The Will of the Many

he retrieves my pay from the Will-secured box on the far wall. Copper triangles, each one etched with eight parallel lines. I get six for my work today. The other nine that Hrolf tucks away were meant to pay for my time tonight, but instead go toward his tolerance of my absence.

The metal jingles, a comforting weight in my pocket, as I move to the heavy stone door. I don’t offer any words of thanks for his concern. Part of me wants to.

“Offer’s still there, Vis,” says Hrolf, watching me. His eyes are suddenly sad, though he tries to hide it. “I don’t mind changing our terms if you want to stay, help awhile longer.”

“You don’t need me here.” I collect my threadbare cloak, shrug it on.

“The proconsul doesn’t know that. Your matron doesn’t know that. And it’s not as if the coin isn’t already paid.”

“Thanks, but no. It’s yours.” Better his than the matron’s, anyway. I assess the Septimus, looking for any sign that he’s thinking of backing out of our deal. That’s not what this is about, though. The worried crinkle around Hrolf’s eyes gives him away.

“Less bruises if you stay here,” he observes, confirming it.

“Better conversation, too.”

There’s the burn of bile in the back of my throat as I think of Nateo’s terror, his begging. His fight. But I don’t let it show.