“Idiot girl!”
Eleanor was awake and rolling to her feet before the swat of the broom could connect with her forehead.
“That’s right! Off with you now. Get! And don’t let me find you sniffing round here again, you hear?! Daft urchin! What am I running here, a blooming orphanage?!”
And though Eleanor briefly slipped on the slick cobblestones in her rush to comply, she was still feather quick in gathering up her things—rat sack, hemp blanket, and other such women’s daily necessities—before scurrying out of the narrow alleyway under the baleful glare of the baker’s wife.
Hobbling onto the street with a decidedly sore knee, she hadn’t gotten out completely unscathed unfortunately, she comforted herself with the knowledge that most of that animosity was purely for show.
Nancy Baker and her wife had assured Eleanor more than once that their business simply wouldn’t survive word getting around that they willingly sheltered an urchin out of the back of their shop, even if their arrangement was a reciprocal one.
They allowed her exclusive access to quite possibly the warmest alleyway in all of Ember’s Reach—due in large part to the massive ovens they had burning all day and night—and she in turn kept out all the nasty little rodents, very keen on sampling their wares.
The fat rats which you couldn’t go five whole minutes without stumbling over, here in the wealthy domain of the western district.
A far cry from the rotting slums of the eastern, where the pickings were very slim indeed. Yet another reason to be grateful to the two Bakers and all their generosity.
From behind her, Eleanor heard the disgusted smack of phlegm on stone, followed by a few choice curse words she couldn’t quite make out, and knew, in her heart of hearts, that it was all just for show.
Taking in deep breaths of the chilly morning air, Eleanor strode purposefully down the wide thoroughfare—a desolate street only loosely populated by the odd yawning patrolwoman, or sluggish street vendor just beginning to bring out their wares.
Finally feeling that her knee was up to the task, Eleanor began to pick up the pace.
Lurching into a jog, she sped down the main thoroughfare, cutting down side streets and stinking back alleys. Ignoring the halfhearted shouts from the sleepy patrols as she passed, she made her way ever closer to the market quarter, her many plans for the day neatly slotting themselves into place in her mind.
In fact, so preoccupied was she with her own internal affairs, that she very nearly overlooked the unconscious woman lying prone in the alley.
Concerned, Eleanor immediately checked for a pulse, before, with a sigh of relief, she carefully rolled the poor woman over. Instantly, the sour smells of booze, vomit, and body odor hit Eleanor like a slap to the face.
She barely even flinched at the oh so familiar stench, instead cupping some clean drainage water, fresh from that previous night’s rain, and bringing it to the woman’s lips—feeding her small sips until, at long last, the woman’s eyes fluttered open.
Panicked, she first lurched up into a sitting position, only to groan piteously, bend over, and cradle her head.
Taking a good long look at her, Eleanor noted the purple swelling and the many lacerations adorning her face. In that moment she made a spontaneous decision.
Turning her back on the still oblivious woman, Eleanor reached beneath her tunic for the small coin purse she kept there, always hanging by a cord around her neck.
Unwinding the drawstring she immediately grimaced at her meager wealth. Two small coppers, a clipped ha’penny, and last but not least, a shiny, barely crooked silver. She’d been intending to buy a proper bath for herself using that silver, and quite possibly a decent meal if there was any left over.
Nothing for it now, she supposed.
Pinching free the silver, she restrung the pouch and tucked it back where it belonged, before she turned, bent down, and pressed the coin into the woman’s palm.
“Should see a healer about those injuries. There’s sure to be more than one in the eastern quarter willing to treat you for a silver piece. Just don’t let them cheat you. There’s nothing they can heal that won’t cost a silver penny or less. Just be sure to remember that and you’ll be fine.”
The woman just stared dumbly at the glittering silver coin for long long moments. Eleanor knew how the woman felt. For people like them, it was more money than they were likely to see in a month or more. Figuring her job here was done, Eleanor got up to leave, when a ragged voice interrupted her.
“Mary…” then, when the woman saw that further clarification was needed, she continued. “My name.”
“Eleanor,” she beamed. “Very soon to be the top graduate of the Knightly Vanguard Academy.”
After a moment of incredulous silence, the woman gave a raspy chuckle.
“That official, is it?”
“It will be, you’ll see.”
“Aye, well. I have to say I look forward to it. And… thanks, kid.”
“Don’t mention it. It’s would a true knight would do, so why should I do any different?”
The woman, Mary—staring up from where she lay slumped against a stinking heap of rubbish—merely shook her head in disbelief. Though whether at Eleanor’s lifelong dream, or the uncanny situation, Eleanor couldn’t be sure. Finding herself with nothing else left to say, Eleanor bobbed her head in the woman’s direction, before she made a swift and hasty retreat.
She just hoped her little detour here wouldn’t make her late.
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“You’re late!”
Eleanor bowed to the irate butcher’s apprentice.
“Apologies, but I-!”
“Do you have any idea the risk I take on whenever you do bother to show up on time?” the larger girl lunged forward and grabbed Eleanor roughly by the collar, savagely shoving her back against the alley wall. “My master would have my hide if she even suspected I was making a profit off these trimmings!”
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The apprentice reached behind her back and retrieved a thick cleaver, quickly pressing its edge against Eleanor’s throat until she could feel it draw blood.
“You fuck me on this, and your fucking dead you hear me? Now are you going to go out there and prove to me that you can handle this job, or do I need to find someone else who’s more reliable?!”
“I can handle it,” Eleanor mumbled, eyes never leaving the cleaver.
“You’d fucking better! Now here,” she thrust the large cloth sack with its sticky bottom into Eleanor’s chest, nearly knocking the wind out of her. “Take this and run the usual route. If the customers ask any questions, tell them they can fuck off. My master’s getting suspicious, so the supply isn’t going to be as large as it might otherwise have been. They’ll just have to deal with it,” she finished with a snort.
Eleanor, for her part, briefly struggled with the bulky sack, managing to throw it over her shoulder and bend herself at the waist to compensate. Doing it in so swift and practiced a motion that she’d already found a relative equilibrium before the thing was able to pull her off her feet.
Then, hesitating at the mouth of the alley, when she saw the butcher’s apprentice turn to leave, she couldn’t help but call back.
“And, what about my pay?”
The girl spun back around, a look of incredulousness twisting her features.
“You really think you can ask me that after what you did?” The girl sneered. “You get nothing until I can confirm for myself that you’re actually serious about this position. Now go! And just maybe, if you do a good enough job, I might consider bringing you back on at half pay.”
Eleanor stared, dumbfounded, at the older girl—mouth agape and stomach roiling. The apprentice smirked back, eyes daring her to say something. Eleanor let her eyes drop, then promptly turned around and exited the alley without another word. Laughter followed her all the way down the broad avenue.
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The barkeeps, innkeepers, and less than scrupulous street vendors, that made up the clientele for the butcher’s apprentice’s bovine black market weren’t at all pleased to have their meat stores effectively halved even though they’d payed the full price. With the true culprit for their plight nowhere in sight, they, naturally, took much of their frustrations out solely on Eleanor.
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“Pick up the pace ladies! I’m not paying you to doddle!” shouted Mistress Willow, an elderly woman with the perpetually pinched face of a seasoned miser.
Startled, the hand of the nervous looking girl ahead of her slipped, spilling boiling hot water all along Eleanor’s right arm. She hissed in pain, but, miraculously, did not drop the bucket—instead passing it carefully to the next girl in line, whilst gritting her teeth through the waves of agony.
And it was a good thing too.
Girls who dropped their buckets, no matter the actual cause, were not only dismissed entirely without pay, but subsequently blacklisted from working any other bathhouse in the entire city.
Eleanor glanced over at the girl that’d nearly cost her any number of jobs, only to find the girl studiously ignoring her. For several more hours they continued like that, the burns on her arm and the burning of her muscles climbing steadily as bucket after bucket of boiling hot water was scooped out of the massive cauldrons and passed down the line.
Then, after what felt like an eternity, a shrill whistle sounded, signaling the end of the work shift.
Unlike many of the newer girls present, instead of slumping in relief, lying down on the slick floor, or massaging her sore muscles, Eleanor made a b-line for the cue that had already begun to form in front of Mistress Willow’s counting desk.
Due to her keen foresight, it didn’t take long for her to reach the head of the cue, and, upon receiving her pay of two coppers, immediately handed back half with a nod to the smirking bathhouse owner.
“Go on then. You have first pick of the three time uses. Hurry now, before someone gets there first and tosses them out.”
Eleanor nodded before scurrying from the small warehouse, and into the bathhouse proper. Taking the servants passageways more by feel than conscious memory, she soon found herself in a dimly lit back room lined from end to end with wooden tubs filled with used bath water.
Stripping down quickly, she slipped into the nearest tub of lukewarm water and began scrubbing at herself furiously.
The nuns of the convent were nothing if not strict when it came to rules of basic hygiene.
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Eleanor padded across the floor, polishing the hardwood with a prepared rag one long sweep at a time. Her arm still burned from the incident in the bathhouse, and now her fingers ached brutally after the hour or so she’d spent doing laundry in the stream out back.
Through her periphery she could see the others gossiping over loosely held broom handles and unused feather dusters.
Weekly volunteers like her, they never worked a moment that they weren’t being actively supervised, and barely seemed to contribute even when they were. Which wouldn’t have been a problem, were it not for the fact that Eleanor wouldn’t get payed until the chapel was spotless.
Eleanor merely bit her tongue and kept on working.
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“I’m afraid, daughter, that times have been hard on the faithful in recent months. We cannot afford to spend so frivolously on communal services as we might once have. Though, that is not to say you will not be compensated for your good work. Come, you are welcome to break your fast at our tables, so long as you keep to our rules and maintain complete silence whilst within the refectory.”
It would be minutes later that, upon seeing what would serve as payment for her services within the convent’s refectory, Eleanor scooped up the stale bread and salted jerky, stuffed them down her rough spun tunic, then silently excused herself from the hall. Promptly exiting the chilly convent not long after.
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It would be many odd jobs and grueling hours later that Eleanor finally arrived at her second to last stop of the day. And it was standing in line before the city administration office, evening giving the cloudy sky a pleasantly orange cast, that Eleanor found herself dead on her feet.
An ironic observer might even have surmised that, perhaps that was why she held her plump rat sack in such a white knuckled death grip. Though, in actuality it had far more to do with attenuating circumstances, and the ongoing collection bounty directly funded by the crown.
Very little about her day had gone according to plan, but if there was one thing for which she was never lacking, it was pests. That didn’t, however, mean she wanted someone else benefiting off of her catch, and so she made sure to keep a tight hold.
“Next,” came the weary monotone of the administrative official.
Stepping up to one of several collection booths, Eleanor slid her sack beneath the glass partition and then waited patiently as the resigned looking official dumped dead rats into a long tray, tallied them up with the assistance of a rather long stick, before she came back with her total.
“Thirty-two rats in total, an even number, very helpful… at a quarter copper per head…? Brings you to eight coppers even.”
The woman fumbled around a bit before she slid eight freshly minted copper pennies beneath the partition. Eleanor was quick to swipe them up and conceal them.
“Next!”
The official, having already dismissed Eleanor from her mind, turned her dead eyed gaze to the next woman in line, at which point Eleanor began to panic.
“Ah! Excuse me, might I also have the sack too, please?”
The woman flicked her eyes back to Eleanor as if perplexed at her still being there. Glancing over at the rotting, blood-stained hemp sack, she studied it for a long moment, then turned back to Eleanor again.
“You want it… back?”
“Yes please. If you’d be so kind.”
Bewildered, the woman nevertheless complied, pinching the cloth between thumb and forefinger as if she might contract a disease. Taking back the sack, Eleanor bobbed her head in gratitude before she strode from city hall, thoughts of a warm night spent in baker’s alley the only things on her mind.