The Last Humanity (The Last Survivors Book 3)

by T. W. Piperbrook

  "Oh?"

  "The General cut the price of skins again."

  "I'm sorry to hear that." Samantha refilled his cup.

  "He's raising the troops. As usual, we'll have to pay for it."

  "I heard about the reduction in coin."

  "When?"

  "Last week."

  Bray wasn't surprised. A change in policy like that was bound to be gossip for the pub. He assumed other Wardens had been grumbling. He was about to sip his new drink when her words sunk in.

  "Last week? I spoke with one of the street merchants, and he wasn't told of the change until yesterday." Bray watched Samantha closely. "How'd you find out?"

  She lowered her eyes evasively, fiddling with a few cups behind the bar. Bray leaned forward, pushing aside his drink.

  "Where did you hear about it, Samantha?"

  She whispered the word. "Conrad."

  "How'd he know?"

  "He must've gotten wind of it from Father Nelson."

  She picked up one of the cups she was fiddling with and cleaned it with a rag, refusing to meet his eyes.

  "Alcohol or not, I know a lie when I hear one." Bray leaned over the counter. "Conrad had a hand in this, didn't he?"

  She sighed. "You can't say anything, Bray. You'd get me in trouble. But I think he suggested it to Father Nelson as a means to keep costs down. It'll help defray the funding of the General's army."

  "That prick. He's probably trying to save on his own taxes. If the General gets the money elsewhere, he'll be more lenient on the merchants."

  Bray balled his fists, fighting the urge to yell. It wasn't Samantha's fault. She had nothing to do with it. He settled back into his chair, swallowing his anger. Between the troubles he'd had with the soldiers, and his involvement with Ella and William, he didn't need to call any more attention to himself. He had enough things to worry about without picking a fight with Conrad.

  But if he saw that son of a bitch while he was in town…

  Changing the subject, Samantha said, "We're going to hire someone else around here soon."

  "Really?"

  "Yep. Probably in the next few months."

  "Haven't you been telling me that forever?"

  "Yes. But it's true this time."

  "Conrad's too cheap for that." Bray shook his head. Conrad was always promising reprieve for Samantha. The truth was that the man was too paranoid about his finances to let someone other than family run his businesses. Bray finished his drink and asked for a third. She poured him one. He reached across the bar and batted playfully at her arm.

  "I'm serious, Bray," Samantha smiled, big and wide. She retracted her arm. This time her glow wasn't from the Warden, but from something else. "There's something you should know."

  Bray tilted back the cup, downing the glass. For some reason, he knew he'd need the rest of the alcohol. "What is it?"

  Samantha looked left and right, then stepped back and pointed to her stomach. "I'm pregnant."

  Bray studied the small, burgeoning bump in her belly. A surge of dizziness hit him. Or maybe it was the impact of the strong drinks. Either way, he felt like he couldn't breathe.

  "Whose is it?" he asked.

  "Conrad's, of course." Samantha smiled. He studied her for signs of deception, but she looked truthful. Happy. Radiant. She tucked her hair behind her eyes, revealing more of the top of her chest, which looked as good as the last time he'd seen it.

  But Bray couldn't look at her. Not now.

  "When's the baby due?"

  "Springtime. I'll go into labor before The Cleansing. It'll be nice to miss that for a change."

  Bray understood. The only excuse for a woman not to attend the ceremony was childbirth; the inspectors would do an examination at the residence.

  "Would you like another refill?"

  He tipped back his cup, forgetting he'd already drained it. He noticed Samantha wasn't watching him as intently as before.

  "I'm all right. I should get going," he said.

  "Already?"

  "I have to get hunting. Especially with the shitty wage I'll be paid. Not all of us have bathtubs filled with coin."

  Hurt flashed through Samantha's eyes as she registered the insult. She reached for Bray, but he avoided her grasp. He slid off the chair, stomped the ground with his boots, and spit.

  "Remember that promise you made after we first met?"

  "Of course," she whispered.

  "Consider it settled."

  Bray swiveled off the chair and got to his feet, ignoring the wave of alcohol, and staggered for the door.

  Chapter 32: Oliver

  With his face contorted, trying to squeeze his mind through some difficult thoughts while getting excited, Kilburn said, "So that I understand exactly, what you're saying is that Father Winthrop wants some kind of armor protection?" Kilburn drew a deep breath and looked up to the heavens in silent thanks. "Men don't generally wear such things because of the price, you understand? Metal is always expensive, always in short supply."

  Oliver said nothing. Everybody knew that to be true.

  "But," said Kilburn, "he wants something he can wear under his garments, so that other men won't know he's wearing it. It is as you said—he wants to inspire bravery in others by appearing to be dressed in the same clothing they are."

  Oliver nodded. So far Kilburn understood the lie exactly right.

  "Being a skeptical man," said Kilburn, "Father Winthrop wants me to make such a suit of armor for you first, so that he might see for himself how visible it is to others before I proceed with making one for him."

  "Exactly," Oliver confirmed.

  "And he doesn't want it to be too heavy or too restrictive of his movements."

  "He wants to look natural," Oliver nodded. "It's to protect him from demon bite."

  Kilburn rubbed his chin again and said, "There is something."

  Something? Oliver waited a moment, and then asked, "What?"

  Kilburn led Oliver to the wooden cabinet he'd had the sheathes stored in. "Something I've never made before. Well, before this once." Kilburn turned back to Oliver. "Do you know Kreuz?"

  "Of course," Oliver told him, cocking his head in that superior way that was starting to feel pretty comfortable. "I saw him just this morning."

  That was true. Oliver had managed to convince Kreuz that the two relics he sold him were from Father Winthrop's private collection in order to buy certain special things. Kreuz, whose eyes showed every bit of lust he had for the beautiful crosses, still held the pretense that he was only mildly interested. He paid Oliver less than the crosses were worth, but more than Oliver needed for anything he'd be purchasing before he left town. The only question he asked himself was whether he should have sold all three relics. One was so much easier to transport than the bag of coin he could trade it for, but coins were easier to spend.

  It was a decision that nagged in the back of Oliver's mind as he worked through his transactions with Kilburn. Also nagging him were the lies he was spreading. He had no doubt they'd eventually find their way back to Winthrop. He only had to be sure he was over the circle wall and long gone by the time that happened.

  Kilburn reached into his cabinet, shuffled some things around, and removed one of the strangest things Oliver had ever seen. It looked like cloth woven from metal.

  Oliver reached out to touch it, finding it flexible, just like a piece of cloth. "That's amazing."

  Kilburn's face lit up, and he grinned widely. "I saw it in an ancient book that Kreuz was showing off. In a picture, an ancient fighting man wore a long shirt made just like this." Kilburn scratched his head. "In the picture, the man also held a sword and wore a helmet. But the shirt he wore seemed to be protecting him. I wasn't sure if he was using Tech Magic, but I took a chance and made it myself. It seems to work. One of the people looking at the book with us, a man who had his letters, said the shirt was called 'chainmail.'"

  Nodding and smiling, Oliver said, "What a grand idea. Teeth can't bite thr
ough metal. Blades can't cut through it."

  To demonstrate the point, Kilburn picked up one of his knives and pushed it into the chainmail. It didn't pierce. Kilburn grinned and handed the knife to Oliver. "Try."

  Oliver took the knife and tried to stick it through the chainmail as Kilburn held it up. At first, Oliver was gentle, but as he realized how tough the chainmail was, he pushed with all his might. The knife wouldn't go through. He tried slicing, to the same effect.

  "All you'll get is a bruise," said Kilburn. "You'll never bleed wearing this."

  Oliver reached out and took the chainmail in his hands. It was a large piece, like a big square of cloth, enough to cover a man's back and chest if wrapped around him. It was heavy, but as Oliver hefted it, he imagined how much he'd need to cover his body. "You can fashion this into a shirt?"

  Nodding, Kilburn said, "For you, I think I'd use less than half."

  Oliver threw it over his shoulders to get a feel for the weight. "This could work. How soon could you have it ready?"

  "Oh," said Kilburn, worry on his face. "I don't know."

  Oliver reached into his pocket and withdrew a good handful of coins. He dropped them onto one of the shelves in the cabinet. "Will that get it done by tomorrow morning?"

  "If I work all night," Kilburn weakly protested.

  "Is that enough coin to make you work through the night?"

  Kilburn took a deep breath and looked at the coins. He looked back at Oliver. He looked at the chainmail. "Father Winthrop is a man of," he paused as he looked for the right word, "proportion. Yes, significant proportion."

  Oliver bit his lip to repress a smile. He'd have chosen other words to describe Winthrop's girth.

  Shaking his head, Kilburn said, "I don't know that I can get enough metal to make one for Father Winthrop before the army marches. I don't know if I'll have time to work all the metal."

  Putting that comforting hand back on Kilburn's forearm, Oliver said, "Let us take the problem one step at a time. Make the shirt for me. Let me wear it for Father Winthrop. If he likes it, then we'll find a way to solve those other problems. Can you have mine ready by tomorrow morning?"

  Kilburn nodded.

  Chapter 33: Bray

  Bray squinted at the sunlight as he stepped out of the tavern. The drunks gandered with disoriented interest as he plowed through the alley, daring them with his eyes. None took the challenge. None ventured a move.

  With Samantha out of sight, he no longer needed to contain his anger. He was worn from his travels, fueled by drink, angered by…what? Surely Samantha's pregnancy had been coming. Wives who failed their childbearing duties were shipped off to The House. Samantha had every reason to be joyful. Carrying a child not only secured her position but also ensured she and her child had happy lives. Especially with Conrad as the father.

  It also meant the last of Bray's trysts with her was in his past. Samantha hadn't said it, but he knew it.

  As much as Bray couldn't commit, he didn't want Conrad to have her either. For a brief moment, he'd wondered whether the child was his. But he'd seen in her eyes that it wasn't. The baby was Conrad's.

  It'd be well taken care of, all right.

  Another trophy for Conrad's collection of wealth and power.

  Bray dodged the outstretched, lazy legs of sleeping men as he stormed down the alley. He scowled as one of them rolled over, almost tripping him with a boot. When he reached the end of the alley, he paused, determining which direction he'd take. The alcohol and the anger were clouding his thinking process. He'd already completed his business, and he had no other reason to stay in Coventry, except to go to The House, if all those women hadn't already been commandeered by Blackthorn's militia and hauled off to Brighton.

  The House.

  He'd forget all about Samantha there.

  Bray smiled as he rounded the next corner. He contemplated the silver in his pocket, no longer concerned with saving it. Not today. Maybe the next batch. He'd spend it and he'd go back and kill more demons, a hundred of them, if he had to, until he had enough money to—

  Bray collided with a large man coming around the corner. His shoulder struck Bray's jaw, jarring his teeth. Bray reared back in anger, as if the man had hit him on purpose.

  "Watch where you're going, you filthy pig chaser!" the man raged, his words slurred with venom.

  Bray barely had a chance to size up his attacker before he'd raised his fists. If he had, he might've noticed the man was a head taller than him and accompanied by friends. The tall man's two companions stepped to the side to flank Bray.

  Bray spat curses at them, too riled up to back down.

  The man he'd bumped into had a meaty, square jaw. His eyes were round and wide. A thick gut protruded from his shirt, stained from the previous night's celebration. His friends were shorter, with small, scrappy arms—one had a scar across his nose, the other had long, shaggy hair.

  "You should've held your tongue, Skin-Seller!" the shaggy-haired man cried.

  Too late, Bray recognized them as Conrad's friends, probably heading for a morning drink. He'd talked to them before, though he couldn't remember the conversation. Fighting them wasn't as good as fighting Conrad. But it was close enough.

  The shaggy-haired man threw a blow at Bray's head. Bray ducked.

  The man's arm whizzed past Bray, and he backed up, trying to find a better place to take a stand. Excited jeers erupted from behind him. Anyone who'd been asleep in the alley had snapped awake. Within seconds, the hung-over locals were scrambling to their feet, placing bets.

  Dimwits.

  "Kill the Skin-Seller!" someone yelled.

  "Take down that fat pig!"

  The celebratory mood of the previous evening was gone, replaced by the thrill of a fight. Bray scuffled backward, wishing he hadn't had requested the strongest ale and drank it so fast. The men converged. He wondered if soldiers were around. Even if any were present, they'd just as likely cheer with the locals before hauling the Warden off to be punished.

  "We're going to toss you out into the wild when we're done," the meaty man said with a ravenous grin. "Demon food."

  "Fuck you," Bray spat.

  The meaty man's friends reached for Bray's arms, probably hoping to pin him, but Bray shook them off, knocking the scarred man backward and against the nearby wall, pushing the shaggy-haired man to the ground. His body was filled with misguided fury. He'd kill all of them. He'd cleave their limbs from their bodies and leave them to bleed out in the street. Then he'd find Conrad, and he'd kill him, too.

  He grabbed hold of his sword, but before he could pull it, someone stuck a boot out and tripped him. Laughter filled his ears as he hit the ground.

  Someone ferreted his sword from his scabbard. Bray spun, watching over his shoulder as one of the drunks ran down the alley.

  "Get back here!" he screamed as he fought for his footing.

  The man kept running. The noise of the crowd grew louder as more people flowed from open doorways, pulled in by the noise and commotion. Too late, Bray wished he'd kept his mouth shut.

  Chapter 34: Oliver

  Oliver stood in his bedroom, looking at his bed, thinking how best to conceal his new knives. Once he was outside the wall, it wouldn't be a matter of concern. The big one he'd wear in the sheath hanging from the belt around his waist. The small one….well, he'd need to conceal that one.

  He recalled a story he'd heard as a little boy, about a clever Warden's son who kept a small knife sheathed inside his boot. Bad men came to rob the family while the Warden was out in the wild killing demons. The bad men thought the Warden had a stash of coins, but the family didn't. While one of the bad men was searching the house and the other was doing unspeakable things to the woman, the boy pulled out the hidden knife and saved himself and his family. Every child heard that story growing up. That made it almost certainly a bad idea to tuck the knife in his boot. If his intention was to keep it hidden, and guards detained him, he wanted to be able to use the knife
to gain his freedom. The first place they'd check for hidden weapons would likely be his boot.

  He looked himself up and down. He looked at the new traveling bag he'd purchased. Where to stash the knife? Not in the bag. That would be another obvious place to be searched. Besides, it'd be too hard to pull the knife out when needed.

  An idea came to him.

  He grabbed the belt and sheath that came with the small knife. He unthreaded the belt from the loops on the sheath. He did the same for the big knife, then slid the small sheath back onto the belt, sliding it all the way to the end by the buckle. He took the big knife's sheath and threaded the belt through its loops.

  Next, Oliver wrapped the belt around his waist, adjusting it so that the big knife was hanging at his hip. He adjusted the second knife until the sheath hung down the front of his pants, beside his private parts.

  That was exactly what he wanted. If he wore the sheaths inside his pants, the small one would stay completely hidden. The big knife's handle would stick above the waist of his pants, and it would be nearly as easy to pull out as if he wore it on the outside. Only his shirt would be in the way. But that shirt, like the too-big-pants, would keep it all hidden.

  To test it all, Oliver took the belt off and pulled his pants down. He wrapped the belt tightly around his waist again, feeling the leather against his bare skin. With his pants still around his knees, he practiced taking each knife out, trying his best to do it quickly, in a smooth motion, like soldiers deploying their swords during their drills. One moment in the scabbard, an eye-blink later, the pointy end at someone's throat.

  The door opened behind him, startling Oliver into inaction.

  "What are you doing?" Franklin asked.

  Oliver, standing with the big knife sheathed on his hip and the little knife in hand in front of him, held it there.

  "Oliver," Franklin asked, "why are your pants down?"

  Oliver didn't answer. He was making a choice about what to do with the knife.