The press of humanity at the Debtor’s Gate was suffocating. Joq had never seen so many people crammed into one place, all desperate to settle their accounts before Counting Day came to a close. The small landholders of Prataferro’s outskirts had come with their death tithes in whatever form they could manage.

  A young noblewoman handed over a fine strand of Jalicasi-cut emeralds, barely acknowledging the Tithetaker before motioning to her retinue, who followed suit, each presenting their own payments. Nearby, a man who looked half-wild snarled at a pinched-faced shrew of a Tithetaker over a pile of tanned skins, while an elderly gentleman of noble bearing extended a trembling hand filled with irregular lumps of gold. Joq had seen enough Counting days to know their origin, knowing the small deposits were sunk into roots still black with mouthrot.

  But in the Iron City, death was a spectrum.

  A wailing woman stood clutching a frail child to her chest, a dagger trembling in her other hand. Around her, a dozen Amarillito loomed, draped in their loose, stained yellow winding sheets. Even silent the very presence of the living dead filled the air with judgment. A Tithetaker recited the dead’s final instructions, and then the woman was borne away, vanishing into the depths of the cold, unfeeling city as her child was torn away from her.

  Her screams would have made Joq sick years ago when his father first brought the family here from across the Thousand-Thousand; now it was just a background noise, the equivalent of watching an old man beat a whimpering dog, knowing the little beast would beg and lick his hand after.

  Joq had business to attend to in the city. His masters had invested heavily in current events, and he was sent to make sure their coin was well spent.

  Joq was himself an investment. When his father and mother died in the grips of the Blackwater ague their bodies had been taken to pay their debts, leaving their son an urchin. If was only through luck that he had been found by the man he went to visit today, a man who had indentured him and allowed his parents to lie resting in a simple plot far away from the working cruelty of the Amarillito.

  Papers of payment and a quick carriage brought the courier to the Inn of the Golden Rose. Joq had been away for almost a year doing his work and the place seemed amniotic; the warmth of his normal fireplace spot let him rest his tired legs and the locals tilted mugs in toast to returns.

  The mistress of the house found him before he’d finished his first cup of watered wine, and the weary traveler accepted the press of her body against him, a mother welcoming her favorite son home.

  “Iron holds, love, but you look like a crow left out in a storm,” she clucked, wiping her hands on her apron before reaching out to ruffle his already-unruly hair. “Skin and bone, Joq, skin and bone! And here I thought your grand travels might put some meat on you.”

  Joq let her fuss, too tired to fight back. Viney had been at the Golden Rose long before even his father's first visit. She had been the beauty of the neighborhood then, but the death of three children before their Naming had driven her to embracing the waifs the Master would bring in as her own. She had long since appointed herself their keeper, and Joq had ended up her favorite whether he wanted it or not.

  She vanished into the kitchen before he could get a word in, returning moments later with a steaming bowl that smelled of garlic, sweetflower, and the sea. Thick hunks of bread floated in the hot golden broth, soaking up ribbons of oil from the stew beneath. Viney pressed a wooden spoon into his hand and pointed sternly at the bowl.

  “Eat,” she ordered.

  Joq obeyed, falling to the work with a will. Yhe first bite filled his mouth with warmth and spice. Tender white fish flaked apart in the broth, mingling with fat curls of sausage, crushed savor, and soft onions cooked down for hours into a heavy sweet paste. The flavor was not of his childhood; the food of his homeland was rougher, black breads and stewed blood. It was not the nourishment of the streets he’d lived in but something familiar, a meal whose place was gainsaid whereever hungry men found need of a bowl of food and a full cup waiting at the end of a long road.

  “Still make the best in the city,” he muttered between mouthfuls.

  Viney sniffed, pleased. “Your tongue has not tarnished in your absence.”

  For a time, she let him eat in peace, refilling his cup and waving off the few locals who tried to press him for stories of the road. But as the midday crowd trickled in, her expression darkened.

  “Your benefactor’s not been sleeping well,” she said, voice low. “He’s up at all hours, pacing, sending out messages. Bad business, whatever it is. On silver I've fed and kept you busy to allow the old man what little daily rest he sneaks in every day around this time.”

  Joq swallowed his last bite and wiped his mouth on the back of his hand. “Best not to keep him waiting then.”

  Viney’s mouth pulled, an argument barely held back clinking at the back of her teeth. Joq slipped from his seat, weaving his way through the growing crowd of Counting Day pilgrims ready for a golden bowl.

  The Golden Rose was lively now, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and fresh bread, the hurried soft-tongued chatter of merchants and laborers mixing with the roar of a newly built fire. The chill Joq felt had nothing to do with the cold.

  Stolen content warning: this content belongs on Royal Road. Report any occurrences.

  Joq slipped up the narrow back stairs tucked behind the bar, hoping no eyes fell on him. There were more suspicious ways to sneak about, but it wasn't shocking that a man may be visiting at any hours to such an important man. The door at the end of the hall was latched, but his knock was expected.

  A low and sharply reeded voice answered from within.

  “Enter.”

  Joq stepped inside and shut the door behind him.

  The office was in disarray. Papers crushed the desk in untidy stacks, a strewn panopolt of half-empty glasses and foolscap calculations mixed up among it all. Once orderly shelves sagged under the weight of open books, scattered maps, and spent candle stubs. An ugly rug had taken residence beneath the guest chair, most likely replacing the beautiful Jalicasi weave that had been there ever since Joq came to service.

  The air smelled of wax, ink, and old smoke, along with something deeper... an animal musk, the odor of a body unclean and frantic. He had spent too many long nights with too little rest.

  The merchant lord Amtonyo Olhofrio sat behind a simple long board desk, his fingers stained with ink and back stuck in a permanent hump. He was ,a man of comfortable indulgence, his belly round and his hands softened by years of labor by proxy. The man Joq saw in front of him now was gaunt, hollow-eyed, a wineskin deflated and wearing thin at the edges. His coat, always rich and well-tailored, hung stained and loose on his shoulders and deep lines cut into his brow.

  He looked up as Joq entered, one hand propping his head up and the other feverishly finishing a note. For a moment, his tired face cracked into something like a smile.

  “Cold iron boy! I had hoped the western climes would heal your countenance but you’re still ugly,” Amtonyo said.

  “Good to see you too,” Joq replied, dropping into the chair opposite. While Amtonyo loved finer things he kept his office very sparse, and Joq had learned to hate the long talks seated in the rickety guest seats Am had, barely a step above a bench.

  Amtonyo sighed, leaning back with an the groan of an old man. “My girls will be pleased you’re back. Talla especially.”

  Joq grimaced, and Amtonyo let out a wheezing laugh.

  “Still flustered by a little girl’s foolish fancy? She’ll be heartbroken if you don’t at least bring her a trinket from your travels.”

  “I brought something,” Joq admitted, scratching the back of his neck. “Something small.” He produced the small trinket, a silver songbird that tweeted when wound, a bit of mechanical cleverness that anyone who wasn't eleven with a head fully of courtly romance ideas would see was cheap frippery.

  Amtonyo nodded, his humor fading. He folded the letter and set it aside, his fingers steepled as if in prayer.

  “We should talk.”

  Joq straightened. “We should.”

  Even above the bar words of treason were a hanging offense. Amtonyo’s voice dropped, quieter now. “The Hawk.”

  Joq nodded. The name was forbidden among the more well heeled, heavy with implication.

  Amtonyo moistened his lips, fingers tapping against the desk. “You were laying the groundwork, making the right connections. I recall sending a small fortune in varied coinage in three casks and a fine wagon but hear you returned to the city afoot. So? Tell your old mentor the state of things."

  “It’s moving. Slowly, but moving. The right people are listening. Coin’s changing hands. Soldiers, solid sellswords? They are gathering. The Hawk’s been careful, keeping to the shadows whilehis army amasses. Despite it all? I... I think he’s building something real, sir. It’s only a matter of time before he makes his first move.”

  Amtonyo exhaled, rubbing at his jaw. “And the city? Have the Eyes woken to our little game?"

  “Still asleep. For now.”

  A long silence stretched between them. Then Amtonyo nodded, more to himself than to Joq.

  “Good. Then it’s time to push a little harder.”

  Amtonyo grabbed a small wooden soldier from a collection of random objects on the blacked out windowsill. It was a stramge thing, paint worn from years of handling. One side was smooth, its colors still faintly visible as the livery coat of the Guard, a blathe glint of gold on a tiny carved epaulet. The other side was blackened, the wood curled and cracked from fire. He rolled it between his fingers as he spoke.

  “Do you know why I back the Hawk?” he said, his voice quieter than before. “Not because I think he’ll win. No, the chances of victory even under the best conditions over the Lords are not high."

  Amtonyo paused, staring off in the distance for a moment while Joq shifted himself to seek a more comfortable seating position.

  'No, it's not because I believe in this kingly Republic he preaches. Pah! A ruler and council? No... what he wants is noble, but he’s as brutal as he is naive. He thinks he can burn Prataferro’s chains to ash without realizing that iron does not burn. He will end up with a new hot collar and may be worse than the Lords themselves.”

  His fingers traced the charred side of the toy, his expression distant.

  “But I back him anyway, because this city is a rot on the land. It must be cut and cauterized. No man should have to slave away in death."

  "You see, Joq, I know the weight of debt better than most. When I was a younger man, before the Golden Rose, before I had coin worth a damn, I had a family. A wife. Two little boys. We lived in a house not far from the river. And one night, that house burned.”

  Joq remained silent. He had never heard this story.

  Amtonyo’s fingers clenched around the soldier. “I was out of the city, to sea seeking a fortune. A way to make a way for my children. When I came home? All was cold cinders. And as they couldn't identify whether I had perished with my family? To a crypt without bodies.

  He looked up, and for a moment, Joq saw the rawness in his gaze. The fury, buried but never forgotten.

  “My rival—my better, in those days—saw an opportunity. He had found my debts, large and small, and purchased them in secret for copper on gold. I had insurances, a small gambling stake... He claimed my family’s remains as his Right. Bound and ragged, no house would take them, and all were too small to be of use in mines or the fields."

  Joq sat awestruck, hanging by every word.

  "So he put them to work in the coal pits. My wife, my sons... they paid a debt I never signed for. That, Joq, is Prataferro.”

  The toy soldier turned in his hands again, and a small smile, bitter and tired, crossed his lips as he passed behind Joq.

  “The man who did it to me is a Lord of the Irons now. Today he drinks from a fine silver cup and sleeps in silks. He has built a reputation for ruthless behavior and thinks himself untouchable. But he is wrong.”

  Joq exhaled slowly. “The Hawk isn't your cause. He's your dagger.”

  It was a perfect time.

  The blade was known as a sliver, or a cheese knife. Thin as a sheet of paper and impossibly sharp, a masterwork of Navaran bladesmithing. Held between two hands a simple wrap around the neck and twist was all that was needed to silence and begin the process of bleeding out for the young courier.

  Amtonyo nodded. “One day, this city will burn, and when it does, I will see him dragged down into the ashes. My only regret is that so many of you young men must serve as tinder.”

  He set the toy soldier down gently on the desk, and placed the gift for Talia in the breast pocket of the dying boy's shirt, patting the stopped heart with a fatherly fondness.

  “How long before we set the fire?”