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

yesterday. She would take it, of course, happy to stick me with the conversion tax later.

“I only have coin on me,” I explained.

She looked up from her carrots and read the color of my eyes. She scoffed, whatever that meant. Her eyes were dark green. They might have once been bright and vibrant but were now as tired-looking and weathered as she was.

“I can make the change for it,” she replied casually.

“Ehhh,” I stalled. “You have any cider down there, nothing hard?”

She nodded and shuffled to the back of her shop, where a wooden door led to a root cellar below. I knew she had cider down there, and I knew the price was three bits. I had just purchased a bottle a few days ago, and I knew that she knew I knew.

She came back up a moment later with two bottles in hand.

“Two for seven or one for four,” she said calmly, placing the two bottles on the counter next to her.

“Hag,” I muttered under my breath. I should have never said I had coin; now she was trying to force me into breaking a penny.

“It was one for three two days ago,” I argued.

She shrugged. “Prices change, boy.”

I tapped the meat on the wood of her counter. “This is at least a week stale, don’t you think?”

She gave me a leveling look. I did my best to appear nonchalant. We dickered back and forth for a few minutes. In the end, I negotiated one bottle of apple cider, one stale piece of smoked venison, the oranges, a small wedge of soft white cheese, and a branch of plump red grapes she had just picked that morning. All in total, it came to one and a halfpenny, which was at least a fair price even if I was dickered into eating the exchange tax.

I placed two copper pennies on the counter. She handed me two copper bits in change. I put the thin pieces of copper wire into my purse as she wrapped my breakfast up in paper. With a nod, I uncorked the bottle of cider and brought it to my lips. It was cool and refreshing and just what I needed. With a wink, I tipped the bottle to her, grabbed my breakfast, and stepped out on the street.

I ate the cheese and grapes first, then the dried meat. It wasn’t stale, but soft and smoked with cedar if ever I was a carpenter. By the time I reached the Sigil House, the cider was gone as was my breakfast, sparring the oranges for a treat later.

I walked in through the north entrance, not the east that led to the commissary. It took me a little out of the way, but it spared me the off chance of running into Lira in this state. I would make for the baths first then stop through the drop stalls too see if any of my hinges sold. At the very least, I could clear up the misunderstanding with Corin.

What was the appropriate amount for a tip at this point? One copper, two? He couldn’t expect a whole silver from me that would be absurd, although I hadn’t tipped him at all for a full cycle, had Ada been tipping him?

Yesterday’s activity thankfully didn’t carry over to today; the bathhouse was nearly empty as I arrived. There were only a dozen or so sitting around the perimeter of the shallow pool. I scanned the crowd, which was made up almost entirely of older men and women, all Ruks on this side, of course. The old roots sat cross-legged in the water, bemoaning of better times while splashing themselves with long lashes of green eucalyptus. It looked like they were whipping themselves in punishment. I never understood the custom, which seemed as old as the river that birthed it, but I was too young to question and too old to care.

I headed for a corner seat, taking a detour to fill my cider bottle at the source basin along the wall. Cool water continuously flowed from the basin, spilling over the side, and collecting into the wading pool at the center of the room. At the bottom of the pool was a large drain covered with a stone grate. The first time I visited the baths, I was cautious about asking where that water went, concerned that my drinking water was nothing more than used bathwater. I was assured the stoneworks flowed one way only, taking from a source upriver and emptying back into the Woad south of town- a marvel of Cyllian engineering.

I took a long drink from the bottle then headed to my seat. I slipped my sandals off and placed my leather satchel down. I unwrapped my towel and sat naked upon it. There was no need for modesty in this place; we were Ruk after all. What did we have to hide? I stretched my legs and placed my feet into the cold pool. I wiggled my toes then leaned forward to stand.

This pool was the first wash, the wading pool, or the waiting pool if you like. This is where you would cleanse your body before going deeper into the bathhouse to soak. I took my bar of soap and lathered it in my hands. It had some grit to it, sealed with grain or some hard cut oats. I wasn’t entirely sure what it was made of; I was no soaper. I will say it did a better job of cleaning than debasing myself with a ritual flogging from a scented leaf. After a good scrub, I sat down and took a few handfuls of water, splashing them across my body. Bubbles of soap encircled me as I rinsed. Clean now, I stood back up, donned my sandals, and picked up my satchel once more.

When the baths were busy, you would take a wooden token at the entrance to the hot pools. Today, the waiting stand wasn’t set up, so I just strolled in