The Burden of Ash and Blood - 8. Chapter 8

With a tired sigh, Sam shielded his eyes from the morning sun as he and Graeme approached Blakenhall Keep. Despite the shared bed, he’d slept terribly, although the knight’s warmth was not without its comfort. Upon riding through the open portcullis, they greeted a guard and stated their names. Expecting their arrival, the man gave a friendly nod, and with established efficiency had them swiftly escorted into the keep proper. This being Sam’s first time within a keep or castle, his fatigue soon faded as he took in the sights, though he quickly grew disenchanted. The chambers and wide corridors were sparsely adorned. Aside from a few wall hangings and heraldic shields—all admittedly elegant in their design—there was little else to see. Braziers did little to dispel the darkness or the damp clinging to the stone walls. He’d never considered how difficult it must be to heat such a vast place.

After navigating a maze of passageways and a few stairwells, the guard lifted a hand to halt them before a door, then rapped upon it.

“Yes?” Duncan’s voice called from within.

“Ser Graeme Veilwyn and Master Sam Harkenstone,” the guard announced.

“Enter.”

The guard ushered them in, offered another nod to them all, then closed the door behind him. Compared to the dank hallway, the study was altogether more welcoming. The stone walls and floors were veiled with intricately woven tapestries and rugs, and a fire roared in the hearth. Oil lamps dispelled the gloom, aided by the eastern morning sun creeping in through the window. Duncan sat behind a wide mahogany desk. Heaps of scattered papers across the tabletop spoke of a busy man, one who had more duties than merely attempting to weed out a ring of criminal agents. With a smile, he gestured to the padded leather chairs opposite his desk.

“It pleases me to see you both this morn,” he said, then looked to Sam. “I’ll admit, due to your hesitation, I wasn’t entirely sure you would acquiesce in the end.”

“Well, I’ve never done anything like this. I told you, I’m just a blacksmith.”

Duncan eyed him curiously, as if recognising something Sam could not. In seeking confirmation of his suspicions, he turned his gaze toward Graeme, only to frown.

“Ser Graeme, please feel welcome to remove your helmet.”

“No, thank you.”

Nonplussed, Duncan looked back to Sam, who gestured lightly that everything was fine.

“In any case,” Sam continued, “yeah, we’re willing to take on your job, although we’d appreciate any other information you could give us.”

Graeme’s helmet seemingly forgotten, Duncan reclined in his chair. “Gryphon ash. It’s made from thrymfallow cap—a mushroom that grows in the Whitemere steppes, far to the southeast. It’s dried and ground to a powder. I doubt it’s being made here, though. All I need to know is where it’s being imported and stored in Blakenhall so we can arrest those responsible.”

He leant forward, almost conspiratorially. “And listen, I know there’s no way to stem the flow completely. Getting rid of one group only carves out space for others to take root. But it will protect our subjects for the time being, enough to please the baron.”

“Can you suggest where to start looking?” Sam asked.

“The south end of town—farthest from the keep—is where undesirables tend to conglomerate. I’ll order decreased Watch patrols in that area. It might help embolden the vermin to show themselves.”

“Are you sure that’s a good idea?” Sam asked.

“They won’t be pulling out of the area completely. It’ll be fine for a short period.” Duncan shifted his gaze between the two. “Any other questions?”

Sam looked to Graeme, who only yielded the slightest shake of the head. “I guess not,” Sam replied, unsure why Graeme was behaving more reticent than usual.

Duncan briskly cleared the papers between them and produced the contract. “Then the sole matter left to discuss is your fee.”

“One thousand,” Graeme’s voice declared tersely.

The outburst startled both men, then Duncan pursed his lips as he reflected upon the bid. Clearly Graeme had overshot his estimate.

“Would seven hundred suffice?”

Completely out of his depth, Sam could only watch in silence as Graeme considered the counteroffer.

“Very well. Seven hundred silver.”

Duncan presented a smile, barely able to conceal the sting of the settlement. He dipped a quill into an inkpot and wrote the agreed-upon amount, then turned the contract around for them to sign. Sam stood up to read it, only to find the ornate script barely legible to his eye. It didn’t help that the contract sprawled across the parchment like a saga.

“Um, sorry, but what’s all this about?”

“I know,” Duncan said with a scoff. “It’s one of the many pleasures of aristocracy. To spend the baron’s money requires untold amounts of documentation.” He pointed at the final paragraph, which included the sum of seven hundred. “This is all that matters, explaining what we discussed.”

Sam redoubled his efforts to read it, but the overwrought cursive script—while beautiful in its own right—remained wholly illegible. He cast his gaze nervously toward the knight. “This look okay to you?”

Graeme appeared to read it without an issue, and after a few moments, gestured for Duncan to pass the quill. “Yes, this is acceptable,” he replied while removing his right leather glove to sign the document.

Rather than writing his name, Graeme’s signature consisted of a complex series of swirls. It was yet another facet of the knight that Sam found strangely fascinating, and he felt a prickle of embarrassment at the simplicity of his own signature in comparison.

“Excellent,” Duncan said, pulling the contract aside to allow the ink to dry, then extended a hand to shake theirs. “I look forward to receiving your findings.”

Once they were back on their horses and away from the keep, Sam found himself smirking at Graeme’s blunt form of negotiation tactic.

“One thousand, huh?”

Graeme chuckled within his helmet, offering a sidelong glance from the slit of his visor. “Did you enjoy that?”

The mirth in his voice was such a treasure—as genuine as the man himself—drawing an irrepressible smile from Sam.

“You were acting so weird in there. It took me this long to realise what you were doing.”

“Experience has taught me that nobility will often haggle far above what I’d settle for. The first step is merely to lay down an exorbitant sum.”

Sam exhaled in wonder. “But, wow, seven hundred. That could last us a long time.”

“Indeed. However, until we receive that payment, we must dig into our reserves.” His words suggested he was short on coin, though he’d made a tidy sum selling the bandits’ horses.

“Is there something we need to buy?” Sam asked.

Instead of answering, Graeme nudged Tusk onward, leading them back to the Happy Goat Inn. While stabling their horses, Sam held his tongue, knowing that repeating his question wouldn’t earn him an answer. He presumed Graeme had his reasons—perhaps seeking privacy before divulging his thoughts. But by the time they’d reached their room, Sam was nearly bursting with curiosity.

“Okay, enough stalling. What in the hells do we need to buy?”

Graeme motioned for him to sit upon the bed, then drew up a chair to face him. “I’ve reflected further on what we discussed yesterday—seeking a trader that sells this ash. The process depends upon the seller’s trust. Otherwise, any suspicion may prompt them to go into hiding.”

“Okay,” Sam drawled. “But how is this related to our money?”

“I understand Duncan’s reason for choosing you,” Graeme continued, almost maddeningly ignoring Sam’s question. “You have a trustful demeanour.”

The unexpected statement put Sam off guard, and he scoffed nervously. “Do I?”

“Yes,” Graeme replied with no hint of amusement in his voice. “And it is no laughing matter, Sam. The qualities you embody were a decisive factor in my plea to accompany me.”

The sudden weight of his words and their underlying meaning left Sam dumbfounded. His cheeks prickled hot, and he involuntarily scratched his forehead in an attempt to hide it.

“Well, thank you,” he replied timidly. “I don’t think it’s any surprise to say I admire you—I mean, admire your demeanour, too. Even if it’s sometimes difficult to know what you’re thinking.”

“Do you not trust me?”

A ring of a jest tinged his voice, and Sam stifled a laugh. “You know what I mean. Of course I trust you, but your secretive nature is also fascinating to me. I hope that doesn’t sound weird.”

The knight stared back silently, holding Sam’s gaze as he often did.

“See? That!” Sam exclaimed. “I . . . like that.”

Graeme let out a low, thoughtful hum. “I’d already gleaned that,” he replied, a smile threaded through his words. “But now, to answer your question—we must purchase you some maille.”

“Armour?” Sam’s eyes grew wide. “Why?”

“As you must face part of this venture beyond the reach of my guard, that is the next best shield.” Before Sam could continue asking questions, Graeme raised a hand, allowing him to continue. “Mr Casselford is a sound host, but I do not trust the security of this room to leave my armour unattended. And to find our seller, we will need to be inconspicuous.” Gesturing to his armour, Graeme continued, “I am most certainly not inconspicuous.”

Sam couldn’t help chuckle. “But if I’m wearing maille, that’d be obvious too, wouldn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. Wearing a loose garment would hide a maille shirt.”

“Hold on,” Sam said, opening the wardrobe and pulling out a woollen long-sleeved shirt. “Would this work?”

“Certainly. And the tunic you’re currently wearing would suffice as an underlayer.”

The prospect of wearing his own suit of maille sent a tremor of excitement through Sam’s hands. Crouched on his haunches, he dug behind their belongings to retrieve the hidden lockbox containing his savings. “How much do you think it’d cost?”

Graeme gestured to tuck the box away. “I will pay for the maille.”

“Don’t be ridiculous. If I’m wearing it—”

“Sam, how long will you commit to our journey together?”

The unexpected question was like a slap to the face. It carried the weight of an ultimatum, but why Graeme was asking it at this moment, Sam had no idea. His mouth moved, but he found himself unable to form an answer.

“Forgive me,” Graeme said. “I worded that terribly. What I meant to ask is: how long do you plan on travelling with me?”

Sam let out a curt sigh. “I feel like you should already know the answer to that.”

“I must speak my mind, but please understand this has nothing to do with the integrity of your character. My concern is that you will find your own way—sooner rather than later—and no longer wish to journey on with me.”

Sam’s mouth hung open as Graeme spoke those words, unable to fathom leaving the knight’s side. If he were to confess the truth, yes, their current situation—as well as their friendship—was still quite fresh and novel. But would he tire of it? Surely anything was possible, yet the idea of choosing to quit this knight was an absurd concept to him. For as long as he could recall, he had dreamt of sharing even a meagre bond with a knight, and now here one stood before him, concerned Sam would leave him.

“If you want the honest truth—right now, I’d be lost without you. And when I say lost, I don’t mean the road. I mean my life.” Sam shut his eyes and spoke just above a whisper. “The idea of being left alone scares me.”

The knight fell to a knee at his side, a firm grip on his arm. “Forgive me, Sam. I didn’t mean to frighten you. I only sought to express the importance of your safety as we travel, and the protection the maille bestows is worth any price. You’re worth any price. It was to be a gift.”

The whiplash of emotions—from the fear of abandonment to the consolation of such tender words—left him reeling. Exhaustion tipped him over the edge, and he burst into tears. Graeme pulled him close into a hug, whispering his name dolefully. Though the steel armour pressed between them, Sam collapsed into the embrace, surrendered to it, aching for any touch at that moment. Tears streamed down his cheek, dripping onto the knight’s tabard. But as the wave of grief subsided, humiliation rose to take its place.

“I’m sorry,” he muttered, pulling away. “I don’t know where that came from.”

Graeme watched him silently for a time before replying. “There’s nothing to forgive.”

Idly thumbing a button on his tunic, Sam kept his gaze cast down. “I wish I was more like you.”

“How so?”

How could Sam say without emotion without it sounding like a negative trait? “Just, more composed.”

“It takes many long years of unrelenting practice.” He tapped his visor. “This, too, has served me well.”

Wiping his eyes, Sam smiled.

“There. Much better,” Graeme said. “Now, will you accept my gift?”

• • •

Thanks to more friendly recommendations from passersby on the streets, it didn’t take long for them to find an armoursmith. At first, the proprietor stood with his mouth agape upon laying eyes on Graeme, but then he reached out ardently to shake their hands.

“Welcome. Name’s Clayton. And sorry for staring. Your armour’s exquisite. I’ve never seen such a design.”

Sam restrained his grin, recognising too much of himself in the man before him.

“Thank you,” Graeme replied, accepting the outstretched hand. “I wish to purchase a maille shirt for my companion.”

The knight’s accent continued to hold Clayton’s intrigue, but he managed to rip his gaze from Graeme to appraise Sam’s build. “Of course.” With bumbling fingers, he reached behind the counter and grabbed a length of string, marked at regular intervals. “Arms up.”

Sam followed his instructions while the smith measured his chest and arms with careful detail, all the while scratching numbers onto a scrap of parchment with charcoal. Once he was finished, he tapped a finger against his chin while reviewing the figures, then grunted in approval.

“Yup, I’m near certain I’ve got some maille that’ll fit you fine. Give me a few minutes?”

“Sure,” Sam replied, and the smith swiftly disappeared behind a curtain leading to his workshop.

“How much do you think this’ll cost?” Sam asked Graeme discreetly.

“I cannot say. However, while I will negotiate price with nobility, I refuse to do so with craftsmen.”

Sam surreptitiously eyed Graeme’s coinpurse. It appeared to be near empty, and Sam’s own purse only held quarter-silver pennies. The higher sums were kept safely in his lockbox. He supposed if the price was beyond Graeme’s means, they could return with the additional coin.

They waited, but with each passing moment, Sam found himself continuously more eager. A distinct chime of maille rings drifted from the back, growing louder with each step until Clayton nudged the curtain aside with a shoulder. In his arms were three sets of maille, the load causing the burly man’s arms to bulge. With a huff, he laid each shirt on the counter, all appearing quite similar.

“We’ll try this one to start,” Clayton said, handing the shirt to Sam with the arms presented. When Sam stared at it apprehensively, the smith asked, “Have you worn a maille shirt before?”

Sam chuckled nervously. “Uh, no.”

“Nothing to be embarrassed about. It’s easy. The arms go in first, then you lift them over your head, and the whole thing slides down to your chest. Try it.”

The surprising weight forced Sam to stagger forward. He knew maille was heavy, though he’d never grasped the truth of it until now. Widening his stance, he followed the smith’s direction by holding his arms up, but the shirt only reached halfway down before clinging there. He tried jiggling to coax it further, but Clayton put a hand on his side to stop him.

“No, sorry. This one’s too small. Bend over as though you’re touching your toes.”

With his head and arms trapped within the maille, he couldn’t understand how that would help, but doing so coerced the rings to reverse course and slip off onto the floor. The surprising ease of it prompted Sam to laugh.

“And that’s how you take it off,” Clayton said with a smile, handing him the next set. “I think this one’ll fit you better.”

Sam repeated the process. This time, the maille slipped down his chest and sat squarely on his shoulders without snagging. Worn over his frame, the weight of it felt reassuring rather than cumbersome.

“Does it sit comfortably as you move?” Graeme asked.

Sam rolled his shoulders and swung his arms to test the movement. “It feels perfect. I always assumed it would be sort of awkward to wear.”

The smith flashed a grin. “Not my maille.” He perused a number of wide belts hanging from hooks, then handed one to Sam. “This will help lessen the burden on your shoulders.”

Sam cinched the belt around his waist, and true to Clayton’s word, it wore more like a thick garment than true armour.

“I think he’s happy,” Clayton remarked.

Graeme nodded. “It would seem so.”

It was at that moment Sam realised he was casting a wide, childish grin, and covered it with a hand. “Sorry, this is exciting for me.”

“There’s nought to apologise for,” Graeme said, then pulled at the ties of his coinpurse while turning to Clayton. “State your price.”

“I like the pair of you. How does one-twenty-five sound?”

Sam nearly choked at the sum, but Graeme nonchalantly pulled a one-hundred-silver coin between his fingers—a coin Sam had only seen once in his life—as well as lesser denominations to cover the rest. Even Clayton’s eyes lit up at the sight of that coin.

“You aren’t gonna haggle?” the smith asked. “I appreciate your candour.”

“The pleasure is ours,” Graeme said, shaking the man’s hand.

“Now, are you gonna take it off or wear it out?” Clayton asked Sam, eyes alight with amusement.

“Oh, um . . .” Sam still relished the heft of the maille, but judging by the smith’s reaction, he understood that wearing it outside might appear foolish. It wasn’t as though he held a place in the town’s Watch.

“Yes, he will wear it,” Graeme replied in his stead.

Incredulous, Sam’s head snapped toward the knight, who simply nodded in encouragement.

“Alright, then. Stay safe, my friends,” Clayton replied with a smile and slight bow of the head.

Once on the street, Sam found himself terribly self-conscious, but nobody paid him any mind. Realisation hit. Standing beside an armoured knight, he didn’t look out of place after all. His next concern, however, was Graeme’s near-empty coinpurse.

“I appreciate the gift, but didn’t realise it was going to cost that much. Let me pay you back half?”

“Certainly not,” Graeme replied. “The cost is a trifle compared to your safety.”

“But . . . you don’t seem to have much coin left.”

“On my person? No. But don’t fret, Sam. Like you, I have more stashed elsewhere.”

“Oh, right,” Sam replied, rolling his eyes at his ignorance. “Well, thank you again.”

The knight laid a sturdy hand on Sam’s shoulder, coaxing the maille to ring out. “Let us devise the next step to our plan.”