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

“Mind if I smoke?” he asked amidst a cloud of grey-blue.

I shook my head slowly and walked to the other end of the table where my bundle of tools sat. Matches were an expensive luxury, something rarely found outside of Cyllia. Had they discovered something after all these years? There was always suspicion, but who didn’t suspect the servant when things went awry?

I watched him carefully, wondering how quickly I could retrieve my hammer if it came to that.

After a few pulls on the pipe, he unfolded the piece of paper and slid it towards me.

I didn’t take my eyes off him as I placed my finger on the document and dragged it close. It read:

Six dozen arrowheads, flat rimmed, bronze. Six dozen arrowheads, hardpoint, iron. Six dozen arrowheads, hardpoint, alloy at discretion. Two hundred long stem arrows, fletched, ash preferred. Three Roharan long…

“Is this some kind of joke?” I asked, sliding the paper back to him. “This is a woodshop, not some…”

He slapped his hand down on the paper. When he removed the hand, a single piece of iron remained. It wasn’t a coin or strip, but a solid ring of metal. It was as if a strip was folded back onto itself and forged together into a circle of iron. A circle of iron was exactly what it was—a solid piece of unbroken, unending metal, the sign of the Circle.

I froze. It was not unheard of for such a mark to come into the possession of the sigil guard; jacks had been trying to infiltrate the Circle for years. He could have picked it up from a rebel corpse or simply fabricated their own.

“That’s a nice bit of iron there, friend, but we haven’t discussed terms yet,” I said. “If you are paying iron though, I may be able to make the arrow shafts, assuming you have the proper…”

“Salt and ruin,” he interrupted, taking another long pull on his pipe.

I clenched my fist and pressed it to the top of the table. Then leaned forward and snatched the iron off the paper, tossing it back at him. He caught it reflexively.

“Next time, say the words before you throw a circle out in the open!” I shouted. “I thought you were a fucking jack!”

The man leaned back on the bench and placed another pinch of tobac in his pipe. “I had to be sure you could be trusted,” he explained. “Some of our words have been compromised.”

“So your way of trying to expose me was to expose yourself? No surprise, your words are stolen, damn fools the lot of you.”

He took another smoke of his pipe then turned it around in offering. I waved my hand. He shrugged, then put his finger in the end and pushed the lit ember around.

“I know my allegiances, lad,” he continued. “I had to know yours.”

“And where are your allegiances then?” I asked.

He paused as if he was searching for the answer. “To the red penny king,” he said with a wink.

I narrowed my eyes.

The war was long lost, and all the lands north of the Burh were under Cyllian control now. Despite the persistence of a few Golmere tribes in the West Marches, that control was unquestioned all the way to Sevel. It had been that way for a generation now and was like to continue for many more.

It wasn’t that I believed in the fight, but at least we had common goals. I pitied them in truth, their resistance. They had the same hatred for the Empire without the freedom, the flexibility, the foresight to do anything meaningful about it. They fought the same war they had been fighting for decades, trying to bleed out the Empire one kidnapping or assassination at a time. They had no more hope for victory now than they had twenty years ago. Old roots fighting a hopeless cause was one thing, there was something honorable in it, patriotic even. This man was no patriot- he owed his allegiance to the deepest purse. I had little patience for those kinds of men.

“And you presume to know my allegiances then?” I asked.

“No,” he admitted. “But, I knew enough to speak the words and get you to open your legs for me.”

“And how is that?” I scoffed.

“You’re not much of a card player, are you, lad?” he asked as he took another pull from his pipe. The smoke had turned from a light blue to a darker gray. He turned the pipe over on the table, and with a few quick taps, the ashes of spent tobac spilled out. He swept them onto the floor, including the still smoldering embers.

I leaped from the table. “It’s a woodshop, you fool!” I shouted as I stamped out the ember. “There is enough dust in here to set the whole block ablaze.”

He raised one hand in apology. With the other, he slid the paper in front of me again.

“Oh, you’re fucking serious about this? Look, I’m not sure who told you about me, but I run a small operation. This is something that—”

He interrupted by placing a leather bag on top of the paper. It didn’t clink so much as it thudded on the table. I didn’t have to open it to know that the answer to all my problems was in that bag.

I eyed the purse eagerly. “What did you say your name was?”

“I haven’t yet,” he said with a thin smile.

“I assume it was Lesso that sent you then, Mr.…”

“Dallon,” he said. “And you assume correctly.”

I nodded. “Tell him he still owes me six nobles.”

He tossed another bag on the table, this one clinked. Say what you want about the failures of the resistance, they were at least well-financed.

I picked up the paper and read through the contents again. He was requesting three Roharan longbows and three belt knives of bronze or better in addition to the previously mentioned items. The arrowheads I had molds for, but that would require getting the forge hot enough for smelting. I