They’re all lowborn.
The worker takes only a quick glance at Antony and me before hurriedly returning to his work. Likewise, the next worker barely looks up. They certainly don’t acknowledge their king.
As if Antony reads the question in my mind, he says, “Don’t expect them to grovel. I’ve made it clear they’ll serve me best by working hard, not fawning at my feet. And before youjudge me about their scars, know that they choose this work because I pay them well.”
“What about protecting their bodies?” I ask, unable to keep the sharp judgment from my voice despite his explanation.
“The thickness of leather required to protect their skin will hinder their movements.” He drags one hand across my lower back, as if to remind me of the weight around my body, but all it does is intensify the press of his other hand where it remains across the back of my thigh. “Anything less can catch fire and cause worse burns.”
I press my lips together. Surely there’s a better way. Somehow. The villagers always found clever ways to prevent injuries when harvesting shells or handling the sharp spines of the ripplefish.
Before I can speak, a loud voice shouts from ahead of us, and it seems not all of the workers are as focused as the others. “My king!”
Attempting to crane my head to the right, I make out a tall man with beefy jowls and thick lips, also bearing a host of scars on his face and arms. He stands on the left of Antony’s meandering path through the workspace, a hammer gripped in one meaty hand. He can only have moved out from behind his workbench, but his movements are unsteady.
Despite the fact that Antony doesn’t acknowledge him, he steps further into our path, bringing with him a sickly, cloying scent.
I recognize the smell.
It belongs to a particular sweet liquor, apparently consumed only by highborn. A case of bottles was smuggled to one of the coastal villages where my father and I stayed before. The smuggler sold each bottle at an exorbitant price, and a villager was killed over one of them. I was never sure of thedetails, but it was clear that this drink had a violent effect on lowborn.
Antony doesn’t break his stride, but it seems the jowly man isn’t sober enough to move aside.
“You brought a gift for Victor!” he guffaws.
His hand darts out, palm flat, swinging toward my backside as if he’s about to slap it.
Antony’s right fist smashes into the man’s face so fast I barely follow it.
The sickening crack sends a jolt down my spine.
Blood sprays across the air, splattering the floor and nearest workbench as the man’s entire body spins with the force of the punch.
He crashes into the bench, missing the nearest fire pit by inches before sliding to the ground in a clearly unconscious heap.
Antony barely misses a step, and within seconds, we’ve passed the man’s collapsed form.
I no longer need to crane to see him.
I shut my eyes to the blood pooling across the floor around his head.
Antony’s voice roars into the sudden silence. “You know the rules! Come near my gifts and I’ll fucking kill you.” Then lower, “Throw him in a cell. And get the fuck back to work.”
As the other men galvanize into action, Antony mutters beneath his breath, “I’ll kill him later.”
I attempt to suppress a shiver, but not successfully.
Now Antony misses a step, but it can’t be because of me. Surely.
As he resumes walking, his left arm clamps more tightly around me, compressing my breathing before his hold loosens again.
He doesn’t say anything more, and moments later, we pass into a wide corridor. Then another.
Finally, we stop.
Still processing how easily he delivered violence and how quickly he moved on from it, I crane again, this time to see a large wooden door, far bigger than the one we passed through to enter the forge.
Antony doesn’t knock, pushing it open without hesitation, and we pass into a softly lit room.
