A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (best free ebook reader TXT) 📗

The sigil guard was wound a bit tight as of late, a fact I owed to the increasing supply shipments trading in and out. Barges pulled upriver from the port at Gent beginning on the first of every new cycle. They returned downriver with the wealth of the North. Timber, foodstuffs, ore, and anything else of value, traveled east first down the river, Woad, before being loaded onto the growing merchant fleet that connected the northern and southern halves of the Empire.

With the shipments increasing as Lira had suggested, the guard was stretched thin. I suspected this wouldn’t be the last Ruk unceremoniously ended before sunset. As the patrol passed, I nodded my head respectfully. I received silence in response.

Material wealth was not the only asset that traveled those barges. More than half the space was reserved for people. Some went about business, heading for Gent or seeking a boat leaving the North. Most traveled as I had, bound to a cord and led by hard men clad in black. Cyllian goods and culture flowed north, Northern wealth, and its future went south; that was the way of things.

I felt a little better about my generosity.

On my way out, I traveled back through the drop stalls. Corin was still there, standing at his little counter. He made no motion towards me as he had before. I gave him a nod, then stepped up to my box and placed the two extra elderwood hinges I had in the wooden bowl.

“Mark them down to three and a half,” I said.

He nodded silently and made a notation in his ledger. I didn’t imagine it; he seemed offended. Perhaps I did get his name wrong?

I left him and continued along the Broad Way, glancing at the commissary wing as I passed—she wasn’t there.

A half-hour later, I was back at the shop and my little apartment that sat above it. I hoped to find that Dallon fellow waiting, but there was no indication he had been there. It was too much to hope for a waiting customer with a heavy purse—good omens or not.

I looked at the oculus above. It was fifth hour, half past, if I was precise, the thing hadn’t been calibrated since Ada passed. Light from above illuminated the bits of sawdust that hung about in the air like insects. It smelled of wood and pine resin. It smelled of home.

It would be a few hours before Lira or Crylwin would be at Turns, so I did the most sensible thing I could think of, I cleaned. Not the shop itself, there were few efforts more wasted than trying to remove sawdust from a workshop. I focused my attention on my apartment upstairs.

I tidied my washroom and decided that my jacket and pants could use a cleaning. I dressed down to my linens and took the stars off my collar before I set to the task. I used the water I had stored in the basin and a little bar of local soap. I gave each garment a few brushes of the bar before I set to scrubbing.

I opened my window that looked out over Heart Street and pinned my jacket and pants on the line to dry. It was nearing the end of summer. The days might be getting shorter, but it was still warm enough for them to dry in time. I turned back to the room and glanced into the hallway. Ada’s room was next to mine, undisturbed for cycles now. I shook my head. I wasn’t ready yet.

There was still some time before the festivities, so I did the next most sensible thing I could think of, I slept. I had little sleep the past week in the lead up to my final commission. I had grown accustomed to taking short rests when and where I could find them. Just an hour or so, and I would be ready to make it through the night.

I climbed into my bed. It would meet no one’s definition of luxurious, but it was soft and clean and mine. I laid my head on my pillow and closed my eyes.

Chapter Seven

Summer 1272, Cyllian Imperial Count

I stretched my arms over my head and yawned lazily. It was dark. Panicked, I jumped out of bed, ran to the window, and peered down at the lit street lamp. I breathed a sigh of relief. I was late, but it was only ninth hour. I still had time.

I grabbed my jacket and pants from the line, stepped into the washroom, and pulled on some fresh linens. I climbed into my pants, which were still slightly damp, and pulled my boots on over them. Their leather was worn, weathered, and in need of replacement, but I had more concerns for coin than the quality of my shoes. I put on my last clean shirt and threw my jacket on over it.

I grabbed my writ book and purse from the wooden table at the top of the landing and stepped down the stairs. I paused, shook my head, and turned back to the washroom. I plucked the copper stars from the counter and placed them carefully through the punched holes on my collar then raced down the stairs and slammed the door behind me.

A pocket watch for all its mechanical marvels was an expensive luxury; no Ruks I knew had that kind of coin to spare. Thankfully, the Empire took curfew seriously. In recognizing us for the poor sodden people we were, they marked the outside of each street lamp with notches so that we could freely tell the time after sundown.

The oil lamps that lined the main streets were lit beginning at seventh hour. As part of the guard change, patrols would move in teams of three up and down the streets with a wooden ladder, a pair of torches, and a crate of clay jars. Each clay jar, and subsequently each glass lamp,