Read Online Herald of the Storm by Richard Ford - Free Book Online Page A
Authors: Richard Ford
Ads: Link
the Khurtas might come knocking, might want to do you harm to sabotage the war effort. That’s why we’ll be taking extra special care of you over the coming months. And consequently this extra care will cost a premium.’
Nobul didn’t answer; there was little point. He paid his protection money to be left alone, not to be looked after.
With a nod, the big man turned. His burly friend opened the door, allowing the clangour in once more. ‘Be seeing you,’ said the brute, with a smile; then they were gone, letting the door slam shut behind them.
Nobul clenched his fists, feeling helpless, full of rage. Truth was he
had
received a big commission from the Crown, but he was only one man and he couldn’t afford an apprentice. His son was too young to work the forge, and this backbreaking work wasn’t something he wanted for the boy anyway. It was hard, dirty work, for hard, dirty men, and Markus was not suited to it. Though Nobul had raised him as best he could, their relationship was far from ideal. The last thing Nobul wanted was to
make
him work the forge and drive an even deeper wedge between them.
Yet what choice did he have? If he hadn’t got to pay back his loan for the forge, together with his stipend to the Guild for their ‘services’, he might have been able to get ahead. But if he now had to pay out even more, how could he keep a roof over his head and feed himself, let alone Markus?
Standing around lamenting wasn’t going to solve the problem. Nobul pulled the glove back onto his hand and picked up his hammer.
It was dark when he finally left the forge and ventured out into the cool of the street. Several people were busying themselves hanging banners and bunting for the Feast of Arlor, but Nobul wasn’t interested in any of that. What was the point?
He closed the heavy door behind him, turning the large iron keys in their mortise locks at the top and bottom of the door before taking the short walk to the small house he and Markus called home. Though the tiny space was cramped with the furniture they owned, it still felt empty without her there. He looked towards the hearth where she would have been … should have been sitting, but the chair was empty. The fire was lit though, and above it bubbled a pot of broth which filled the room with a rich smell that made his stomach rumble with approval.
‘Markus?’ Nobul called. He was answered by a clattering upstairs from their shared bedchamber, followed by his son’s muffled answer. The boy came down the stairs as quick as he could at his father’s call, stumbling halfway down. He was a clumsy child, gangly, thin, weak at the shoulders. Something inside Nobul resented him for that. If Nobul had been able to forge his son as he could forge weapons and armour, Markus would indeed have been a formidable child. It hadn’t worked out that way.
‘Father,’ Markus said, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and attempting to compose himself.
‘Asleep again?’ Nobul said, not expecting an answer. Markus only ever seemed happy when he was napping, only seemed to smile in his sleep. It was a laziness that Nobul should have beaten out of him. It was time Markus learned some of his father’s hard work ethic, but beating him never seemed to work. It certainly hadn’t toughened him up, and Nobul was loath to continue on that path. It might eventually drive his son away altogether, and Nobul had lost enough.
‘Lay the table,’ Nobul ordered as he kicked off his boots and sat by the fire.
‘I made the broth,’ Markus said, placing wooden trenchers on the table and laying out the spoons.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘And I went and got the bread like you asked. Baker said he was doing a deal on the soft kind, the stuff with no grainy bits in, so I got that.’
Nobul frowned. ‘Markus, how many times? The soft kind doesn’t last; it’ll be stale in a day. We need a loaf to last the week. I’m not made of—’ He stopped himself. It would do no
Nobul didn’t answer; there was little point. He paid his protection money to be left alone, not to be looked after.
With a nod, the big man turned. His burly friend opened the door, allowing the clangour in once more. ‘Be seeing you,’ said the brute, with a smile; then they were gone, letting the door slam shut behind them.
Nobul clenched his fists, feeling helpless, full of rage. Truth was he
had
received a big commission from the Crown, but he was only one man and he couldn’t afford an apprentice. His son was too young to work the forge, and this backbreaking work wasn’t something he wanted for the boy anyway. It was hard, dirty work, for hard, dirty men, and Markus was not suited to it. Though Nobul had raised him as best he could, their relationship was far from ideal. The last thing Nobul wanted was to
make
him work the forge and drive an even deeper wedge between them.
Yet what choice did he have? If he hadn’t got to pay back his loan for the forge, together with his stipend to the Guild for their ‘services’, he might have been able to get ahead. But if he now had to pay out even more, how could he keep a roof over his head and feed himself, let alone Markus?
Standing around lamenting wasn’t going to solve the problem. Nobul pulled the glove back onto his hand and picked up his hammer.
It was dark when he finally left the forge and ventured out into the cool of the street. Several people were busying themselves hanging banners and bunting for the Feast of Arlor, but Nobul wasn’t interested in any of that. What was the point?
He closed the heavy door behind him, turning the large iron keys in their mortise locks at the top and bottom of the door before taking the short walk to the small house he and Markus called home. Though the tiny space was cramped with the furniture they owned, it still felt empty without her there. He looked towards the hearth where she would have been … should have been sitting, but the chair was empty. The fire was lit though, and above it bubbled a pot of broth which filled the room with a rich smell that made his stomach rumble with approval.
‘Markus?’ Nobul called. He was answered by a clattering upstairs from their shared bedchamber, followed by his son’s muffled answer. The boy came down the stairs as quick as he could at his father’s call, stumbling halfway down. He was a clumsy child, gangly, thin, weak at the shoulders. Something inside Nobul resented him for that. If Nobul had been able to forge his son as he could forge weapons and armour, Markus would indeed have been a formidable child. It hadn’t worked out that way.
‘Father,’ Markus said, reaching the bottom of the stairs, and attempting to compose himself.
‘Asleep again?’ Nobul said, not expecting an answer. Markus only ever seemed happy when he was napping, only seemed to smile in his sleep. It was a laziness that Nobul should have beaten out of him. It was time Markus learned some of his father’s hard work ethic, but beating him never seemed to work. It certainly hadn’t toughened him up, and Nobul was loath to continue on that path. It might eventually drive his son away altogether, and Nobul had lost enough.
‘Lay the table,’ Nobul ordered as he kicked off his boots and sat by the fire.
‘I made the broth,’ Markus said, placing wooden trenchers on the table and laying out the spoons.
‘Yes, I can see that.’
‘And I went and got the bread like you asked. Baker said he was doing a deal on the soft kind, the stuff with no grainy bits in, so I got that.’
Nobul frowned. ‘Markus, how many times? The soft kind doesn’t last; it’ll be stale in a day. We need a loaf to last the week. I’m not made of—’ He stopped himself. It would do no
Similar Books
