A Promise of Iron by Brandon McCoy (the reading list .txt) 📕

the old roots would have preferred them at home too, if only to get a little peace away from the house. They joked that those who died in the war got off easy. Had they known that the price of survival was the continuous nagging that followed, they would have just fallen on their swords and had done with it. In truth, they were much like the Cyllians, worried for their legacy; what cultural remnants remained from the purges would be stamped out within a generation as the Empire tightened its grip on the North.

Lira was as rare in this as she was in beauty. She volunteered at the workcamps in the truest sense of the word, and there I was sure she gave as much from her purse as she did of her time. She scrubbed pots, mended clothing, and helped teach the children. More importantly, she cared, and not in the self-gratifying way others did—those that spoke of their moral imperative in the same breath as their Cyllian superiority. She had a heart that bled for everything sad and broken.

These continued acts of kindness and generosity, which were in direct odds with the agenda of the council, gave her father all the reason he needed to make her road a difficult one. She did need the job, and an unwed woman in the Empire had few options; it wasn’t like the masters were lining up to take on a woman as an apprentice. She had fewer options than me, a lowly Ruk. She could wait a table, wait a counter, or wait a bedroom.

At least the House paid better than a tavern, and the purity laws observed here kept the lewd suggestions and groping to a minimum. I mused that had she pursued the oldest of professions—she would have been lavished in gold and iron. As quin would have it, coin didn’t seem to have any hooks in her.

“I’m sorry,” I said. “I forget about the crows sometimes.”

She made a dismissive gesture. “It’s okay; I don’t think they are paying much attention; they’re preparing the deposit for transfer.”

“Why so soon? Didn’t they just have one a few weeks ago?”

“They did, but they’re increasing before winter sets in. Most of the garrison has already left south now that the raids have slowed.”

“They are planning something down there,” I said.

She nodded. “Still, a lady does require an escort in these dark times.” She held her hand to her head. “Even if Turns barely constitutes as an establishment.”

I laughed and watched as the tension left her face and shoulders.

“I am finished at sixth hour if you want to walk me home first? I’ll want to change before we head out,” she said, gesturing to her outfit.

She wore a blouse that left her neck and shoulder bare, which was the current fashion. It was buttoned tastefully along the front and as complimenting of her chest and figure as it was concealing. It was a thin fabric dyed a light shade of green. The name of the color eluded me, but on her, no name could give it justice.

She paired the top with sleek black trousers, cut to imitate the current men’s style. It was a fashion choice not uncommon with the woman that worked the House; I suppose they thought it helped to level their negotiations as if we men were so easily cowed by a firm hand and a pair of slick trousers.

“Six it is,” I agreed.

“It’s a date, now back to business?”

With that, she flipped through the pages of my writ and found the contract for the borrowed iron. She took note of the contract number and opened her ledger to find its twin.

“Here it is,” she said after leafing through a dozen caramel-colored pages. She read it aloud, carefully stipulating the terms of the loan spelled out by Ela for the auditors to hear. This was done more for transparency’s sake. She had worked at the commissary for nearly a year and had found that the best way to keep the auditors at bay was to speak loudly of whom and what business you were dealing in.

When she was finished reading the terms of the contract, she looked down to inspect the sword. She placed one hand around the leather grip and the other around the sheath. She slowly pulled the weapon free.

“Stun-ning.” She whistled.

I nodded.

For my contract I needed to pose as one of Ellington’s retinues and not a rural jacket with a bent piece of bronze. The sword was forged steel, stately, and well crafted, like it came from a house armory. It certainly looked the part, minus the lord stone that would have rested on the pommel, but no one noticed the missing detail under my gloved palm.

“It’s clean, no chips or blemishes,” she remarked. “Did you even have to draw it?”

“Only once,” I said, pointing to a small sample of blood along the edge.

She followed my gaze and wiped the blade with a damp cloth. “Should I ask?”

I shrugged my shoulders. I could have said something glib like “A gentleman never tells.” However, I was growing confident in the effect of my silent stoicism.

She shook her head, and a lock of auburn hair fell to brush her face. She raised a hand absently to tuck it behind her ear then paused mid-gesture as she caught me staring at her. It wasn’t the first time she caught me staring, and it wouldn’t be the last.

Often, it was the lilt and line of her lips that put me under her weave. Slender in pink, they made shapes for words, but all I saw was the way they glistened in the light. Other days it was in a lusty appreciation of her body, the way it curved and shaped in all the appropriate places. On a day like today, it was her eyes that so thoroughly entranced me, warm copper orbs that belied nothing of the hatred between our peoples. I never cared for art, but I drank