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

held roughly twelve hours’ worth of fuel, which was approximately the length of curfew from dusk to dawn.

I reached Turns at a good pace, noting the oil lamp outside as only a quarter past. I opened the door and was greeted with the smell of tobac, spilled beer, and simple food. Turns was noticeably less crowded than earlier, with most of the business departing south with the raid.

I made my way towards my table in the back. Two things made me smile as I approached: there was no one sitting at my table, and more importantly, there was no one waiting for me at it. As I took my seat against the wall, the sound of familiar strings played a familiar tune, it was followed by a chorus of off-key voices.

“Bears… and chairs… and great black balls!” echoed from the private room.

I shook my head, tapping my finger to the tune.

“For king! For crown! For tin tan can!”

Laughter followed and a singular voice rose above the choir, declining the calls for an encore. I recognized the voice, and as he emerged from the room, empty glass in hand, I recognized the stagger.

“Faerin!” Crylwin shouted. “Sweet Sereventus, where have you been? Me and the boys here have been singing all the songs and drinking all the ale, and where is my friend to—”

“Have you been here the whole time I was gone?” I asked.

Crylwin flashed a smile before taking a seat across from me. He took Ellington’s purse from the pocket of his lord’s coat and tossed the empty silk silently on the table.

I looked at the empty purse then back to him.

“I was busy,” he explained.

His choir flowed out from the room. All but the stringer appeared to be thoroughly inebriated. Ellington will have bought himself some friends tonight, to be sure. They shuffled past us noisily. A few stopped and offered slurred congratulations; the rest resumed their posts at the bar.

“Was that “Tin Tan Can” you were singing?”

“A version of it, I suppose,” he said with a shrug. “You locals come up with the most creative verses.”

“You think it’s wise to sing that song?”

“Wise?” He laughed. “No, but it was funny!”

“See how funny it is when the Imps haul you off for treason.”

He snorted. “Won’t that be the day. I’m Roharan, Fae, and a fucking noble! It’s not illegal for me to...”

He paused as he followed my stare.

“Your friends there aren’t so privileged,” I explained. “Imps wouldn’t give two coppers about stringing them up.”

He looked around. “No one saw. Imps don’t drink here, and Rohger is about as Cyllian as you are.”

I held up the palm of my hand, but at least I got my point across. Treason, even over an outlawed song, is no laughing matter.

Drinks came without orders, compliments of Rohger. Melly must have gone home as they arrived in the practiced hands of one of the men at the bar. Two glasses of purple malt, a classic at Turns, and the closest thing to a national drink. Rohger claimed the recipe was handed down in his family for generations, but that was another beautiful lie. He bought the place only a few years ago from its original Rukish owners. It was well known that purple malt had been flowing here long before the war, long before the Cyllians moved in.

Cyllians had a preoccupation with establishing their ties to this land. I didn’t begrudge Rohger his lies; they were harmless enough. I never met the previous Rukish owners. I assumed they had no desire for a tennentship and took what little coin was offered when they were forced to sell. Knowing Ruks as I do, I was sure Rohger had to pay hard iron for the privilege to tell such a lie. The recipe for Rukish cider was as much a secret as the recipe for truesilver.

Rohger pounded the top of the bar with his fist then called out, “To the Sword of Belen Hill!”

“First sword!” I shouted back.

Scattered applause followed, then it was business as usual.

Crylwin took a long drink. “So how did you make on it? Did he charge you ten, or did you get bent over?” He made a crude thrusting gesture and almost tipped over in his chair for the effort.

“He charged me eight,” I said.

He spat some of his cider out. “You lucky, Ruk bastard! So did you already grab some iron? Let me see this ugly bitch before you go and pretty it up.”

I paused.

“Lira didn’t come through for you, huh?” His tone was somber as he patted my hand apologetically.

I knew Crylwin wouldn’t understand my decision to drop two iron on a family I didn’t know, but I told him anyway. I expected him to laugh, to call me a sentimental fool, but he didn’t. When I had finished telling him the tale, he nodded politely and said, “Good job.”

He reached for his purse and tossed it on the table next to Ellington’s. “Owing to your Rukish generosity, drinks are on me tonight.”

I laughed. “These drinks are already free.”

“Next round then,” he said.

“Weren’t you already planning on paying for my drinks? Toasting my stars and all that?”

He shrugged, counted out a few coins, and proceeded to fill me in on what I had missed in the hours I was away. He recalled the speech the high lord had given in the square outside though he didn’t commit it to memory. His retelling, I imagine, carried a certain amount of additional expletives. Amidst his ramblings, he did provide some key details on the raid, which had grown to a sizeable force under Lord Brenigar from Ashford. Over two hundred strong he had heard, nearly the entire fighting strength of Forhd outside Imperial uniform.

Most of the men left on foot, travel sacks full to the brim. Those few that could afford it took to horseback. Brenigar said they would be rallying in a week’s time at Craynwold near the border. From there, they would cross the Red and strike along the southern