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

The man stepped closer and placed his hand on my shoulder. He turned me around and pressed a sharpened stake to my stomach. “Now that’s a pretty looking swo—”

I spun my sword in a circle, knocking the wooden stake away from my body and out of his hand. He fumbled for the weapon, trying to recover, but it was too late, I had my sword drawn two inches, and those two inches were pressed against his throat.

I heard the footsteps of his friends. They grew ever distant as they fled. I leaned into the man. His eyes were wide, and pupils dilated. He smelled of whiskey and burnt leaves, which explained the eyes and slow reaction.

“Hey now, Cappy, I was ju—”

I pressed the blade to his jugular. “Purse.”

“I…I ain’t holdin…”

“Purse,” I whispered again. Blood welled around the edge of my blade.

His shaking hand went to a small leather bag he wore around his neck.

I eased the sword off his throat and held out my hand. “Turn it out.”

The man shook the purse, emptying a few copper coins into my waiting hand. I counted out a single copper penny, then pocketed the rest.

“Here’s a copper for ya,” I said, flipping the coin to him.

He caught the coin. I tipped an imaginary cap and headed back in the direction of the House.

Barring any other ill-advised attempts to relieve me of my life or property, I would make it to the House before fourth hour came. That would save me another day’s worth of merc dues on my borrowed blade. A blade this fine, those dues weren’t cheap. I considered that a good omen. With quin on my side, I would have stars and a blade to call my own by the end of the day.

It was easy to get caught up when you had momentum; I reminded myself not to be too optimistic—I was still a Ruk. Even with ten commissions, it wasn’t so simple a thing to just walk into the House to claim your stars. There was a process to it all, a formality that vetted out only the best to join their Corps. If, at the end of that process, stars granted you the right to wear a weapon and the freedom to travel anywhere within the Empire, I suppose it made sense.

Three things earned you those stars: coin, backing, and notoriety. On the latter, I had some luck. Not all my commissions were glorified bodyguard work for foppish lordlings. I was the famed Sword of Belen Hill, a name that had bolstered my reputation and earned me free drinks since early spring.

My first ale came the night I returned from the Belen Hill Muster and claimed my payment at the House. I decided a near brush with death was worthy of a pint or two, so I made my way to Turns to celebrate. I was so excited I didn’t realize my jacket was still covered in dried Golmere blood. That only added spice to a story that had beaten me back to town.

“Sword of Belen Hill,” an old root dubbed me as he retold the story, a story he never witnessed. When he finished, I earned my first pint, many more followed. I was the toast of Turns that night. I was flattered and more than slightly embarrassed, but I didn’t dare tell them the truth, not when the story was that good. The dried blood came out with the wash, but the name stained my jacket permanently. New commissions flowed steadily after that and so did the free ale.

But notoriety wasn’t enough if you wanted to reach for stars and come back with anything more than a handful of your own cock—you had to be backed. A sponsorship if you were Cyllian was a technicality. Your father’s signature, assuming you were true Cyllian, was all you needed to walk into the Officer Corps as bold as balls. They liked their own to lead their armies for obvious reasons. I, on the other hand, was a Ruk; I needed full patronage from someone of worth and influence.

In truth, I was half-Ruk, and the dual-color of my eyes heralded my mixed-race for all to see. A ring of copper surrounded by an ocean of blue; that’s what set us apart. War babes, they called us as if the innocuous nature of the name somehow dismissed our painful origins. We were children of the occupation, the hundred or so of us that had managed to live long enough to realize we were bastards. We didn’t know each other; it wasn’t like we formed a guild. But when we passed each other on the streets, we would nod knowingly. We were the lucky ones. Most war babes didn’t live long enough to take a third breath.

Bloodlines as they were, I had a patron, perhaps one of the most powerful men in all of Belen. Lord Monroe, Crylwin’s father, wrote me in within a week of Ada passing. The shop was marked for sale that same day, and I had an official patronage in hand before the new cycle. Monroe was supportive of my decision; it suited his goals as well as my own. He commissioned my grays for me as well, had his house steward do the fitting. He even went so far as to embroider the cuffs in Monroe blue, a gesture he said was tradition—I saw it for all its Cyllian implications.

Monroe owned Ada’s shop by law; like all Rukish shops, it required a Cyllian as the titled owner. Monroe, according to all official Cyllian documents, was the legitimate proprietor of Cole’s Carpentry. He took his percentage, but as far as he was concerned, my ada owned the shop by right or at least respected that right despite the laws that stated otherwise. Outside of the portion Ada paid Monroe, and the taxes to the House at the end of the year, Ada was pretty much free to do as he pleased within the shop.

I questioned Monroe’s