The Disappearance of Winter's Daughter (Riyria Chronicles #4)(38)
She hadn’t been hurt, and nothing was taken from her. Not that Genny had much when pulled from the carriage, just the dress she wore, her shoes, and a tiny wrist bag. She was surprised they hadn’t taken the purse. Not that it had much money in it, only a few silver—emergency coins—she called them, but why had they abducted her if not for money? The purse also had one other item, the key to her traveling trunk. She’d used the big sea chest as luggage when she moved to Rochelle and continued to keep it in her room as the one personal space she reserved for herself. It held nothing of value to anyone but her. The trunk was filled only with memories and mementos. She had a bottle of whiskey from “the old days,” and a diary, and her mother’s rings that were too small for Genny, and letters from her father. She kept those in the chest because she didn’t want Leo reading how much Gabriel hated him for “stealing” his daughter. The trunk couldn’t help her now, nor could her dress or shoes, but the coins and key were treasures. She had long since hidden them in her cell, in the stone’s cracks, fearful her captors would finally notice the purse and take it. She couldn’t afford to lose her treasures.
Most of the time, Genny was left alone in her cell. She was pleased that Villar was rarely there. When he did appear, his visits were mercifully brief. Erratic and berating, he would argue with the woman, insult Genny, or rant about the misdeeds of others. He usually left in a huff. Genny preferred the other warden. She was quiet, reserved, and respectful.
A noise outside the door caused Genny to stop in mid-stroke. She stashed the coin, went to the door, and quickly pressed her cheek to peer through the crack in the slats. She was relieved it wasn’t Villar. Standing near the entrance and shaking the rain out of her soaked shawl was the woman, the one Villar called Mercator Sikara.
Mercator pulled off her soaked dress and dropped it on the floor. Long ago she’d given up trying to save her kirtle. Surrendering to the inevitable, she’d dyed the whole thing, but it didn’t help. The front and sleeves were darker by several shades. Still, the garment fared better than her skin. The creamy white cloth had turned blue, but Mercator’s brown skin became a blackish purple. Standing naked in the faint light, she looked like one great bruise.
On the bright side, I have to be the safest person in Rochelle.
She dried off and wrapped up in one of her blankets. Soft, thick, and warm, it ought to sell for close to a gold tenent, considering the ridiculous amounts nobles paid for anything blue. Mercator bought raw material from Calian weavers who either didn’t know or, like Erasmus, didn’t care she was a mir. Mercator had an excellent eye for quality, and made good deals buying cloth for five to eight copper. When able, she sold the blankets to merchants like Erasmus for double. The blue dye made all the difference. After more than a century, Mercator knew how to cultivate and harvest woad, a genial flowering plant that produced a less-than-effective blue dye. To compensate, she had to soak and dry each woven cloth or bolt of yarn, then repeat the process a dozen times. The process was time consuming, but she couldn’t possibly afford to purchase indigo, a rare imported plant that was exceedingly expensive. The source of the dye wasn’t what mattered; the only thing people cared about was the deep-blue color. Her process, while time consuming, produced the desired result. If she weren’t mir, she would’ve been rich.
Mercator put the kettle on, stoked the fire, and then checked her work. Popping the lid on a clay pot marked with the blue handprint, she fished out the cloth, held it up, and let it drip while she studied the shade. It looked perfect, which meant it would be too light when dry—once the excess dye was removed.
With a disappointed sigh, Mercator submerged the cloth in the pot again. She had close to a dozen of the old clay vessels, which were found in the belly of the ruined church. At least she thought it was a church, but from the outside it was hard to tell it was even a building. Tall grass and bushes grew all around. If not for the arched doorway, the place could easily be mistaken for a stony hill.
The pots were huge old urns, a good three feet in height and beautifully crafted. Mercator almost hated employing them. Still, she had to use something, and these were ideal for her purposes. Mercator spent the late summer and fall gathering woad. She fermented the leaves in a tub of water mixed with a bit of lime. In the spring, she planted seeds that she’d meticulously salvaged, only a fraction of which would take root.
In winter, she spent most of her days dunking cloth in the blue dye just as she would do that day. She wrung out her soaked dress as best she could, dressed, and went back to work. Crossing to the last pot, the one she’d been working on the longest, she submerged her arms up to her elbows. Mercator held the wool under as if drowning a small animal, squeezing the material as hard as she could, wringing the cloth below the surface to help infuse the dye more completely into the material.
Dye! Dye, you miserable woolly lamb! She tried to smile, amazed at the insanity she indulged in to keep from going mad.
It wasn’t working.
Not-thinking was her best hope. Work kept her mind occupied, but she was running out of cloth, and after speaking to Erasmus Nym, it was becoming impossible not to—
“Any chance you’re thinking of feeding me in the near future?” The duchess’s voice came from the other room. Even muffled by the only door in the ruin, the duchess was loud. And she talked a lot. “I know I could stand to eat a bit less, but there is a difference between a diet and starvation.”