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

the end of the hall. I saw the six-pointed star of Cyllia inlaid with gold on the door. This marked the head assessor’s office, the governor of the town, or in this case, the province as Forhd was the only seated hall in Belen.

The hair on the back of my neck rose. I tried to swallow, but my throat felt suddenly dry. Why was I meeting with the governor?

“Come,” said a voice from beyond the door.

The attendant turned the polished handle of the door and pushed inward. I stepped inside as the door closed behind me. I fixed my attention forward to the half-circle desk at the center of the room where a man sat, busying himself over a stack of documents. He wore the dark gray robes common to the assessors, but his robe sat apart, trimmed with bright golden thread. He shuffled his papers into a neat pile and gave me an appraising look. The gray in his short trimmed beard betrayed him to be a man in his early fifties, yet he held the confident and dangerous look of a younger man.

With an easy smile, he gestured an open palm to the empty bench in front of his desk. “Have a seat, boy.”

I stepped forward and pulled down on the ends of my jacket as I sat. I held out my writ book intentionally with my right hand, displaying my mark smoothly with the gesture. He took the book in hand and opened the cover.

He flipped through the pages of my commissions carefully, using his index finger to mark his progress as he did. I watched him nervously as he read. He offered a few nods but otherwise no indication, no impression if he liked what he saw.

He stopped on the third set of commission papers. “So, you are the Sword of Belen Hill?”

I smiled, then paused. He would know that, of course. I had fanned that flame for cycles now. Was that the reason he wanted to meet me personally? Had my fame reached a level of acclaim that I warranted a seat at his table?

I let my smile fade as soon as that thought ran its course. I had made a grave mistake. That day had earned me drinks, coin, and notoriety. But for all the boasting, I had made a significant error. I was not here to be heaped with praise by a Cyllian High-Lord. I was here to be culled. My crime? Reaching for salt not on my table.

“I have been called by that name, yes, my lord,” I replied.

“No need for such formality, boy,” he corrected, “I am Lord Governor Nerris Tan. You may call me Nerris if you like.”

I tried to swallow, but my throat felt as dry as the Wastes. My breath shallowed, and I felt the impulse to unbutton my collar. I was not expecting that. Was this a trap? Some bait or trick? I considered the guard outside. I couldn’t hope to overpower him, but could I run? Could I clear the House before the rest of the guard was raised?

I took a deep breath, forcing my lungs full of air, and smiled a practiced smile so perfectly cloying that it would charm even the most suspicious of Imps. I was trapped. I had little choice now but to dance to whatever tune he was piping.

“Thank you, Nerris,” I said.

“You are earlier than I expected,” he continued, looking back down at my writ book. “Judging by the dates here, Belen Hill was less than five cycles ago. That is a quick set of ten for anyone, let alone someone with,” he coughed, “mixed heritage. What was your secret?”

I felt the weight of his stare on me again. “I don’t know that I have a secret. I attribute my success to the vested interest of my patron.”

He coughed at my obvious bootlicking but did not relax his probing stare. “I see here that Lord Edwin Monroe is your patron, but also your landlord. A curious arrangement, wouldn’t you agree?”

I paused again.

Monroe was my patron, but my writ contained no information that would suggest he was my landlord. It was not an issue of legality or even propriety, but a curious enough piece of information to so casually mention. Panic rose again. Did he know about my ada? Did he know about the forge hidden underneath the shop?

A chill traveled the length of my spine. I heard a young boy’s voice calling to me from the deep parts of my mind. “Get out!” the boy said. “Get out now!”

“He is, and has been generous in both capacities,” I said.

“Indeed, he must be,” he mused, eyes unflinching.

My lips may have twitched under strain, but my smile held.

He continued reading through the writ until he reached my final commission. I wasn’t concerned about the contract with Ellington, but the wording was intentionally vague, conspicuously even. I was worried that if it came to questions, I would be forced to answer. Honor and coin dictated discretion, but I would not be caught in so bold a lie here, not with this man.

I watched his index finger intently as it reached the final line then curled, turning the commission over. His finger rested there, tapping the blank page absently. Then he spoke, “I thought the Monroes hated the Ellingtons?”

I looked up from his hands. His eyes were focused as they had been, but something had changed. He was laughing, not audibly, but as close as I could expect from the lord governor.

“I…ugh…” I stammered, “I believe it is the other way around.”

He raised his eyebrows and pressed his lips together. “I stand corrected then. It is a full-time job keeping up on all the gossip that goes on out here. You would think so far from Cyllia that court posturing would be lessened.”

He wagged his finger at me. “Not so, my boy. Out here, they have not but time on their hands to bicker and grovel and back-bite.” He placed his palm over his