Dragon Weather by Lawrence Watt-Evans

unloaded.
    The ropes hadn’t broken. Arlian heard shovels and rattling ore as the crew up above began transferring the ore to the waiting wagons.
    The other slaves began chattering among themselves, but Arlian stood apart, farther down the tunnel than the others.
    Eventually the ore was gone, and a series of quick thuds could be heard as supplies were tossed into the hopper. The slaves, who had been resting against the walls or sitting on the stone floor, stood up and awaited the signal.
    The hopper began its descent, the rigging creaking anew—though less than before, since its new cargo weighed far less than the load of ore.
    Arlian peered out of the tunnel mouth and watched the huge iron tub creep downward.
    Bloody Hand was standing on one edge, steadying himself with one of the cables and watching everything as he was lowered down into the mine.
    That answered that question—Hand was back, and although he wore a bandage around his head and his face displayed a few cuts and bruises, he did not seem to have suffered any permanent damage from his misadventure.
    The injuries he had received were hardly enough to equal Dinian’s, Arlian knew that, but perhaps they would help to appease the other miners.
    Were they enough to salve his own conscience, though? Why had he saved Bloody Hand, instead of letting Fate collect the debt owed to Dinian’s shade?
    Then the hopper was down, and Bloody Hand and Lampspiller signaled to the nearest slaves. A moment later Rat and three of the others were heaving out the two barrels of water, the keg of lamp oil, and the sacks of food that would keep the miners alive for another day or so.
    Then the slaves were banished from the pitshaft again as Lampspiller rode the hopper up out of sight.
    The hopper was never left at the bottom for so much as a minute except under the direct supervision of one or both of the overseers, and only when there were men in the upper tunnel; the owners feared that slaves might climb the robes and escape. At the end of each shift the procedure was the same—the hopper was lowered empty, and then filled; ore was hauled up and loaded into the wagons, and then provisions, adjusted according to how full the wagons were, were sent down, attended by the incoming overseer. The departing overseer then rode the empty hopper up, and made sure it was safely stowed.
    Several of the bolder slaves had argued that it would be more efficient to lower the provisions and incoming overseer first, and then haul the ore up, so that only one roundtrip would be needed, but when the overseers bothered to reply at all the response was obvious: The slaves would fill the hopper faster if they knew the food would only arrive when they were done.
    When the hopper was gone Bloody Hand stone alone in the pit, looking around.
    The pile of rags was still there, but sprinkled with dust and gravel; torn scraps of rope lay piled against one wall, the last remnants of the old, worn-out rigging that had been responsible for the accident. The water barrels and oil keg had been shoved to one side, as well.
    And two dozen slaves were slouched in the tunnels, sharing out their newly delivered meal.
    There were four other men in the tunnel with Arlian, with one sack of food; he waited while they each took what they wanted.
    One of them, Rumind, looked at Arlian, then at his companions, Wark, Olneor, and Elbows.
    â€œThat’s all of us, isn’t it?” he said.
    Arlian straightened up.
    â€œOh, give him his food,” Wark said. “The overseer won’t like it if we don’t.”
    â€œOh, yeah, I forgot, Arlian’s the Hand’s special friend, isn’t he?” Rumind said with a sneer.
    Arlian held out a hand, and Rumind threw the bag at his face; Arlian was able to duck the throw, but not catch the projectile. He had to retreat down the tunnel to fetch it.
    As he picked it up Rumind shoved roughly past him.
    â€œExcuse me,” Rumind said.