NOVEL NEXT Chapter 372: Old Man Gerran
Ren sighed, scrubbing a hand through his hair as the thoughts of Carthage's structure and power plays slowly faded from his mind.
No point brooding about things he couldn't change. Not yet, anyway.
He paused, took a breath, then pasted a smile on his face.
The smile wasn't fake, at least not entirely. It was just the kind you wear when you're not sure whether to keep pretending or stop trying altogether. Still, it did its job.
He walked the streets like any other Carthage citizen, cloak tied tightly around his shoulders, boots clicking softly on the stone-paved path.
The morning orb-light glowed warmly from the lamp posts, casting soft light on the surrounding stone buildings carved directly into the mountain.
"Morning, Ren!" A woman called from her fruit stall.
"Morning," Ren replied with a wave and a grin. "Your apples better not be bruised this time, Clara."
The woman laughed, tossing him a small one. Ren caught it mid-stride and bit into it. Tart. Just how he liked it.
He passed a few more familiar faces, mostly other newcomers trying to make their way on the uppermost layer, before turning into a small alley of shops tucked against a gently curving wall. His shop was the third one down.
And just to the left of it, sitting on a short stool beside a neat display of shoes, was the old man.
"Morning, Gerran." Ren greeted.
The old cobbler looked up, his leathery face cracking into a tired smile. "Ren. You're late again today."
"Not everyone wakes up at dawn to polish boots."
"Polish boots?" Gerran grunted. "Shows how little you know about real shoes."
Ren laughed and crouched to unlock his own shop's door. As he pushed it open, the faint scent of herbs greeted him. He flicked the lights on and began setting the place up.
Gerran watched, quietly working on a child's sandal as he spoke. "Had a customer this morning. Wanted running shoes. Told him I only make shoes for walking away."
Ren paused, peeking over his shoulder. "Did he get it?"
"No." Gerran chuckled, shaking his head. "No one gets old jokes anymore."
There was a silence between them then, one Ren had come to understand well.
Gerran was never much for long conversations, but he was always there, in the same spot, every morning.
Gerran had been born in Carthage to a father that had gotten himself killed when he was fairly young.
He'd grown up learning how to make shoes to support himself and his mother.
When he'd grown, he'd married the love of his life and had gotten two sons.
Back then, he'd been a young man with just a hammer but big ambitions. He'd hoped to get his sons into the Knight program, to make something of the family.
But when his wife passed from illness, and his sons both failed to make it through the Bloodbinding trials, everything fell apart.
One left the city to die. The other never spoke again.
Now, it was just Gerran and his shoes. Handmade, carefully stitched, rarely purchased, but always displayed.
Ren had tried asking once why he still did it.
Gerran had simply said, "Some days, I forget she's gone. When I sew, I hear her humming again."
Ren opened his shutters and placed his sign out. It wasn't a big store. Just a small apothecary and general supply shop. Enough to let them blend in. Enough to keep them fed.
"You get breakfast?" Ren asked.
"Had some tea." Gerran said. "But it tasted like memory."
Ren grinned faintly. A poor joke, but it could be excused. The tea probably reminded the old man of memories he'd both rather forget and remember.
"Want something from the market?" He asked.
"No." Gerran said. "I'll trade for a laugh later."
"Deal."
[][][][][]
Ren had been at his shop for almost an hour when the clatter of heavy boots echoed down the narrow alley.
Ren looked up from where he'd been adjusting the display on the front shelf of his small store.
The smile he'd been wearing since he stepped out into the street slowly faded as a gang of five men swaggered into view, loud and boastful.
At the front was Petry, a broad shouldered thug with a crooked grin and a voice that would be out of place in the quiet of a funeral at any time of the day.
He wore the deep blue sash of the Thornstripe gang across his chest, a signal that today was collection day.
"Ahhh, another glorious day in the upper tier!" Petry roared with theatrical cheer, spreading his arms as if expecting applause. "Smells like bread and poor decisions!"
His gang laughed with him, one slapping the wall as they passed, another tipping over a crate just for the sound of it.
Ren glanced to his side. Gerran stood in front of his small shoe shop, shoulders hunched. His knotted hands, stiff with age, clutched a rag he'd been using to polish a half-made sandal. He didn't meet Ren's eyes.
Ren frowned.
Gerran usually said something when the gang came around. A muttered curse under his breath. A joke. A bitter aside. Today, he said nothing.
Petry turned his attention to Gerran's shop first, grinning wide.
"Old man!" He called, already stepping into the threshold. "Time to pay your toll for the week."
Gerran stepped forward, trying to keep his voice even. "I— I'm still short, Petry. Sales have been slow."
Petry's smile didn't waver. "That's not my problem, is it?"
He stepped inside, brushing past Gerran and giving a single nod to one of his men.
The thug walked up to a shelf and shoved it, sending polished sandals tumbling to the floor with dull thuds.
"No! Please!" Gerran rushed to gather them, but another gang member kicked the pile aside with a laugh.
"Look at this." Petry said, picking up a leather boot by the laces. "Stitching like this… mm, must've taken you hours. Shame you couldn't stitch together some coins instead."
He dropped the boot to the ground and stomped on it.
Ren's jaw tensed.
He stepped out from his own shop and into the alley, his voice calm, but carrying clearly through the air.
"That's enough."