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

“Give me my coin, you little bastard, or so help me—”

“You’ll what, sir?” came a voice from behind.

Something sharp pressed against my side. I turned slowly as the man came into view. He had all the boy’s looks with an extra foot in height and a thick red beard. He gripped the wooden spear firmly, with shoulders squared. I could tell he was familiar with the weapon and its use. I showed them both the palms of my hands.

“I don’t want any trouble,” I said.

“Then ye best not look for any half-breed,” the taller man said, pressing the spear point firmly into my side.

The boy slung his feed bag over his shoulder and strolled closer. As he got within arm’s reach, he stopped, sneered, and spit at my feet.

I ground my teeth and pressed my lips into a smile. “I was just leaving.”

“Not without paying yer not,” the boy said.

I shook my head. “I already paid two nobles for the beast.”

The man relaxed the spearpoint. “This true, boy?”

The boy nodded. “He paid two nobles for two hours, but that was more than four hours ago.”

I felt the spearpoint again. I looked down at the boy and narrowed my eyes. He smiled and put a hand to his whisker-less chin. “All things considered, I will cut you a deal and just charge you for four.”

“He almost broke my neck, you little—” I grunted as the spearpoint twisted.

The boy kicked absently at a clump of dirt. “I told you he was shy on his left. Not my fault you went riding in bathing sandals.”

I would like to say I argued, threatened, coerced my way out of there, but that would be a beautiful lie. I opened my purse, counted out two more nobles, and left them with a promise of new hinges for the door. I could have promised hinges made of gold for what good it would do. I wouldn’t be around long enough to craft them. I left their stable as the unluckiest Ruk in all of Belen, truesilver within my grasp, only to slip through my hands like spilled salt.

I limped along until the shop came into view. The lamp outside wasn’t lit, but I knew the House would be closing soon. I envisioned the inkwell, the reed, even the letter itself. I had practiced the words all the way from the granary.

I opened the door and moved inside.

Prayer was a fool’s lottery, something meant to absolve any personal accountability for one’s lot in life. I was a practical man, not a praying one. I shut my eyes, pressed a finger to my forehead, and mumbled words that Ada Cole had taught me. Today, I needed all the quin I could get.

The inkwell awaited me at the side table. I stared at it, then went to pour an ale from the cask on the wall. It was room temperature at best, but I wasn’t drinking for refreshment. I raised my glass then sat down at the table.

I wasn’t sure what fate awaited me; no crime had been committed—yet. Death seemed excessive, but a fine too lax. My punishment would land somewhere in the middle; I suspected, time in the stocks following a good public thrashing. I would lose my stars, of course, and what’s left in my purse. My chest tightened.

It didn’t do to dwell on such things. All I knew was I would take the Fall. I would confess it all, my con, my plan. It would spare her from any wrongdoing and make her a hero in the process, a daughter of the Empire crafty enough to foil the schemes of a lowly Ruk. She would try and stop me, but if she was smart, which I knew she was, she would say nothing and let me do the one thing I could do to make this right.

“Blessings,” I said miserably as I drained my glass.

There was a knock at the door: rap, rap, rap.

“We’re closed,” I shouted in reflex, then reminded myself what a paying customer might do to ease my burden. I bolted to the door, knocking over the chair in the process.

“Good afternoon, sir,” a figure said underneath a wide-brimmed hat. “Is a Master Faerin available?”

“No master’s craft here, friend,” I said eagerly. “But if you’re looking for Faerin, here I am.”

The man was tall for a Cyllian, with bright copper eyes and a long hawkish nose. He removed the black leather glove from his right hand, then extended it in greeting. I took his hand in my own, surprised at such a show of familiarity.

I gestured to the room and offered him a seat at the workbench. I took a seat on the bench across from him. “So how may I help you?”

He took his hat off and placed it on the table. He then took his other glove off and set the pair inside his hat. “An associate of mine offered your name,” he began- propping one leg across his knee. “He says you are a man of talent and discretion.”

The way his accent hung on each word gave me pause.

“And who might that be?” I asked.

He reached inside his jacket. “Let’s just say he is also a man of talent but very much values discretion.”

I folded my arms across my chest. I didn’t know this man. I didn’t know his face. He didn’t give any of the signals he should have if he was here for the reasons I suspected. “I wouldn’t know, friend, what type of work did I do for him?”

He took his hand out of his jacket and produced a folded piece of paper. He placed the paper down on the table while he went in his coat once more to retrieve a clay pipe.

I stood to fetch my oil lamp, then realized I had left it in Ada’s room. “I’ll just need to head up…”

I heard a scratching sound and the unmistakable hiss of flame. I turned to see him put the alchemical match to the pipe