Chapter 19. Honest Work

  Bleary, unwashed, and reeking of fish, Jeremiah decided on a more targeted approach. Days of hitting as many shops as possible had yielded exactly zero copper. Most turned him away upon sight, a couple had offered him an odd job, then laughed when he’d asked for payment. When he got wise to that ploy and asked up front, doors were slammed closed in a hurry.

  He had to figure out how to make himself seem valuable, and he had exactly one idea how. With an upbeat smile plastered on his face, he pushed open the door of Prim’s Laundry. Aside from magic, laundry was one of the trades he actually had some skill in.

  The instant he stepped inside, he was transported home. The smell, that perfect chemical smell stung his nostrils, making him think of cleanliness, his mother, and Delilah. Customer’s garments were on racks or stuff sacks crowded the front room, ready to go home. No one greeted him, so he slipped towards the back, where the work was done.

  A dozen great wood basins were lined up side by side, each with a pair of workers on either side. Hot coals burned beneath each basin, and Jeremiah was sweating in moments. Among the toiling launderers, he spotted an elven woman strolling from basin to basin, inspecting the work with a critical eye.

  Jeremiah navigated the piles of dirty clothes of sacks to get within earshot. “Excuse me, ma’am? Are you Prim? My name is Jay, and I’m-”

  “No,” said Prim, without sparing him a glance.

  “My mother was a launderer, I know everything about it. You wouldn’t need to train me or anything,” said Jeremiah. That afforded him at least an appraising glance from Prim.

  She was not impressed with what she saw. “I have more than enough hands for wools and linens, leave.”

  “I know how to handle silks,” said Jeremiah. “Furs too. I can clean leather, taffeta, even brocade.” His father’s jeweling work had been too fastidious to hold young Jeremiah’s interest, but his mother had always appreciated an extra pair of hands while she worked.

  Prim studied him again, then beckoned him to follow. Grinning for real now, Jeremiah trailed her through the busy room to a small yard behind the building. Clothes hung on lines in the open air, and a smaller tub of heated water occupied a corner, where two men were sat with a bundle of brushes and rags. A third man was paddling some garments out in the sun. They all eyed Jeremiah suspiciously.

  Prim picked an item from the pile beside the two men. Jeremiah surmised these were the more delicate garments, finery too fragile for the work in the main basins. “What is this?” Prim asked.

  Jeremiah ran his hands over the full fur coat. It was incredibly soft, but only in one direction. As he ran his hand against the grain of the fur it turned from whisper soft to stiff spines. “Direwolf cub fur,” he said. “Very rare.” He had only seen it once before as a child, when a rich family’s carriage had overturned near his home, unprepared for the rural roads and autumn rain, and his mother had been paid to salvage their spilled luggage

  The two men at the basin looked at each other in surprise. Prim nodded. “And what’s wrong with it?”

  “Not much,” he said, inspecting the coat. “It’s been well-cared for. A bit musty, perhaps. Looks like it's been brushed correctly, no bare patches. I don’t see any stretching…ah, here we are.” A small patch of fur sticking up, creating an area of angry thorns. “Something spilled on it and wasn’t cleaned correctly. Made the hairs clump together, which means they got twisted and sharp.”

  “Indeed,” said Prim. She shot the two men a glare and they suddenly got back to work. “And how would you address this garment?”

  “Tricky. Damage has already been done. A bottle of spirit might help, and you’d need tweezers to disentangle the hairs. Or, if ‘good enough’ is good enough, you can pinch and twist the hair clumps and they’ll separate over time. But you’ll likely lose a few, depending on what this stuff is gumming it together.” Jeremiah sniffed the patch. It had a distinctly flowery smell that he couldn’t identify. He pushed the furs apart and saw the skin beneath was dry and cracked. “Ah, someone used handsoap on this spot. Apparently a floral soap?”

  “Correct. This coat belongs to the friend of a valued customer. It has been sent here on referral. If I send it back to her in this condition, I will lose a potential client, and maybe even a loyal one. If you can rejuvenate this coat to my liking, I will consider giving you a position.”

  Jeremiah’s heart leapt, but he quickly composed his expression to match Prim’s grave countenance. “I’ll need tools. We’re doing this the hard way.” It was accepting work before payment again, but something about Prim and the smell of this place put him at ease.

  A hint of a smile crossed Prim’s lips. “Tools and chemicals are inside the work chest there. Take anything you need from anyone.”

  Jeremiah banished his hunger and fatigue through sheer force of will. This was the moment he had been waiting for. He buckled down at once, leveraging the intense attention Thurok taught him every step of the way. He spent hours with a solvent and pair of tweezers, until he could separate and clean singular hairs. Even as the sun began to set, he continued his regimen of conditioning, treating, and delicate brushing, always scrutinizing his work for the slightest errant detail that Prim might notice.

  He presented the coat to Prim as dusk fell. “Bundle this with ground coffee beans for two days to get the smell out, and it should be all set.” His hands ached and the fatigue nestled deeply behind his eyes, but he was proud of what he’d accomplished.

  Prim inspected the area, holding the coat up to flickering lantern light. “Not perfect. But quite good.”

  The criticism didn’t even phase Jeremiah. “Yeah, I think someone tried using a mild acid at some point? No idea why, it weakened the hairs.”

  “A citric, yes, I suspect so as well,” said Prim. She draped the coat over her arm. “I could use you. Return tomorrow, dawn. I have a collection of brocades that need attention.”

  “I hope you have a shady place to dry them? The yard looked far too exposed to sunlight,” said Jeremiah.

  A genuine smile at that, tiny but amused. “We do, yes.” She reached into an inner pocket and produced five copper coins. “This will be your day’s wages. Should your skills raise up my establishment, so will I raise you up as well. I am departing for the evening, hang the coat before you go.”

  “ I am on intimate speaking terms with your empress ,” Jeremiah wanted to say. Instead he thanked Prim, pocketed his coins, and took the coat out back into the yard.

  “We did it buddy! It was rough going at first, but we did it,” said Jeremiah. Gus made a pathetic peeping sound. “Ah, no worries, buddy. We’ll both feel better with some food.” He was already salivating at the thought of the bread he could buy for dinner.

  Jeremiah was trying to decide on a suitable spot for the coat, when he was punched in the face. He stumbled, his vision swimming, and someone threw him down hard. A weight settled on his chest as a man sat astride him. It was one of the men who had been washing finery.

  “You think you can walk in and do my work? Take my money? Food outta my mouth? I’m a hungry man. You taking food from a hungry man?” The man pawed at Jeremiah’s pockets, rifling through them, thankfully missing Gus and saving Jeremiah the difficulties of body disposal. But he did find the five copper.

  “Give that back!” Jeremiah shouted. He was incensed, furious, nearly hysterical with the injustice of it.

  “You did my work, so that’s my money.” Apparently satisfied with his take, the man stood. Jeremiah scrambled up to his feet, still facing his attacker as the man leered at him. “I won’t be so polite next time I see you round these—HURK!”

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  Jeremiah had sunk his fist into the man’s throat, sending him backwards, gagging. His fury was indescribable. Allison’s voice was in his ear. “ You won’t win by defending. Breath is fight. Take away the breath, take away the fight .”

  Jeremiah rushed the man. He drove a knee into the man’s solar plexus, then smashed his nose with the palm of his hand.

  The man’s hands went from his stomach to his bloody face. His nose blocked, his diaphragm malfunctioning, and his throat partially collapsed, he was basically suffocating. The fight was over.

  Strong hands gripped Jeremiah’s arms and yanked them backwards while a boot was planted on his back, driving him to his knees. The two other men from earlier appeared and were now ready to interfere that their friend had been laid low. Jeremiah cursed himself for not noticing them when he’d entered the courtyard. Bruno had taught him better than that.

  “Come on, Vernon, belt him good!” the man restraining Jeremiah shouted. Jeremiah struggled in vain, but Vernon was busy gasping, doubled over in pain.

  “Vernon? Come on!” the man yelled again. Vernon tried to straighten, but doubled over once more. He was done.

  “Get him to the bleach,” said the other man. Jeremiah kicked and struggled as they dragged him backwards, struggling and failing to find purchase to resist.

  They held him face-up over the basin for a second, and he was able to see his adversaries’ faces, ragged from years of exposure to caustic chemicals. Then they plunged him beneath the surface.

  Burning bleach flooded Jeremiah’s skull and he panicked, screaming soundlessly. An agony he had never imagined flooded his senses. He flailed, kicked out wildly, felt his foot connect with something, and the grip on him loosened.

  Jeremiah hauled himself out of the bleach vat and sprinted blindly towards the corner with the water basin. As soon as he collided with it, he threw himself in head first. The shock of cold barely even registered as he resurfaced for more air, and then plunged himself in again.

  Slowly, slowly, the flames of pain began to subside. The burning did not completely fade from the sensitive tissues of his eyes, sinuses, and throat, though, and Jeremiah knew every breath would hurt for days to come.

  He became aware of laughter in the yard. The men were watching his struggle with great amusement. “Nice and clean then, are yeh?” they said. “Go on, get out! Don’t let us see you again!”

  Shaking on his legs, Jeremiah started feeling his way towards the exit. His eyes were sore and swollen, and he kept them nearly closed. There was nothing he wanted more than to leave this yard and these men behind forever.

  “No,” rasped Vernon. Jeremiah’s blood ran cold. Though his nose was surely broken and his face was smeared with blood, Vernon had regained enough strength to speak. “Take him…round back…Cutter will…want to…see him.”

  Jeremiah tried to flee, but the men fell upon him in a moment. Their hands felt like brands on his scalded skin as they seized him.

  The men dragged Jeremiah into a back lot behind a dank alley. It appeared to have once been a shop yard, but the fence had calved it away and turned it into an alley end. The lot’s inhabitants, and there were many, lounged on stools and splintering chairs, piles of carpets and burlap sacks. They were surly looking, and dull. Some talking, some were gambling, most were drinking.

  Jeremiah’s captors heaved him into the dirt, kicking up a cloud of dust that caked over his still-damp skin.

  “Oooh, we got a lost little lamb!” A beady-eyed human with a patchy beard sneered down at where Jeremiah crouched in the dirt. Jeremiah noted the blade sheathed at his hip, more like a long knife than a proper sword.

  The men in the lot roused to attention at the leader’s proclamation. Well, some of them did. Many remained in whatever stupor they were lost in.

  “Tourist come ‘round taking work from honest men,” said Vernon. “Prim gave him five copper for a day’s work. Five! Ain’t that for loyalty!”

  “A tourist in Cutter’s turf? Taking Cutter’s money?” said their leader. His voice was pitchy, agitated. To Jeremiah’s surprise he seemed anxious, like a new guy on his turf was some kind of threat.

  “I don’t want any trouble,” Jeremiah said, trying to stand. The dust was like acid on his skin.

  “Oh, no trouble at all,” said the man Jeremiah assumed was Cutter. “We can fix this right as rain, no trouble at all.”

  “Sure, whatever you say,” said Jeremiah, holding his hands up to show he didn’t want to fight.

  “Whatever I say, that’s right,” said Cutter. He took a step towards Jeremiah. “You took five copper from my man. I think fair’s fair that you owe me…hmmm,” He rubbed his patchy chin in deep thought. “Five silver should do it.”

  Jeremiah was stunned. “That’s ten times what I was paid! And he took the copper back!” He thrust an accusing finger towards Vernon.

  Cutter whirled on Vernon, who recoiled and coughed up the five copper. The coins disappeared into Cutter’s pockets. Then he turned back to Jeremiah. “You owe me five silver, Tourist. Now pay up.”

  “B-but,” Jeremiah stammered. The gang of men had formed a circle around them, and were closing. “I need some time! I’m sure in a week—”

  They jumped on him, all at once. Far too many to fend off, and Jeremiah was in no state to do so anyway. In a matter of moments, he was pinned on his back, his hands and feet held down.

  Cutter crouched beside Jeremiah’s left side. “You came all this way to steal my money, that’s something Cutter doesn’t tolerate. What’s your name, Tourist?”

  “J-Jay,” said Jeremiah. “ Stay calm” , he thought, “nothing is going to be helped by panicking.”

  “Jay, you owe me five silver.” He turned Jeremiah’s hand over so it was palm down in the dirt. “You know how much five silver is? Let’s count together. One.” Cutter stabbed the tip of the knife into the base of Jeremiah’s pinky nail and twisted.

  Jeremiah’s body spasmed in pain. He reflexively tried to clench his hand into a fist, but it was pinned flat. Even through the pain and the fear, he was sickeningly aware he could feel his fingernail shift.

  “Two,” said Cutter, and moved to the next finger, repeating the process. Jeremiah felt this one touch bone.

  “Three,” said Cutter. This one was slightly off target, and pierced the flesh to the side of his finger, sticking into the dirt on the other side.

  “Four,” said Cutter. Again, off target, this one piercing through the nail directly and cracking it in half.

  “Aaaand five!” Instead of a puncture, Cutter sliced the tip of the dagger along the back of Jeremiah’s, neatly splitting the skin nearly to his wrist. The crowd Oo’d at this last one.

  Jeremiah screamed. He screamed because it was all he could do.

  “That’s the down payment,” said Cutter, sheathing the knife. “Have my money next time I see you, you little shit!”

  Jeremiah nodded with his eyes shut tight, tears running down his face. Suddenly he was being pummeled and kicked as, for a few more brutal seconds, the gang beat him relentlessly. Jeremiah instinctively curled into a ball to protect Gus and guard against the rain of blows. Then he was thrown back to the entrance of the alley by the men as they laughed, reveling both in the torment and the fact that they hadn’t been the target.

  Filthy, pouring blood from his hand, Jeremiah bolted. He paid no attention to where he was going, he just knew he had to get away, far away. The air burned his damaged throat, but still he ran, dodging down alleys to avoid the still-crowded streets.

  Jeremiah fled until his body failed him, then he crawled into the darkest corner he could find and made himself as small as he could. A light rain had begun to fall. Pain and exhaustion made Jeremiah’s head swim, and his empty stomach heaved bile onto the dirt.

  Blood continued streaming from his thumb. Jeremiah lacked even a rag to bandage the wound. His blood ran down his arm and dripped to the ground, where it mixed with his sick and flowed in a tiny rivulet towards the mouth of the alley.

  “Poor lad.” Jeremiah snapped awake, not sure if the voice had been a dream. But no, someone was standing over him. The little river of vomit and blood pooled around the man’s shiny black shoes, but he paid it no mind as he looked down on Jeremiah’s huddled form. “Poor, poor lad. Tell me, my boy, what’s your name?”