found there. And those things were what she needed for this project. Instead of bringing the knife blade along with her, she pressed a smudge of soot over it, and folded a piece of parchment around it, getting the dimensions for her scabbard.
Then she went back to her home, to dress and equip herself with what little money she had. Just because the mine was rich, didn't mean she was ever allowed to take any of the stones or metals out of it for herself. The workers were subjected to often embarrassing searches for such things, on their way out. Since she worked in the forge and not in the mine proper now, she was not harrassed this way. But she could easily tell that the burly guards who did the searching would love to humiliate her with a private search.
She'd take care of them too, if she had to. She glared at them on her way out of the forge, leaving her precious blade in Collins' care, and picked her way around the boulders and thick branched trees along the trail to her home.
She was more than halfway there when she could see the hearth fire had gone out. That was never good. They were often low on good oils for their lamps as it was, and the trees were too precious to waste cutting down. Angrily, she wished she'd brought along some of the coal from the forge's supplies, but how was she to know they would need it?
"Mother," Bequet called, and heard a sobbing, feeble response.
"Here, the fire's gone again... Why will this draughty place not keep a flame? Why..."
Bequet comforted her mother, leading her away from the hearth, which lay dark and cold.
She found her russet-and-cream dress, and her walking boots. They were softer than her work boots, and her feet ached. Now that she'd had time to get away from the forge, she noticed the callouses on her hands were almost bloody with work. She dropped her dress onto her bed, not wanting to get it dirty.
"Mother, I'm off to bathe... I'm going to town in the morning." She called, and barely heard her mother's soft response. "I know, but I need to get these things. I'll try and get some good oil too. And in the afternoon I'll bring back some coal for the fire. That's never hard to get."
"You'd think that it would be," her father said, jolting Bequet with surprise, "since they started those guards..." He sat on the back porch of their home, with two canes nearby. Splints still braced his legs where his knees had been shattered. Even sitting down, Bequet could tell that he was in great pain.
"I'll try and find some soothing oils too, father," Bequet kissed him on the forehead, and slipped away to the close-by stream. At least the mine's new 'owners' didn't venture close to their home, or she'd have to be more on her guard while she bathed.
Her hands would never quite be clean. Never soft. Her muscles did not ache, though she knew tomorrow they would. She'd rarely worked that long and that hard before. Usually she had the sense to stop. But today was just too much for her. The guards, the insults, the injuries... They all added up. And besides, she was going to have her monthly flow soon, and she always got into a mood when that happened.
Heaven help a man who tried to get close to her then! She chuckled, the first time she smiled in more than half a week. Bequet scrubbed her body clean of the soot and grime and oil she worked with daily, hoping that her own sense of smell didn't decieve her. She smelled clean, there was soap and suds on her skin that carried away the messy forge remains, but she wondered... Was she going to always smell like she worked in a forge?
Well, if she didn't, she'd have to remember not to pile on all that perfume that those Ladies tended to wear. They didn't bother bathing much, and she turned up her nose at the sharp sweetly stinking smell they brought with them when they walked through town.
Bequet wanted to be a Lady in title, but certainly not a lady in effect. How she didn't want to settle down with some minor holder, waiting for him to abuse her or cheat on her... Those things which her own father never did. He respected his wife and loved her through and through. She was his light... Bequet wondered if there was a man strong enough to hold her own attention longer than a good blade in the forge would.
While she bathed, she slowly lost some of her anger of the day. She mulled over what Collins had said. That she would be lowering herself to 'their' level, if she wound up killing one of the Holders... He was right. It was true. She could never live with that knowledge. She imagined things quickly and thoroughly enough while she worked -- her daydreams were rarely too far off from reality though. It wouldn't do to be day dreaming and then realize that she'd broken a knife or tool under her hammer.
Her mind was always active. Bequet was hardly a dull witted girl after all. She chose to work the forge, to strengthen her body and her spirit. Harden herself to the days ahead of her instead of letting someone else choose her path for her.
But someone was choosing it. She knew who they were. She knew where they lived.
Her soap-softened hand clenched tightly. Her work would be so much better if she could keep the mine in her family... But there was no way. She wasn't going to be able to sneak every lump of ore or bucket of stones past the guards even with her sly smile and coyly tilted body.
Bequet didn't cry, like her mother would have. Her mother cried at almost everything now. Her right foot would probably need to be amputated soon, if those sores Bequet saw on her mother's bare feet were not treated. The rock slide that buried her mother's legs and pinned her in crushed more than her toes. It broke her spirit, where there had been a vibrant, caring woman. Now there was a shell that had cracked and let out its heart. Quian was not a cold hearted woman, but she was not able to do much more than sob at the hearth, or put up with another guard's jibing shouts at her when she came to the forge. Bequet did not cry. For herself.
