Song of Ashes

33: Out of Sight

The next morning, Rohk gave Sarka a hard roll for breakfast and cold water for washing up. He didn't offer her anything new to wear, and it didn't occur to her to ask; her threadbare dress and long cloth coat were as much a part of her now as her own skin.

"You'll make something for the window to show what you can do," Rohk said. "And you'll work back here. Out of sight."

Sarka looked around. They were in the back room of the shop, where he'd given her a place to sleep the evening before. This was the workshop proper. Along one wall was a workbench littered with needles, thread, and other tools; she wondered how he found anything in the mess. Aside from the tools of her trade, there was a board and an iron for pressing and a dressmaker's dummy. This last had loomed like a demon in the night as she lay trying to sleep on the floor, leaning back against a stack of boxes and wrapped up in her coat.

"As long as I have a light, that's fine," Sarka said. Was it her face he wanted to hide, she wondered, or did he want to take credit for her work? "What do you want me to make?"

"There's a mannequin in the window. Perhaps you could work something pretty on this for display." Rohk shook out a tunic that had lain folded on the work bench. "I was going to do the trim with woven ribbon."

"Mine will look better."

Rohk cocked a smile in her direction that did not reach his eyes. "Aye, I suppose. Well, get to work."

And so she did. She sat all day long at the workbench, bent over her needle. Her mangled shoulder ached, but she forced herself to continue; the sooner the tunic was on display, the sooner she might begin to bring in some custom and earn some money. She worked all day, listening to customers as they passed in and out of the front room of the shop. A woman from a nearby tavern delivered a hot lunch for Rohk. He shared a portion with her, and then they resumed their work.

Sarka stitched until the sun went down. There was no window in the back room-she was working by the light of an oil lamp-but Rohk poked his head in and told her, "I'm locking up. Put out the light. Oil comes dear."

Grudgingly, Sarka blew out the lamp. She couldn't continue to work in the dark, so she spent another night curled up on the floor, drifting in and out of fitful rest.

The next morning, it all began again. By late afternoon, Sarka had finished. The tunic was very handsome when she was done, although she had chosen a simple pattern of vines and red flowers in the interest of speed. She thought the design could appeal to either a man or a woman. The flowers were worked with a special technique her mother had taught her; like much of the traditional needlework Sarka knew, the trick for making them had been handed down through generations of women.

"Very fine," Rohk said.

"How much is it worth?" Sarka asked.

Rohk looked up from the tunic, giving Sarka a frown. "Nothing. No one has paid for it, have they? Once a customer lays down coin, then you'll get paid-not before."

Sarka had little leverage for arguing and no choice but to accept Rohk's ruling on the matter. He'd given her a place to sleep and food, so perhaps the work on the tunic was a fair enough exchange to balance the start of their arrangement. And it was intended, after all, to advertise her skills.

After the tunic, Sarka made handkerchiefs. Frivolous as they were, handkerchiefs were her favorite projects to make, and she had plentiful cloth and thread now to work with. She liked the challenge of filling the space carefully, bringing together a design that was just right. She played with color and detail to stitch a stylized sunset over the ocean, like she had seen from the deck of Etza's ship, with chips of gold glittering off the dark blue water. She made one with an embroidered image of a fern frond, like the ones she had seen outside Deyna's temple, employing a clever traditional stitch to make the feather-like leaves. For the third, she chose flowers, creating a fanciful arrangement that recalled the gardens she'd seen on her first day in Deynaport.

Sarka heard Rohk sell the handkerchiefs the first day they were on display. Although she was in the back room, she could hear him now and then when he chatted with customers in the front. She heard him modestly accept praise for her work.

To hear him all but take credit for her work made Sarka angry and vengefully proud. She did her best to swallow these emotions, although they burned in her throat like coals. She knew her empty stomach would hurt more than her pride, and she had no desire to sleep on the cold cobblestones of an alley if she could help it.

After Rohk sold the handkerchiefs, he gave Sarka her share of the profits: a handful of coppers. He dropped the money onto the workbench as Sarka stitched. When she looked up and saw the gleaming pile of coins, she realized something she hadn't before: she didn't know anything about money.

Reaching out to pick one of the coins up, she wondered if they comprised half of what she'd truly earned. She didn't trust Rohk, but she was ignorant. She was powerless to challenge him.

"Here," Rohk said. "Keep it safe if you go out. Pickpockets."

Sarka dropped the coin and laid her palm over the pile of them. They were cold. This was the first money she had had in her entire life. But would never be enough to have coins in her hand. how many dingy copper coins did she need to quiet the nameless yearning inside of her?

It would never be enough to be safe. It would never be enough not to be hungry.

It would never be enough.