A Promise of Iron Brandon McCoy (howl and other poems TXT) 📖

directions to your shop. I told him you would likely be in on the morrow if he happened upon you today and you were closed, on account of all the activity with the raid; I figured you would close up early and be in. Told him you were the best crafter I knew, outside of ole Cole, of course, which would make you the best now that he is gone, gods rest him. He said he would be stopping by, didn’t give a time though.”

His rambling ceased. He blinked at me with beady copper eyes.

“Uh, thanks…Corin,” I replied.

“So what business have you here today? You already saw the pickings on your stall, bad luck, I’m afraid, not many in to do business up this way today seems like most are shutting down and making a run south. I hear most of Forhd is in arms. Proper stuff that is, filthy Mere, hope the lads can pull some iron off their pointy-eared heads. But I figured you would be wanting in on that, must mean your business here today. So stars, is it? I have had an eye on you; everyone who is anyone at the House should know the Sword of Belen Hill. A testament to your people you are lad, half copper or not. I have never been much on that purity business, a good sword arm is a good sword arm I always say, and your folk sure gave us coppers one heck of a fight. Well your daddy and his more likely. Well, gods, you couldn’t have been much more than a pup yourself eh? Either mixed before or mixed during doesn’t make much of a difference. Plenty of you war babes running around still to give the old crows at the purity council night fits.”

He let out a weak chuckle then went silent again.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to say to any of that, so I smiled.

Then he smiled.

An awkward silence settled in as we stood there, smiling at each other.

“Well...” I said, “I’d better be moving on. Thanks, Corin.” I patted him on the shoulder and started back down the hall.

“Good luck!” he called out almost sarcastically before turning back to his ledgers in a huff.

“Odd little man,” I said under my breath. “Wonder what has his linens in a knot.”

As I continued down the Broad Way, the air grew heavy and humid. The bathhouse neared on my right. The smell of scented oils was enticing and a reminder that I was long overdue for a good soak. I waved it goodbye as I passed, offering a promise of leisure tomorrow- when I had the time.

I arrived at my destination a few moments later. Wooden benches lined a square-cut waiting room that served the various courts. The room was set up to seat fifty or more comfortably, but today there were only a handful of people sitting in wait.

I went to the clerk at the open window on the far wall and handed her my writ book. She looked it over then offered me a wooden tile with the number ten and four on it. I took my token to a seat on the opposite side of the entrance. I leaned my back against the wall and grinned.

The small crowd dissipated quickly. Say what you will on the lesser evils of the Cyllian Empire, bureaucratic efficiency was one of them.

Writ day taxes, which were the primary function of the assessor’s office, were pretty straight forward. An iron star each year would earn you an extension on your writ and a voucher to use at one of the licensed inkers at the House. The ink used to make the mark, much like the purity solutions used by the auditors, had proved quite difficult to replicate. There was a metallic element to the ink that responded uniquely to human skin. When fresh, your mark would almost shimmer in the light. That effect would fade over time, and after ten cycles or so, it was an obvious reminder to you, and any jacks around, that you were due to pay your tax.

Each mark was supposedly unique, a pictogram that few could still read. It was a language of sorts, a holdover from the Emerese—their final gift to the world before being snuffed out by the Empire. Their kingdom was a center for art and learning, a bright light in the dark that came with the Fall. Scholars traveled from each of the six kingdoms, eager to study in their many libraries. The people of Emerand, those that survived the purges, were the first branded by the Empire. It is a cruel irony that their language, their legacy, became synonymous with enslavement to the very Empire that destroyed them.

“Ten and three!” the clerk called.

I was next.

I felt my breath catch in my throat. I thought I had the notoriety and the right backing, but the fee for getting your stars was by no means standard. The average was ten iron, but I had heard of more extravagant fees as well. I could just as easily walk in there and be told the fee was ten and five. If that happened, I would be spent, stars on my collar but none in my pocket. I opened my writ book and meticulously refolded my documents. I forced myself to breathe—today was full of good omens.

“Ten and four,” the clerk said.

I let out a long-drawn breath, grabbed my writ book, and walked towards the now open door. I showed my mark to the attendant and opened the front page of my writ. With a nod, he ushered me down the hall.

The assessor’s office was not a singular office, where one grizzled crow weighed life or death on the populace. He led me down a hall, where I passed several closed doors, five in all. I could hear the muffled sound of a woman sobbing; I could only imagine what that conversation entailed.

“Faerin of Forhd,” the attendant announced, knocking on the door at