Varentholme was a dark city – tall and arrogant, its lifeblood iron and stone.
Well—except for coal, of course. Coal was the secret black beating heart, hidden underground in Varentholme's dark underworld.
But that was reserved only for criminals.
The crime of breaking laws, or being poor, or being born a dwarf. Any one of them, in this city, in this world, was a crime—subjecting you to a life of coal, toiling away beneath the ground.
A dark and bleak future.
But stone and iron—now those were the materials of humanity.
And Varentholme had once been the pinnacle of human engineering, with its tall gothic buildings and intricate window frames. A city of streets, bridges, and elevated walkways, tying it together like a web made of cobblestone.
Varentholme was also a loud city.
Loud with the pungent black smoke of industry and money, often paired so nicely with corruption and bribery.
The smell of damp after rain always hung around the city, along with the horrid scent of horseshit— which wasn't coming out the mouths of the politicians meant to be serving this place, but from actual horses that walked the streets.
Auren ran down one such street, hat pushed down to brave the biting cold wind, dodging between men and carriages, racing back to the office. It was a dangerous thing to run in Varentholme.
Between the nervous horses—eyes rolling frantically—and the pompous men with their top hats and hard wooden canes, it was easy to see why so many died running through the city.
It was very easy to be run over by a passing carriage, or perhaps beaten to death with a cane.
Either of which could very easily be swept under the rug, so long as the killer was rich enough and the victim poor enough.
And they almost always were.
After all, no man of wealth would deign to embarrass himself by running. No—the very need to run was seen as uncivilised.
It showed desperation, exertion—signs that no self-respecting gentleman would ever publicly show.
But Auren didn't care.
He'd been running on these cobbled paths all his life, and he'd yet to get himself into any real trouble.
He was a small boy, thin. Almost too thin, with skin so pale it almost seemed grey under certain lighting. He had deep, dark eyes that sometimes glinted disturbingly, as if trapping some of the light within their swirling depths. He wore a rugged old suit that was starting to grow tight, and a worn flat cap pulled low over his shaved head.
Sometimes he wished he had hair.
Hair was cheap. It cost nothing to grow, and it would have provided free protection from the snapping wind that nipped at his ears.
But unfortunately for him, while growing hair was free, keeping it was anything but.
He had to be careful of fleas or any other insect that might decide to call his scalp a forever home. It'd leave him dirty, unhygienic—and Master Merrilin abhorred dirt.
So, unfortunately, he was stuck with being bald until the fated day he could perhaps become rich enough to grow some hair.
An envelope was held tight in one hand as he dodged out of the way of a particularly vicious-looking old man, who seemed to be readying his cane with a glint of malice in his piggy eyes.
It was a letter of credit from one of the businesses that had taken a loan from the office where he worked as an assistant cleric.
That was his title, anyway—but most of his tasks were errands rather than any real clerical work.
Master Merrilin was a nice enough old man. In fact, he was positively a saint compared to most of the twisted denizens of this city.
There was a saying about the people who lived in Varentholme: those of Varentholme had iron as their blood and stone as their hearts. But while Master Merrilin certainly had a metal-whip of a tongue, his heart was more akin to softer copper rather than iron.
Auren had been sent to collect the loan and bring it safely to Master Merrilin. They were a small business—one of many under the umbrella of the Haldran Corporation, ruled by the noble family of Viscount Haldran.
In return for the minor fee of half of all profits, they were able to wield the weight and support of the Haldran name.
Despite the fact it was daylight robbery (even though Varentholme had very little daylight), if it weren't for that name, Auren doubted any of the businesses they lent to would bother paying back on time, if at all.
After all, it would cost less to bribe a few policemen to ignore a contract breach—or a judge to dismiss a lawsuit—than to repay a full business loan.
Auren held no doubt the behaviour was encouraged, even aided, by the Viscount in order to push more businesses under his control.
That was of course, how 'gentlemen' operated in this place.
In a matter of moments, Auren had successfully navigated the treacherous streets, managing to avoid the carriages, the canes, and perhaps the most vicious—the vagabonds.
Vagabonds came in all shapes and sizes. Hairy men or starved boys. Even thin girls and smiling women... all were equally dangerous. They'd as soon gut your throat as look at you, especially if they knew you were carrying anything of value.
That was one of the reasons debts were paid with letters of credit rather than gold or silver. No self-respecting bank would accept a letter of credit from a vagabond.
But then he had heard rumours of a bank that wasn't so self-respecting.
Still, the fact he had clothes on his back and shoes on his feet made him enough of a target already.
Everything had a price in Varentholme. If anything ruled over iron and stone, it was silver and gold.
Composing himself, he stepped into the small shop in front of him, the bell ringing as he crossed the threshold. Immediately, his nose was greeted with the scent of paper and incense—a dangerous combination, but Master Merrilin abhorred foul smells just as much as he did dirt.
It was a wonder he still lived in this place.
An old man, dressed in a worn—but not rugged—brown suit, sat inside. He had half a head of hair slicked back and was neatly shaven. His eyes were sharp and strong despite his meagre frame.
Auren bowed slightly. "Evenin', Master Merrilin. I got the letter of credit you asked for."
The old man sighed heavily. His voice was half-mournful, speaking in a perfect gentleman's tongue.
"How many times must I remind you, Auren, not to rush your words? It is unbefitting."
Auren shot him a grin. "Yes sir."
Merrilin took the envelope, opening it up and scanning the contents of the letter. His eyebrows rose slightly as he inspected the document.
"Finally, a pleasant surprise. They've paid the principal and interest in its entirety. Give this to Elend—tell him to go to the bank before heading home."
Auren nodded, taking the letter and making his way to the back of the shop—to a rear room where there were three desks stacked with papers, and a typewriter at each one.
Currently, only one of them was occupied by a tired-looking man with brown hair and long sideburns.
He looked like he'd forgotten his soul long ago, his fingers tapping away mindlessly on the typewriter, eyes blank and lifeless.
"Evenin', Elend. Got a letter of credit for you. Master Merrilin wants you to cash it at the bank before you head home."
Elend nodded tiredly. "Set it down here. I'll get it done."
"Anything else for me to do?" Auren asked. Technically, his job was to help Elend out however he could as his assistant.
Elend shook his head. "Nothing now. You can go home early today, Auren."
The young boy smiled again. Going home early was a happy affair for him—and a positively miserable one for Elend.
It usually meant the current workload was something the poor cleric had to deal with himself. No doubt, it would be a long day for him.
"Alright. See ya, Elend."
"Evenin', Auren."
Auren skipped out of the office, looking forward to the prospect of a few free hours.
It was almost as nice as gold.
Almost…