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

desire to sell the shop when he first signed my patronage. Ada had died, but I was still bound to the shop for two more years, owing to the original twelve I signed when Ada made me his apprentice. I was no master, but I was still among the best carpenters in Forhd, if not Belen. He could have compelled me to stay and toil like a proper Ruk; it wasn’t like I had any options. Perhaps it was his Northern sympathies that played on his conscience, seeking to pay off a debt his people owed mine. I just assumed it was his knowledge of the unlicensed forge in the basement that had him eager to be rid of me.

He always took Ada’s strips though, a bundle of copper and silver, maybe an occasional gold strip here or there to turn a blind eye. It wasn’t like Monroe had true Cyllian sensibilities, but he understood the risks. Two paths aplenty, he was more than happy to sponsor me into the merchant’s guild as my patron while at the same time clearing the way for new ownership.

Monroe was kind in that way, atypical for a Cyllian. It helped that he was from northern Cyllia, which used to be the Kingdom of Rohar before the Empire annexed it. He may have hailed from Gent before coming upriver with his family a decade ago, but his ancestral lands were further south, near where Tol’ Rohar once stood. That made him Roharan by blood and more or less a father to our cause.

The Roharans were cousins of the Cyllians, same light skin, same copper eyes, but make no mistake; they were just as vanquished as the Ruk. We had been allies once, our two peoples. Now they held the flattering distinction of capitulating before the war instead of after. They were wise to avoid the fighting, though wisdom was likely not the cause. Their surrender and the color of their eyes were the only reasons they retained any measure of autonomy after the war. They were still beholden to Cyllia, but they were given equality and some measure of authority so long as the proper laws were observed.

That was the case for most of the Empire—imperial law and imperial bureaucracy. Only Sevel stood apart, though its freedom was owed more to distance and political alliances than anything won upon the battlefield. We Ruks were not so fortunate. We made the Cyllians pay for every inch of ground they took. We fought bravely, foolishly, long beyond any hope of a victory. Then we fought cruelly in defeat. We paid tenfold for every drop of Cyllian blood spilled. Those of us left behind have suffered that debt ever since.

I slowed and crowded near the wall of a building as a patrol headed towards me. They marched three abreast, dressed in black. They cleared a path through the crowd with a line of souls trailing behind. The procession was a common sight this close to the beginning of the cycle when writ day dues were owed. The unfortunates were the usual mix of young and old. The young would head south; work camps and reeducation awaited them in Cyllia, the same trip I took years ago. The old would take the barges too, but theirs was a different fate. Based on the resigned looks they wore, they knew what to expect.

It seemed so long ago when I was one of those wretches, but not so long as to forget. I remember my hands were bound tightly with cord, and my feet were torn and bloody from the streets. Strangely, I remember that I was happy. Ignorant of my fate, I smiled as I loaded onto the barges, grateful to have a full belly for the first time in uncounted days.

I leaned close to the wall as the patrol passed. I didn’t make eye contact with them, but I held an arm protectively over my concealed purses. That was the final piece of the puzzle—coin. You needed at least ten writs, and they needed to be worthwhile. You needed a noble patron, someone willing to vouch for you and stake their name personally on your behalf, no small feat on its own. And finally, you needed more coin than most Ruks would see in a lifetime. The last piece often proved the most difficult.

Ten iron stars was a hefty sum, ten years’ worth of annual writ day dues. Most Ruks could barely scrape together the one they needed every year. Ten wasn’t an official sum, but it had become something of a namesake in addition to the commissions required. I had heard of applicants being charged more, but I wasn’t going to let that thought take root.

When it came to the coin, I was on the right side of luck. Monroe had let me stay in the shop while he searched for a buyer, a process that was taking longer than he had initially expected. He charged me no rent, which was well enough on its own, but I was also able to take on small jobs in between commissions to add to my purse. They were nothing big, repair work mostly, tables, chairs and the like. But Ada had taught me well, and my reputation borrowed on his own after he passed. I was without contest the best elderwood shaper in the province now, and this came to be my primary source of income outside of commissions.

I had trained carpentry under Ada for ten years. I was handy, a journeyman even if not by Cyllian official records. I could continue for another two years and apply for a master’s license, but that course was more unlikely than earning my stars. Cyllians didn’t like to acknowledge the skill of the Ruk; it upset their world view. Making new masters was just not in the bones. Stars were different; they had no problem letting us die fighting their wars. Besides, no one ever raised the worth of their salt