28th of Manas, 1018 N.F. (w.y.)
Necrem Oso swung his hammer down.
Ping! Ping! Ping! Metal sang on metal. Sparks flew and impurities drifted into the air, crumbling to dust.
Necrem drew a sharp breath through the nose hole of his leather face mask as one of those impurities landed on his thick left forearm. The sting of near-molten metal burning his flesh was an old acquaintance but bit the same as the first day he had felt it. He wiggled his arm, keeping a firm grip of the tongs holding the sheet of metal he was fashioning, and shook off the debris.
He shifted his footing and got in another angle before raising his hammer again.
Ping! Ping! Ping!
No debris touched him this time, and he sighed, listening to the metal sing. It was the most comforting sound he knew. It was loud and sharp, but solid and true. The sound of a lump of earth being fashioned into something more. Something useful.
So long as it wasn’t a weapon.
Necrem raised his hammer again. His biceps tightened and bulged, and he was forced to pause. When hammering metal, a blacksmith must stay relaxed and not pound away believing it would take shape if he hit it enough times. A blacksmith’s motions had to be practiced, methodical, almost fluid. It was something he had learned from his papa.
“It isn’t your arm that does the work,” he would say. “It’s the hammer. Let it do the work for you.” So, whenever Necrem felt his arm stiffen up after working for a while, he knew it was time for a break.
The new plowshare was coming along well. He still had to weld the thicker blade portion onto the moldboard and chisel, but all in good time. Good metal work couldn’t be rushed.
He set the steel off to the side then laid his hammer and tongs down on the anvil. His shoulders were suddenly incredibly stiff without a hammer in his hands. He always lost himself whenever he hammered and worked on a piece, and now his body’s senses were returning, demanding he stand up.
He clasped his knees with his broad, callused hands and pushed himself to his feet. Instantly, his body began to stretch. He grunted from his knees popping. Then a series of creaks and knocks ran up his spine, making him throw his arms in the air behind his head. He clenched his jaw on instinct while a groan escaped between his teeth. He couldn’t risk his jaw opening wide or risk one of old his facial scars tearing and bleeding.
When the stretch finally subsided, he sighed contently and scratched his side under his leather apron. All was well for now. All was as it should be.
“That was a big one!”
Necrem whipped his head around then down at grinning girl bouncing on her heels in the opening of his forge.
“Just needed a good stretch,” Necrem said, rubbing his right bicep. “Steel working men like your papa need them every now and then, Bayona.”
Bayona rolled her baby-blue eyes. The glaring suns’ light formed a halo around her shoulder-length, light brown hair.
“A man’s here asking for you,” she said.
“A customer?” he asked, arching an eyebrow while rolling his shoulder.
“Mmm . . ..” Bayona’s cute face scrunched to the side while she thought. “I don’t think so. He didn’t bring anything needing fixing. He said something about collecting something, but I’ve never seen him before.”
That gave Necrem pause. Despite her age, Bayona had taken to staying up front for respective customers while he worked in the back. It gave her an opportunity to practice her spelling and learn what things were. Necrem wanted her to know how things worked, despite that she was a girl.
Collecting something? Necrem turned the child’s phrase over in his head. Collecting something . . .. A collector—
A chill ran up his spine, and his cheeks started to twitch, irritating and pulling his scars. He glanced at the glaring light around Bayona for assurance on the time.
It’s too soon for the campaign tax. So, why? Necrem clenched and unclenched his broad fists in a nervous tick while every crazy reason played out in his head.
“Should I bring him or say you’re busy?” Bayona asked, breaking Necrem out of his worrying spiral.
He sighed. “No. I’ll see what he wants. You can take a break from watching the front.”
“Yay!” Bayona clapped and hopped, flopping her gray dress’s skirts up and down.
Necrem instinctively smirked while taking off his leather apron, but a stinging tug on his cheek made him relax his face. His work mask must have dried his face out, meaning his scars were that much likely to bleed if he wasn’t careful.
I’ll need to apply extra salve on them tonight.
Bayona was still waiting for him when he pulled back the rolling door to his forge. She was grinning with hands behind her back, as if she had a secret.
“What?” he grunted, walking past her and onto the yard’s crunchy gravel. He squinted against the bright day, the mixture of white and yellow shining up from the loose dirt and down from the slat rooftops.
“Mama’s having a good day,” she replied cheerfully.
“Oh?” Necrem looked down at her skipping along beside him, now tall enough to almost reach his waist. She was growing fast and already as tall as children five years older than her. He always teased her whenever she asked for seconds, telling her she was growing up to be a giant like him just to see her cute pout. She might not like the idea, but that was how Necrem knew she was his daughter.
“Mmhmm.” Bayona nodded. “She got out of bed, ate breakfast by the window, and even brushed her hair. Do you think she’ll want to come downstairs today?”
Necrem frowned and, shielding his eyes with his hand, looked up. His family’s home and combined blacksmith shop was a long building with a storefront in the center that divided a single-floor dwelling to the left and a two-story dwelling to the right. Even with his eyes shaded, Necrem squinted against the blazing light reflecting off the roof slates to catch a glimpse of the second-story window.
Eulalia wasn’t there. He hadn’t expected her to be.
But if she’s having a good day, maybe I’ll see her today.
A sudden, stabbing pain shot through his left eye, and he had to look away. He rubbed his eyes and stifled a curse so Bayona wouldn’t hear. The suns had finally gotten too bright.
Eight days. He growled and blinked to get the sunspots out of his vision. Savior cursed Exchange.
The Easterly and Westerly Sun both hung in the sky at their respective ends, illuminating the world in dazzling white and yellow while they traded it. At the end of each year, the suns came together to pass the world between them. People simply called it the Exchange, a continuous eight-day period without any night until the world was handed over to the other sun. Last night had only lasted for two hours and, after the exchange was all set and done, it would be a few more nights before everything became right again. Until then, there was nothing else people could do but wait and try not to go blind or insane.
When his vision finally cleared, Necrem glanced down and saw Bayona squinting up at him. “Mind your eyes,” he said comfortingly, patting her head. “Go find some shade while I see to the man up front.”
“Yes, sir!” Bayona said cheerfully then ran inside the house.
Necrem watched her go and bore the twinges of his cheeks to allow himself a small smile. After everything he and his wife had endured, it amazed him how lucky they were to be blessed with a happy child.
The inside of the house smelled of wood and steel, almost like his forge, except without the acrid smell of sulfur and burning coals. Necrem’s papa had always said a worthy forge should smell like burning wax and sweat. Necrem had never had any wax, but he knew sweat. Fortunately, the cool of his house smelled sweeter than that.
His heavy foots steps thumped down the hallway, and he lowered his head to step into the shopfront.
The well-dressed man behind the rough counter took a step back in surprise. His eyebrows went up as he traced just how tall Necrem was. Necrem was used to it. After all, a man nearly seven feet tall was not something everyone saw every day, and he was sure his mask covering half his face made him appear more intimidating. Necrem hunched his broad shoulders and hoped that help.
“Good Exchange, sir,” he said, stomping up to the counter. “I’m Necrem Oso. My daughter said you wished to speak with me?”
“Ah . . .” the gentleman, much younger than Necrem realized seeing him up close, opened his mouth to speak but said nothing. He stood out with his nice clothes and light complexion in Necrem’s small shopfront with its beaten-up counter and iron and steel tools displayed on the few cabinet shelves.
Definitely from the city, Necrem surmised, but he wasn’t their usual tax collector.
Sweat glistened off his brow and dripped on his cream jacket’s high collar. His shaking hand slipped into his vest pocket, but his fingers fumbled around as if he’d forgotten what he was reaching for.
“You’re Necrem Oso?” the man squeaked.
“Yes,” Necrem grunted.
The man swallowed. “I’m—” His voice cracked, and he cleared his throat. “I’m Sir Luca Quindo of Si Don’s Impuesto. I’ve recently been assigned to this district and been going around introducing myself.” Sir Luca grinned, probably thinking he was being polite and nonthreatening.
Necrem didn’t care. He was a tax collector. They never brought good news or came around just to chat. His only telling feature was that he was early.
“Just get on with whatever you’re here for,” he said, hanging his head.
Sir Luca flinched. The corners of his strained, upturned lips twitched as he gently pulled out a folded piece of paper from his inner vest pocket. “Campaign season is upon us,” he said, unfolding the paper. “And Si Don Borbin has decreed the marc must make additional preparations—”
“How much is the tax this year?” Necrem set his shoulders. He already expected them to be high. They were always taxed higher for Easterly Year campaigns than Westerly Years. Longer time to stay at war demanded more money.
“One-hundred and fifty deberes per household,” Sir Luca replied.
Necrem threw his head up. “That’s twice as much as last year!”
Sir Luca stepped back, holding his wide-brim hat up as if to protect himself. “It’s just for this year!” the tax collector said, sounding a little desperate. “And there are other services and methods of payment that can go to the campaign effort. Especially for a blacksmith like yourself—”
“I’m not a member of the Union,” Necrem said gruffly.
Sir Luca’s mouth opened and closed, but nothing came out. His brow furled, confused, clearly not having expected that. Nearly every blacksmith belonged to the Union of Forgers who assigned blacksmiths to armies on campaign, adjusting their fee for services and exemptions from taxes.
Except Necrem wasn’t a member anymore.
He folded his arms and shoved the past away. A hundred and fifty deberes, he calculated. I might have enough saved and with these next two jobs to cover it. I’m going to have to work over night, though, to—
“Also,” Sir Luca added, “the tax is due at the end of the Exchange.”
Necrem’s eyes went wide. “Seven days!” he gasped. “That’s impossible.”
Sir Luca raised his hands even higher. “That’s the decree! I’m merely doing my duty. If you’re not part of the Union, there are other ways to contributed to the campaign effort. A big man such as yourself could . . .” Sir Luca’s suggestion died on his lips.
It wasn’t until Necrem felt his cheeks stinging that he realized he was glowering down at the man.
He softened his expression and turned away. “I’ll find the money.”
“Oh?”
Necrem looked back over his shoulder, and Sir Luca swallowed and nodded.
“Very well then,” Sir Luca said, putting his hat on while backtracking toward the door. “The Impuesto will be expecting you.”
As he opened the door, Necrem noticed only two soldiers waiting in the shade, rapiers on their hips and dressed in the bright orange uniforms of Marqués Borbin, but no armor.
“Sir Luca,” he called.
The tax collector paused and glanced over his shoulder. “Yes?”
“Best you get more guards,” Necrem warned. “Most here in the slums aren’t going to take too kindly to your news.”
Sir Luca nervously laughed but then stopped. He swallowed and left with a nod.
Necrem stood there a while after he’d left. The daunting task of getting twice the usual tax two weeks early kept pounding him over and over like a hammer. The slams threatened to break him rather than mold. There was no other way around it. There wasn’t enough time to finish his current jobs in time. Considering the amount of the tax, he wondered if his customers could pay him and the tax both.
Damn the Marqués, he cursed, squeezing his arms with his thick fingers. Probably planning another glory hunting campaign.
That was what higher campaign taxes usually meant, like the campaign three years ago when Orsembar had conquered Puerlato from the Lazornians. Yet, what could men like Necrem do but pay?
He glanced around the shop at the hammers, horseshoes, cutting knives, and nails, all wares he’d forged to sell to people. Most, though, came to him for individual needs, and he would help them if they couldn’t pay it all at once. That was how people in the slums had to live. They had to look out for each other because no one else was going to.
He grunted and began to walk back through the house, heading back to his forge to think.
“They say there’s going to be a big campaign this year!”
Necrem stopped. That was a child’s voice, but a boy’s voice.
“Oh really?” Bayona asked, sounding inquisitive.
“Yeah!” the excited boy replied. “The recruiters are coming around already. Banging drums and claiming they’re giving each man who joins up five deberes that day!”
Bayona cooed. “People could buy five of Papa’s hammers for that!”
Necrem snickered. Children didn’t know what they were talking about, and Bayona was thinking people were going to spend the money on his work.
Why is a boy talking to Bayona?
The sudden fatherly instinct demanded to know who the boy was. He walked into the bottom floor of his wife and daughter’s side of the house and found Bayona sitting on her knees by the open window. The kitchen was clean, and iron pots and skillets were stacked in the lower cabinets Necrem had built for her once she had become insistent on taking care of Eulalia, despite her age.
A young, freckle-faced boy outside stood up straight when Necrem walked in and caught them. Audaz was a local boy, one of a local group Necrem had seen running around the streets.
“Good Exchange, Sir Oso,” the thirteen-year-old lad said. He stood straight and tense as a board. He puffed his cheeks, probably thinking he was grinning, but it made his face pinch up. A small breeze rustled his dark brown hair.
“Good Exchange,” Necrem grunted. He didn’t say any more and just waited.
For each passing moment, Audaz’s puffed cheeks grew redder, and beads of sweat began forming on his forehead.
“You should be careful not to stay too long outdoors during the Exchange,” Necrem warned. “Not good for you to get all this sun.”
Audaz passed a nervous glanced between Bayona and Necrem. “I . . .” he nervously started. “I guess I better go home them. Talk to you later, Bayona?”
“Later!” Bayona said happily.
Audaz gave a final nod then slowly walked away. A few seconds later, Necrem heard running footfalls crunching the street’s gravel.
“A new friend of yours?” he asked Bayona.
Bayona shrugged. “Audaz just stopped by while I was cleaning to say hello. He and his friends run around here a lot.” She grinned up at him.
All Necrem could do was shake his head. Bayona looked older because she was taller. Necrem was surprised it had taken so long to get the boys’ attention. Then again, there was probably a different reason Bayona had a hard time making friends. One he was inadvertently responsible for.
“What was he saying?” he asked.
“Nothing much,” Bayona replied. “He’d just said hello, bragging about how much his brother was getting for joining the campaign. It sounded like good money!”
Necrem’s brow furled at hearing her speak like that.
He lowered himself down to one knee. Even then, he had to hunch his back to get eye level with her. Bayona’s grin slipped away, replaced by a worried frown.
He gently rubbed her shoulder with his massive palm and stroked her cheek with his thumb. “No, Bayona,” he said as comforting as he could grumble. “Nothing good ever comes from the campaigns. Nothing.”