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

various places, using her bone needles to secure her adjustment in place. She nodded, then replaced the shirt with another. I thought the purpose of trying on the same color shirt was pointless until I realized that the cut and fabric was different with each.

The pants were next, and as was the case with those left in my wardrobe, they were about two inches short. She tore away at the hemming of the pants with a silver stiletto then pinned the ends together.

“Boots,” she said, clapping her hands. “Come, bring them here.”

I stepped to where my worn-out pair lay on the floor.

“No,” Patricia scolded. “Those will be boiled and fed to goats.”

I opened my mouth to protest, then turned and saw Crylwin carrying a bundle draped in white cloth.

“I bought these outside,” he explained, unwrapping the bundle to reveal a pair of new boots made of dark black leather. He held them out for me. “You were in need. Figured your writ day was a perfect excuse.”

“Seveli leather,” Patricia added. “It has no equal.”

I stood motionless.

“Well, try them on. She will need to see how the length sits,” he said.

I ran my fingers over them meticulously. The leather was soft to the touch but still thick and durable. The soles were framed with bone and wrapped in layers of hardened leather. They were fashionable too, cut mid-calf as was the style, which would serve as an excellent walking or riding boot.

I did some quick calculations; a decent pair of boots might last you a year or more and set you back a crown. My pair cost five nobles, and I worked three years out of them. This pair, with its expert craftsmanship, would be half a star at least. Considering it was of rich Seveli leather, by skilled Seveli hands, it was likely a full star or more.

“Crylwin, I…I can’t—”

“Oh yes, you can,” he interrupted, kicking at my old sorry pair. “I’ll have none of your damned Rukish pride on your fucking writ day.”

“Crylwin Monroe!” Patricia said, wagging her finger. “Your tongue was not made for vulgarity.”

Crylwin’s freshly shaved cheeks reddened. “Sorry, Patricia.”

Patricia nodded, then turned to me. “Stand,” she commanded.

I stood.

“Is a handsome gift. Rude to refuse. Are you rude, boy?”

I shook my head.

“Good, is settled. Now strip, I must finish clothes. Come back in one hour.”

“What am I to wear in the meantime?”

She rolled her eyes. “If you must be clothed, wear horse clothes.” She bent slowly at the waist and picked up my old clothes from the floor. “Or walk nude, get sun on your pale barbarian skin.”

I took the clothes and began dressing. I wasn’t one for words in situations like this. Being on the receiving end of someone’s charity, even when it was a gift, was uncomfortable for any Ruk and this was an extraordinary gift. When I was finished, I looked up and muttered, “Thank you.”

Crylwin nodded.

“My girl is at baths, go to her,” Patricia informed. “She will cut you.”

“Wait. What?”

“Your hair,” Crylwin said, gesturing to his head with a pair of imaginary scissors.

“Bathe too,” she said pointedly.

“Oh, I bathed yesterday, I should—”

“Yes…” She sighed. “And you eat, and you shit, and you sleep. We do same things every day. You know this?” She narrowed her thinly manicured eyebrows and stepped closer. “You are lord, yes?”

I hesitated at first, then nodded.

“Good. Patricia is to make you look like one.” She sniffed loudly. “Means smell like one.”

Crylwin laughed, and a thin smile crept on her face. I liked her, though the thought made me think of Lira. Not in juxtaposition; my heart was stolen long ago. I just hoped the letter found her and brought her here. Being toyed with by this woman had me missing her.

I looked back at the table where Nahdril rested.

“I will keep my eye on your girl,” Crylwin said.

I patted him on the shoulder, then headed for the door.

This time, I took the private entrance to the baths, the one reserved for family. Regardless of what doorway you took, it was still very much a public bath if you were a Ruk. Unlike yesterday, there was plenty of company in the water chatting as they cleaned away a week’s worth of work.

I stripped naked and stepped into the wading pool. Bathing was as much a social event for Ruks as anything. More gossip was shared in the water than was shared in any five taverns of ill-repute. Unfortunately, the looks and stares echoed the common table from earlier today. I was a lord now, regardless of the blue in my eyes. I was no longer one of them, that much was clear.

I sighed and resolved to stick to the task at hand. I reached behind the bench that lined the perimeter and grabbed a bar of soap. It smelled sweet, and I recognized it as Cyllian without noticing the six-star embossed on the bottom.

“Well, that explains the crowds,” I mused. “These are a noble a piece.” I took the bar to my underarm. “What a waste,” I said as I scrubbed at my body. I splashed a few handfuls of water over my chest, then took a breath and submerged.

Underwater, I could hear a faint tapping sound. When I rose, I saw a Seveli woman standing on the edge of the bath. She was not the beauty that was Patricia. She was sturdier with heavy hands that would be welcome in any smithy. She wore her hair in a fan, resembling the feathers of a giant bird. She tapped a pair of silver sheers against the stone column.

“I am Margarette. I am to cut you,” she said with an accent lacking all the eloquence of Patricia’s. “Not swim you naked.”

She tapped her sheers again. I didn’t get the impression she was as friendly as Patricia either. I stepped out of the pool and wrapped myself in a towel.

“Sit,” she said, shoving a wooden stool towards me.

I took a seat as she positioned a mirror on an easel in front of