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

Crylwin looked up with surprise. “You have enough for iron?”

“No, not normally,” I replied, then let a smile creep onto my face.

He caught the gesture and shook his head.

“Hey, she offered,” I explained. “I figure I should have five maybe six stars left after I pay my dues. The good stuff will be gone, but there is no telling what people will have turned in. Maybe she can sell me something that needs some work that I can get on the cheap, saves them from melting it down at least. It’s a hope more than anything.”

“I wouldn’t drag her into it. I’m sure the auditors are suspicious enough with you showing up every few days and hanging around like a lady’s maid,” he warned.

I gave him a dismissive look and took a drink of my beer.

“You know I could just—”

“No,” I cut him off, reflexively. “I won’t take a broken copper off of you.”

He shrugged, expecting the answer. At least he knew not to argue with me about it. Ruks were prideful when it came to charity, and I had a shade more pride than most.

“Besides, I am already bent over on interest here,” I said, gesturing to the borrowed sword on the chairback. “The last thing I need is for you to come collecting. You might have to bust up this pretty face of mine.”

Crylwin smiled then stood as he caught Melly looking our way. He raised his empty glass then sat back down. I watched him for a moment, another product of my Cyllian education. During my time in the South, I learned how to study my surroundings. When people valued your life somewhere between a horse and a dog, depending on how much they liked the dog, awareness was typically your first line of defense.

Crylwin was handsome; he kept his brown hair styled, but his face unshaven, an interesting contrast compared to most Cyllian nobility. He had grown into himself over the last year; his shoulders were broader now, and his face held a brooding tone that often made him appear more contemplative than he was. He wore his lord’s coat with confidence and swagger, something that would have been out of place a few years ago. He was only a year older than me, but he was nearly my equal in height, a rare thing, not that I was tall for a Ruk, only that he was exceptionally tall for a Roharan.

Height had nothing to do with how he stood, though; he would stand tall at five feet. He was commanding and direct and owned an authoritative air even if he was inclined to act the fool. Still, people followed him, hells I followed him, and it wasn’t just because of the worth of his salt or the coat and title that came with it. I had always assumed it was the confidence one exudes when they wear a broadsword at the hip. People follow that kind of strength in this world, but the more I spent time with him, the more I realized the sword had nothing to do with it.

We talked of smaller things while we waited, the kind of idle chatter that accompanies a light ale in a poorly lit room. A Seveli salt caravan was due in town the next day or so coming through the northern pass on their way to Gent. Lord Monroe, who was on one of his ill-fated treasure hunts to Belen Heights, was looking to expand into agriculture on the Southbank. Decia was characteristically angry with him over some offense though his actual crime was a closely guarded secret.

Melly came with our second round and another glimpse at her inviting cleavage. Crylwin reminded me again of my failures; I reminded him I wasn’t celibate, only focused. I was keeping my options open to see how earning my stars might improve my fortune with her.

“You don’t have the salt,” Crylwin reminded me. But I was prideful, and a prime example of stubborn Rukish determination.

Little Lord Ellington came half-past second hour. I saw him first at the door and stood to usher him back to my table. He was the spitting image of his father though he had a stature more akin to his sister. Sashed across his waist in bright purple silk was a thin gentlemen’s blade. His discomfort was evident as he crossed through the sea of people. I hoped that would at least speed us through the transaction.

I had my writ book opened with sealing wax warming above a small candle in anticipation while Crylwin busied himself through my previous commissions.

“I didn’t know you were the Sword of Belen Hill!” Crylwin exclaimed as Ellington approached. I gave Crylwin an appreciative nod. I would need every copper I could get, and this little game had born fruit more than once.

“I’ve been drinking with a legend!” he continued as he pushed his chair back from the table and stood. “Crylwin Monroe,” he said, extending his right hand to Ellington. “I don’t believe we have formally met.”

“Indeed,” Ellington said. “Lordson Johanus Ellington.” He removed his glove and took Crylwin’s hand in his own.

I removed my borrowed iron hanging from the chair back and gestured for the two men to sit. It was a gamble involving Crylwin in this signing, but for once, the concern for Cyllian propriety seemed to be in my favor.

“Shall we be on with it?” I asked as I took my seat.

“Indeed,” Ellington replied.

Crylwin nodded.

I pulled the sheet of paper I had prepared for the transaction and began to read aloud:

“On this, the 4th day of the 9th cycle in the year 1272, I, Lordson Johanus Ellington, third named, declare that in full compliance with the law, the holder of this mark…”

Ellington took the note in his hand and read it himself for accuracy. While he read, I let my mind wander. I thought of stars on my collar and her on my arm; then a darker