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

to pick my tub. The room was dimly lit with the only source of light the large oculus cut in the dome at the center of the room. This device had a cover of stained red glass that filtered out most of the natural light giving a crimson haze to the mists that floated about. Dozens of large wooden tubs lined the room in rows and columns. I found an empty tub off on the far side and headed for it. I placed my things on the wooden bench, grabbed one of my oranges, and climbed up the rope ladder.

I tested the water with a toe before stepping in. The boiler room housed in the foundations of the old fort below kept the water hot, but there was no telling what temperature you might get. I eased onto the bench inside the tub and leaned my back against the wall. I took a breath and submerged. I let my air out slowly, watching the little bubbles explode upon reaching the surface.

Next to the tub was a stone vent that shot a plume of steam every few minutes. Its sound called me up from underwater. I reached over the edge and grabbed an orange from my satchel. As I skinned the orange, I tossed the peels onto the vent. After a few moments, my little corner was surrounded with a citrus-scented mist. I soaked, taking small bites, while the warm water eased my aching muscles. The malaise that accompanied the dawn slowly dissipated. By the time I took my last bite, I felt renewed.

It took a considerable effort to leave the comfort of the tub. Any other day I might have spent an hour or more in leisure or even visit the lounge and play the old roots at a game of bones. Today, which was a growing regularity, I was pressed for time. I dried and draped my wrap around my body before gathering my belongings. I headed towards the exit in the back that opened to the lounge.

This room had no aid of an oculus. Here, the darkness’s only enemy was the many oil lamps that flickered on tabletops. There were chairs aplenty here and plush booths with thin curtains to offer a measure of privacy. This was a place to linger, gossip, or gamble, the only real social gathering outside the home or tavern. It was also frequented by some of Forhd’s finest women.

Brothels usually sent a girl or two to the lounge to attract customers, but there were plenty of freelancers too. Something about half-naked men and women fresh out of the bath made for eager customers. I thought of the Rukish mother and her boys. What price she would have paid for or had paid, I could only imagine. I took some small comfort in the time I had given her. Good omens, and the blessing of quin.

Today the lounge was empty except for three old roots in the corner rolling dice. To my right was the entrance to the Cyllian baths. In front of that door stood one of the biggest jacks I had ever seen. I thought about tossing him my remaining orange, then thought better of it. I settled for a little salute and headed to the dressing room to the left.

This room was brightly lit with windows of stained glass lining the ceiling. They came together as an image of the god Sereventus- his sword upraised to the heavens. I never paid much attention to Venticle doctrine, but his story was always one of my favorites.

I set up in front of a mirror and gave myself a quick review. I wasn’t unfortunate looking. I had filled out over the last six cycles, mostly in the upper body. Sparring with Crylwin had benefited me as much in added muscle as it had in aching ones.

I took the scented oil from the satchel, uncorked the bottle, and dabbed a few drops to my neck, chest, and wrists before pulling on my clothes. I ran a comb through my shaggy brown mop. It was starting to curl at the ends, a sign I was due for a cut. It too, would have to wait. I slipped back into my sandals, threw my towel over my shoulder, and grabbed my satchel.

On my way to the drop stalls, I decided that one silver noble was the appropriate amount to tip Corin. Considering he had been neglected since Ada’s death, it seemed a fair price. I was on a tight budget until I got my sword, but if the tip could lead to more profits, I could justify the expense.

I pulled out my purse in preparation and sifted through until I plucked out the desired coin. As I approached, Corin saw me and rushed over.

“All of them sold!” he shouted excitedly—taking my hand in his own. When he broke the embrace, the coin was gone, heading quickly into the pocket of his trousers—practiced hands indeed. He gave an appreciative nod.

“All of them?” I marveled. “Are you serious?”

“As I am Cyllian, Mr. Faerin, I wouldn’t lie about something like that, not with how important you getting some iron is. Makes me think you have the gods in your pocket there. A young lady came by this morning, pretty little thing too, and cleaned out the whole lot. She was a looker to be sure, a nice figure too if my eyes are copper. I’ve seen her working around here, spoke to her just the other night about you as a matter of fact…”

He stopped abruptly and fumbled through his ledger to find the receipt he had drawn up for the transaction. I didn’t need to see the signature.

“Of all the ways to…” I lamented.

“Oh beg pardon, I didn’t catch that?”

“Nothing,” I said. “I just know who bought them.”

“Of course you do a pretty young thing like that, I bet you know all the pretty ones around here, strapping lad like yourself, and a local legend by the moon turns,