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

their passengers one by one. Quietly, I considered how many might belong to the Circle. Pleasantries, veiled or otherwise, were levied from both sides. A gift was always given, some box or token to be opened later or risk insulting the giver. Then there was drinking. Under the shade of the elder tree, whispers spread of a scandalous lord, a foreign harlot, a drunk, and a Rukish bastard too stupid to know his place in the world. Every greeting was the same; every smile rehearsed, every forced compliment, a reminder that I did not belong in their world. And as I fawned and bowed, the line of ants grew smaller and smaller.

There were a few familiar faces among them. Rohger came, likely sponsored to the list by Crylwin himself. He carried a large cask under one arm.

“I’m one for tradition and all,” Rohger said, placing the barrel on the table and ignoring Richard’s efforts to relieve him of it. “But this is a party. It would be a shame for us to keep it sealed.” He had a spout and hammer in hand before I could nod in agreement. He handed me the first glass, filled to the brim with purple Rukish cider.

I accepted the glass as he poured one for himself. It was a shameless endorsement of his business and as much a canary for my heritage as anything. I didn’t hold it against him, though; everyone had a want for coin.

“Now that’s a good lad,” he said, raising his glass. “Blessings!”

“Blessings,” I said.

“Blessings!” Crylwin echoed from deep within the crowd. They all turned to him, then to me. A few raised their glasses as murmurs rolled around the top of the hill. I felt a fraud standing there, a painted lord on a gifted name. My lord’s coat rustled on a welcome breeze, and I turned back to the dwindling line of carriages.

Little Lord Ellington showed, and so did his father, Lord Ellington, the senior. They both made a show of how delighted they were that Monroe had accepted me into his house. The proper, humble thing to do, despite the disgrace of fathering a half-Ruk bastard. Monroe showed no teeth; he greeted them with the same dispassionate civility one expects in the Cyllian court.

My glass of cider ran empty. I went to fill it at the cask in between greetings. As I poured, a hush quieted the crowd, followed by elevated whispers.

I heard, ‘Governor’ and ‘Lord Tan’ rise above the din. I turned to find the man standing in front of a regal coach trimmed in gold leaf. He held a walking cane capped with an iron handle, though he walked without need of it.

“Lord Governor,” I said with some surprise. “I am hon—”

“Oh, for Sereventus’s sake, boy,” he said, shaking his head. “Call me, Nerris.” He stepped closer and whispered, “That’ll really give these buzzards something to talk about.”

I smiled and spoke loudly. “I bet it would, Nerris.”

“I’m quite sure you will be the talk of the province for this cycle and the next,” he said. “You might be the most famous Ruk in all of Belen.”

I shook my head. “It’s all a bit much.”

“Nonsense,” Nerris said. “Enjoy it. Rub their noses in it. Soon you will be forgotten just like all shiny new things; then the real trouble will start.”

I raised an eyebrow.

“It is one thing to honor you with a gift and dine with you for an evening. It will be quite another when they are forced to do business with you,” he cleared his throat, “as equals.”

“I guess I never thought of it like that before.”

He placed his hand on my shoulder and pinched. “I’m sure you will sort it out; you’re one of us now. Or should I say one of his?” He gestured to Old Monroe with his cane, then brought it back and tapped on the hilt of Nahdril. The metal on metal rang a subtle note. “Not to say enough for your luck,” he continued, shaking his head. “Gods be true. They must have shit iron when they made you.”

I smiled graciously.

“Not a Ruk in all the empire could say they bought truesilver on borrowed iron.” He squeezed my shoulder again.

My pulse quickened, but my smile held. The House was his domain; nothing happened within those walls without his knowledge. I wasn’t sure how much he knew, but I was wary enough not to incriminate myself—or her. “I am not sure what you mean, my lo—”

He placed a finger to his lips, then waved his hand like he was swatting at the heat.

“It’s marvelous times we live in, boy,” he said, his gaze growing distant. “Marvelous indeed.” He tapped Nahdril’s hilt again, then returned the cane to his side. “I should like to see that one day.”

I didn’t know what to do so I nodded. He gave me another pat on the shoulder, handed Richard a parcel wrapped in cloth, and made his way to where Old Monroe was standing. “Gods on high, who is this lovely…” his voice trailed off.

Richard returned to my side a moment later. “You are doing remarkably, my lord.”

“Thanks,” I said. “Their words cut both ways. I know what they think of me, so I just try to say what they expect me to say.”

He turned to me wearing an uncharacteristic grin. “Well said, my lord.”

I caught his meaning.

I looked back down the hill. Less than ten carriages remained. I tried to keep my spirits up, but those hopes faded as soon as I saw Fedorick. He rode on the back of Dustin, a riderless horse trailing behind. He was making a direct path to the stables, which I didn’t take for a good sign.

“That bastard!” Crylwin shouted. “I told him it was a fucking surprise. Why would he…? Gods dammit!”

I looked back at Fedorick and the horse he was bringing in. I had missed it before, but on second glance, I recognized the source of frustration. The horse trailing was unmistakably Steven, that