Somewhere in the tenement, a child laughed.
Idrian forced himself up, leaving his bedroll and crossing to the other side of the room, where Braileer had set out his armor. He ran his fingers across a few small mendings, feeling the deep notches in the steel frame of the shield and the heavy scratches across the hammerglass of his left pauldron. It was apparent that repairs had been done, though it would be a stretch to say they’d been done well. Idrian grimaced. Was an inexperienced armorer better than no armorer at all? Braileer hadn’t made the damage worse, at least.
Idrian looked in his pack for a pencil and paper, half minded to write a message back to the Ministry. When he could find neither, he began to compose it in his head: Braileer needed a few more years of training before he saw active duty; his presence was a disservice to them both; Idrian needed an experienced armorer. Returning to his armor, Idrian did a more thorough examination. One of the broken straps was mended, and quite well. The polish on the metal was properly done. There were, he admitted to himself, a few competent points.
A child laughed again somewhere in the tenement and Idrian shook his head. Glassdamned civilians needed to get out of here. He could be sympathetic that many of them had no place to go, but fleeing into the countryside or deeper into either Grent or Ossa was a better alternative than staying in an active war zone. He stepped into the hallway, following the sound of the laughter to the end of the building, where he found a tenement door opened a crack. The child’s giggle issued from within.
“Listen,” he said loudly, knocking on the door and pushing it open, “you need to move…” He trailed off, staring at the room for several moments. It was abandoned, just as threadbare and empty as his own, with a bedroll and pack belonging to one of the Ironhorns’ sergeants sitting in the corner but nothing else. Certainly no children. Idrian swallowed hard and pressed on his godglass eye. “Shit,” he whispered.
He gripped the eye carefully and pulled it out of the socket, lifting it to peer into the purple, cloudy depths with his one good eye. The color was a little duller than the last time he’d checked, but not so much as to reduce the effectiveness of the sorcery it emanated.
“Sir,” called a voice.
Idrian pushed the eye back into its socket and whirled around to see Braileer standing just outside the door.
“Everything all right, sir?”
Idrian glanced into the empty room and closed the door, forcing himself to ignore the child’s laughter that came from within instantaneously. “It is.”
“Your breakfast is ready, sir.”
Idrian joined Braileer back in his own room, sitting down on his bedroll as the young man set a tin plate in front of him. Idrian was deep in his own thoughts, trying not to think about that child’s laughter while coming up with a way to let Braileer down easy. Would the young man be ashamed of being immediately removed from his position? Or secretly relieved not to have to go into combat? Or both?
He tapped his knife against the tin plate a few times thoughtfully before using it to shovel food into his mouth. He was immediately jolted back to the present, his palate hit by several powerful flavors. He looked down. “This isn’t Laurent’s gruel,” he said.
Braileer was watching him keenly. “I’m sorry if it’s a bit substandard, sir. The quartermaster–”
“Laurent.”
“Laurent wouldn’t believe that I was your new armorer, so I had to swipe a few things from the castoffs at his prep station. It’s just potatoes fried in lard, with onion leaves, some old garlic, and a bit of cheese.”
Idrian took another bite and chewed slowly, tilting his head to one side to listen for more distant laughter. Nothing. His phantoms were silent for the moment. Pleasure of any kind tended to quiet them. “This is better than anything Laurent has ever made us. And you whipped it up from his extras?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You always light-fingered?”
Braileer seemed to sense the trap in that question and ducked his head. “I’m not a thief, sir. I’m the youngest in a big, poor family. If I wanted to eat I needed to swipe from my brothers’ plates without getting caught.”
“Then how do you know how to cook?”
“I apprenticed with an armorer’s chef for three years. One day the armorer’s regular assistant got ill, so I filled in. The poor girl died, and I learn quick, so I became an armorer’s apprentice.”
Idrian finished his meal, enjoying every bite, taking solace in the warmth and richness of the food. When he finished he leaned back against the wall and set aside his plate, watching Braileer right back. “The work you did last night is … well, it’s not bad, but it’s not good either.”
“I understand, sir. I won’t lie – my master argued with the recruiter for over an hour when they came around and conscripted me. Said I wasn’t ready, and he was right. I can’t do a perfect job, but I guarantee I’ll be better than nothing.”
Idrian already liked this kid. Quick, self-aware, attentive. “A Foreign Legion armorer pays a lot better than an armorer’s apprentice,” he observed.
“That it does, sir.”
Idrian licked clean his knife, wiped it on his uniform pants, and returned it to his belt. “How much?”
“A thousand a month, sir.” Braileer hesitated for a moment. “Are you going to dismiss me from your service, sir?”
“Hm.” Idrian looked at his plate and seriously considered licking that clean as well. “Not yet. We’ll see how you fit in,” he said. “Where is Tadeas?”
“Major Grappo is just outside, sir.”
Idrian left Braileer to roll up his bedroll and headed outside, where various Ironhorn squads all headed off in different directions. It was clear that orders had already been handed out, but Idrian himself hadn’t been included. His commanding officer and longtime friend stood in the center of the makeshift camp, hands on his hips, his eyes raised to the sky as if deep in thought.
Tadeas Grappo looked like an older version of his more famous nephew. He was in his late forties, with black hair, a scarred and weathered face, and thoughtful brown eyes. Despite having renounced his Assembly seat long ago to Demir, he still held himself like a guild-family member. His shoulders were squared, head up, a hint of regality in his presence despite his sweat-stained, dusty uniform.
“Finally joining us, our illustrious breacher?” he called as his eyes fell on Idrian.
“You didn’t send anyone to wake me up,” Idrian replied. “They aren’t ordering us to the front today?”
Tadeas shook his head. “They’ve split us up to babysit a bunch of artillery as they move them up. It’s drudge work, but better than what we went through yesterday.”
“Agreed.” Idrian came to stand next to Tadeas, pressing gently on his godglass eye as he made sure they were alone. “It’s happening again,” he said softly.
“Already?” Tadeas’s gaze snapped to him, his expression immediately growing worried. “I thought you had a couple years left until the eye started to degrade.”
“I thought I did too, but … Demir was here last night. At his request I accompanied him to the Grent Royal Glassworks to extract Master Kastora. We found Kastora mortally wounded, and he died within minutes of our arrival.” Idrian spoke as if giving a report to a fastidious general, trying to keep all emotion out of his words lest that dam burst.
Tadeas didn’t even twitch an eye at the mention of his nephew. Either he already knew he’d been here, or he just wasn’t surprised by it. He put a hand on Idrian’s shoulder. “I’m sorry. Your agreement with the Ministry – they know the eye holds your madness at bay. They’ll have to find you a siliceer to make a new one, correct?”