End-Ero: The New Boss

Nemo leaned his shoulder and head against the sandstone exterior of the beer house, relishing the rough texture against his skin as he considered the sparse shrub growing up from a bare patch of earth at the building's corner. Though the light of Shor had faded beyond the horizon hours since, the stone still held some residual warmth, a soothing complement to the buzzing in his head. From within, the sounds of revelry went on despite his absence, laughter and singing, the hollow clop of mugs on tables, the upbeat strumming of strings by skilled fingers. Ironborn life was iron hard, day in and day out, but every once in a while there was cause for celebration. Births, victories, handfasts. Promotions were no less favorably looked upon, and the Big Red Mine’s favored son had made a mighty leap to the top of the pile.

Belching thunderously at long last, Nemo shook his head from side to side in hopes of gaining clarity, then turned for the door. Whoops and calls greeted him as soon as he was back within the dimly lit interior, happy sounds that blended well with the general jubilation ringing from the walls. Boots stomped and stoneware clattered as the whole establishment went through yet another round of ‘Miner's Life For Me’, a song that had as many verses as mouths to voice them. It was a traditional fixture at any gathering of men who worked the mines, and one which proclaimed their status as the most integral part of Ironborn society. Not long back, Nemo had been passing through town and caught a snatch of a similarly tuned song. The only words he had clearly heard were, “Barley beer is chemical free, farming life's alright for me!”

As if summoned by his thought a foaming mug of amber beer was thrust unto his hands by a sloshing miner, accompanied by an urging gesture to drink it at once, but the young man had other plans in mind. With all the foot-surety of a sozzled mountain goat, he sprang onto a table in the center of the room. Yes, the stone platform was steady, it was he himself that swayed as precariously as a sapling in a stuff wind. Regaining his balance, he pursed his lips for a sharp, blasting whistle. Silence slowly fell around him as he turned around and around, drink aloft.

“Brothers, I've got words!” Alternating cheers and boos were his answer, each sort as good-natured as the other. Gathering himself mentally and physically against the inebriation, he waved his free hand impatiently. “Yeah yeah, shut up! This is my brother's party, so I get to say words. And what I want to say is, he's not the only one leaving you tomorrow.”

Acoss the room, he could see Omen sitting up from his slouch in a broad chair, one hand curling its fingers over the lip of his mug as if to steady himself.

“I'm not going to bore you with the details. I just wanted everyone to know, I've been accepted to the Smelters.” Chorusing hisses from all, he could even see his brothers teeth bared. Just as he had expected. At least there were no calls of "Good riddance" and the like, just good old fashioned miner ribbing.

“Milksop!” hollered an unseen heckler. Nemo did not recognize the voice right off, but the tone was more expectant than accusatory.

“Kiss my sweaty balls, duster,” he said with a laugh, pausing to sip from his beer. He won another cheer for his efforts, and then a return to silence. “So, I just want to say, I'm glad I didn't tell you all before. Maybe some of you would have thought I needed a party tonight, too!”

“Or a hanging, traitor!” Laughter burst out once more, and Nemo saluted the joker cordially. But he would not be distracted from his purpose. If he was going to go, he would go with a smile on his lips and a belly full of beer, in good company.

“Tonight is for my brother, who is going to work hard for you, just like he always has. You've put him on top, for his sins, and I think you're right to do it. He won't forget you, or where he came from. He'll be an Overseer worth your sweat and blood. Tomorrow, I'll be a smelter, but for one last night, I'm one of you. So, let's drink it up. Here's to the new Boss!”

“Same as the old Boss!” the miners roared, completing a formula as old as the hills, and every man still conscious to do so drained his drink. Then they drummed their empty vessels arrhythmically in applause, and the band started up again. Men stood to dance, and Nemo hopped down from his perch to join them. Beer was burped from the barrel until the barrel ran dry, and another was tapped. Instruments changed hands, and the band switched tunes, sending the beer house rocking and rolling on through the night. When Shor rose to warm the stones and the hearts of men once more, it was to the symphony of singing birds, snoring dusters, and one certain young man being very sick into the shrubbery.