Henry walked his way through the dense, bustling crowd, his boots slipping slightly on the slick, muddy cobblestones until he broke out into the relative breathing room of Rattay’s Central Square.
In the middle of the square stood a weathered timber gallows platform, its heavy beams grayed by rain and time.
Attached to its base were several filthy wooden pillories.
Locked into one of them was a dejected, mud-spattered drunkard, receiving a stern tongue-lashing from a town bailiff clad in a reinforced leather jerkin, a short iron-weighted cudgel swinging at his hip.
Henry paused, wiping cold sweat from his forehead as his eyes swept the four quarters of the square:
North: The main thoroughfare stretched out, flanked by crooked, timber-framed houses resting on heavy stone foundations.
Most ground floors housed tradesmen’s shops, while shuttered upper-story windows cast long shadows over the narrow thoroughfare.
West: A low, whitewashed stone wall enclosed the quiet courtyard of Saint Matthew’s Church.
Above its shingled roof, a plain iron cross rose toward the heavy grey sky, grim and unyielding.
South: The skyline was dominated by the grand composite stone structure of the Rattay Town Hall.
At its vaulted archway, two guards holding heavy halberds stood watch, their sharp eyes scanning the passing townsfolk and displaced refugees.
On the ground floor sat a row of prominent shops: a tailor displaying dyed woolens and embroidered banners, an armorer with polished bascinets and steel breastplates gleaming in the shade, and an inconspicuous narrow doorway wafting a potent, bitter fragrance of crushed herbs, dried lavender, and dried roots—the apothecary’s shop.
East: Behind him lay the eastern quarter from which he had just come.
Tucked against the lower flank of the Town Hall wall was a crude, makeshift market.
A few peasant women stood behind crooked wooden planks, calling out in raspy voices to sell sparse baskets of wilted cabbage and blackened strips of smoked meat while flies buzzed in thick clouds above the food.
Henry had no mind for sightseeing.
Ignoring the squalor of the market stalls, he turned abruptly toward the southern flank of the Central Square, making a straight line for the substantial stone building housing the city’s finest tradesmen.
He pushed open the heavy timber door of the armorer’s shop, above which hung a creaking iron sign emblazoned with the image of a chainmail coif and a kettle helmet.
Inside the Armorer’s Shop
The air inside was cool, dim, and heavy with the thick, unmistakable scent of leather dubbing, machine grease, and cold iron.
Hanging from sturdy iron pegs along the stone walls were steel breastplates, articulated armguards, and an assortment of open-faced helmets.
On deep wooden shelving behind the counter sat neat stacks of padded gambesons, leather liners, and oil-soaked rags.
Behind the wide oak counter stood a barrel-chested, bald smith wearing a scarred leather apron over his woolen tunic.
He was thoroughly buffing a kettle helmet with an oily rag, his rhythmic scrubbing pausing only when the door latch clicked shut.
Henry walked up to the counter, unslingshotting a bulky canvas bundle from his shoulder.
Untying the thick hemp ropes, he unrolled the fabric to reveal a mud-stained set of steel plate armor.
It was heavily dented, scratched, and caked with dried blood—the spoils of war he had stripped from the bandit leader, Runt’s man, near Rovna.
“Good day, master smith,” Henry said, resting his hands on the counter.
“Could you take a look at this harness?
It took a few severe impacts that need hammering out.
And…
it doesn’t fit my frame properly.
I’d like you to adjust the shoulder straps and reset the buckles.”
The bald armorer set down his cloth and picked up the breastplate, weighing it in his thick hands before flipping open the inner padded lining to inspect the rivets and brass eyelets.
“Hmm…
sturdy material.
Cuman-style plate work?” The armorer ran a calloused thumb over a deep indentation and a jagged slash where a blade had sheared through the leather trim.
“Good steel,” the armorer muttered, running a calloused thumb over the gouge.
“Beaten to hell, but the iron hasn’t split.
I can hammer out the dent, rivet new leather to the shoulders, and set the buckles to your size.”
He looked up, assessing Henry’s build with a practiced eye.
“Are you in a hurry, lad?
By the time the sun’s shadow reaches that bluestone at the base of the outer wall”—he gestured toward an inconspicuous cobblestone just outside the doorway—”it should be finished.
Leave the harness here and return then.
Just leave me a small deposit.”
Henry calculated the time in his head.
Sundial time?
A little over an hour…
Not ideal, but better than nothing.
“Fair enough,” Henry agreed.
He then pointed to a rack on the side wall displaying thick cowhide belts alongside a basic leatherworking kit containing an awl, curved bone needles, and a spool of waxed hemp thread.
What I need from your bench is cold-work gear: a pouch of wedge-riveted mail links, half a hundred dome-head copper and iron rivets, two sets of replacement harness buckles, and a pot of boiled linseed oil.
If you have an extra pair of mail-clinching pliers you can spare, name your price in silver.”
The armorer efficiently unhooked the items and laid them out.
“Armor repair and custom fitting…
I’ll charge you eight groschen.
The cowhide belt is two, and this tool kit—well-used but sharp—is three.
That comes to thirteen groschen in total.
Leave three groschen as a deposit now, and you can pay the remaining ten when you pick up the armor.”
Henry dug into his coin pouch, counted out three dust-covered silver groschen, and placed them on the wooden counter.
“Thank you, shopkeeper,” Henry said, stowing the belt and leatherworking tools into his pack before turning toward the door.
Inside the Tailor’s Shop
The door opened with a dull rattle of brass bells, and Henry stepped inside out of the crowded market square.
The tailor’s shop was quiet, smelling of dry wool, lye soap, and beeswax.
Behind a long cutting table covered in chalk marks, the tailor looked up from a stack of folded fabric.
He gave Henry a quick, neutral once-over, treating him like any other paying customer walking off the street.
“Good day,” the tailor said, resting his palms on the wood.
“Looking for something ready-made, or need measurements taken?”
“Good day,” Henry said, stepping up to the counter.
“Ready-made, if the sizes fit.
I need two good, sturdy sets for daily wear—tight-spun wool hose and a couple of plain linen tunics.
Something durable that won’t tear on the road.”
The tailor nodded, turning to a shelf stacked with pre-sewn stock.
He pulled down two pairs of thick wool hose—one dark gray, one brown—and laid them out with two clean linen tunics.
“These should fit a lad of your build without much adjusting,” the tailor said, smoothing the cloth.
“Anything else?”
“Aye,” Henry said, keeping his tone casual and completely matter-of-fact.
“I also need a tunic, a hood, and a pair of hose in black.
Or charcoal—whatever you have that’s dark as pitch and fitted close.”
The tailor paused, raising an eyebrow with mild curiosity.
“Dark wool?
Most folk ask for green or brown.
What do you need pure black for?”
Henry didn’t hesitate, offering an easy shrug.
“I took work doing night watch along the perimeter.
Standing in the brush outside the walls, bright dyes catch the moon and give your position away to every poacher in the valley.
A man blends into the timber better if his cloth matches the shadows.”
The tailor chuckled softly and shook his head, all suspicion fading.
“Fair enough.
Can’t argue with practical sense.
I’ve got a set of un-dyed dark walnut-dyed wool in the back that’s nearly coal-black.
Fits tight around the shins so it won’t catch on brush.”
He brought out the dark bundle and set it on the counter beside the other garments .
his gaze drifted across the merchant’s counter.
There, resting atop a small tray of gilded trimmings and silver thread, a single silk ribbon caught his eye.
It was a rich, deep crimson—woven from fine Czech silk with double-stitched golden thread running along its borders.
The material looked soft as down, yet durable, gleaming under the sunlight with a soft, lustrous sheen that stood out starkly against the dusty shop interior.
Looking at the vibrant ribbon, Henry’s mind immediately drifted away from the workshop to the quiet yard of the Rattay mill.
He pictured Theresa—her dark hair loose over her shoulders, her bright eyes laughing as she wiped sweat from her brow after a long day’s work.
In a town still recovering from the ash and ruin of Skalitz, a touch of elegance like this would shine on her.
“See something that takes your fancy, young man?” the tailor asked, following Henry’s gaze with a knowing smile.
Henry snapped back from his thoughts, looking up at the merchant. Get faster updates on g.com.
“That ribbon on the counter…
how much for it?”
The tailor picked up the crimson silk with practiced care, letting the golden edges catch the light.
“Ah, a sharp eye!
Spun in Prague, pure silk with fine metallic piping.
Perfect for a lady of quality.
For you, lad—three silver groschen.”
Henry didn’t hesitate.
He reached into his coin pouch, counted out the silver pieces, and placed them on the counter.
“I’ll take it.”
“Twenty-eight groschen for the lot,” the tailor replied.
Henry counted the silver coins from his purse, placing them on the counter.
He gathered the bundle of everyday clothes and the dark night set under his arm, gave the tailor a nod of thanks, and stepped back out into the bright afternoon sun.
The Apothecary’s Shop
The heavy wooden door pushed open with a dull thud, plunging Henry into an air thick with the pungent sting of crushed camphor, drying wormwood, and boiled vinegar.
Bunches of dried tansy and hemlock dangled from the low beams overhead, and glass alembics bubbled quietly over faint charcoal braziers in the corner.
Behind the counter, an elderly apothecary looked up from grinding pale roots in a stone mortar.
He adjusted his spectacles, his sharp gaze sweeping over Henry with the detached curiosity of a man accustomed to seeing blood and broken limbs.
“What do you need, lad?” the apothecary asked, wiping a dusting of powder from his apron.
“Got a tooth rot, or did one of the castle guards put an ache in your ribs?”
“Good day, Master Apothecary,” Henry said, resting a hand near his belt purse.
“I need field draughts—Marigold for wounds, Lazarus if you have it, and a few flasks of Nighthawk and Bowman’s Brew for the road.”
The apothecary eyed him over his spectacles, then turned to pull sealed phials from the shelves.
“Five Marigolds, two Lazarus, and the rest…
that’ll drain fifty-two groschen from your pouch, lad.”
“I have the silver,” Henry said, resting a hand near his belt purse.
The apothecary grunted, turning to his wooden shelving to gather the sealed glass and clay phials, wrapping each carefully in strips of protective cloth before setting them on the counter.
Henry looked down at the neatly stoppered bottles, then back up at the apothecary.
“Do you teach your craft, Master?
How to brew and distill from the herb notes?”
The apothecary chuckled dryly, waving a calloused, stained hand dismissively.
“Teach?
To a stranger off the street?
Bah.
It’s too much work, lad.
It takes half a winter just to teach a boy not to boil spirits into a grease fire, and I’ve got enough orders from Sir Hanush’s garrison to keep my alembics hot until Christmas.”
He leaned forward on the counter, lowering his voice with a shrewd gleam in his eye.
“You want to learn?
Go find the old herb woman living up north in the woods past Rovna.
The priest calls her a witch, but she knows every root and leaf in the province.
Give her a few groschen and she might teach you—if she doesn’t turn you off her land first.”
“Between Rovna and Pribyslavitz,” Henry repeated, filing the location away in his memory.
“Understood.”
“Aye.
Mind the timber roads up there—the woods are crawling with outlaws,” the apothecary warned, tapping the counter.
“Now, for the draughts: fifty-two groschen.”
Leaving the sharp, vinegary air of the apothecary behind, Henry checked the shadow stretching across the square.
Still another hour before the armorer finishes with the harness.
With time to spare, he adjusted his heavy satchel and headed toward the upper ward—it was time to see if the town Scribe could teach him to make sense of the scribbles on parchment.
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