THE WHORE’S BASTARD

Many Years Ago

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Head down and shoulders slumped, he struggled to pull his wooden cart, the wheels seeming to catch between every gap of the cobblestones. He felt like an insignificant speck, caught in the shadow of the wall that loomed overhead—a shadow that kept his dirty corner of the city known as the Armpit in darkness well into the afternoon.

When he was younger his mother had told him the story of the wall, blaming it for all the surrounding squalor. “Had Adella finished the wall, we would not live like this,” she said, breath reeking of ale. “But she builds her great throne instead, the Castle to End All Coin.” He wondered which of her patrons she’d heard that from. His mother was no wordsmith.

Queen Adella received little love from her people. When her brother Adellos II died the kingdom mourned, and soon after she had replaced him, the kingdom wept. But the boy was not fool enough to believe their lot in life would have been any better had the wall spanned across the continent, shielding Adeltia from the threat of northern invasion. Perhaps if his father had been one of the many architects put to death for failing to meet the queen’s standards, he would have cause for complaint, but he never knew his father nor did he think he would want to. The Adeltian Throne—that towering object far in the distance and namesake of the kingdom’s new capital—did not condemn him… It called to him.

He’d not seen his mother since having left her years ago, but in the Armpit he remained. Better to be an orphan than a whore’s bastard, was what he told himself when his childish longing to see her threatened to take hold.

Passing by the bakers and smiths, fruit vendors and butchers, he hardened his resolve to leave this place entirely, to not be another lifelong victim of the Pit. They all looked so different, these peasant laborers, yet depravity saw them unified. He had no sympathy for this lot, however. Sympathy and compassion were weaknesses he conditioned himself to no longer to feel. These were not people oppressed by an unfinished wall, these were slaves of their own self-pity—his eventual rise above them to be validation of his assertion.

Eating nothing but gruel he was able to save fifty-three coppers—just over half a mark—in the past two months. His belly ached for mutton, but he had not given in, not once since he started saving. With five marks he could buy a cotton shirt and trousers, and with one more he could afford a bath. Another two would see him into his first pair of shoes, used of course, and a final eighty coppers would get him a ride out of town shared on a wagon. He would take the first job he could get, no matter what it was—even if it means I must be an architect.

He came to a sudden halt, sloshing the contents of the many chamber pots in his cart, and attempted to make sense of what he saw. A carriage drawn by two black horses was in front of his employer’s shop. The shady fellow was being arrested for some misdeed, no doubt. He was ever trying to cheat him or one of the other boys out of their pay. Self-preservation begged him to return to the abandoned leaking structure he called home to avoid any guilt by association, but his curiosity would not allow it. He entered the back of the building to empty his pots into the piss wagon, hoping to catch a glimpse of the activity inside.

He was not the only curious boy letting the contents of his pots slowly drain while craning neck in an attempt to spy on the goings-on in their employer’s office. Someone of importance was paying him a visit, but to what end he could only guess.

“Who’s in there?” he asked the others standing around the wagon.

Strig, the oldest boy sneered. “The Shitlord.”

“Who’s that?”

Strig just shook his head, laughing to himself. The older ones loved to know something the others did not, and enjoyed making them grovel for answers. Aside from kicking rats, it was about the only modicum of power they were able to wield in this place, and they were not about to give it up.

He thought he had already identified the richest man in the area, the owner of the bar and brothel. The man was often seen strolling the town with one or more of his strongmen in tow, taking what he pleased from vendors who were either afraid of getting their teeth knocked out or of having him send their favorite whore to their wife with a bastard baby in her arms. At any rate, the lack of filth on the man’s clothing was impressive, and the boy had made a conscious note to learn all he could about him—a difficult task requiring the suspension of contempt; the very man had been responsible for some of the boy’s mother’s better beatings. To know there was another far more powerful man in the area—even if just for a visit—made his chest grow hollow with anticipation.

He never saw the Shitlord, which only added to the intrigue, but he later learned that this man who could afford the luxury of massive horses and a leather-lined carriage was indeed the Lord of Shit. It had not occurred to the boy that his employer might have himself been employed by another, let alone that that person could possibly be of any worth. Granted there were like to be several links in the chain of command separating the Shitlord from the boy’s toothless boss, the fact remained that the Shitlord was by all accounts exceedingly rich. Far wealthier than the brothel owner, far wealthier than anyone he had ever hoped to see pay a visit to the Armpit. And the man was in charge of transporting, of all things, piss and shit.

Being the clever boy that he was, he eventually came to the realization that the filthier the service, the more profitable it could be, and he resolved never to pass up an opportunity to use that knowledge to better his station in life.