A Tailor's Son (Valadfar) Read Online Free

knocking them both over. Harold took his
chance to trot on quickly leaving her behind. The near collision had
startled him and it took him a few minutes to notice the leaf that had
entangled itself in his cropped brown hair. As Harold removed it he
began to daydream again. He had needed the money really, but not as
much as the girl probably did and it was worth it for the thought that
for just one night she could sleep peacefully, just as peacefully as
Harold had in the bed at grandmother’s cottage.
    The Queens
was already in full cheer when Harold arrived.
The proprietor, O'Brien, could be heard singing some old folksong, the
patrons inside clapping and jeering him on. There was no doubt in
Harold’s mind that O’Brien was half-cut already, usually finishing off a
whole bottle of whisky before the sun fell behind the horizon. Harold
wondered if it was from the money of poor innocents like the little girl
he had passed, or was it on the backs of tortured souls that he had build
his criminal empire. Harold thought to himself that at least he had
helped save her from the vile sweaty job for at least one night. As he
relished on his good deed for the day Harold looked straight up above
the towering buildings and into the sky. As much as he hated what had
been happening to Neeskmouth in the last few years, he did have to
give the city its due. The sleeping beast that was Neeskmouth with its
disgusting polluted breath had created such a spectacle. The last golden
rays as they fought their way through the thick smog above the city
were a secret beauty only known to those of them the nation classed as
unfortunate, providing they didn’t breathe in too deeply. The nobles
locked themselves away safely in their homes while the poor still
worked or begged for coins from those barely any better off. It was as if
the Gods made the little beauty just for them, a silver line to an
otherwise blackened cloud. It was a shame that the sound of a
drunkard vomiting in the street spoiled it for Harold that night.
    Harold’s eyes grew accustomed to the coming darkness as he
drew his vision back down to the streets. He didn’t know why but his
gaze fell on the buildings as if it was the first time he’d seen them. They
were not huge stone towers like those estates at the noble end of town.
No, these were not the rich four or five storeys high masses of
brickwork. They did not overhang with polished windows and
sculptures that had been painted in the dried excrement of the flying
rats that littered the skies. Instead they were a mix of wood and clay,
simple hovels made for purpose over beauty. The buildings were all so
square and unwelcoming, coated in blackened ash and moss from the
ever wet air. They still managed to both impress and impose on Harold
even after all these years. Most of the city was built in the same style,
crushed together with no space between the buildings. The
overhanging balconies blocking out what little of the sky could be seen
behind the smoke. The city was growing so quickly that there was no
space for houses and it would not be many more years before stone
giants took their place instead, if construction kept going at the pace it
had since the war ended. With the prosperity that the golden age had
brought, people came from miles around to work in the factories that
were sprouting up like weeds. The city hummed with the sound of
machines and the hammers of stonemasons building places for the
cheap labour to live. It made a man feel like each street was a secluded
island with only one or two spots within the city where they could see
the sky clearly, and that was why with the light bouncing off the clouds
and the moon starting to climb ever higher in the sky, Harold savoured
the moment.
    The Queens tavern was a real contrast to the buildings around
it and was one of the last of its kind. Harold did not know its history
fully but it was one of the oldest buildings in the city and had survived
the fire that