Touch of Iron (The Living Blade #1) (23 page)

Sometimes, one of the old ladies would hand Calla a few balls of wool, freshly made biscuits, or a cured leg of ham. Nora would carry it a little farther to the next house they called at, where Calla would then pass it on to someone else. It seemed like a very elaborate game of what goes around comes back around.

“Is this payment?” Nora asked Calla as they walked down the main road.

Calla looked shocked.

“A pilgrim is never paid. That would be against the code. No abundance of personal possessions. No personal gain. You do what must be done. Nothing more. Nothing less.” She hesitated. “Sometimes, out of gratitude, a person may want to contribute what they have, if they can. We then pass this on to another person in need.”

“Who then owes you a favor.”

“Yes. It all evens out in the end. Balance. A perfect cycle.”

“Why were the temples so rich in the past, then?”

Calla looked hurt, so Nora quickly apologized and let the subject drop. Calla honestly seemed to believe in the code’s inherent force for good and chose not to see the hypocrisy. She was, Nora mused, in that regard a bit like Owen, who often reasoned that all people were decent deep down, even beyond the point when he was proven wrong.

The last tier of the courtyards ran along the outer walls. This was where the domestic animals were kept when the gates were closed for the night, grazing between the ruins of some of the largest houses. Calla led Nora down the broad road where birch saplings grew and were eaten by the sheep. They stepped over chickens and pushed aside the goats. Once, a long time ago, these buildings had been warehouses full of wonders from the farthest corners of the earth, Calla said. Now, though, they were the most derelict ones in the courtyards and, besides the animals, no one lived here. Or nearly no one.

They stopped at one of the houses facing the outer walls. It was partially caved in; a ragged piece of colored cloth had been pulled over the huge hole in the ceiling. They had to duck to get through the broken doorway, which was curtained against the wind by a thick sheep’s pelt. Inside, the smell of sheep and turpentine hit Nora’s nose hard. She sniffed as her eyes adjusted to the semi-dark. Inside, the house was an explosion of colorful wool carpets. They were everywhere: on the floor, on the walls, across the ceiling. Three small looms stood along a far wall, and three old women sat at them, only turning briefly from their work to see who had arrived. One called out a name Nora didn’t understand.

A short woman came in from the next room, belly round before her, her skin darkly tanned from the time she spent outside, a staff in her hand. A shepherdess. Nora’s heart missed a beat. The shepherdess was about her age, seventeen, eighteen—maybe a few months lay between them. She was a sturdily built young woman, like Nora, a living reminder that Nora could have been married, could be a mother. A cold sense of foreboding seized Nora’s heart. She felt the urge to leave but stayed as Calla bustled about, taking the woman’s pulse, feeling the baby, checking the insides of the mother’s lower eyelids for signs of anemia.

“I hope it’ll be a boy.” The shepherdess beamed at Nora. “A gorgeous boy like his daddy.”

And where was his daddy exactly? Nora wondered. She remained silent, though.

“Two boys.” Calla gave the mother a worried smile.

“Yes,” the mother-to-be laughed. “My two gorgeous boys.”

“No, I mean you’re expecting twins,” Calla said.

*     *     *

Nora waited outside the broken
house until dusk fell. Her feet ached and her legs felt like tree trunks from walking around all day. Funny, she had done so much walking the last few weeks. One more day should be nothing. She could still hear the wailing inside through the carpet roof.

The outer walls were mostly in good repair. Farther down the road she saw a part of a crumbled house, spewing its bricks onto the streets. A few men were gathering them in wheelbarrows and carting them to some sort of construction taking place on top of the wall. Maybe they were the husbands of the women inside the house. They scaled rickety wooden poles of scaffolding, and Nora watched to see if someone would fall down and break their leg, because then at least she’d have something to do. Finally, Calla stepped carefully through the doorway. She looked tired.

“Let’s get back. I still have to grill the fish. And I feel dirty now.”

“Why? What did you do?”

“I mean, I need a bath to get rid of the smell of sheep, Nora. All I did was soothe the mother. She was in a lot of emotional pain.” Calla gave Nora a sharp look. “And the other women were a nightmare. I’ll have to keep checking on her every day now. They have…opinions on the nature of twins. They might persuade her to…do something…inexpertly.”

“Have you ever delivered twins?”

“I haven’t myself. But I’ve seen my former master do it. It’s a bit fiddly. You have to take care of three people instead of just two. But I think I can manage.”

“What will you do when they’re born?”

Calla stopped. A cow ambled by between them. Nora stepped back to let it through. She folded her arms.

“Nora…”

“What did your former master do with twins?”

“You’re taking this far too personally. What the mother decides to do is what she decides to do. It’s not your call to make.”

“So you’ll just allow these stupid people their stupid traditions?”

“I can’t just
not
help because people are stupid. That’s not the way it works.”

“I thought you pilgrims were all about moral guidance. Don’t you know right from wrong? Let me explain it to you: killing babies is wrong.”

“I’m not going to kill them.”

“Good.”

They walked on in silence until they reached the red gates.

“So what are you going to do?” Nora asked.

Calla groaned. “Can’t you just let it go?”

Nora arched her eyebrows.

“If the pregnancy goes well and the birth runs smoothly,” Calla said, staring in front of her as they walked up the steps, “I shall lay the babies in their mother’s arms with instructions for her to follow.”

“And then she’ll walk out into the night and throw the babies to the wolves. Great.”

“You do what must be done. Nothing more.”

“Fine. If you want to be that way, I’m going to tell Owen you’ll let babies die because they’re twins.”

Calla reached out and grabbed Nora’s arm.

“No, don’t,” she started to say.

Nora’s vision dimmed. A baby cried in her ears. Blood everywhere, on hands that were too thin to be hers. The unknown man with his belt in his hand. The looks the women of the Ridge cast her way whenever she walked into a group of them. Her father, making the sign of evil at her. No, not that! Nora gasped.

“Get off me!” She snatched her arm back. “And stop doing that! Who is the guy with the belt anyway?”

“I’m sorry,” Calla called after Nora, who was storming up the stairs two steps at a time. “I wasn’t thinking! Nora!”

T
he next few days, Nora
worked in the kitchens with Calla but went on the rounds with Master Cumi. While Calla worked in a sea of women, Master Cumi dealt with the menfolk. There was considerably less small talk—and biscuits—and more getting down to business, which suited Nora just fine. They stood side by side in the broad road leading along the outer walls and listened to a pompous, red-faced man deliver reasons why he was ransacking the houses to build a windmill on top of the walls.

“I understand,” Master Cumi was saying. “Many people feel like you do.”

Nora had figured out that this sentence meant Master Cumi was getting annoyed. When she spoke it, the conversation was usually over soon.

Master Cumi smiled sweetly at the man. “However, the outer walls still belong to the temple. You’re attempting to put up a business in my temple. And you have to ask my permission before you start building. It’s not that I wouldn’t want a mill here. In fact, I think it’s a very good idea and a signal to all the other refugees that this place is indeed their new home instead of simply a waiting ground before moving back to wherever they came from. However, the outer walls belong to the temple, the temple belongs to my order, and I don’t approve of you not asking me. That sends a very different signal to the rest of the refugees, you see. One I can’t be holding with.”

“I can’t just stop building right in the middle, master.”

“I’m sure you can,” Master Cumi said.

“We’ve got the millstone here already. Do you know how difficult that was? It’d be a waste of time and money.”

This was where the haggling started. Master Cumi had a refreshingly open mind toward the rules of the pilgrim order when it came down to business. It was one thing to go on the rounds and expect nothing for it, she told Nora on their way back. It was quite another to be the Guardian of the Temple. And as such, Master Cumi considered taxation a completely legitimate tool to use.

“If they want to live here, they accept the order as landlord. Or they move on.”

The miller would get his business, the growing community would get a mill and a piece of normality, and the temple would profit as well. As they passed along the road, Nora glanced at the crumbled house with the piece of cloth as a roof. Master Cumi noticed.

“Have you spoken with Calla?” she asked.

“Loads of times,” Nora said, frowning at the outer walls instead. “We work together, as you know.”

“I meant about whatever you have fallen out over.”

“She told you?”

“No. She radiated. You pick up these images whenever you’re near her then.” Master Cumi sighed. “Nora, do you want to become a pilgrim?”

“I…I don’t know.” She glanced at Master Cumi. “Why did you become a pilgrim?”

“You know what I am.” Master Cumi shrugged. “I could tell you the story of a young woman, fed up with the life that was handed to her, looking for a fresh start. Running away from home. Sound familiar? Joining the pilgrims seemed like the safest bet against having to live the life that was forced on me.”

“But?”

“Joining the order doesn’t change who you are. You know that.” Master Cumi gave her a long look and adjusted her cloak around her shoulders. It was fastened on the side with a raven’s wing that hung over her shoulder. The black feathers shone with a luster no dead thing should have. “There are rules and obligations people expect you to live by. Just of a different kind. You are never free of other people’s opinions just because you choose to run with a new crowd. You better make sure you like the crowd before you run with them.”

“Why are you telling me this?”

“You know your brother wants to be a pilgrim. You know that he is proving himself to be very useful to Prince Bashan’s undertaking.”

“So?”

“So Owen will take the vows, leave with the Hunted Company come spring, and go on his pilgrimage to see the world. What are you going to do then?”

She arched her eyebrows high. But Nora had no answer.

They parted at the square, Master Cumi giving Nora one last errand. One of the smith’s boys had burned himself working the portable forge. Nora dropped by the craftsmen street to pass on a jar of something that squelched as she walked, the liquid contents splashing against the inside. The smell of charcoal hung in the air. Hammer blows ran hard and clear. This was as close to home as she could get. She paused for a moment and closed her eyes. Everyone needed a smith.

Someone bumped into her from behind.

“You shouldn’t be daydreaming, girl.”

It was Bashan. His dead fish eyes assessed her coldly. He smirked.

“My lord,” Nora said and moved to go around him.

It was a good thing to say.
My lord
could mean anything.
Good day
, for instance. Or,
I understand and follow your implied order
.
I know my place
. Or it could just mean
fuck you
.

“Are you looking to replace that knife of yours?” Bashan asked. “You should be. You should trade it for something more suitable. Like a pot or a pan.”

“The knife’s still pretty sharp. I think I’ll keep it awhile. My lord.”

He grabbed her arm and squeezed it painfully.

“Want to become a female sellsword?” The calm of Bashan’s whisper belied the strength of his grasp. “Train with the best master? Well, I don’t think I need to explain Diaz’s skill to you. There is no one who can match him as a warrior. It’s what makes him so valuable in my service. However, I’d hate for you to remain under the impression all warriors are like Master Diaz.”

“Then it’s a good thing I have met you, my lord.”

He smiled and squeezed harder.

“Diaz likes you. Ridiculous, I know. But the great thing about Diaz is he’ll never admit that, not even to himself. So if you act up, don’t do as you’re told, are impertinent, I can destroy you. And there is nothing Diaz can or will do about it. Are we clear on this?”

Nora struggled to free her arm from his grip.

“My lord,” she swore.

“You know what happens to female sellswords when they are beaten? Hmm? I think you know.”

He pushed her away and she stumbled over the cobblestones, cheeks hot. With a last creepy smile, Bashan was gone in the bustle of the crowd.