You my new ‘prentice? Right — hop in and give us a hand, then. Don’t be shy, grab hold of the other end there.

 

There you go. Steady now… steady. Mind that gap behind you… try not to slosh… now set ‘er down in three… two… ahhh, there we go.

 

Alright then, let’s have a look at you. Bit of a beanpole, are we? Suppose that’s to be expected. Lot of lean years for you young ones born after The Rising. Well, you’ll start filling out soon enough once your extra ration chits come through.

 

Too soon to tell if you’ve any brains, of course, but you’re not an obvious lackwit, so that’s a start. You’d not believe some of the dullards who’ve passed through these doors before you. Always the same story: too thick to be trusted out beyond the walls, and well-to-do parents who can afford to park their precious little embarrassments in a ‘prenticeship they figure even the most beef-headed imbecile couldn’t muck up.

 

Most of ‘em didn’t last two months ‘fore they went blubbering back to Mummy and Daddy — which was no skin off my nose, since I keep my ‘prenticeship fee either way. Best keep that in mind case you’d any delusions I’d come chasing after if you’ve ever a notion to do the same. Door’s right behind you — feel free to sod off anytime you’d like.

 

If you can stick out the first six months, you’re like to make Journeyman — but that’s your lookout. Carry your weight. Or don’t. Your Dad’s paid his chits over already, so it’s all the same to me.

 

‘Course, you do have a bit of a sullen, pinched-face look to you. Like you’d been sucking on a lemon, if there were any of those still about to be sucked on. You upset to be ‘prenticed off to a woman? Is that it?

 

Of all the asinine… you think the squatches give a tinker’s damn what’s dangling betwixt any of our legs? Man, woman, don’t make no never mind to them — long as they can get their big hairy mitts on you, they’ll gladly pop your head off and peel your guts like a banana. So p’rhaps you should spend less time worryin’ about whether I wear skirts or trousers and…

 

Huh. No, it’s not that. Well, I’ll be buggered. Suppose there’s a first time for everything, eh? Alright then, let’s have it. Daylight’s burnin’, and the sooner we settle our hash, the sooner we—

 

Wait a tick! It’s not being ‘prenticed off to a woman that’s eatin’ at you, but being ‘prenticed off to the Pisstriss, isn’t it… ahhh, hit the nail on the head there, did I?

 

Poor little lambkins. Too good to learn the urine trade, are we? Bet you pictured yourself more as a Scrounger; they usually do. Always imagined a gaggle o’trollops swooning and squealing over you when you returned from out beyond the walls with some rusty bits of pre-Rising scrap, eh?

 

Or maybe you had your heart set on becoming a Warden. Valiantly rangin’ out to give the squatches a little what-for all up close and personal-like? Pick yourself up a coupla pelts, maybe a tasteful little scar to impress the girlies? Have all the wanton little tarts knockin’ each other sideways for the privilege of dropping their knickers for you up in some hayloft?

 

Well, I’ve got three words for you, boy-o:

 

Get. Over. It.

 

Collectin’ piss for a living may not make the lassies go all weak in the knees, but it does a helluva lot more to keep the squatches from overunnin’ the Bastion than scroungin’ or rangin’ does.

 

Have you any idea where all the saltpeter needed to keep our sentries in gunpowder comes from, lad? Or how we tan leather strong enough to keep the squatches from cavin’ a ribcage in one blow? You’ve been writin’ your name in the snow with it for years, case you needed a hint.

 

Fancy a guess how we distill the ammonia that sanitizes our Infirmary, or the fertilizer that grows our crops? For shite’s sake, son, what do you think we’ve been brushing our teeth with since the squatches put the toothpaste factories out on permanent hiatus? ‘Cuz the toothpaste fairy ain’t been flyin’ down from Pixieland each night to fart it out ‘er arse, I promise you that!

 

Look… I doubt there’s many in our trade who dreamed of growing up to process piss for a living. But there’s a reason your folks paid me six months’ of rations to take you on. It ain’t glamorous, but it’s necessary work. And it’ll do more than keep you alive — it’ll let you live well.

 

Did you know that in ancient Rome, urine was so valuable that emperors levied an honest-to-god Piss Tax? One of ‘em even had a pithy little saying he liked to trot out any time the swells in the Senate gave him shite about it: ‘Pecunia Non Olet.’

 

It means, ‘Money doesn’t stink.’ And neither will you, once the local harlots figure out how many ration chits a bit o’ piss can put in your pockets. Washes out a sight easier than blood does, too.

 

Now, we gonna sit here braidin’ each other’s hair all day, or you gonna help me carry in the next tub?