The day was cold and grey and damp, still, misty, and sullen.
Conversation in the Iron Lily consisted of surly monosyllables
uttered before a puny fire.
Then the drizzle came, drawing the curtains of the world in
tight. Brown and grey shapes hunched dispiritedly along the grubby,
muddy street. It was a day ripped full-grown from the womb of
despair. Inside the Lily, Marron Shed looked up from his
mug-wiping. Keeping the dust off, he called it. Nobody was using
his shoddy stoneware because nobody was buying his cheap, sour
wine. Nobody could afford it.
The Lily stood on the south side of Floral Lane. Shed’s
counter faced the doorway, twenty feet deep into the shadows of the
common room. A herd of tiny tables, each with its brood of rickety
stools, presented a perilous maze for the customer coming out of
sunlight. A half-dozen roughly cut support pillars formed
additional obstacles. The ceiling beams were too low for a tall
man. The boards of the floor were cracked and warped and creaky,
and anything spilled ran downhill.
The walls were decorated with old-time odds and ends and curios
left by customers which had no meaning for anyone entering today.
Marron Shed was too lazy to dust them or take them down.
The common room Led around the end of his counter, past the
fireplace, near which the best tables stood. Beyond the fireplace,
in the deepest shadows, a yard from the kitchen door, lay the base
of the stair to the rooming floors.
Into that darksome labyrinth came a small, weasely man. He
carried a bundle of wood scraps. “Shed? Can I?”
“Hell. Why not, Asa? We’ll all benefit.” The
fire had dwindled to a bank of grey ash.
Asa scuttled to the fireplace. The group there parted surlily.
Asa settled beside Shed’s mother. Old June was blind. She
could not tell who he was. He placed his bundle before him and
started stirring the coals.
“Nothing down to the docks today?” Shed asked.
Asa shook his head. “Nothing came in. Nothing going out.
They only had five jobs. Unloading wagons. People were fighting
over them.”
Shed nodded. Asa was no fighter. Asa was not fond of honest
labor, either. “Darling, one draft for Asa.” Shed
gestured as he spoke. His serving girl picked up the battered mug
and took it to the fire.
Shed did not like the little man. He was a sneak, a thief, a
liar, a mooch, the sort who would sell his sister for a couple of
copper gersh. He was a whiner and complainer and coward. But he had
become a project for Shed, who could have used a little charity
himself. Asa was one of the homeless Shed let sleep on the common
room floor whenever they brought wood for the fire. Letting the
homeless have the floor did not put money into the coin box, but it
did assure some warmth for June’s arthritic bones.
Finding free wood in Juniper in winter was harder than finding
work. Shed was amused by Asa’s determination to avoid honest
employment.
The fire’s crackle killed the stillness. Shed put his
grimy rag aside. He stood behind his mother, hands to the heat. His
fingernails began aching. He hadn’t realized how cold he
was.
It was going to be a long, cold winter. “Asa, do you have
a regular wood source?” Shed could not afford fuel. Nowadays
firewood was barged down the Port from far upstream. It was
expensive. In his youth . . .
“No.” Asa stared into the flames. Piney smells
spread through the Lily. Shed worried about his chimney. Another
pine scrap winter, and he hadn’t had the chimney swept. A
chimney fire could destroy him.
Things had to turn around soon. He was over the edge, in debt to
his ears. He was desperate.
“Shed.”
He looked to his tables, to his only real paying customer.
“Raven?”
“Refill, if you please.”
Shed looked for Darling. She had disappeared. He cursed softly.
No point yelling. The girl was deaf, needed signs to communicate.
An asset, he had thought when Raven had suggested he hire her.
Countless secrets were whispered in the Lily. He had thought more
whisperers might come if they could speak without fear of being
overheard.
Shed bobbed his head, captured Raven’s mug. He disliked
Raven, partially because Raven was successful at Asa’s game.
Raven had no visible means of support, yet always had money.
Another reason was because Raven was younger, tougher and healthier
than the run of the Lily’s customers. He was an anomaly. The
Lily was on the downhill end of the Buskin, close to the
waterfront. It drew all the drunkards, the worn-out whores, the
dopers, the derelicts and human flotsam who eddied into that last
backwater before the darkness overhauled them. Shed sometimes
agonized, fearing his precious Lily was but a final way
station.
Raven did not belong. He could afford better. Shed wished he
dared throw the man out. Raven made his skin crawl, sitting at his
corner table, dead eyes hammering iron spikes of suspicion into
anyone who entered the tavern, cleaning his nails endlessly with a
knife honed razor-sharp, speaking a few cold, toneless words
whenever anyone took a notion to drag Darling
upstairs . . . That baffled Shed. Though there
was no obvious connection, Raven protected the girl as though she
were his virgin daughter. What the hell was a tavern slut for,
anyway? Shed shuddered, pushed it out of mind. He needed Raven.
Needed every paying guest he could get. He was surviving on
prayers.
He delivered the wine. Raven dropped three coins into his palm.
One was a silver leva. “Sir?”
“Get some decent firewood in here, Shed. If I wanted to
freeze, I’d stay outside.”
“Yes, sir!” Shed went to the door, peeked into the
street. Latham’s wood yard was just a block away.
The drizzle had become an icy rain. The mucky lane was crusting.
“Going to snow before dark,” he informed no one in
particular.
“In or out,” Raven growled. “Don’t waste
what warmth there is.”
Shed slid outside. He hoped he could reach Latham’s before
the cold began to ache.
Shapes loomed out of the icefall. One was a giant. Both hunched
forward, rags around their necks to prevent ice from sliding down
their backs.
Shed charged back into the Lily. “I’ll go out the
back way.” He signed, “Darling, I’m going out.
You haven’t seen me since this morning.”
“Krage?” the girl signed.
“Krage,” Shed admitted. He dashed into the kitchen,
snagged his ragged coat off its hook, wriggled into it. He fumbled
the door latch twice before he got it loose. An evil grin with
three teeth absent greeted him as he leaned into the cold. Foul
breath assaulted his nostrils. A filthy finger gouged his chest.
“Going somewhere, Shed?”
“Hi, Red. Just going to see Latham about
firewood.”
“No, you’re not.” The finger pushed. Shed fell
back till he was in the common room.
Sweating, he asked, “Cup of wine?”
“That’s neighborly of you, Shed. Make it
three.”
“Three?” Shed’s voice squeaked.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know Krage is on his
way.”
“I didn’t,” Shed lied.
Red’s snaggle-toothed smirk said he knew Shed was
lying.
The day was cold and grey and damp, still, misty, and sullen.
Conversation in the Iron Lily consisted of surly monosyllables
uttered before a puny fire.
Then the drizzle came, drawing the curtains of the world in
tight. Brown and grey shapes hunched dispiritedly along the grubby,
muddy street. It was a day ripped full-grown from the womb of
despair. Inside the Lily, Marron Shed looked up from his
mug-wiping. Keeping the dust off, he called it. Nobody was using
his shoddy stoneware because nobody was buying his cheap, sour
wine. Nobody could afford it.
The Lily stood on the south side of Floral Lane. Shed’s
counter faced the doorway, twenty feet deep into the shadows of the
common room. A herd of tiny tables, each with its brood of rickety
stools, presented a perilous maze for the customer coming out of
sunlight. A half-dozen roughly cut support pillars formed
additional obstacles. The ceiling beams were too low for a tall
man. The boards of the floor were cracked and warped and creaky,
and anything spilled ran downhill.
The walls were decorated with old-time odds and ends and curios
left by customers which had no meaning for anyone entering today.
Marron Shed was too lazy to dust them or take them down.
The common room Led around the end of his counter, past the
fireplace, near which the best tables stood. Beyond the fireplace,
in the deepest shadows, a yard from the kitchen door, lay the base
of the stair to the rooming floors.
Into that darksome labyrinth came a small, weasely man. He
carried a bundle of wood scraps. “Shed? Can I?”
“Hell. Why not, Asa? We’ll all benefit.” The
fire had dwindled to a bank of grey ash.
Asa scuttled to the fireplace. The group there parted surlily.
Asa settled beside Shed’s mother. Old June was blind. She
could not tell who he was. He placed his bundle before him and
started stirring the coals.
“Nothing down to the docks today?” Shed asked.
Asa shook his head. “Nothing came in. Nothing going out.
They only had five jobs. Unloading wagons. People were fighting
over them.”
Shed nodded. Asa was no fighter. Asa was not fond of honest
labor, either. “Darling, one draft for Asa.” Shed
gestured as he spoke. His serving girl picked up the battered mug
and took it to the fire.
Shed did not like the little man. He was a sneak, a thief, a
liar, a mooch, the sort who would sell his sister for a couple of
copper gersh. He was a whiner and complainer and coward. But he had
become a project for Shed, who could have used a little charity
himself. Asa was one of the homeless Shed let sleep on the common
room floor whenever they brought wood for the fire. Letting the
homeless have the floor did not put money into the coin box, but it
did assure some warmth for June’s arthritic bones.
Finding free wood in Juniper in winter was harder than finding
work. Shed was amused by Asa’s determination to avoid honest
employment.
The fire’s crackle killed the stillness. Shed put his
grimy rag aside. He stood behind his mother, hands to the heat. His
fingernails began aching. He hadn’t realized how cold he
was.
It was going to be a long, cold winter. “Asa, do you have
a regular wood source?” Shed could not afford fuel. Nowadays
firewood was barged down the Port from far upstream. It was
expensive. In his youth . . .
“No.” Asa stared into the flames. Piney smells
spread through the Lily. Shed worried about his chimney. Another
pine scrap winter, and he hadn’t had the chimney swept. A
chimney fire could destroy him.
Things had to turn around soon. He was over the edge, in debt to
his ears. He was desperate.
“Shed.”
He looked to his tables, to his only real paying customer.
“Raven?”
“Refill, if you please.”
Shed looked for Darling. She had disappeared. He cursed softly.
No point yelling. The girl was deaf, needed signs to communicate.
An asset, he had thought when Raven had suggested he hire her.
Countless secrets were whispered in the Lily. He had thought more
whisperers might come if they could speak without fear of being
overheard.
Shed bobbed his head, captured Raven’s mug. He disliked
Raven, partially because Raven was successful at Asa’s game.
Raven had no visible means of support, yet always had money.
Another reason was because Raven was younger, tougher and healthier
than the run of the Lily’s customers. He was an anomaly. The
Lily was on the downhill end of the Buskin, close to the
waterfront. It drew all the drunkards, the worn-out whores, the
dopers, the derelicts and human flotsam who eddied into that last
backwater before the darkness overhauled them. Shed sometimes
agonized, fearing his precious Lily was but a final way
station.
Raven did not belong. He could afford better. Shed wished he
dared throw the man out. Raven made his skin crawl, sitting at his
corner table, dead eyes hammering iron spikes of suspicion into
anyone who entered the tavern, cleaning his nails endlessly with a
knife honed razor-sharp, speaking a few cold, toneless words
whenever anyone took a notion to drag Darling
upstairs . . . That baffled Shed. Though there
was no obvious connection, Raven protected the girl as though she
were his virgin daughter. What the hell was a tavern slut for,
anyway? Shed shuddered, pushed it out of mind. He needed Raven.
Needed every paying guest he could get. He was surviving on
prayers.
He delivered the wine. Raven dropped three coins into his palm.
One was a silver leva. “Sir?”
“Get some decent firewood in here, Shed. If I wanted to
freeze, I’d stay outside.”
“Yes, sir!” Shed went to the door, peeked into the
street. Latham’s wood yard was just a block away.
The drizzle had become an icy rain. The mucky lane was crusting.
“Going to snow before dark,” he informed no one in
particular.
“In or out,” Raven growled. “Don’t waste
what warmth there is.”
Shed slid outside. He hoped he could reach Latham’s before
the cold began to ache.
Shapes loomed out of the icefall. One was a giant. Both hunched
forward, rags around their necks to prevent ice from sliding down
their backs.
Shed charged back into the Lily. “I’ll go out the
back way.” He signed, “Darling, I’m going out.
You haven’t seen me since this morning.”
“Krage?” the girl signed.
“Krage,” Shed admitted. He dashed into the kitchen,
snagged his ragged coat off its hook, wriggled into it. He fumbled
the door latch twice before he got it loose. An evil grin with
three teeth absent greeted him as he leaned into the cold. Foul
breath assaulted his nostrils. A filthy finger gouged his chest.
“Going somewhere, Shed?”
“Hi, Red. Just going to see Latham about
firewood.”
“No, you’re not.” The finger pushed. Shed fell
back till he was in the common room.
Sweating, he asked, “Cup of wine?”
“That’s neighborly of you, Shed. Make it
three.”
“Three?” Shed’s voice squeaked.
“Don’t tell me you didn’t know Krage is on his
way.”
“I didn’t,” Shed lied.
Red’s snaggle-toothed smirk said he knew Shed was
lying.