But these things take time and must be handled delicately. If a tragic accident should befall one of them, it would be highly suspicious for another to fall ill soon after. So we will bide our time and wait for the right moment to strike.
I wished it was surprising that my father plotted with his protege to murder the members of his Death Watch. As a child I’d watched him slowly poison Hugo Morin, the Right Hand he served under as Shroud Warden, until he dropped dead in the street after a prolonged illness. Hugo was a portly man prior to my father’s intervention, and in the end, there was nothing left of him but skin and bones.
It was a cruel and painful end for a man who had been kinder to me than my own father.
Penny reappeared in the doorway, fully clothed and with his damp hair neatly combed. When his gaze settled on the book in my lap, he grimaced. It was clear he had something to say, but he kept it to himself.
I closed the journal and set it on the tabletop. “Ready to head out?”
His eyes met mine for a moment, and I could see the worry there before he nodded and stepped into his boots.
“Ready as I’ll ever be.”
I followed suit and locked up behind us as we set out toward the square.
“Why couldn’t you have been an architect or a map maker?” Penny whined as the town center came into view between rows of houses. “Then perhaps I could justify all the time I spend drawing.” He worried his sketchbook between his hands, curling the leather cover forward and back. The pencil tucked behind his ear pinned his hair away from his face.
“There's plenty of drawing to be done designing sheaths or carving handles,” I said.
He scuffed his boot against a clod of dirt. “What sorts of things do Bone Men want on their weaponry? Skulls? Coffins?” he suggested bitterly. “That cursed thing?”
His gesture to the brand hidden under my shirt drew my eye. I stopped and turned toward him, grabbing his arm and giving it a squeeze.
“You don’t need to be nervous. There’s ample work for you to do that has nothing to do with the forge.”
He stared down at the point of contact until I released him and broke into motion again, leading the way to the shop.
Inside, everything was familiar. Not only was it much the same as it had been when I’d worked here as a child, but it looked enough like my setup in Forstford that I felt at home. I went straight to the charcoal piled inside the firepot and set about stuffing paper into the spaces between them before setting a match to it. Penny remained in the doorframe, a wide-open arch that allowed light and air to spill in from the town square, as far from the fire as he could get.
I glanced back to ensure he was watching so I wouldn’t surprise him before I pumped the bellows, making the flames swell and grow. They stretched taller, putting off smoke that was sucked up the stone chimney as I fed in additional charcoal and packed it into the outer ring of the hearth.
When the forge was fully lit and the flames had died back to leave the once-black coals aglow with orange heat, I dusted my palms on my pants and moved to the wall where a leather apron and pair of gloves hung. I tugged them on while Penny stood, hugging his sketchbook to his chest and keeping a wary eye on the smoldering firepot.
“Is there anything youwantto learn?” I called over to him.
He startled from his stupor and swung his gaze around the space. He pointed to a lopsided stool in the corner and made his way toward it. “I have a knack for causing more trouble than I’m worth,” he said as he clambered onto the stiff wooden seat. “Might be best if I stay out of the way.”
“Is that something your brother said?” I shot him a narrow look, and he offered a weak smile in response.
“On that point, he and Father happened to agree,” he replied.
I closed the gap between us while fighting to undo a knot in the waist string of the apron. “Well, I don’t,” I said. “And I was serious about the sheaths and handles. It takes an artistic eye, which I sorely lack.”
I tipped my head down the wall where rolls of tanned leather were pinned behind a table. Tools poked out of wooden cups along with small chisels and files, and pots of dye cluttered one corner.
Penny eased off the stool and crossed to the assorted supplies. Standing beside them, he walked his fingers over the items. The dust and grime that covered most of them made it clear they hadn’t been used in some time.
He was thumbing across the leather when I came up behind him. He glanced at me as I finally tugged the knot free, then wound the apron strings around my waist.
“Practice a bit. See what comes to you.” I pulled out a few tools and lined them up on the tabletop. Pointing at each in turn, I walked him through what they were called and what they did. Awls, stamps, carving blades, and mallets were slotted alongside a pair of rusty shears that would need my attention before they would be usable.
He set his sketchbook aside, then picked up the tools I’d shown him, turning them over in his scar-striped palms.
“What if I’m no good at it?” he asked.
“Then we’ll try something else,” I said. “If all fails, I still have use for you.”
“How so?”
