by Bobby Adair
Oliver smiled and nodded at them. He cocked his head back, another gesture of superiority that he’d learned from watching Father Winthrop. The difference was that Oliver knew he was putting on a disguise. For Winthrop, that oversized maggot in fine clothes, the gesture was a reflection of his squirmy, dark little soul. He believed he was superior to all others.
“What is it Father Winthrop requests of me?” asked the Blacksmith, covering his grudging anger with an obsequious smile.
Oliver quietly looked over the items on the wall again as he walked past the blacksmith, knowing that by keeping silent, he was subtly asserting his control. He reached out and caressed the steel of a big knife with a beautifully carved handle. The blade was as long as his forearm, and could almost be used as a short sword for a boy his size. With a little creativity, it could even be concealed.
“My cousin does the woodwork.” The Blacksmith walked over to the wall and pointed at the knife, his face showing his pride in the workmanship. Scooting over to vaguely gesture at much smaller knives, he asked, “Is Father Winthrop interested in a weapon?”
Oliver glanced at the small knives.
The blacksmith said, “With all of the militiamen in town and the army preparing to leave, metals and weapons are in short supply.” He looked at the small knives again, laying a hand on one with a particularly ornate handle. “Surely Father Winthrop understands this.”
Oliver suppressed a smile, well aware that anything the clergy asked for was provided free of charge. He also understood that the blacksmith had paid for the metals, had worked them into fine blades, and had hoped to gouge high prices out of the militiamen in town, most of whom were going out to face the demon hordes for the first time.
Taking a risk, Oliver copied something he’d seen Franklin do so well. He stepped close to the blacksmith, laid a comforting hand on the man’s arm, and smiled as though he truly cared about the man’s problems. “Father Winthrop understands your dilemma.”
The blacksmith relaxed and smiled. “I’m so pleased to have such a kind Bishop at the head of our church.”
“Yes,” Oliver agreed. “What is your name?”
“Kilburn.”
“I am pleased to meet you, Kilburn.” Oliver gently pulled Kilburn’s arm and turned his hand over so that his calloused palm was facing up. Holding the strong hand in place, Oliver reached into his pocket, took out what he guessed was more than enough coins. “That long knife I was just looking at, how many coins would you sell that for to one of these militiamen?”
“I, uh…” The blacksmith rubbed his face nervously, smearing black soot that had accumulated on his brow. “Times being what they are…” He paused. “Prices go up. You understand?”
Oliver nodded, though he didn’t understand. Prices seemed like arbitrary things to him, but no matter of concern. He’d heard the merchants grumble about prices when he’d been in the market with Franklin. He understood that prices varied from day to day. He never accepted that a rabbit worth one price yesterday should be worth twice that price the next.
Kilburn meekly uttered out a number of coins.
Oliver nodded, took that number of coins, and counted them out into Kilburn’s hand. Then he added the same number again as the blacksmith’s eyes grew wide.
“Do you have your numbers, young Novice?” Kilburn asked.
“I do,” Oliver confirmed.
“That is worth more than the knife,” said Kilburn as though he was choking on a gob of phlegm in his throat.
Oliver nodded again and then cocked his head back. “Father Winthrop understands the times as they are, and wants you to be treated fairly. More than fairly.”
“Thank you,” said Kilburn, closing his hand over the coins and stuffing them into his pocket. “And please, thank Father Winthrop for me personally. No, I shall go and thank him myself.”
“Don’t,” Oliver said, scolding the man. “Father Winthrop is busy these days. I’ll pass your thanks and your name to him. He does require something more of you, however.”
Nodding vigorously, obviously thinking of more coins, Kilburn said, “Anything.”
“He intends to go out with the army when they march. He wants that knife for protection, should it be required. Do you have a belt and a sheath to hold it?”
“Of course,” said Kilburn, hurrying over to a wooden storage cabinet. “They all come with a custom sheath.”
“Good,” said Oliver. “As Father Winthrop will be taking me with him, I’ll need something small, perhaps one of these.” Oliver looked at the small blades Kilburn had tried to distract him with earlier.
Kilburn spun around, hurried back to his place by the wall, and reached for the small knife with the ornate handle.
Oliver shook his head. “Nothing that special. That’s for a merchant’s son, I think. Perhaps more for display than use.”
“Of course,” said Kilburn. “That is what I thought when I was making it.”
Oliver pointed at a small blade, as long as his fist, with a handle to match. A weapon that could easily be hidden under his clothes and carried all the time. No one would ever know he had it until he pulled the smooth, sleek thing out and surprised them. “That one.”
Nodding, Kilburn smiled and told Oliver the price.
Again, Oliver paid the man twice its worth. “I have one other request of you.” Oliver looked around the shop. “It may sound unusual, so please don’t laugh.”
Chapter 31: Bray
During the time Bray had spent with Ezekiel, the streets of Coventry had started to fill. Doors and windows swung open, revealing hung-over, groggy faces. Men took up their pushcarts and wheeled them unsteadily. Women cradling babies led packs of children on the day’s errands.
Bray strolled through the townsfolk, trying to repress the fear he’d felt while talking to Ezekiel. The fact that women were burned wasn’t a surprise to him. But he couldn’t suppress the fear that Samantha had been one of them.
He tried to enjoy the happy sensation of a man with silver in his pack, a man who had once again provided for himself. But his thoughts kept circling back to Samantha.
He took a few turns, ending up in a particularly foul-smelling alley. The street was narrow and lined with buildings on either side, the stones painted with piss and puke. The Watering Alley. Several men lay propped against the walls, having taken their bed in the streets for the night. Empty flasks lay near them. None stirred as he walked past. If they’d been out in the wild, Bray would’ve taken the opportunity to sift through their pockets.
He wouldn’t do that today. He’d been in enough trouble lately.
He stepped past several closed, beaten doors, inhaling the odor of spilled beer. Men’s and women’s sweat wafted from a small alleyway. He didn’t have to witness the carnal antics to know what went on there. The third door on the right was open. He stepped through. The lighting was dim, and it took several seconds for his eyes to adjust. He maneuvered around several toppled chairs, his boots contending with broken flagons and putrid puddles.
He searched for a familiar face in the gloom, but the tavern was empty. When he reached the long wooden bar at the back of the room, he brushed off a chair, took a seat, and waited.
Outside, a man hacked up a throat full of snot. Most of the patrons had been kicked out into the alley before night’s end. Some would wait for sunup so they could sneak another drink before going to the fields or whatever trade earned them coin.
After a minute of waiting, unable to restrain himself, Bray called, “Samantha?”
He swallowed the uneasiness that crept back inside him. If Samantha had been burned, he convinced himself he would’ve seen something. A sign. A notice on the door. Something. The bar would be closed, right? He pictured Conrad’s weasely, coin-lusting face. Conrad wouldn’t have cared if his wife died. He�
��d probably spend the next day searching for another, making sure he had someone to run his business. Conrad’s top priorities were sucking off local leaders and flaunting his power, not selling drinks to the farmers.
An uttered curse in the back room tipped Bray off that someone was here. Clearing his throat loudly, he waited for the person to notice. Footsteps clapped the floor. A few seconds later, a woman emerged.
His heart skipped.
“Bray?” Samantha squinted at him in surprise. Her long, red hair flowed over her bare shoulders, barely covering the top of her revealing dress. She looked gorgeous, as always.
Bray concealed his relief. “Am I too late for a drink?”
“No. You’re early.” Samantha dusted off the counter in front of him, unable to hide her smile. “Shouldn’t you be out hunting?”
She reached below the counter and fetched an empty cup.
“I’ve earned a break,” Bray said. “I was hoping you’d still be here.”
“Where else would I be?” Samantha smiled, but he could see the effects of another Cleansing buried in her expression.
“Hung-over, like everyone else.”
“You know I can’t do that. I have to work. This place never closes.”
“Except on Sundays,” Bray reminded her.
“Of course.”
“That’s the best day of the week. I hear there’s an empty room in the back that the vagrants duck into.” Bray grinned widely. “Some of them have been known to shed their pants.”
“If I find any, I’ll kick them out. What would you like?” she asked.
“Get me the strongest thing you got,” Bray said.
“I suppose I already knew that.”
He watched as Samantha dipped below the counter to fill his order. Her dress fell further down her arms, and he leaned over to get a better look. Catching him, she swatted at his arm.
“Don’t let Conrad catch you doing that,” she whispered.
“I wish he would,” Bray muttered. “I’d teach the son of a bitch a lesson.”
“You’d end up on the pyre before that happened.”
Bray shrugged. It was no secret he despised the man. Conrad was not only the owner of the bar, but also the owner of several other buildings. Because his family was in a position of wealth, Conrad had influence in town. He normally used his power to sway town policy, ensuring his businesses benefitted. He was selfish and corrupt, as were most of his kind.
Samantha watched Bray sip his drink. Although she’d never admit it, she was checking him for injuries. Her face darkened as she noticed his leg.
“A flesh wound,” he said, setting down his cup.
“From demons?”
“I wish. If it were demons, at least they’d be worth a few silver.” He smirked. “I could tell you stories, but I won’t.”
“I don’t want to know about it,” Samantha said, smiling.
They locked eyes for several seconds. If Bray had been a different man, he might’ve considered running off with Samantha. But he knew better than that. A woman and child were burdens he didn’t need. The wild was his mistress. He had other obligations.
“How are things?” Bray asked, sipping his drink.
“Busy, as always. No matter how things are in town, the coin never stops flowing here, anyway.”
“Thank the gods for that,” Bray said, saluting her with another swig. He swished and swallowed. He asked for another. He added, “The same can’t be said for the Wardens.”
“Oh?”
“The General cut the price of skins again.”
“I’m sorry to hear that.” Samantha refilled his cup.
“He’s raising the troops. As usual, we’ll have to pay for it.”
“I heard about the reduction in coin.”
“When?”
“Last week.”
Bray wasn’t surprised. A change in policy like that was bound to be gossip for the pub. He assumed other Wardens had been grumbling. He was about to sip his new drink when her words sunk in.
“Last week? I spoke with one of the street merchants, and he wasn’t told of the change until yesterday.” Bray watched Samantha closely. “How’d you find out?”
She lowered her eyes evasively, fiddling with a few cups behind the bar. Bray leaned forward, pushing aside his drink.
“Where did you hear about it, Samantha?”
She whispered the word. “Conrad.”
“How’d he know?”
“He must’ve gotten wind of it from Father Nelson.”
She picked up one of the cups she was fiddling with and cleaned it with a rag, refusing to meet his eyes.
“Alcohol or not, I know a lie when I hear one.” Bray leaned over the counter. “Conrad had a hand in this, didn’t he?”
She sighed. “You can’t say anything, Bray. You’d get me in trouble. But I think he suggested it to Father Nelson as a means to keep costs down. It’ll help defray the funding of the General’s army.”
“That prick. He’s probably trying to save on his own taxes. If the General gets the money elsewhere, he’ll be more lenient on the merchants.”
Bray balled his fists, fighting the urge to yell. It wasn’t Samantha’s fault. She had nothing to do with it. He settled back into his chair, swallowing his anger. Between the troubles he’d had with the soldiers, and his involvement with Ella and William, he didn’t need to call any more attention to himself. He had enough things to worry about without picking a fight with Conrad.
But if he saw that son of a bitch while he was in town…
Changing the subject, Samantha said, “We’re going to hire someone else around here soon.”
“Really?”
“Yep. Probably in the next few months.”
“Haven’t you been telling me that forever?”
“Yes. But it’s true this time.”
“Conrad’s too cheap for that.” Bray shook his head. Conrad was always promising reprieve for Samantha. The truth was that the man was too paranoid about his finances to let someone other than family run his businesses. Bray finished his drink and asked for a third. She poured him one. He reached across the bar and batted playfully at her arm.
“I’m serious, Bray,” Samantha smiled, big and wide. She retracted her arm. This time her glow wasn’t from the Warden, but from something else. “There’s something you should know.”
Bray tilted back the cup, downing the glass. For some reason, he knew he’d need the rest of the alcohol. “What is it?”
Samantha looked left and right, then stepped back and pointed to her stomach. “I’m pregnant.”
Bray studied the small, burgeoning bump in her belly. A surge of dizziness hit him. Or maybe it was the impact of the strong drinks. Either way, he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
“Whose is it?” he asked.
“Conrad’s, of course.” Samantha smiled. He studied her for signs of deception, but she looked truthful. Happy. Radiant. She tucked her hair behind her eyes, revealing more of the top of her chest, which looked as good as the last time he’d seen it.
But Bray couldn’t look at her. Not now.
“When’s the baby due?”
“Springtime. I’ll go into labor before The Cleansing. It’ll be nice to miss that for a change.”
Bray understood. The only excuse for a woman not to attend the ceremony was childbirth; the inspectors would do an examination at the residence.
“Would you like another refill?”
He tipped back his cup, forgetting he’d already drained it. He noticed Samantha wasn’t watching him as intently as before.
“I’m all right. I should get going,” he said.
“Already?”
“I have to get
hunting. Especially with the shitty wage I’ll be paid. Not all of us have bathtubs filled with coin.”
Hurt flashed through Samantha’s eyes as she registered the insult. She reached for Bray, but he avoided her grasp. He slid off the chair, stomped the ground with his boots, and spit.
“Remember that promise you made after we first met?”
“Of course,” she whispered.
“Consider it settled.”
Bray swiveled off the chair and got to his feet, ignoring the wave of alcohol, and staggered for the door.
Chapter 32: Oliver
With his face contorted, trying to squeeze his mind through some difficult thoughts while getting excited, Kilburn said, “So that I understand exactly, what you’re saying is that Father Winthrop wants some kind of armor protection?” Kilburn drew a deep breath and looked up to the heavens in silent thanks. “Men don’t generally wear such things because of the price, you understand? Metal is always expensive, always in short supply.”
Oliver said nothing. Everybody knew that to be true.
“But,” said Kilburn, “he wants something he can wear under his garments, so that other men won’t know he’s wearing it. It is as you said—he wants to inspire bravery in others by appearing to be dressed in the same clothing they are.”
Oliver nodded. So far Kilburn understood the lie exactly right.
“Being a skeptical man,” said Kilburn, “Father Winthrop wants me to make such a suit of armor for you first, so that he might see for himself how visible it is to others before I proceed with making one for him.”
“Exactly,” Oliver confirmed.
“And he doesn’t want it to be too heavy or too restrictive of his movements.”
“He wants to look natural,” Oliver nodded. “It’s to protect him from demon bite.”
Kilburn rubbed his chin again and said, “There is something.”
