by Robert Evert
“Go home, Nat,” he said. “Go rest up a bit. You need it.”
Natalie shook her head and tugged the pitchfork from his grasp. “No.” She heaved the straw into an empty stall. “A good day’s work for a good day’s wage. That’s what we promised each other.”
She scooped up another load.
“For the love of the gods, girl! Go home. I’ll pay you all the same. Hell, I’ll pay you double. Just go home and rest. Please!”
Natalie flung the straw into the stall; it hit the back wall with a scattering thud. Bits of straw got into Natalie’s puffy eyes and down her throat. She coughed, then spat.
“I’m not taking your charity,” she said. “Now, get out of my way, Henry, or you’ll get the business end of this pitchfork.”
“Damn it, Nat. If you was a man, I’d—”
“If I was a man, I wouldn’t have been beaten for no reason.”
Henry watched her fill another stall.
“Nat,” he said, more gently. “Please go. Go home and rest. I…I can’t bear to look at you.” He turned away. “If you won’t let a fella take care of you, then you’ll need to take care of yourself. Go home. Please.”
“Oh, Henry!” Natalie hugged the big man.
“You’re the closest thing I have to a daughter.” He sniffled and pulled away. Waving a hand at the rest of the stalls, he said sternly, “Now, finish up the ones that are left, and go on home. That’s an order. There’s no more work for you here today; everything’s been done. So get!”
“Henry—”
But Henry couldn’t look at her.
“I said, finish up these last couple of stalls and, and go! I’m the boss. I run things here, not you.”
Natalie touched his tattooed arm. “I know I’m a pain in the ass.”
“That you are.” His voice caught. “A big pain in the ass; the biggest pain in the ass the gods ever put on this damned world. But I love you, Nat. You know that, right? All you have to do is tell me who did this to you, and I’ll…I’ll make sure they think twice, noble or no. I’ll make them think twice. Trust me.”
Natalie smiled, though it hurt to do so. “I know you would, but I’m fine, okay? And don’t give me that look. I can take care of myself.”
“Not as well as you think, judging by what I see.”
“I can take care of myself,” Natalie repeated. “Now, let me get back to work.”
“And then you’ll go home?”
Natalie stood on her toes and kissed his scruffy cheek. “As soon as I’m finished here. A good day’s work for a good day’s wage. Now get out of my way, or I really will stick you with this pitchfork.”
• • •
After mucking out the last of the stalls, Natalie made her way to the Artisan’s Quarter. At first, she felt self-conscious, worried about all the people who’d see her still-swollen and badly bruised face, but other than a couple of glances, nobody paid much attention. Evidently, a woman with swollen eyes, a split lip, and two purple knots on her forehead wasn’t all that surprising.
She entered a weaver’s shop where Grady, the owner, lifted a chin at her. “Afternoon, Nat. Been mouthing off to the wrong person again?”
“I finished my work at Henry’s early,” Natalie replied. “Need another weaver?”
Grady considered her for a moment. “How old are you nowadays? Seventeen? Eighteen?”
“Sixteen,” Natalie corrected him.
“High time for you to settle down with somebody. Now I know a couple of good, hardworking lads who might take a shine to you, if you watch your tone with them. Leastways, they wouldn’t be damaging you like that if you spoke out of turn.”
“They sound charming. Do you need a weaver? I can work as long as you need me.”
Grady spat into a bucket full of brownish liquid and floating dead flies. “It’s a shame, but I suppose some girls need to learn things the hard way.”
“Weaver?”
“Think you can keep your hair out of the loom this time?”
“I was twelve when that happened.”
Grady folded his arms.
Natalie rolled her eyes and sighed. “Yes. I’ll keep my hair pulled back like you told me.”
Grady peered outside. Shadows were still pointing west, but barely. “It’s nearly noon,” he said. “I ain’t paying you for a full day’s work. And you stink of horse shit.”
Natalie pushed past him to the cluttered back room, where a dozen other women sat weaving, spools of yarn and finished fabric everywhere. “Half day’s rate it is,” she said. “Now—which loom, and what color?”
The old man chuckled. “You’re a damned hard worker, I’ll give you that. Interested in working for me full time?”
“You don’t pay enough.” Natalie glanced around. Three of the larger looms were empty. “Which one, and what color?” she repeated.
“You know, these lads I was mentioning—”
“Damn it, Grady, you’re wasting my time. Shut up and let me work!”
He spat through clenched teeth, missing the bucket. “If I weren’t such a kind man,” he said slowly, “I might smack you upside that thick head of yours. You’d be better off for it, too.”
Natalie fought back her rising anger. She needed the money and, despite what she’d just told him, Grady paid better than most. Especially for a job that allowed her to sit down.
She forced herself to lower her head. “You’re right. I’m sorry, Grady. Here I come asking you for work, and you’re willing to give it to me. I should treat you better.”
“Damned right.”
“It’s just that I want to give you a good day’s effort. Neither of us is getting rich standing here talking.”
Grady examined her face. “Can you see?”
“Well enough.”
He flicked his chin at a loom in the corner. “Helga, show Nat here what needs to be done.” Then he shouted at the other women staring at Natalie, “What’re you all looking at? She’s here to work. Be careful, or you might end up worse than her. I don’t pay nobody for gawking!”
When he’d returned to the front room, the loom workers all raised their middle fingers.
“Fucking ass,” somebody whispered.
Helga took Natalie’s elbow and led her to the corner loom.
“I can see,” Natalie told her.
“Well, that’s a wonder and no doubt.” Helga helped Natalie sit. “Who done it to you?”
“Just a homeless kid,” Natalie said, hating herself for lying. “Tried to take my money.” She adjusted the loom’s pedals.
Helga handed her a spool of royal blue yarn. “Be thankful that’s all he wanted. There’re worse things than getting knocked around a bit.”
“There’re a hell of a lot of better things,” Natalie said.
“True enough.” Helga returned to her loom. “If you want my advice—”
“I don’t.”
“Nonetheless, you’re going to get it, ’cause I don’t want to see you like this again.”
Natalie slid the shuttle through the yarn threads of the loom. “Thanks, Helga. I don’t want that, either.”
“Then you best not stand out so much.”
“Stand out?” Natalie blinked down at the mended shirt and trousers she wore, then at the busty weaver. “You think I stand out?”
“More than a boil on a witch’s nose.”
“Really?”
“Nat—there’s just something about you. You’re different. Anybody who looks at you can see it. And trust me, sometimes attention isn’t a good thing.”
“Hey!” Grady shouted from the front room. “Get to work or get out of here!”
“Try to blend in a bit more,” Helga whispered. “You hear what I’m saying? Keep your head down, ears open, and mouth shut.”
Natalie watched Helga pump her loom’s pedals. She was once a beautiful woman—big-chested with clear skin and a kind smile. But now, Helga was worn beyond her years from hard work. And she couldn’t have b
een far out of her twenties. “Thanks, Helga. I’ll try my best.”
“Work!” Grady bellowed. “Work! Or the whole lot of you will end up on the street with nothing to show for the morning!”
• • •
When the day’s light had faded and Old Man Grady had finally paid her a half-day’s wage, Natalie set out to search the Artisan’s Quarter for a tinker or a blacksmith who was still open. The Artisan’s Quarter sat in Upper Angle’s third terrace—above the modest wooden homes and businesses of the working classes, but below the opulent stone houses of the lesser nobles—and it took Natalie nearly an hour of climbing the winding streets before she found Borist the bladesmith still in his shop, hammering away by the glow of orange coals. He looked up from his anvil and blenched.
“So help me,” Natalie told him, “if you tell me that I need a man, you’ll be sorry.”
Borist gave a gruff chuckle. “Been hearing that a quite bit, have you now?” He put aside his hammer and tongs, and toweled away the rivers of sweat streaming down his ruddy face. After riffling through a nearby crate, he selected an armload of items. “I’m guessing you’d be wanting one of these, instead of a man.”
He dropped an assortment of knives onto the table with a clatter.
Natalie looked at them and then at the hulking smith, who was taking long gulping drinks from a stein as big as most pitchers.
“How did you know?” she asked.
“A woman comes in all beaten up—she’s not going to be looking for no shears or a gardening spade.” He toweled off his sweaty shoulders. “At least, that’s been my experience.”
“And how many women have come here, beaten up?” Natalie demanded, hands upon her hips.
Borist leaned heavily on the table. “One is too many, isn’t it?”
Natalie’s expression softened.
“Now”—the smith arrayed the knives in a line from shortest to longest—“which one do you want?”
Natalie studied them. Some were long with thin blades, while others were short with thick blades. Many were plain-looking. A few had clever designs etched into their finely wrought hilts.
“Which do you suggest?” she asked.
“I’m of the opinion the hand knows what it needs. Pick them up and see which one speaks to you.”
Again, Natalie examined the knives. After a moment’s consideration, she selected a long blade with interwoven lines engraved in its steel. Its smooth wooden handle didn’t quite seem to fit her fingers. So she picked up a slightly shorter knife with a broad-leaf blade, which was heavy and clumsy in her hand. After trying a half-dozen more, she finally chose a thin eight-inch blade with an unadorned metal handle. It felt light and fast.
“How much?”
Borist didn’t answer.
“How much?” Natalie asked again.
Borist dragged the back of his partially burnt leather glove across his bottom lip, leaving a dark smear of soot along his chin. “How old are you? Eighteen? Nineteen?”
Natalie tossed her hands. “Honestly, what does it matter? I don’t need a man, and I don’t want to get married. Now, how much? I have money.”
“I don’t want to get involved in anything, you understand?” He leaned farther across the table, its wooden legs creaking under the added weight. “Do you know what happens to a woman who cuts a man?”
“It depends upon how rich the bastard is.”
Borist chuckled again, then laughed heartily. “You’re smarter than most girls your age, I’ll give you that. Good for you!”
He slid a glance past Natalie over to two wealthy merchants who were walking by his shop, chatting to each other. Neither appeared to be paying them any attention.
“Listen to me,” the bladesmith said quietly. He tapped the knife in Natalie’s hands. “If you plan on using this, you need to use it all the way. You get me? Never leave an enemy alive. Ever heard that expression?”
“Yeah. Iliandor said it.”
Borist batted away the comment. “I don’t care what bloke said it. You need to understand what it means. You cut somebody, you make sure you cut them good, or else they won’t just beat on your face.”
Natalie ran her callused thumb over the edge of the knife. It wouldn’t take much effort to thrust it into a block of solid oak, let alone into somebody’s stomach. The question was: could she really stab somebody?
“You get what I’m saying, young lady?” Borist asked. “You use this knife for whatever reason, you do the job, and you make sure you don’t have to do it twice. Understand?”
Natalie nodded.
The coals in the forge popped, sending a spray of yellow sparks to the dirt floor. Borist ground them in with his boot heel.
“How much?” she asked again.
The bladesmith took a step back and picked up his tongs and hammer. “Two copper.”
“Two copper?” Natalie repeated in disbelief. “You could get three times that for this.” She inspected the knife’s shining blade. “Ten times!”
Borist hit a glowing ribbon of metal with his hammer. The ringing thud made Natalie’s heart jump. “Two copper. And you don’t tell nobody where you bought it.” He pumped the great wheezing bellows. Red coals turned orange, then to a creamy white. “Hang it from your belt. A drunk seeing you with a knife might think twice before he touches you.”
Natalie attached the knife’s sheath to her rope belt.
“Now, show me how you hold it.” Borist stirred the coals with the long strip of glowing steel; flames rippled along its bright yellow tip. “Go on,” he said. “Take it out like you mean it.”
Natalie gripped the sheath with her left hand, the knife’s hilt with her right.
“No! No! No!” Borist slammed down his hammer. “Not that way! Here, give it to me.”
A young woman a couple of years older than Natalie came into the shop. Immediately, Natalie and Borist stepped away from each other.
“Evening, Olivia,” the bladesmith said to the new customer. “What do you got for me today?”
Olivia, dressed in a clean white dress typical of servant girls for noble families, carefully unwrapped several long butcher knives and cleavers. “Clive wants these sharp enough to cut whiskers down the middle, and he needs them by week’s end.”
“He’ll have them by tomorrow. I’ll have my boy do it straight away in the morning.”
Borist gathered up the knives.
“Shall I bring them to the house?” he asked. “Or will I have the pleasure of seeing you again?” Borist’s flirting sounded flat to Natalie, but Olivia reddened, though it might have been from the waves of smoky heat rolling out of the forge.
“No need to trouble yourself. I’ll come fetch them.”
“Splendid! I’ll have them ready, and just how Clive wants them.”
Borist took the cutlery to a work area by a sharpening stone while Olivia admired his broad, bare back. Then she and Natalie caught each other’s gaze. Natalie quickly resumed her inspection of a small hatchet she was holding.
Olivia turned to leave. “See you Wednesday, Borist.”
“I’ll be counting the hours. I’ll have them all ready for you tomorrow afternoon, if you wanna stop by earlier than that.”
“I may. We’ll see.” Olivia wiggled her fingers at the bladesmith. “Take care.”
“You as well, Olivia.”
As she passed by, Olivia glanced at the knife hanging from Natalie’s belt, then at her bruises.
“Don’t get caught,” she said softly.
“I beg your pardon?” Natalie asked.
But Olivia was already on the street, walking briskly away. Borist watched her leave, then returned to where Natalie stood. He took off his leather apron, revealing a thick chest with many small scars and burn marks.
“Okay. Look,” he said, “when you draw the knife from its sheath, use one hand. Keep the other hand clear away. This ain’t no eating knife. It’s meant for slicing through flesh and bone. You cut yourself, and you’ll cut
yourself deep. Hear me?” He demonstrated. “See what I’m saying? You need to use one hand. Now try it. Nice and slow-like.”
Carefully, Natalie reached her right hand over to her left hip and slid the blade out of its sheath. It rang high and clear, like a pretty church bell. But possessing such a sharp weapon made her uneasy. Its edge glinted cruelly in the red light of the forge.
“You all right, miss? ’Cause if you don’t want it—”
“I want it. But I’m paying what it’s worth. Not a penny less.”
“Suit yourself.” Borist leaned closer, the odor of his sweaty body surprisingly agreeable. “But I meant what I said: use it right, use it once, and don’t let me hear where you bought it.”
Chapter Six
“Nat!” Artis called from a block away.
Natalie swore under her breath. She knew she would eventually run into him. Upper Angle was a big city, but it wasn’t that big. Plus, Artis always had a knack for appearing wherever she was. Not that she necessarily minded. They were friends, after all—good friends. She just didn’t have the emotional energy to deal with him right then.
Natalie kept on walking, hoping she’d blend into the crowds.
“Nat!” Artis was running.
With an exaggerated sigh, Natalie turned and glowered. Artis skidded to a stop.
“Don’t…say a word,” she told him.
He opened his mouth.
“Not one word!” she said. “I mean it! So help me, Art, if you mention anything about my face or ask what happened, I’ll hit you! I mean it!”
Artis drove his hands into his pockets, rocked back on his heels, and glanced causally about. “Beautiful weather we’re having, eh?”
Natalie couldn’t help but laugh. “Art!”
She smiled too broadly and flinched. Artis’s expression flickered with concern. To his credit, however, he kept quiet. Then he noted the knife hanging from her belt. He didn’t say anything about that, either.
They stood awkwardly in the middle of the narrow cobblestone street that looped around Upper Angle’s second terrace, trying to avoid mentioning the obvious as passersby jostled about them. A horse-drawn wagon full of barrels pushed though the crowds, clopping closer.
